Fervent Haight

Miller strolled down the corridor and out into summer’s evening beauty. He was grinning malevolently as he walked to the payphone and dialed Jim’s number. He knew Jim’s number because it had told him. He was not sure what it was, only that he loved it deeply. It was powerful; a sinful desire of his. It had promised him that very thing and more. But he had promised something too, hadn’t he? He was sure he had but was unclear as to what exactly. Jim will know, he thought as the phone on the other end rang, Jim knows much. He knew about me and about it; and he knows what I’m supposed to be doing. They have a plan for me and I am curious. “Miller, meet me at Harrow’s gas station at eleven tonight, you’re driving.” It was Jim and there was no humor or friendliness in that voice; tonight Jim was all business. Before Miller could reply the line went dead. So that’s that, he thought absently as he went back to the station and started up his old Chevy Impala, but first I should stop home and take care of some business. They’ll want me to be prepared. He aimed the wide hood of the Impala down Main Street and hurried home. He parked around back. Just in case; in case those bastards get back earlier than they thought they would. They’ll be looking for me now. He opened the door to his house and walked in. Once upstairs he rushed around. He grabbed a large mirror and razorblade, dumped a large amount of cocaine from a film canister onto the reflective surface, and went about cutting several large lines. Miller may have been a poor excuse for a deputy, but he had a PhD in cocaine-cutting. He mashed the large chunks under a ten dollar bill with a lighter, scrapped the excess off the soft cotton-blend bill, and started plowing the now fine dust around, cutting through it with the razor, making little chink-chink-chink sounds upon the glass. He made the lines hefty. Rock Star lines, he thought, rails, Movie Star lines; call ‘em what you will, Escobar did lines like this. Three for now, a couple for later, that’ll do the trick. He was right. He rolled up the ten dollar bill, aimed the thin green tube at the lines, and made them disappear. The first rush came less than a minute after the line hit home. It melted into his mucus membranes and assaulted his blood stream. His heart started thumping (and was pounding like a drum after the third line) and he broke out in a sweat. He felt like some colossal reincarnation of the Lord himself, his heart full of joy and coke. The second and third went up just as smoothly, some dripping down his sinuses and into his throat, making it turn numb instantly. “Tastes like more!” he laughed. Miller felt great. He was a man on the move, a man on a mission; and now he was on the move towards some mission with a head full of coke. He raced to his bedroom, marching more than walking, and grabbed his two pistols. One, a .22, he decided to leave. There was simply no call for that gun anywhere. He had bought it for target practice because small caliber bullets were cheap and the few times he had shot anything alive with it, it did not do enough damage to kill it. He had shot a rogue cat just outside of town and had hit it right in the head, but the cat was still alive. He had to empty the nine shot clip into its head before it would die. He had heard of mobsters using .22’s to execute people but he did not trust the weak gun. Yeah, what movie was that anyway? One of the Godfather Trilogy? Didn’t they say something about how the bullet wouldn’t go all the way through a head but instead bounce around in there? Miller could not remember. The gun he did grab was his pride and joy; his model 1911 Colt .45. This gun was a killer. It could tear through flesh, smash easily through bone and left exit-wounds the size of a fist when he used soft-tipped bullets. He put the gun, safety on, in the waistband of his pants and covered it by un-tucking his shirt. That done he opened up his dresser and re-filled the plastic film canister with more coke. He went back to the mirror. One more line, just one more. He cut it quickly, not caring that it was the size of the previous three combined, and snorted it up in one quick motion. It hit him hard but he liked it that way. He put the cap back on the film canister (which was still nearly full) with shaking hands and slid the mirror under the entertainment center. He would be back for it soon anyhow; no one can keep a hop-head away from their stash, not even cops. Miller marched quickly outside and started up his car. He drove to Harrow’s. There he parked and waited. His mind filled with snow again. It was speaking to him. He listened. The evening sky went from blaze orange to a more subtle tone, and then to darkness. Eleven came quickly. Moments before Jim opened the heavy steel door on squealing rusty hinges, the snow cleared. Jim did not say a word as he sat down. He looked over at Miller and that was all it took. Miller started up the big eight cylinder engine, lurched forward out of the parking lot, and was rolling smoothly along the boulevard in a matter of seconds. They passed the old gas station without a second glance and were pulling up Jim’s driveway by eleven-fifteen. Time was running short. Jim could hear the hollow cries echoing out from the grove and through the fields. It was hungry.