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Quintard stared at the destruction in tense silence. He would never be able to
replace that shot.
"Goddammit, this is your fault, Medlocke," he screamed, clenching his fists so
tightly the nails bit into his palms, drawing blood.
The county commission meeting was four hours behind him and Quintard had
spent most of the time since driving around the county at outrageous speeds,
cursing Jason all the while. He stopped at a liquor store, bought a pint of
bourbon and finished it on the road. With the liquor fueling his thoughts, he
formulated a plan for revenge and came back to his office to drink some more
courage and put it into action.
He dropped himself into his chair with a flop. The alcohol was heating his belly
like a blast furnace.
"I'm going to bring that bastard down," he vowed.
He picked up the phone and dialed. The phone buzzed a few times on the other
end before someone picked up.
"Yeah?" the voice said.
"Listen, Frog, you little fuck, this is Quintard. I need another favor."
"What do you want?" Webster asked nervously.
"I want an ounce of coke and I want it within the next thirty minutes. I want you
to meet me in the Big Star parking lot at the intersection of Singleton Road and
Jimmy Carter. Bring the coke with you. You got that?"
"Man, I can't get that much that quick," Webster cried. "Besides, who'll pay for
it? That much stuff will cost more than two grand."
"You'll find it and you'll pay for it," Quintard said. "You owe me, you dick-
sucking pile of shit. And if you don't do this for me, I'll find a way to burn you to
the ground. Believe me."
Webster hesitated. When he spoke again, it was with the energy of a whipped
pup.
"Okay, I'll see you at the parking Jot about one."
"Damn straight," Quintard said. "And after we meet, you're going along with me
to do a little job."
"What kind of job?" Webster asked.
"A little lockpicking. I know you're good at that," Quintard said. Before Webster
could protest, Quintard hung up.
Thirty minutes later Quintard was on his way to Jason's apartment, an ounce of
cocaine tucked away in his glove compartment. In the passenger seat, smoking
one cigarette after another, Webster was not a happy man. Tonight his excessive
jumpiness was making him more than live up to his amphibious nickname.
"Shit, I don't like this," he said. "I haven't felt right since coming back from
watching Medlocke and his father up at the lake. I'm not up to snuff; my head's
fuzzy and I feel fucked up."
"What in God's name are you babbling about?" Quintard asked.
"I just want you to know my shit's not together and if we get caught it's going to
be my ass. And yours, too. The papers will eat up a story about a county
commissioner involved in breaking and entering."
"Oh, you don't actually think I'm going to be there when you do the breaking in,
do you?" Quintard said. "I'll be sitting in the car waiting for you to come back. I
can't afford to be seen with the likes of you."
"You fucking bastard," Webster said. "You're setting me up to take a fall. I want
to know what the hell this is all about. Where are we going? Who's the coke for?
Who's house am I supposed to get into?"
"That's none of your goddammed business," Quintard said, fixing Webster with a
snakelike gaze. "Let's just say the coke is a present for a friend and I want you to
leave it in his apartment as a surprise."
"Is the guy home?" Webster asked.
"I don't know. We'll see when we get there. The past few weeks he's been
spending a lot of time fucking some cunt in another apartment complex, so
there's a chance he won't be."
"God, I just hope I don't get caught," Webster moaned.
"All I hope is that I don't get pulled over," Quintard answered. "With all that
coke in the dash, we'd really be in the shitter."
The thought struck him as extremely funny and he laughed until he farted.
"You sonuvabitch," Webster said, rolling down the window.
Quintard pulled the car into the Casa Loma complex and drove slowly until he
reached Jason's building. He scanned the lot, but didn't see Jason's Toyota.
"His car's not here," he said. Webster untensed a bit.
Quintard rolled past Jason's apartment to the next building and parked under a
tree to block the light from the streetlamp. He told Webster the apartment
number and handed him the coke.
"Go do it," he said. "And don't fuck up."
Webster quietly opened the car door and scurried across the parking lot. Hands
stuffed in his pockets and shoulders hunched, he ambled down the sidewalk to
Jason's building then sprinted up the stairs. The fact that the apartment was at the
back of the building, out of the light and away from the parking lot, made him
feel a little better. When he reached the door and saw just one dead-bolt lock, his
spirits went even higher.
Easy as shit. In and out in a couple of minutes.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small case about the size of a
billfold. Opening it revealed a dozen or so small wires, Allen wrenches, and
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