Vermont detective Joe Gunther vows to stop the flow of drugs into his beloved state when in the course of a week a young heroin addict is gunned down while trying to rob a convenience store, a narcotics dealer is found hanging from a bridge, and the granddaughter of political bigwigs dies of an overdose.
Thats five dollars even.
Arnie Weller looked over the shoulder of the balding man holding out a ten dollar bill and checked on the whereabouts of the young woman hed seen entering a few minutes earlier.
Out of ten, he automatically chanted, not bothering to meet his customers eyes. Where was she? He turned briefly to the cash register, his fingers dancing across the keyboard in a blur. He caught the spring-loaded drawer against his hip as it opened, quickly made change, and proffered it to the man.
Want a bag? He asked, back to surveilling the rear of the store.
There was a telling pause from the customer, forcing Arnie to reluctantly focus on him. What?
The man smiled. I bought gas.
Arnie stared at him, briefly at a total loss. “Sorry. Have a nice night.
Shaking his head slightly, the man slipped from Arnies line of vision, through the double glass doors to the right, and into the night where his pickup was parked beside one of the gas pumps.
Arnie saw what he thought was the top of the girls head pass behind a row of stacked boxes and six-packs near the bank of fridges along the far wall. Hardest place to see anyone, he thought angrily, still nursing a grudge. Two weeks ago, hed asked a so-called security expert for an estimate on rigging the place with cameras. One week later, hed bought a gun instead. For a whole lot less.
Bastard.
Arnie Weller ran a clean store, paid his taxes, took care of his employees, most of whom were worthless. He dealt with the chiseling gas company, the wholesale suppliers who screwed him out of habit, and the endless state forms issued monthly to makelS¸