CHAPTER 4:
Officer Mack Justice of the local police department had some questions. A new supplier of heroin had come on the scene, selling purer dope and causing overdoses all over the county. The perps in lockup could be overheard saying that the new folks were dangerous, too, but shut right up when any questions were asked.
So, for answers about drugs, Officer Justice had to go to the only dealer who might talk to him: a hippie goat currently barn-surfing at the De la Vega farm who went by the name Living Deliciously. Living (or “LD,” he’d respond to either) was a kinda-sorta confidential informant in the sense that he’d tell Officer Justice what was what on the D/L; that is, if he wasn’t too high on his own supply or too interested in yanking a police officer’s chain to provide any useful info.
“You holding, Living?” It was sometimes easier to get information out of Living Deliciously if you shook him down a little.
“Officer Mack, you should know that, A, you don’t have probable cause to ask that question, second, I’ve got some constitutional amendment rights that mean I don’t have to tell you, and some number less than six, you aren’t going to arrest me anyway, because you need something.” Oh, this was going to be an irritating one; this was one of those times where it wasn’t clear whether Living was stoned or screwing with him. He’d look Living in the eyes to try to tell, but you couldn’t read anything with those weird goat pupils; all you’d do is make yourself unsettled.
“Fine, Living, fine. I need to know about heroin.”
“That is not my jam, Officer Mack, and there is nothing smack will get you that -- if, hypothetically, I had access to Schedule 1 controlled substances in sticky green plant form -- some of my better bud could not do for you without becoming a drooling, addicted mess. Don’t handle smack, don’t handle oxy, don’t ever sell anyone more than a tab of E at a time, I mean hypothetically. But that stuff, and cocaine, obviously -- not interested in making people more hyped up -- nowhere near it.”
“I got a bunch of new bodies in the cold room at county hospital, Living, full of new drugs from a new place, and although you’ve made it clear that you are the most ethical of street pharmacists-”
“Thank you kindly, officer”
“-you keep one fuzzy ear to the ground about these things.”
“This stuff is out of your league, Mack Justice. You’d do best to steer clear.”
“Try me, Living.”
“Nuh-uh, Officer Mack. You don’t carry a gun.”
“I’ve got one in the car if I need it.” Mack wasn’t going to go into why he went without a sidearm, not with Living Deliciously; he had enough trouble telling the story to the Chief so he could keep the vow he made so many years before in Chicago. The Chief didn’t quite understand, but until recently, crime was low in the county, and it wasn’t like Mack was averse to taking the shotgun out of the patrol car’s top rack if the need arose. He just wouldn’t put a gun on his hip. Ever again.
“You need to pack if you’re going after the Crimson Circle, Mack. And you shouldn’t. No one’s going to back your play, and they are not to be messed with.”
“Who are the Crimson Circle, Living?”
“Okay, that was dumb of me to say, but I like you, Mack. And I’m pretty sure that if they torture you, you won’t give me up.” Living sounded genuinely afraid, something Mack had never heard before, and was thrown off by, especially the way goats have that weird timbre. “So, the Crimson Circle is what happens when some Mexican cartel dudes, some yakuza, some Russian bratva, and some Dixie Mafia types all team up and get religion together.”
“Religion? Like, Jesus?”
“Ha, right, that would be good. Even straight Malverde worship would be good. No, this is Manson-level stuff, Officer Mack. They all decided that Malverde, Sammael the Poison Angel, some Japanese Buddhist death god, and some ancient Russian death god -- they’re all aspects of some common destroyer deity, this nihilist oneness, some sort of non-tentacled Cthulhu who is going to destroy everything. And the best way to live is to be his advance team.”
“What?”
“It’s a freaking death cult, man. They literally believe the world is going to end and probably deserves it, so they deal opioids to give people ‘the easy death.’ But if you get in their way or try to stop them, you get ‘the hard death,’ and from what I hear about the Wilson murder, that’s no joke.”
“Bud Wilson was stabbed in a bar fight gone bad.”
“Did you see the body, Officer Mack?”
“It wasn’t my case, so-”
“So you didn’t. When Officer Jenny saw what happened to Bud, she called Chief Steggs directly, because she had no idea what do with a murder victim who was in so many parts so spread out over the field near McTucky’s. And Chief Steggs is a real fan of doing things without, say, undue attention.”
“You’re saying Chief Steggs covered up a brutal murder by a drug-dealing multinational non-denominational death cult operating in rural Texas.”
“I’m not saying he covered it up, man, Steggs is real people even if he’s got a stick up his butt. He’s probably working the case still. But he’s doing it on the down low, quiet and slow and hoping the Crimson Circle has moved on.”
“But they haven’t.”
“No they have not, Officer Mack.”
“How do I know this isn’t you being paranoid off some bad weed?” The tingle at his hip was back. Sure, the insane stories of a pot-smoking, vaguely employed farm animal sounded like fantasy, and he certainly wouldn’t have trusted any of the talking animals on the streets of Chicago, but the sense that death was near, and the overwhelming desire to draw first and strike against it, told him different. Living Deliciously was telling the truth. Something horrible had come to town.
“I know when I’m tripping, Officer Mack. Is this something you’re going to chase down?”
“You know I have to, Living.”
“Get a gun, Officer Mack. I don’t do violence but you are going to walk that path.”
“Not my way, Living, but thanks. I have to go read a police file the Chief probably doesn’t want me to see.”