Zane Holt crouched in a trash-covered lot behind Iron Hollow's shuttered strip mall then sorted a bag of scavenged junk of copper wires, a busted Walkman plus some rusted screws.
His jeans showed dirt smudges from crawling through ditches all day, and his jacket hung loose against the evening's cold.
He'd scavenged since sun up, and he barely found enough for a burger. His stomach tightened, and his boots scraped over pavement strewn with bottle caps and torn lottery tickets.
The air reeked of sour garbage from a nearby dumpster, and carried a chill that said rain was close.
He aimed for Joey Carter's pawn shop, tucked behind a faded laundromat.
Joey went to his school way back, and used to slip him candy when his mom was too strung out to care. Now Joey traded for anything; bikes, stereos or whatever. He paid fast and kept quiet. Zane needed ten bucks or he'd starve tomorrow.
The mall's bricks held graffiti; names, curses and gang scratches nobody cared about. A streetlamp flickered then buzzed loud and threw weak light into the alley past Joey's place.
Zane hit the back door; iron and dented, and flaking red paint—then banged twice.
A lock clicked and the door inched open, then Joey's face appeared. He was all bones, greasy hair, and chewed-up his nails. Same as always.
His eyes darted past Zane and his lips twitched into a half-smile. He wore a ripped Slayer shirt and smelled like stale sweat.
"Zane? shit, you're out late," Joey said while keeping his voice low like someone might hear. "Got anything worth my time or just wastin' it?"
Zane lifted the bag, then shook it and let the screws clink. "Wires plus a player, enough for ten. You buyin' or passin'?"
Joey's smile froze then he stepped out and glanced down the alley. "Lemme check it and—" His words died as boots crunched on gravel, and it grew loud and close.
Zane spun and saw a guy stride up; stocky and buzzcut with a black jacket zipped tight. His hands stayed deep in his pockets and his stare locked on Joey like Zane wasn't there. A tattoo curled over his knuckles; letters spelling R-O-C-K and smudged dark.
"Money now, or you're fuckin' done," the guy snapped with a flat and cold voice.
Joey flinched and his hands jerked up like he was caught stealing. "Got it right here, just chill it's yours," he stammered then fumbled in his pocket and yanked out a thin stack of bills then shoved it forward. "That's the deal, take it."
The guy snatched the cash then flipped through it quick without blinking. He tossed a tiny plastic baggie at Joey, stuffed with white powder and sealed tight.
"Move that fast. You stall again, you're meat." he growled then shot a look at Zane like noticing him for the first time. "Who's this prick and why's he standin' there?"
Zane's pulse jumped and his grip tightened on the bag but didn't move. The guy's stare bored in like it could peel skin and his tattooed hand flexed slowly.
"Sellin' scraps then movin' on, ain't here for nothin' else." Zane said while keeping his tone even and stared back hard.
Joey's voice cracked then he waved both hands like swatting flies. "He's my guy, just a junk guy, don't sweat it," he said then grabbed Zane's bag and spilled wires onto the ground. "Gimme a sec, I'll pay him and we're square."
The guy stepped closer, his boots scraped loud then stopped an arm's length off. "You're eyeballin' too much kid, and that's trouble," he said then leaned in and let his voice drop lower. "New players run this now and they hate loose mouths. Shut yours or you're bleedin'."
Zane grit his teeth, he felt the ten bucks in Joey's shaky hand then slipped it into his jeans. "Ain't seein' shit, and don't care," he shot back and kept his eyes on the guy's like daring him to move.
The place was silent, but tense, except for the lamp's buzz.
Joey's breath hitched then he pushed between them and held out the cash like a shield. "All good then, Zane's out, we're done here," he said then shoved the baggie in his shirt and turned to the guy. "Deal's set, I'm movin' it like you said."
The guy's lip curled then he spat on the ground and pointed at Zane one last time. "Keep it that way then nosy, or next time's worse," he said then backed off slow and watched them both like a dog sizing up meat.
He turned then vanished into the dark and left only bootprints in the dust.
Zane waited till the steps faded then looked at Joey and saw his friend's face pale like chalk. "What's that man, who's he with?" Zane asked, keeping his voice low and nodded at Joey's shirt where the baggie hid.
Joey shook his head and backed to the door then gripped the handle tight. "Don't ask Zane, just go," he muttered then slipped inside and slammed it shut, leaving Zane alone in the alley.
Zane stood there, feeling the ten bucks crinkle then started walking. The powder stuck in his head, it's not Marco's gritty stuff, it's too clean and it could kill quick. He'd grazed it when Joey fumbled and caught a jolt—pure, sharp and ready to explode in someone's veins.
His hands shook, and he shoved them deep in his pockets and took a side street fast.
The lamp's light died behind him.
He hit his apartment past midnight, locked the door and sank onto a creaky chair. The guy's words of new players, loose mouths and bleedin' kept playing in his head.
Joey was tangled with someone dangerous, and Zane saw it, he felt the drug's kick and couldn't shake it off. The place was starting to crush him, leaving him no room to breathe.