Hot Shots and Heavy Hits: Tales of an Undercover Drug Agent

4: Expired

4 EXPIRED W hat do you want to do today?’’ I asked Danny, who was leaning back in a chair next to me with his feet up on his desk, studying a surveillance report. ‘‘I don’t know,’’ Danny answered unenthusiastically. ‘‘We got to get something going. This paperwork is killin’ me, it’s so boring,’’ I said. Danny and I had just finished up a couple of big cases and were writing arrest reports, evidence reports, and surveillance reports for days on end. We felt like a couple of government file clerks, and were both getting itchy. It was time to get out on the street again. I made up my mind that today was the day. ‘‘Dan, why don’t we just jump in a shitbox, and drive out to the Washingtonian ? One of my old informants called yesterday, and said that they were dealing drugs like fools out there!’’ The Washingtonian was a methadone center, and the junkies were crawling all over the place according to my informant. ‘‘Are you all right?’’ Dan asked, sarcastically. ‘‘You wanna buy street shit?’’ ‘‘Danny, I don’t want to buy street shit any more than you do, but at least it’ll get us out of the office. You never know where it might lead. Maybe we’ll end up with some stoolies out of the thing. Nobody talks more .......................... 10590$ $CH4 03-12-04 13:06:28 PS than a good old junkie stool pigeon.’’ I struggled to sound enthusiastic in an effort to pull us out of our funk. Dan and I were beginning to get on each other’s nerves. It was the natural result of working too closely for too long. Our recent inactivity intensified our already volatile relationship from having worked so closely for such an extended time. ‘‘Yeah, okay,’’ Dan agreed reluctantly. ‘‘Maybe we can come up with some stoolies.’’ We changed into sneakers, jeans, army jackets, and caps, appropriate attire for the methadone clinic. Then we signed out a couple of hundred dollars in official government funds and headed to the methadone clinic in a beat-up Ford Pinto. It seemed like things were getting better for us already as we drove through the city. Dan and I arrived at the drug clinic a little before noon. The Washingtonian is located on a knoll near the Forest Hills MBTA station. As we drove up the hill and into the parking lot, we knew immediately that we were in the right place. All eyes were on us. Some junkies stood around conversing in groups in different areas of the parking lot, while others sat huddled in cars. Their paranoid looks questioned our presence. ‘‘Pull over here, Danny, and I’ll hit on this dude,’’ I ordered anxiously, turning the radio off. ‘‘Nah, let’s park and get out,’’ Danny countered. The adrenaline started pumping. We were in their world now, the world of the junkies. Danny and I had no need to discuss the manner in which we would approach the situation. We worked together so well, so naturally, that our moves were automatic. Danny parked to the side of the lot, and we both got out. I evaluated the situation while Danny approached the most promising prospect, a junkie in her early twenties with frizzy, dirty-blonde, shoulder-length hair, who turned to look at us when we ambled up to the group. ‘‘Who’s holdin’? We wanna score,’’ Danny demanded. ‘‘Who’s holdin?’’ she repeated. Then she asked, ‘‘Who are you?’’ Danny ignored her question rudely, and turned his back on her. He exchanged hellos with a skinny, pimple-faced kid who thought that he knew Danny from somewhere. I jumped into the conversation by asking about two junkies, to break the ice and ease the tension. ‘‘Tinker or Richie around?’’ I asked. Tinker was our stool pigeon, and Richie was a junkie who overdosed on heroin the night before and died. It was a good way to introduce ourselves to the group. Knowing Tinker and Richie gave us credibility. ‘‘Nah, Tinker just left. He comes around ten, and then leaves. Richie OD’d, man. Richie won’t be around no more.’’ I could see that the skinny, pimple-faced kid relaxed as he answered the question. 82 .......................... 10590$ $CH4 03-12-04 13:06:29 PS ‘‘You shittin’ me, man. Richie OD’d?’’ I asked, feigning concern. ‘‘Yeah, he...