The text came back after about 20 minutes, and it came back thusly:
ICE COLD. WHAT TIME.
Dick Fairchild texts in all caps. That's all Justin probably really needs to know about him.
-----
He's kind of a shit but at least he's quiet. Quiet dealers don't tend to have the cops roll up to their place near as often as the loud dealers. All his neighbors like as not assume he deals drugs because otherwise the only thing they know him to do all day is sit on the couch and play Xbox until an acquaintance comes by.
Like now.
The name Dick Fairchild conjures up all sorts of interesting mental images, and the man belonging to it falls fairly short of most of them. He's in that amorphous area between his late twenties and mid-thirties where his physique hasn't yet fallen off with the force of his metabolism slowing down, has swarthy skin and curly hair and probably gets asked "What are you?" a lot. Serafíne knows he's one of those dealers who doesn't partake in any of the crap he sells and thinks this makes him intelligent. His personality presents itself unaltered by substances controlled or otherwise.
Might drink and do a little nose candy if I'm off the clock. A man can't go through his whole life without indulging a little, amirite? -- is the Dick Fairchild philosophy. He's joked about framing that shit and putting it in his living room. Which he calls his office. The last time Serafíne was here all he had on the office walls were maps, framed one-hour-photo photographs of him and people she's never met, drink recipe posters. Nothing remotely philosophical.
Anyway: he throws open the door before she has a chance to knock and they can hear the soothing sounds of Grand Theft Auto or some other loud video game whose sole objective is to drive real fast and kill lots of people while blaring loud music. He wears pajama bottoms and a white A-shirt and a day's worth of beard, looks like he's either been up all goddamn night or just woke up.
"He-eyyy!" he says. "Chastity, babygirl, how you livin'? Long time, no." Justin, who he's never met before, is afforded a high five all the same. "Hello, hello, New Person. You're not a cop, are you?"
ICE COLD. WHAT TIME.
Dick Fairchild texts in all caps. That's all Justin probably really needs to know about him.
-----
He's kind of a shit but at least he's quiet. Quiet dealers don't tend to have the cops roll up to their place near as often as the loud dealers. All his neighbors like as not assume he deals drugs because otherwise the only thing they know him to do all day is sit on the couch and play Xbox until an acquaintance comes by.
Like now.
The name Dick Fairchild conjures up all sorts of interesting mental images, and the man belonging to it falls fairly short of most of them. He's in that amorphous area between his late twenties and mid-thirties where his physique hasn't yet fallen off with the force of his metabolism slowing down, has swarthy skin and curly hair and probably gets asked "What are you?" a lot. Serafíne knows he's one of those dealers who doesn't partake in any of the crap he sells and thinks this makes him intelligent. His personality presents itself unaltered by substances controlled or otherwise.
Might drink and do a little nose candy if I'm off the clock. A man can't go through his whole life without indulging a little, amirite? -- is the Dick Fairchild philosophy. He's joked about framing that shit and putting it in his living room. Which he calls his office. The last time Serafíne was here all he had on the office walls were maps, framed one-hour-photo photographs of him and people she's never met, drink recipe posters. Nothing remotely philosophical.
Anyway: he throws open the door before she has a chance to knock and they can hear the soothing sounds of Grand Theft Auto or some other loud video game whose sole objective is to drive real fast and kill lots of people while blaring loud music. He wears pajama bottoms and a white A-shirt and a day's worth of beard, looks like he's either been up all goddamn night or just woke up.
"He-eyyy!" he says. "Chastity, babygirl, how you livin'? Long time, no." Justin, who he's never met before, is afforded a high five all the same. "Hello, hello, New Person. You're not a cop, are you?"