Nine Inches Read Free

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    At the top of the hill, we sat down on a fallen log in the shade of the water tower. Adam took out his little one-hit pipe and packed it with weed. He o ff ered it to me, and I shook my head, the way I always did, though I wasn’t sure what was stopping me. In high school, I’d stayed away from weed because I thought it might interfere with my studies and sap my motivation, but what did that matter now?
    “ Th e thing I don’t get,” he said, in that squeaky, holding-it-in voice, “is how your boss even knows my number.”
    “Don’t look at me. I didn’t give it to him.”
    “And how’d he know I was selling?” Adam released a cloud of smoke so big I couldn’t believe it had all been stored inside his lungs. “It’s not like I’m advertising.”
    I shrugged, not wanting to tell him that it was common knowledge that he sold some kind of killer weed, the source of which no one could pinpoint. We lived in a small town, and you couldn’t keep something like that a secret for long.
    “You know what?” I said. “Don’t even worry about it. I’ll just give Eddie his money back. It’s no big deal.”
    Happy was sitting at our feet, panting cheerfully, thick body heaving, tongue lolling sideways from his mouth. Adam leaned forward and kissed him on top of his big square head. When Adam looked up, I could see that the weed had kicked in. His eyes were cloudy, his face dreamy and trouble-free.
    “Chill out,” he told me. “I’ll take care of you. I don’t want to jam you up with your boss.”
    I DIDN’T realize I had a problem until my next run-in with Lt. Finnegan. Th is time I wasn’t speeding and hadn’t violated any tra ffi c laws. I was just minding my business, heading back to Sustainable around nine-thirty on a Wednesday night, when an unmarked Crown Victoria popped up in my rearview mirror, that familiar white-haired douchebag at the wheel. Th ere were no fl ashing lights, but he tailgated me for a couple of blocks before fi nally hitting the siren, a quick bloop-bloop to get my attention.
    We were right by Edmunds Elementary School, the quiet stretch of Warren Road that runs alongside the playing fi elds. I pulled over, his car still glued to my bumper, and cut the engine. It felt like a bad dream, the same cop stopping me for the third time in less than two weeks.
    I was fi shing around in the glove box for the registration when he startled me by tapping on the passenger window — he usually approached from the other side — and yanking the door open. Before I could react, he had ducked inside my car and shut the door behind him.
    Th e Prius was pretty roomy, but Lt. Finnegan seemed to fi ll all the available space. He reached down, groping for the adjuster bar, then grunted with relief as the seat slid back.
    “ Th at’s better.” He rotated his bulk in my direction. He was wearing civilian clothes, khakis and a sport coat, but he still looked like a cop. “How are you, Donald?”
    “Did I do something wrong?”
    “I don’t think so,” he said. “Not that I know of.”
    “ Th en why’d you pull me over?”
    “I didn’t pull you over.”
    “Yes, you did. You hit the siren.”
    “Oh, that.” He chuckled at the misunderstanding. “I just wanted to say hi. Haven’t seen you for a couple of days.”
    “Oh. Okay.” I nodded as if this made perfect sense. “I just assumed — ”
    “I get it.” He laid his hand on my knee. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”
    I waited for him to remove his hand, but he kept it where it was. I could feel the warmth of his palm through the fabric of my jeans.
    “Umm,” I said. “You know what? I really have to get back to work.”
    “You’re dedicated,” he observed. “I like that.”
    “I just got hired. I’m trying to make a good impression.”
    He tilted his head, giving me a thorough once-over. I was uncomfortably aware of his a ft ershave, a sharp lime scent