hell did his parents stash that?
"Well, I'll give you a little hint. It goes with donuts."
Daryl eyed the baggie closer, caught a whiff of sweetness. Powdered sugar.
"You assholes," Daryl said without emotion. But the powdered sugar reminded him that he had an appointment Tuesday at one of his dealer's safe houses to pick up some real coke, lots of it. But that was a day away. What am I going to do until then?
Roach said, "You bet we're assholes. Professional assholes, you might say." The cops laughed uproariously. "Looks like the house is clean, sonny. This time, you managed to get everything. Truly remarkable."
Daryl got to his feet, a bold move, since he hadn't given him permission yet. "Can I leave now?"
"I suppose so," Roach said, acting as if he'd been deprived of some entertainment. "Looks like your dad's not going to show up."
No, I doubt it. Daryl thought. Especially if he's coked up, too. Gets real paranoid around cops.
"We know where you live. Since there are no witnesses to speak of, I'd say you're in the clear. But we have your number, Daryl. We'll be watching you. And we're going to get you."
Daryl found the rest of his clothes, which had turned up during the drug search, and got into his '94 Corvette. Since everybody else was driving on the lawn, as evidenced by several tire tracks in the grass, he no longer considered himself blocked in by the Mustang. He drove over the grass, a flower bed, and urged his beast onto the driveway. As he neared the gate, he gave the ghouls there the finger and sped on, ignoring the gaggle of reporters and vidcams.
He didn't want to go home. He wanted to go somewhere, anywhere, and get good and fucked up. After all, this had been a crappy day, and he deserved it. But if he did that, Dad would certainly beat the tar out of him. At this point, if he went directly home and convinced Dad he wasn't in trouble, he stood a fifty-fifty chance of avoiding injury.
His father's new BMW was parked in the driveway when he pulled in, and he considered driving on, but decided to go ahead and get it over with. He pulled up next to the Beamer and tried to make himself more presentable in his rearview mirror; he looked, and felt, like hell.
Depressed and shaky, he entered the house. In many ways it was much like the Wintons' mansion, except smaller. He made a beeline for the stairwell, which led to his bedroom upstairs. Before he reached the second step, his father's voice boomed from the living room.
"Daryl. Get in here."
Damn, he thought. His knees turned into marshmallows. The chances of making it to his room had been, to say the least, slim. But it had been worth a shot.
Paul Bendis sat on the sofa with a tumbler of scotch in one hand, a lit cigarette in another. Daryl came in and sat on a love seat across from him, and tried to look less hung over than he was.
He didn't fool anyone. "Son, you look like hell," Paul said, taking a large sip from the scotch. "What happened over at the Wintons' last night?"
Daryl got as comfortable as possible, resigned to his fate. How much does he already know? he wondered, searching his father's face for clues. Paul looked tired, but somewhat mellowed, due in no small part to the scotch. An empty bottle of Chivas Regal lay at his feet. A paper of coke sat on the mirror-topped coffee table. Traces of white powder remained, shadows of the lines now embedded somewhere in Paul's nasal passages.
Daryl's nostrils itched; his mouth watered. The bugs returned with a vengeance, crawling up one leg, then both.
"Did you hear me?" his father said, his voice rising. " What happened over there? "
Daryl shook himself from the trance the coke held him in. "Uhn, sorry. At the Wintons'. It was just a party. Wine coolers, beer."
"Any coke?"
"No, but I think there was Pepsi. . . ."
An ashtray whizzed over his head and smashed against the wall behind him. The object cleared his head by maybe an inch; he felt its breeze when it
"Well, I'll give you a little hint. It goes with donuts."
Daryl eyed the baggie closer, caught a whiff of sweetness. Powdered sugar.
"You assholes," Daryl said without emotion. But the powdered sugar reminded him that he had an appointment Tuesday at one of his dealer's safe houses to pick up some real coke, lots of it. But that was a day away. What am I going to do until then?
Roach said, "You bet we're assholes. Professional assholes, you might say." The cops laughed uproariously. "Looks like the house is clean, sonny. This time, you managed to get everything. Truly remarkable."
Daryl got to his feet, a bold move, since he hadn't given him permission yet. "Can I leave now?"
"I suppose so," Roach said, acting as if he'd been deprived of some entertainment. "Looks like your dad's not going to show up."
No, I doubt it. Daryl thought. Especially if he's coked up, too. Gets real paranoid around cops.
"We know where you live. Since there are no witnesses to speak of, I'd say you're in the clear. But we have your number, Daryl. We'll be watching you. And we're going to get you."
Daryl found the rest of his clothes, which had turned up during the drug search, and got into his '94 Corvette. Since everybody else was driving on the lawn, as evidenced by several tire tracks in the grass, he no longer considered himself blocked in by the Mustang. He drove over the grass, a flower bed, and urged his beast onto the driveway. As he neared the gate, he gave the ghouls there the finger and sped on, ignoring the gaggle of reporters and vidcams.
He didn't want to go home. He wanted to go somewhere, anywhere, and get good and fucked up. After all, this had been a crappy day, and he deserved it. But if he did that, Dad would certainly beat the tar out of him. At this point, if he went directly home and convinced Dad he wasn't in trouble, he stood a fifty-fifty chance of avoiding injury.
His father's new BMW was parked in the driveway when he pulled in, and he considered driving on, but decided to go ahead and get it over with. He pulled up next to the Beamer and tried to make himself more presentable in his rearview mirror; he looked, and felt, like hell.
Depressed and shaky, he entered the house. In many ways it was much like the Wintons' mansion, except smaller. He made a beeline for the stairwell, which led to his bedroom upstairs. Before he reached the second step, his father's voice boomed from the living room.
"Daryl. Get in here."
Damn, he thought. His knees turned into marshmallows. The chances of making it to his room had been, to say the least, slim. But it had been worth a shot.
Paul Bendis sat on the sofa with a tumbler of scotch in one hand, a lit cigarette in another. Daryl came in and sat on a love seat across from him, and tried to look less hung over than he was.
He didn't fool anyone. "Son, you look like hell," Paul said, taking a large sip from the scotch. "What happened over at the Wintons' last night?"
Daryl got as comfortable as possible, resigned to his fate. How much does he already know? he wondered, searching his father's face for clues. Paul looked tired, but somewhat mellowed, due in no small part to the scotch. An empty bottle of Chivas Regal lay at his feet. A paper of coke sat on the mirror-topped coffee table. Traces of white powder remained, shadows of the lines now embedded somewhere in Paul's nasal passages.
Daryl's nostrils itched; his mouth watered. The bugs returned with a vengeance, crawling up one leg, then both.
"Did you hear me?" his father said, his voice rising. " What happened over there? "
Daryl shook himself from the trance the coke held him in. "Uhn, sorry. At the Wintons'. It was just a party. Wine coolers, beer."
"Any coke?"
"No, but I think there was Pepsi. . . ."
An ashtray whizzed over his head and smashed against the wall behind him. The object cleared his head by maybe an inch; he felt its breeze when it
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