Across the street, the runner leaned against the wall of an old brick building. Trash littered the ally, wafting up a scent that really could only be found in the run down areas of Demaitre. He was a black kid, maybe 16 years old, bundled up in a large black jacket. His shirt was ten times too big, as were his jeans, which sagged around his thighs. His hair was braided back in cornrows, covered by a do rag, and on top of that, headphones.

Communication was rarely verbal, and over the beat beat beat of his newest underground rap star favourite, the kid wouldn't hear Quentin if it had been.

With his right hand, Quentin made an "okay" sign with his fingers. Three fingers, tap tap on the bicep, just above the elbow. He took the man's money--sixty, and he counted twice to be sure--and shoved it deep in the inner pocket of his Ecko sweater. His hands casually went back to deep jean pockets as he watched his runner dig three vials out of a plastic bag hid beneath an old tire and run them up to their latest customer.

Three vials heroine.

Quentin glanced up and down the street reflexively. They hadn't had police out here in the four months he'd been working this corner, but it never hurt to double check. Not that it mattered. As far as rap sheets went on this crew, his was clean. No priors, no arrests, no searches, no seizures. And they couldn't charge him now, no. All he had was roughly 250 in cash in his pocket. He was clean, clean.

As clean as the alley they stood in. As clean as the ground, littered with gum wrappers, bottle caps, and fallen soldiers--empty vials that once carried the fix you needed to get through a night out here. Yea, Quen was clean, all right.

The four months that Quentin had been working this corner were the four months total he had been involved in this scheme, and he hated every minute of it. But, what could you do, when you had nothing and no one to your name?

Harrison was pissed off.

First, his sure-thing tip about some long-shot horse called Blue Jeans had fallen through when the damn animal had limped across the finish line dead last. Fucking lost his shoe right out of the gate and shot Harrison's chances of a big payout right to hell. Five grand, gone, because someone had opted to see a cheap blacksmith to save a few bucks.

Second, Clementine had come home when he was rifling through her purse. He knew she had just finished some big job, he'd seen her sewing peacock feathers on some crazy costume, and knew that she'd been given a big cheque for the fee. He hadn't thought she'd deposited it yet, but he'd only found sixty bucks, a silver compact, and some lousy gum. They'd argued for half an hour, him denying he'd been looking for money and insisting he just wanted gum, she yelling about responsibility and rehab and co-dependency.

He'd finally thrown the purse back at her and stomped out of the apartment, chewing furiously on a stick of gum. He'd slipped the compact into his pocket when she wasn't looking; he'd bring it to the pawn shop and see what he could get for it, it was real silver, after all.

Third, when he brought all the cash he could scrap together – about fifteen hundred dollars – to Mikey, his bookie, Mikey had insisted on dragging him out to some rundown back alley so he could score a hit.

The jerk knew he was trying to stay away from anything heavier than cigarettes or beer, and here he was denying Harrison the regular grace period unless he came out here to watch him shot up.

He shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his brown suede jacket, hunching his shoulders and staring at the ground. He reminded himself of a turtle, trying to retreat into its shell. Except Harrison worried that his shell wasn't thick enough.

He followed Mikey across the street and into some nondescript alleyway, slightly wary when he saw Quentin standing there. Mikey confidently walked up to Quen and nodded a hello, his face both serious and excited for the hit.

Harrison hung back a few feet, watching the dealer like some kind of dangerous snake. He didn't even know what kind of poison they were out here to buy, he just knew he had probably tried it and liked it at some point in the past.

He wasn't pissed anymore. Now he was just scared he'd break again.

Quentin watched the pair of them start on down the street. One looked nervous, edgy; he recognized him as a regular down here. Worked up the street, in some rundown apartment. A bookie. He had overheard the man talkin' after he won himself a big earnings at the local races. Quen silently regarded him with contempt. The dredges of society seemed to come here in droves. Well, not that he should be talking.

The second man Quentin did not recognize, and that made him wary. He looked nervous, anxious. Angry. A pissed off customer of Mikey's? Good, he though. Serves the man right, it does.

"One or two." Quentin's voice low and aloof as Mikey and Harrison stopped near. One was heroin, two was cocaine. New users took too long with an answer and typically named their drug of choice to all. Mikey, though, wasn't new, and Quentin didn't bother explaining the choices to him.

It would have been rude to signal over for a regular order before Mikey paid up. Rude, because no druggie likes to be seen as an addict. They don't like being remembered, Quen had been told. Rude also because, this time, Mikey brought a friend.

Quentin's eyes flickered between the two as he held out a hand, intended for the high five that would pass him the money. It was all slick, smooth, and without a hitch, could be over and done with in 15 seconds.

One, two, three...

"Number one, my friend." Mikey nodded in Harrison's direction. "Compliments of my man's poor choice in livestock." He took a few rolls of bills out of his pocket, the money that Harrison had thrown at him back at his apartment, and passed it to Quentin in a smooth, noisy high five.

Harrison flinched slightly at the familiar noise... He had heard it often enough, passing money to dealers in the same way for over five years. He started to grow even angrier with Mikey - just who did he think he was, dragging him out here? How long was he expected to follow him around? He'd be damned if he actually stood there and watched the bastard shooting up.

"What're you having, Harry?" Mikey asked. "C'mon, on the house, we'll celebrate your lack of judgement together."

For a brief moment, Harrison wanted to say yes. He wanted to say yes more than he wanted to walk away, or make Clem happy, or reconcile with his family. It would be so easy... Just pick a number, and get the prize. First the rush, then the relaxation.

He opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again as a memory came to him. Him; lying in the grass of Cedarwood Park, overdosed on a speedball and slowly fading. He remembered it in the kind of jumbled clarity that accident victims spoke of - meeting with his dealer, snorting with his junkie friends, and crawling through the bushes away from them when he started thinking that something was wrong.

Most vividly, he remembered the way the flashlight the paramedic had shone into his eye had pierced into his brain like the beacon from a lighthouse, showing the way back to consciousness, back to safety.

"No," He said, shaking his head. "No, nothing."

Four, five, smack.

Quentin's hand did not move with the force of the high five. It was like hitting a wall, only the wall swallowed up the money. Slowly, Quentin counted the bills, verifying a forty dollar total twice before slipping the money into his back pocket. Switch the pockets after every hand off, he had been told. That way, if some strung out little fucker decides to become a thief, the most he'd ever get away with is a sixth of the total.

Well, in Quen's case, a seventh, but that extra pocket didn't matter. No, no one would get near it. He wouldn't allow anyone even that. His job, however pitiful it was, depended on his accountability, so he would do it right every time, and there wouldn't be a single fuck up.

Quentin did not laugh at the man's jokes. He did not smile. A celebration? he scoffed, internally. Stole his money over a lousy ass game, and then you're up in here, askin' him to kill his self wit' you? This wasn't funny to him. He held a cold gaze on Mikey for a moment before looking over to his friend--Harry, the man had said--and eyeing him emotionlessly. Harry opted out. Well, now. That was a small surprise. The man had a lick of sense in him. Now, if only he could get his sorry ass out of the whole gambling mix, too.

Before Mikey could change his friend's mind, Quen sent a silent signal to his runner. Peace sign, tapped against the bicep. Two vials of heroine powder, street ready. All a good user like Mikey needed was his own stash of syringes, a spoon, and some water.

It made Quen sick to know that he knew this. With a scowl, he looked at his feet and shoved his hands back into his front pockets. Seven more seconds, and this man would be out his life once again.

"Wassamatter, Harry? Think you finally kicked the habit?" Mikey spoke in a teasing, sarcastic voice as Quen counted his money. "Or are you just afraid that Jones will get mad?"

"Don't talk about her!" Harrison snapped, and took his hand out of his pocket to shove Mikey roughly. "You do not get to talk about her." He repeated. He never used Clem's first name with his friends from the underbelly, and it made him angry just to hear dirt like Mikey use her last name.

He glared at the bookie, and the silver compact in his pocket began to feel strangely heavy.

"Hey, watch it." Mikey stepped sideways from the force of the shove. "You better treat your friends nicer, man. Or else they might not be willing to help you." He removed the cigarette which had been clamped between his lips all this time, and blew smoke up into the air arrogantly. "I can help you out too." He said, staring at Quen.

"What are you talking about?" Harrison asked sulkily.

Mikey shrugged. "I got a business proposition for the two of you."

Five, four, three. Fuck.

Quentin's runner stopped at the man as Harry and Mikey had their confrontation about Harry kickin' the habit and/or some chick named Jones. The kid looked completely unimpressed. For all he could tell (his music was still drowning out everything) they were fighting over the drugs. He looked over at Quentin, a scowl on his face.

"C'mon, foo. Take dis here sheeit!" His voice confirmed his age to be anywhere from 14-17. Not old enough for this, yet, at the same time, at the perfect age to start getting involved. Quentin waved him over and took Mikey's drugs. "Take five," he ordered, pulling a five out of his front pocket to pay the kid off.

Once he was out of earshot, Quen shoved the drugs at Mikey. "Ya'll come down here at 11:30 ta fight an' cuss an' make foo's out yo' damn selves, then try an' pull some proposition sheeit? Ya'll iz fucked up," Quentin said in perfect street speak, sounding exasperated and slightly pissed.

But he was listening. He didn't have a choice but to listen.

"Hey, I ain't fightin'." Mikey said indignantly. "He's the one shovin'."

Harrison had a choice. He could walk away, go back home, put his feet up and watch television for the rest of the night. He could leave Mikey in this little alleyway, with this drug dealer, and to hell with the both of them. All this ran through his mind as Mikey spoke to Quen.

"No, forget it. Whatever it is, keep it to yourself, I'm out of here." He turned around and started to walk away. His heart gave a little thump - maybe pride at standing up for himself, for resisting his old lifestyle and getting out without a hit?

"You leave now and you pay interest on your debt. You help me out and I'll drop it. I'll even cut you in." Mikey called after him.

Harrison stopped walking as if someone had jerked his leash. Guess he hadn't left that old lifestyle after all. He slipped his hand into his jean's pocket, felt the weight of the compact he had stolen from Clem. Even if he pawned it, it wouldn't make enough to pay off Mikey. If he had a way to work off his debt...?

He turned around again, facing Mikey and Quen once more, and took a few steps back towards them.

"What's your proposition?" He asked, not bothering to conceal the anger in his voice.

"I got a kilo of black tar straight from Mexico and I need a way to move it." Mikey explained. He spoke quickly and lowly, his eyes darting around as if suspecting to see people listening in on his conversation. "I'ma little occupied with the gamblin' racket, as you both know, so I need people on the street. If this works out for me, I think I can make it a regular delivery."

Harrison stared at Mikey as he kept talking, his eyes hard and narrowed.

Quentin rolled his eyes. Children, the both of them. 'Course, he was almost 350 years older than them. Perhaps he was a teeny bit jaded.

As Harrison wrestled with indecision, Quen analyzed the situation. Mikey got his first package, probably ever. Now, Quentin was no expert when it came to the drug trade, but he had enough common sense to know what Mikey probably already knew: getting started was nearly impossible without a team.

Harrison backed out, and in that instant, Quentin envied him. He had that choice. He could get out now. He could leave and never look back on this lifestyle.

Or, well, maybe not. Quentin watched the man halt as if tugged. Harrison was in this, whether he liked it or not. Envy melted to a form of pity. You an' me both, pal. You an' me both.

Quentin's emotions were well guarded, however. He stood there with an expression like ice as Mikey finished his proposition. When he finished, silence hung for a moment, and Quentin let out a low laugh.

"What, ya th'o't ya can march yo' ass in here an' just start selling yo' sheeit? Like ya uh right nigga or sumfin? Boy, you ain't thinkin' dis sheeit through."

The city was broken up into territories, the most coveted ones, of course, being the ones where crime and poverty ran hand in hand. Where Quentin stood was on the outer edges of the good turf. Might as well call it bad turf, in all honesty. He couldn't move anything fast from where he stood, which meant pay would never be very good.

"You gonna need all da he'p ya can git," he said, exasperated. With a quick look up and down the street, he took a step closer and lowered his voice. "What my cut be?"

Because, in the end? Quen's in this for the pay. Make him an offer high enough and he'll do it.

"Trust me; I thought this through many, many times." Mikey dismissed Quen's concerns with the same confident attitude as a used-car salesman. "I think this could work out. For all of us."

Mikey smiled with a sense of slick satisfaction when Quentin stepped forward and asked about the money. He hadn't thought it would be this easy to recruit his regular dealer, but he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He glanced over at Harrison, who stood scowling, but Mikey wasn't discouraged. He knew he had them both in the palm of his dirty hand right now.

"Well, since I'm the one takin' all the risk here, I think it's only fair that my cut of the profits are greater. But, I'm a reasonable guy, so I'm willin' to offer you and our friend Harry here a twenty percent interest. Each." He looked back and forth from Harrison to Quen. "Since you're the expert here, man, I bet you know how much cash we're talkin' when it comes to a kilo."

Harrison still didn't say anything, and Mikey kept talking. He wasn't looking at either Quen or Mikey, but it was obvious from the unhappy expression on his face and the tension in his shoulders that he was paying attention, and didn't like what he heard.

"You work the streets. Harry is the middle man between us. You answer to him, you answer to me." He pointed first at Quen, then at Harrison, then at himself. "I already got an area staked out, the stretch of alleys over between the casino and the concert hall. So, whatta ya say, fellas?"