Why can't I resist soft, brown eyes? Misty turned hers on me, and that was it. I would have done anything for her at that moment. For a woman so young, her eyes were so sad and worn. Faint crow's feet were already scratching at the corners of her eyes. She sat heavily on my other kitchen chair and looked down at her hands.
"Do you know what a mule is?" she asked without looking up.
"The animal?" I ventured.
"No – in the drug trade, a mule is someone who carries the drugs past the authorities. Usually it's these poor girls from South America, with stomachs full of drugs wrapped in condoms." Now she looked up.
"So you're a mule?"
"Yes, but not like them. Rickie Zantone, the mafia boss, runs all the drugs on this side of town. But it's a nice neighborhood, so it's hard to get the product here without the cops noticing. So what they do is get someone, usually a girl, like me. Then they take the drugs and put it in little plastics bags, flat ones. I stuff those in my bra, my shoes, even in my hair if I have it big with hairspray. I can carry over a pound at a time. I just walk, calm as you please, until I reach the drop spot, usually in a public bathroom. Then I drop it off, and when I get back, they give me $20. It's good money for 15 minutes of work, and, as long as I don't look or act like a hooker, the cops don't even notice."
"So you stole their drugs? The mafia?" Visions of bloody horse heads swan through my mind.
"NO! Not at all! I went into the drop spot – it's the restroom in the 7-11 around the corner. I had all the product out and then I heard sirens. I panicked and flushed it all down the toilet. When I got out, I saw that they busted the guys in the house across the street – that's where the dealer lived. I tried to calm down and gawk like the other soccer moms, and then pretended to get bored and walked away. Anyway, the cops didn't seem to know me, and I went to the apartments across the street to call my contact and tell him what happened. I was about to knock on the door of the dealer that lives there –"
"Wait – there's two dealers in this neighborhood? I didn't even know there was one, besides that one crack house."
"Yeah, the crack house is just a distraction. It's an easy target, so whenever word gets out that someone's selling drugs, the police bust the crack house and never reach the real action. There's a dealer in those apartments across the street – I know him because I bring him product every once in a while. But, anyway, I was about to go in when I heard someone talking, they were saying that the cops had been tipped off. Then I heard my name. They think I dropped a dime on the cops. Nobody does that to Zantone. Nobody."
I let out a long breath. I tried to think of something to say, but nothing came out. I realized that something was missing from her story. Namely the money. But something in what she said had to be true. And that was enough to scare me shitless. I wondered if I could call the cops without getting a death sentence on my head.
She was looking at me again. "You've never been around criminals, have you?"
Well, who had, I thought to myself.
"I grew up in the East side, so it was around me constantly. I didn't want to get into it, but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do."
I just sat there dumbfounded. She got up and got herself another beer while I tried to come to terms with her revelations. Finally, I looked up. "So what the hell do we eat?" I can't think for shit when I'm hungry.
She broke out laughing. She had a great laugh, musical and deep. Opening up the fridge, she stuck her head in all the way. "You weren't kidding when you said you had no food. God, I'm hungry, too. You got any pasta?"
"Yeah, in the pantry." I pointed it out and she fished around until she found what she needed. Then she started cooking. I got myself a beer and watched her. She was wearing my shorts now, and her ass looked very enticing. The feel of it gripping my cock slid into my brain, and I thought briefly about pulling down the shorts and taking her right there. But I wasn't ready for another round just yet.
She made spaghetti with olive oil and chucks of cheese melted into it and sprinkled with some oregano. "It's better with fresh parsley, but you didn't have any."
"Are you Italian?" I asked.
