Page 10 of Leaving Lando

“My sister said I could come stay with her. But she’s out of state and I’m on parole. I can’t leave.”

“Who’s your parole officer?”

“Fetterman.”

Fetterman’s a hardass if there ever was one. “If your information’s good, I promise I’ll have a word with him.” Jeeter doesn’t answer. “You want something to eat?”

He huddles over his coffee. “Cold out there.”

“I’ll get you a room for the night.”

I get a glance then, just a brief one. His faded blue eyes are watery and bloodshot. Still, he doesn’t speak. Curbing my impatience, I wait.

The silence does its work on him. “You can’t let this come back to me.”

Instinct prickles at the back of my neck. “It won’t.”

“I was with a friend the other night. He told me something.”

“Who’s your friend?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m tellin’ you everything he said.”

Maybe so, or maybe he doesn’t want his friend to know he blabbed. I’ll roll with it for now. “Okay.”

“He knows where Zoma’s headquarters are.”

My gut clenches with a combination of anticipation and skepticism. Zoma’s the street name for Zachary Oman, a mid-level dealer. He has an organization under him, but he’s not the big fish. Big enough, though, that he probably knows who the head guy is.

Oman’s slippery as fuck; I’ve been trying to nail him for the better part of a year. Every time we think we’ve got a bead on him, he slips away. Which is why I’m skeptical.

“How would your friend know that?”

Once more Jeeter’s eyes dart around the diner. When he speaks again, it’s in a whisper, even though no one is anywhere near us. “It was an accident. He was sleeping in a new place, a box by a vent on 47th. Woke up to some kind of ruckus, peeked out, and saw product being moved — lots of it.”

“How does he know it had anything to do with Zoma?” If the guy really did see drugs in bulk quantities, then the place is almost certainly under Oman’s control, but that’s a far cry from proving it.

“Saw the man himself.”

My eyes narrow. This is sounding more and more like bullshit; no way would Oman put himself on the spot like that. “Your friend knows him by sight?”

“Never saw him before. But it had to be him. Pulled up in a flash car, you know the kind. And everyone was afraid of him.”

There’s a tremor in Jeeter’s hand now, and there’s sweat on his upper lip. I look at Miller; is the guy jonesing? She watches him intently for a moment, then says, very softly, “What else did your friend see, Jeeter?”

“Nothing.” The denial comes too fast, too sharply.

I lean in a little, keeping my voice equally gentle. “No one knows about this conversation but us three, and we’ll keep it that way. What happened?”

But he just shakes his head, fast, not looking at either of us. “Come on, Jeeter,” I coax. “You’ll feel better if you get it off your chest. It’s why you waited for me, isn’t it? So you could tell someone.”

“I gotta go.” He’s panicking, literally trying to crawl over me to get out of the booth. I block him easily, pressing him back into his seat.

He looks ready to cry. “It’s okay,” I say. “You don’t have to say anything. But tell me where the headquarters are, so I can talk to Fetterman, put in a good word for you. 47th and what?”

“Between Hudson and Vermont,” he says, his voice shaky. “The old shoe factory.”

“All right. That’s good, Jeeter.” I give his shoulder a squeeze. “We’ll check it out. Let’s go get you a room, okay?”

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