Chapter Text
First rule of dealing: have a range of sources over a long period of time.
A long time ago, I worked in a pharmacy. I read all the protocols, got the faxes about suspicious people, and yeah, I sold drugs to people here and there. The difference between now and then is that now, I'm operating outside the law in seedy back alleys behind dumpsters.
Nothing makes drug dealing easier than a background in either law, pharmacy, or both. I learned from experience the best spots to meet, and you can be damn sure I took self defence lessons. Every now and then, I'd head into the pharmacy across from the hall where I took the classes with a limp, look the pharmacy assistant in the eye with a meek smile, and ask for the strong pain relief.
"20 or 35?" she'd ask.
"35 please." I'd say with another smile. She'd always oblige, glancing at the pharmacist and shepherding me over to the one checkout in the tiny store.
Second rule: always get something else with your purchase.
I would grab a small packet of jellybeans or a tin of butterscotch and plop them on the counter. She'd ring it off, I'd pay, and then I'd leave. Always got a bag - nothing better than walking into your house with a box of codeine exposed to the world every few days to get a few anonymous tip offs to Crimestoppers.
Getting the drugs was the easy part, relatively speaking. You felt out the trusting pharmacies and learnt which ones to avoid, made sure to visit them irregularly and always had a good excuse for it. Separating out the codeine, that was harder, but possible. The hardest part was getting rid of the damn stuff.
Third rule: never meet in the same place twice.
I met people in back alleys, in car parks, on highways ("engine trouble?"), just about any place you can think of, but we never met at a house and I'd never visit the same place twice. I met Shane when I was on another job, dropping off a few hundred dollars worth with a guy on the side of the highway when he stopped to help. My buyer nearly crapped himself when he saw a muscly guy with black spiky hair and reflective Oakleys get out and walk towards us, looking murderous, so I pushed him towards his boot to "grab the toolkit" and did the talking.
As the guy came closer, however, his face lightened and I realised that he was coming to help us with the car. "You guys need any help?" he asked, his voice ringing authoritatively across the shoulder. American accent, but not obnoxiously so - clear and educated.
"Nah, we're all good here. Just a loose belt, easy to fix." I said smoothly.
He nodded obligingly, smiled quickly, and turned to go. My breathing returned to normal again but then, before I could turn around, his face went hard and he stared over my shoulder. I turned to see my guy stock still next to the car, eyes wide with fear, and the fucking bag clutched in his white knuckled hand. He looked like he was shitting bricks and to be honest, so was I. I turned back to sunglasses, planning to play dumb, but to my surprise he had his hand out to shake mine. I took it tentatively since he seemed like the kind of guy who could take me down with one leg.
"Shane. You a dealer?" he asked.
"Uh, well, I guess…" I stuttered. "You a cop?"
"Nope. Used to be a Marine but uh…" he trailed off, his face tilting away like he was having some kind of flashback.
I'd seen this before - people using drugs to cope with griefs and trauma. Hell, what am I supposed to do about it?
"Yeah, I get it. You want me to hook you up?"
"Well, I, uh, I mean does it work for people?" he asked, rubbing one hand against the back of his neck.
"Um, I sell to a few people who use for grief and depression and all that, so uh, I guess so." I told him, suddenly very uncomfortable. Hell, I’m not in the business to ask people about their lives. I just do it to get a few bucks.
Shane nodded gently and pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket. He scrawled a number on it and handed it to me. "Text me later." And just like that, he turned sharply on the spot, gravel crunching, and stepped off towards his own car. I watched him drive off, then turned to my whimpering buyer.
"Mate, what the fuck were you thinking? Just… just get in the damn car and go." I headed off, slamming my car door and resting my head on the cool leather steering wheel. What the hell just happened?