Page 46 of Manacled Hearts

He grins, obviously reading me like an open book, and takes a step closer.

“You’re going to go in that bar over there”—he points to the only establishment of its kind on this street—“you’re going to ask for Carl and say a redheaded chick is looking for him outside, then you’re gonna walk out. After a guy walks out, follow him. He usually picks an alleyway or something. Got it?”

I don’t move a muscle.

“I’m not coming with you.” He turns his head toward a storefront a few buildings back. “I own that barber shop, and I was cleaning up when I saw you walk by. My kid’s in there waiting for me.”

“Okay,” I finally say. Kid or not, I just want to get away from him and be on my way. “Did you tell Carl I was coming?”

“No. But he’s used to strangers asking for his… merchandise.”

I nod and take a step backward. “Right. Thanks.”

“Sure.”

I turn before he can say anything more and speed my pace as I head to the bar. One deep breath later, I stop staring at the door handle and walk inside. A few people turn to look at me, but there’s a game on TV they’re more interested in. I wait far too long for the bartender to be free, even though probably not even half a minute has passed.

“What can I get you?”

I repeat in my head the words I was told to say, making sure I don’t mess it up somehow. I’m sure the code, if I can call it that, only works if it’s said in the right order.

“Umm… Is Carl around? A redheaded chick is looking for him outside.”

The bartender cocks his head, scrutinizing me for a few too many stressful moments, allowing me too much time to remember what a ridiculously reckless situation this is.

Finally, he nods. “I’ll let him know.”

With a brief thanks, I turn on my heels, wiping my now sweaty palms against my jeans as I walk out of the bar. I stand awkwardly a few steps away from the door, questioning my life choices, when the same door opens, and a man comes out. He barely even glances at me as he turns right and walks away, and I’m debating if this is the right guy that I’m supposed to follow. I look back into the bar, but everything looks normal. No other people are walking about. I turn to the man walking away and he doesn’t stop or turn to give me a sign.

I run a hand through my hair, gripping tighter the further back I reach, and just as I’m about to give myself a bald spot, the man turns toward an alley and for a brief, charged moment, he looks at me with a knowing look.

That’s him.

All my anxiety toward this situation seeps somewhere in the back of my mind where ignorance sits as well, and I finally follow him.

“What do you need?” he asks the moment I’m a few paces away from him in the alley.

He’s maybe mid-forties, with a receding hairline and the most inconspicuous outfit ever. He looks so normal, I wonder why I expected him to scream drug dealer.

“I’m not quite sure. I think—”

“You came seriously unprepared, didn’t you?” he interrupts. “Look, I’m not some mall shop where you can just browse for hours. What are you looking to achieve?” He raises his eyebrows in a slight exasperation.

“Escape,” I say before he barely finished the sentence.

“You want… the hard stuff?” He’s rather reluctant.

“Yes.”

“Vein, smoke, or nose?”

“Vein,” I answer.

He cocks his head yet again and for a few moments, I really thought he was going to tell me off and send me on my way.

“Oh, screw it. Who am I to judge? H, right?” he asks for confirmation.

According to my research, the effects of heroin—H—are the closest to what I experienced when Frankie B injected me.

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