Tw: drugs, not use but some description
Mia threw the briefcase onto her counter. It had to weigh at least fifteen pounds and made a solid clunking sound. Anxiously, she ran a hand through her hair. She'd be in Blackgate or dead by the end of the week sooner than she'd sell it. Why couldn't Maroni have blown her up or shot her point blank? Maybe it was a lifetime supply of bud? Mia snorted the thought. She could dump that at the high school easily.
When she worked up the courage to open the briefcase, her heart stopped. Mia had never seen that much crystal meth in her life. Ten Ziploc bags sat in a neat grid, staring at her menacingly. She experimentally poked one, jumping back as it crunched at her. Her heart nearly beat out of her chest; she could hear it in her ears. The smell of it seemed to linger in the air. Or was that just her imagination? Mia clutched the counter and crouched down. After a few steadying breaths, she stood up and acted on autopilot. Just like any new product she weighed it. Almost exactly one kilo it read. Mia released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She threw the bag back in the briefcase, slammed it shut, and sank to the floor to cry.
One year ago. Luc grinned at Mia as she dragged her bag out of the front door. The "Second Chance Center" loomed above them. Mia had spent thirty days drying out there. "I can't sell anymore," she had said quietly in the car.
"Tell that to Maroni," was all Luc could say.
"I'm serious, I need out," she said, "I'll just end up back here."
"I doubt he'll ever let you near the stuff," Luc offered, "You're in this for life, Princess."
And he hadn't. Maroni hadn't let her leave and he hadn't let her sell her vices. After all, Maroni had financed Mia's rehab trip. But overdosing on meth and heroine, his meth and heroine, had been her first strike. She assumed losing the bag to Joker was strike two. If they were playing baseball, any mistakes with the crystal would be strike three.
Mia dragged herself up, blew her nose, and grabbed her phone. She had a text from the number she now recognized as Sam's burn phone: "i guess ur jessie."
Oh fuck you," Mia typed as aggressively as one could on a touch screen. Moving on, she started sending out mass texts. First she wrote old regulars that had stopped buying from her when she stopped carrying their drugs of choice. Maybe she could sell small quantities to them. Then, she moved on to buyers, suppliers, dealers and idiots with a home lab; all of whom, as far as she knew, were outside the Maroni Family and owed her or her brother a favor. Finally she wrote Luc about her predicament.
He replied immediately: "Idk. go to a meeting or something?" Mia laughed hollowly and then threw herself face first into the couch and screamed. Her body itched for the drug that lay six feet from her in mass quantities. Once a junkie always a junkie, Mia thought. She stood up to grab a cigarette when someone knocked on her door.
"What is it now?" Mia stashed the briefcase under her sink and checked through the peephole. The hallway was empty. "Well fuck you," she said to the door. Someone knocked again, this time she heard someone's heavy footsteps speed down the hall. She humored the prankster and opened the door slightly, letting the chain catch. This time Mia saw a purple envelope stuck to her door. "Fuck you, Joker." She slammed the door.
There wasn't much Mia could do about the drugs under her sink until someone wrote her back, so she returned to her cigarette. Someone knocked at her door a third time. Mia ignored it. "My name is Mia Conti. I am 21 years old," she fell back on want old coping skill, though she was unsure what she was coping with: the cravings for the meth, the hopelessness of her situation, or the anxiety from the Joker. "I work for Salvatore Maroni. I got conned by the Joker" – she took a drag – "and lost something that was worth at least five hundred grand. I have to sell ten kilos of meth by Friday. I owe Salvatore Maroni five hundred grand. Ten kilos. Five hundred grand. If I lose it, or use it or just don't sell it all . . ." she paused, taking a drag of her cigarette. The person knocked again, louder this time. "According to Sam the Boss doesn't care if I die. I don't know who Sam is. Sam's an asshole. The Joker's trying play mind games with me now. The Joker's an asshole. The Joker is criminally insane." A fifth time they knocked on the door. No, not knocking, they were kicking at it. Mia pulled her pocketknife out of her pocket with her free hand, and turned to face the door. "Someone doesn't like to be ignored," she paused, "or is ordered to not let himself be ignored." Just like the card trick, it could always be hired help.
Her entire door was shaking. The sound grew and whoever it was seemed to be throwing their shoulder into the door. Mia put out her cigarette and stood up. Bang! The door shuddered. Bits of plaster fell from her ceiling. Bang! Mia half hoped he broke through; half hoped he was gunning for a fight. She was. She briefly considered opening the door for the assailant. Clang! The sound changed, now emanating from her door handle. Clang! Mia assumed they were trying to break the lock. Clang! Clunk. Something seemed to give in her door handle. Mia held her weapon in a fighting stance, standing a safe distance from the door. Bang! They had resumed kicking. This time the door opened, banging against her door chain and closing again. Bang! Mia's chain wouldn't hold much more. Bang! The chains track began to pull from her wall. Mia braced herself for her intruder to break through. Her shoulders tightened and she crouched down. The moment that door open she would tackle him, if they weren't the Joker she'd leave them wishing they looked like him. And if they were the Joker? Mia hadn't thought that far ahead.
Mia sat there planning to pounce for several moments. Her teeth began to ache and she realized they were clenched. Then the intruder started running away, or at least sounded as though he was. She remained in an attack position for a few more seconds before approaching her door. The door wasn't hanging off its hinges but it might be. She pushed it closed and undid the chain. The entirety of her outside handle was broken off, hanging uselessly by a strip of the plastic paint on her door. They had managed to kick several dents in her door, centered around the handle, one of them even cracking. Of course, the purple envelope remained untouched.
The police arrived less than a minute later. A man and a woman Mia instantly nicknamed "Pretty Boy" and "Bitchface". They both drew their weapons at the sight of Mia's knife.
"Drop your weapon and put your hands above your head!" Officer Bitchface shouted holding out her badge. Mia complied wordlessly. Past experience said to make your case to the officers unarmed. She raised her left arm and slowly placed the knife on the floor, then kicked it to Pretty Boy.
"It's not a weapon," Mia crossed her fingers. With ten kilos of hard drugs under her sink, leave it to fate that she goes to jail over a pocket knife. "Just the first thing I grabbed when someone was trying to break down my door." She rested both hands on her head and tried to ignore her heartbeat.
"You live here?" Bitchface lowered her weapon. Pretty Boy was picking her knife up with an evidence bag. Mia nodded. "What happened?"
"Someone was trying to break in," Mia shrugged as best she could, "I guess they didn't know I was home or something. Bolted before they got through, probably because of you"
"And you didn't call us?" Pretty Boy asked.
"At first I thought it was some kids pulling a prank, and then I was too scared," Mia replied in a matter of fact tone. "Who did call?" Whoever sent police to her door was going to pay. Bitchface moved to pat Mia down, searching for anymore weapons. Mia's arms were getting sore
"An anonymous noise complaint," Bitchface stepped away from Mia. "You can put your arms down."
Mia rubbed her offended arms. "A concerned neighbor?"
"Any idea who would want to knock your door off its hinges?" Pretty Boy countered her question with another.
"Nope." Mia made a popping noise over the 'p'.
Bitchface pulled the purple envelope off the door. "You sure?" From this angle Mia could see that it bore metallic writing, from a Sharpie of some sort. "To: Mia heart J," Officer Bitchface read out loud. Mia became nauseous.
"Probably some surprise my boyfriend, Joey, I guess," Mia ran her hand through her hair, "Must have missed it when I got home." Anxiety poured through her body, ice cold and thick. Pretty Boy pressed his lips together. "Can I have it?" Mia held out her hand.
"Technically its evidence," Pretty Boy replied, pulling out another evidence bag.
"No its not," Mia was becoming frantic, "Joey leaves that shit for me all the time." Her imaginary boyfriend story seemed flimsier and flimsier. "And I'm not pressing any charges." With a rush of courage, Mia snatched the envelope from the officer.
"Whoever did this is either pissed or desperate," Bitchface warned, "Are you sure?" Pissed or desperate, Mia thought, sounds about right.
"I'm sure. Probably some teenage punks. It's not like I'm in the Narrows or anything," Mia assured her.
Pretty boy looked doubtful. "If you're in any sort of trouble, the best thing is to let us help," he dug in his pocket, "Take my card, you can reach my desk from the number."
Mia didn't know whether to cry or laugh. Instead, she nodded, took the card and said, "Thanks, but I've got shit handled."
"Remember," Officer Pretty Boy reiterated, "Call if 'shit' happens again."
Mia nodded and retreated back into her house. She tossed both the card and envelope haphazardly on the table and started searching for deals on front doors and door handles. Her landlord was going to kill her.
"How much of that do you believe?" Officer Spencer turned to her partner at the end of the hallway.
"Nothing," Officer Blake replied, sparing a glance at Mia's apartment door, "unless she presses charges or makes some sort of statement …" Blake shrugged.
"We could have pushed harder," Spencer frowned.
Blake shook his head, "I'm not into treating victims like perps."