The Package - Return to Sender

“Did you check the mail today?” My wife asked.

“No. Are you expecting something?”

"Not really, but we didn't check it yesterday, and you know how junk mail piles up."

I looked out the front window and noted that the trash men had come and that both cans were on their side.

"I'll check the mail while I'm bringing the empty trash cans from the curb," I said.

At 2:00 pm, shirtless and still in my pajama pants, I started out the door, and she said, "Are you going outside dressed like that?"

“Everybody is at work. Nobody will notice.”

She gave me that sideways look, and I understood. I should at least put a shirt on.

I grabbed a Jimmy Buffett T-shirt hanging from the doorknob and started to the front door.

My beagle, Sassy, followed, as she always does when she sees an opportunity to escape and run the neighborhood.

I opened the door, still pulling the shirt over my head, and heard my wife yell, "Don't let the dog out." As I turned to respond, my little asshole of a dog zipped between my legs and escaped.

“Stop, you little shit,” I yelled, but she was off like a bullet.

“Fucking hound dog!” I said to myself. “We should have gotten that Labrador.”

I turned the cans upright at the curb, replaced the lids, and rolled them over to the mailbox. The hinged front of the box was broken, so when I opened it, it fell off slightly and hung to one side. A stack of junk mail and envelopes was on the bottom, topped by a small soft-sided package. Removing all of it together, I set the pile on top of one of the trash cans and began sorting the junk from the other envelopes. The junk went straight into the recycling can one at a time. Solar panels. No thanks. Closet organizers. Got 'em. Medicare Supplements. Already insured.

For about the hundredth time, I thought, how many people do the same thing I do and throw this stuff straight into the bin, sending it to a landfill. How much money was wasted on designing, printing, distributing, and mailing paper that really had no value to most consumers? Maybe my grandchildren can solve this environmental tragedy.

I was left with three envelopes: the electric bill, a bill for lawn care service, and a letter from my homeowner's association.

"Fuckin HOA," I said out loud to no one. "What do they want now?" I opened the envelope and read the word NOTIFICATION at the top. Skimming down, I read that they warned me to trim the dead fronds on my twenty-five-foot-tall queen palm tree. "Fucking HOA," I said again, staring up at the tree ten feet away.

Turning back to the mail, I looked at the little package I'd set off to the side and noted that the recipient's name was not ours but that the address was correct.

‘Alphonso Ribiero.’

I knew only a few of the neighbors on our little court of twelve houses. None of them were named Alphonso, but that name sounded familiar.

I wheeled the two cans up the driveway toward the garage and punched in the code for the door to open. "I should have come out through the garage, I thought. Then I wouldn't have to chase the dog down. Too late now."

I turned to scan the yards nearby, hoping to see that little mutt wandering through the bushes chasing lizards or squirrels, but no luck. I'll have to go get her before that neighbor three doors down named 'Willis' calls complaining again.

After putting the cans in their place, I entered the kitchen and found my wife on her laptop at the counter.

“Fucking HOA,” I said.

“Do you have to cuss?” she asked. “What do they want now?”

"The palm tree again. Don't they know the tree is too tall for me to cut those fronds myself? That damn tree the twenty-five-fucking-feet-tall. I gotta hire a guy to come out and do a five-minute job that will cost me $150.00."

“We can afford it.” She said.

"That's not the point. It just pisses me off that they are so picky with me, and yet the guy on the corner hasn't mowed his grass in a month, and his driveway has needed pressure washing forever."

"Don't you think that he has gotten letters, too?"

“Maybe, but he sure ain’t doing anything about it.”

“I see him walking his dog nearly every day. He appears to be about 90 years old and can’t do it himself or maybe doesn’t have the money.”

I let it drop and walked to the junk drawer at the end of the counter. I removed a stack of cards and thumbed through them. I found the one I wanted for 'Long Branch Tree & Landscaping Service.'

“Do you know any of our neighbors named Alphonso Ribeiro?”

“No, why?”

“We got a package in the mail addressed to him. You got a boyfriend I don’t know about?”

"Yeah," she said sarcastically. "He doesn't cuss as much and gets dressed early in the day like a normal person. Where is Sassy?"

“Oh, shit!” I said. “I forgot about her.”

I grabbed the dog leash, hurried out the door through the garage, and saw her standing across the street with something in her mouth. As I walked closer, I saw her shaking her head somewhat violently. Whatever he had in her mouth seemed to be alive.

"Drop it!" I said firmly. My voice startled her, and she looked up but didn't respond to the command.

"Drop it!" I said more firmly, pointing my finger at her. She did, and the young squirrel scampered off into the bushes.

“Let’s go home,” I said.

She started to move toward the bushes, and I said, "Stop."

She stopped with her head down, obviously not happy that I had intervened and spoiled her kill. She had done this before. She just killed the little animal and left it—pointless, but beagles are hunters. "Bad dog," I said.

I snapped the leash onto her collar and jerked it as I began walking back across the street, dog in tow.

While I was rounding up the mutt, my wife did an internet search for the name Alphonso Ribeiro. As I walked back in and unhooked my furry friend, she said, "First, I checked Facebook and found one for that famous guy from America's Funniest Home Videos. You know.

“I thought that name sounded familiar,” I said.

"Nothing local, though. Same thing for LinkedIn and Google. Only the AFV guy and a few others, but nobody local.

“What about the sender?” I asked.

We both looked at the package and noted that it was shipped from a California address. The shipper's name was Shun Chung.

I watched as she typed in the recipient's name, checking the same sites she had for the recipient. There was nothing on Facebook or LinkedIn, but she got a hit on Google for an import/export business south of Los Angeles.

I tossed her a felt-tipped pen from the small pile of writing implements we had collected in the junk drawer and said, “Mark it RETURN TO SENDER, and I’ll put it back in the mailbox tomorrow morning.”

"You do it," she said, tossing the pen back at me. I missed it. I picked it up off the floor and set it on the counter, shaking my head.

***

The black Toyota Carolla sat idling around the corner from the cul de sac. The two occupants were arguing.

The passenger snarled, "We were supposed to get here before the mailman made the drop. All that work we did. We spent all that time watching that guy make his deliveries. He hits this box every day between 12:45 and 1:15 pm. I told you we had to get here by 1:30 pm."

"Hey, how did I know there would be an accident on the freeway, and traffic would be stopped for over an hour. It ain't my fucking fault. You should have had your L.A. guy send it to a P.O. box like last time."

"Last time, the shipment got flagged, and we almost got caught. A half kilo. A half kilo of coke down the tubes, and De Marco was not happy about it. You know he said he'd have our ass if we lost another shipment."

“Yeah, but we coulda picked a different mailbox drop. Lightning don’t strike twice.”

"I wasn't gonna chance it. This time, we have to fly under the radar. No public places."

"So, what do we do now. The guy comes out of the house, he gets his trash cans, picks up his mail, rounds up his fucking dog, and goes back inside his house with our package."

The passenger thinks about it and says, “What would you do if you got a package in the mail that wasn’t addressed to you?”

“I don’t know. I think I’d open it. That happened to me once.”

“What was in the package?”

“It was from Amazon. One of those Samsung Galaxy doohickeys.”

“Is that a technical term?” The passenger asked sarcastically.

Without recognizing the mocking, the driver said, "I think it's called a tablet. I got no idea how to use the thing, so I gave it to my girlfriend. She said she already had one, so she put it up for sale on eBay. She got a hundred bucks for it."

The two men sat quietly for several minutes, and then the passenger said, "Return to sender. This guy looks like a citizen…an honest American good ole boy. He's gonna do the right thing. He's gonna mark it RETURN TO SENDER and put it back into the mailbox so the US Postal Service can pick it up and send it back to California."

The men were quiet again for several minutes, and then the driver said, "What if he takes it to the post office?"

The passenger had no answer.

The driver said, "We can't let him send it back. We gotta get it to De Marco. Why don't we just go up and knock on his door and ask him if he got our package by mistake?"

"We can't let him see us. If this goes sideways and cops are involved, he can't I.D. us. We have to get that package without him seeing us.

“What if he does open it and calls the cops?” The driver asked.

"Then we are fucked. We can't just sit here talking shit. We know the mailman won't be back until tomorrow between 12:45 and 1:15 pm. I bet the dude in the house knows that, too, so there's no rush putting it back in the mailbox. He might do it tonight, or he might wait until tomorrow morning."

"So, we are just going to sit here and wait?"

"No. We're gonna go have a few beers and a burger and come back around 8:00 pm after it's dark and check the box. If it's there, we got our package. If not, we come back in the morning around nine. Ten to one, the guy ain't an early riser."

“How the fuck do you know that?”

"He was still in his pajamas at 2:00 pm when he came out to get the mail. If the package isn't in the box at 9:00 am, we check it again at 12:30 pm."

“What if it’s still not there?” the driver asked.

“We are not leaving without that package.”

***

“What do we need from the grocery store?” my wife asked, pen in hand.

“Cherry Danish,” I said quickly.

Shaking her head but not looking up, she said, "Empty calories. Too much sugar. You know the doctor said you are pre-diabetic."

“Isn’t everyone who is not diabetic pre-diabetic?” I responded.

Now, she looked up and rolled her eyes. "What else? I'm gonna stop at Wal-Mart, too, and then I'm going to get my nails done."

“I’m almost out of body wash and Metamucil.”

“Is that it?”

"I don't know. Keep your phone on, and I'll call you if I think of anything else."

“Kiss, kiss,” she said as she breezed past me toward the garage.

After our internet search, I set the package at the end of the counter. I should have suggested she take it to the post office and drop it off instead of waiting for the postman to pick it up tomorrow.

Picking it up, I shook it and felt the weight. It seemed solid enough. There was no sound. Like most packages, it was wrapped in nondescript brown paper and had no markings other than the addresses. The ends were sealed with clear packing tape. It felt like it weighed about a pound. I was curious, but I set it back on the counter and moved across the room to the couch to watch T.V.

CNN was spewing the usual blather…war in the Middle East, corruption in city hall, hurricane landfall imminent along the Gulf Coast. Just another typical day.

Sassy jumped into my lap and licked my face. I let her lick until she got too close to my mouth, then pushed her away, thinking about an old line I used to use…”I’ve kissed some dogs in my life.”

My wife wouldn’t have thought it was funny if she was here, but I got a chuckle out of it. I crack myself up.

I got up and returned to the kitchen to get a towel to wipe Sassy's spittle from my cheek and refill my iced coffee. The package on the counter seemed to be staring at me. Or maybe I was staring at it. Maybe it was sent as a joke, I thought, but who is the sender? Some Asian guy from California?

I picked it up again, turning it over in my hands, wondering how I could see into it without destroying the packaging. ‘X-acto knife,' I said to myself. But first, I need to make sure I have some clear packaging tape to reseal it.

My workbench in the garage was an organized mess. There was a place for everything, but everything did not always find its way back to its place. I had a drawer for all kinds of rolled tape, from masking to duct to electrical, and found some packaging tape in the back. It was a little discolored, having sat in the drawer for at least three years without being needed. We hadn't even packed and mailed our Christmas gifts in a long time, now that it could all be done through Amazon. I thought maybe that's a little less personal, but it is pretty efficient.

My sharp little implement was in the kitchen drawer, and I removed it as I walked to the end of the counter.

If I was really careful, I knew I could make a few precise incisions into the package, which would allow me easy access through the brown paper to the box underneath. Getting through that would be another thing altogether.

I knew my wife might not approve of me trying to satisfy my curiosity. She would likely say something about the legality of mail tampering. She was that way—a stickler for rules. On the other hand, I bent a few rules during my time but never got caught breaking any—except for that one time. Or was it two times?

She would be gone for at least two full hours, so I didn't have to rush. With the precision of a surgeon, I made the first slice on one end, then another, and another. As I made more cuts, I realized that I would have to remove the brown paper completely, and it soon fell away.

I recognized the box. It was the kind that banks send to resupply blank checks when they run low. I was a little disappointed. All of this effort is for blank checks. Then I thought about it. "Why would blank checks from an individual in southern California be addressed to a comedian who obviously lives elsewhere?"

The box was also sealed with packaging tape, which is unusual. Banks don't seal the inner boxes—at least, my bank doesn't.

Using the knife, I carefully made the four slices and removed the top. Inside was a well-sealed black plastic package. "Not blank checks," I said out loud.

One small slice got me through the sealed flap, and I lifted it to find a compact brick of white powder.

“Holy Shit! What the fuck?”

I sat down on the bar stool at the counter, dumbfounded. Then I looked around the room. This had to be a pound of dope. But what kind of dope?

I hadn't done any hard drugs in about forty years. Even back in the day, I just smoked a little marijuana. Well, not a little…actually, a lot. And I dropped acid a few times. Oh, and took a little speed on the way to work when I'd been out all-night drinking. I had to make it through the shift, you know.

There had been a little coke, but only if it was somebody else's since I never could justify spending that much money for such a quick high. That was the thing about coke. It's insidious…the more you do, the more you want. I had friends who learned that the hard way, and I wasn't gonna follow their lead.

This had to be coke, I said to myself. I'd never done heroin, but I'd watched two guys shoot up from start to finish one time. The drug that those guys portioned out into their discolored tablespoon for 'the fix' was beige and a little chunky. This substance was lily white and powdery.

I stared at it for a long time, then took the knife's point and dipped out a small portion. As I brought it up to my nose, a little birdy sitting on my shoulder said, "What if it's pure fentanyl? That much might kill you!" I immediately returned the powder to the package and stood there staring at nothing.

Now what?

***

The two men sat at the bar with sullen, dejected expressions, drinking their beer. The cell phone chirped in the pocket of the man who had been the passenger in the Toyota. He removed it and looked at the screen. Then he looked at his partner and said, "De Marco."

He hit the button and, putting the phone next to his ear, said, "What up?"

“Where the fuck are you?” De Marco said tersely.

He hesitated, then said, "We are at Piper's."

“What the fuck are you doing at Piper’s? You are supposed to be here with my shit.”

“There’s been a delay.”

"What do you mean, there's been a delay. You either got the shit, or you don't have the shit, and if you don't have the shit, you will be in the shit."

"It wasn't in the mailbox," he said, stretching the truth.

“My guy said it would be there today.”

“Well, we think it will be there tomorrow since it’s not here today.”

“You think. I didn’t ask you to think. Did the mail come today?”

“Yes, it came.”

“Did you get to the box right after it was delivered, like I told you?”

He hesitated.

“Did you??

“Well, we were a few minutes late.”

“A few minutes late.”

"As we were driving to the box to make the pickup, the owner of the house came out, and we couldn't stop, so we drove past. The homeowner glanced and waved at us as he opened the box and began removing the mail.”

“Was the package there?”

“I didn’t see a package. I had to look out the back window. I saw stuff in the guy’s hands, but I don’t think the package was there.”

“You are a fucking moron. You really don’t know if the package got delivered. It could be there. Inside the house.”

"Yeah, but he won't open it if he has it. It's not addressed to him. We talked about it. He's gonna mark it Return to Sender. That's if he has it. If it was delivered. But we think we'll have it tomorrow…when it's delivered..."

"You better fucking hope it gets delivered and that you deliver it to me tomorrow; otherwise, I'll have your bodies delivered…to the morgue. I'm not taking another loss. I paid Carlos his money. Now I need the fucking dope for my buyer.

The line went dead. The driver said, “What did he say?”

The passenger stared at him, then lifted his half-empty beer glass to his mouth and downed the rest of it.

“We gotta get that package.”

He turned to look out the window and said, "It's almost dark. One more beer, and we'll go back and check the mailbox.

***

I carefully cut a piece of packaging tape to the correct length and stuck it to the counter. Then, I folded the plastic wrapper as tightly as I could, grabbed the tape, and resealed it. Luckily, it fit perfectly into the small cardboard box, and I used more tape to seal it.

I knew it would be more difficult to re-wrap the box with the brown paper because I had to make sure that there were no wrinkles, and the clear tape overlapped the original tape and hid the cuts I made with the knife. I hesitated. I sat at my workbench, staring at the box and the wrapper, still unsure what to do with it. Should I finish re-wrapping it? Eventually, without deciding, I left it there, turned the overhead light off, and went back into the kitchen.

The TV was on, and I plopped down on the couch. Sassy was on her bed below the TV screen. She looked up at me like she always did. I knew what she wanted. She enjoyed watching Animal Planet—at least, I think she enjoyed it. She doesn't talk much. I switched to the channel and heard barking coming from the speaker immediately. She jumped up onto the couch, settling next to me, and we watched a special segment on Labrador Retrievers.

I heard the garage door open, and Sassy perked up. "Mom's home!" I said as I always did when she came home. Sassy jumped off the couch, ran through the kitchen, and waited patiently for the door from the garage to open.

My wife came in, gave the dog a treat, and set her keys on the counter. I turned to look and noted that she didn't look happy.

“What’s wrong?”

“They got rid of Lan.”

I looked at her but didn't know what to say at first. Then I said, "Is Lan a person?"

She gave me a cold stare and said, "Lan is the girl who has been doing my nails for three years at that Vietnamese salon. I had an appointment with her, and when I got there, I found out that they had let her go."

"Why did they let her go?" I asked, walking over to her.

"She got into a fight with the owner over money. They could have called me. They had a new girl do my nails, and she sucked. Look at these nails." She said, holding them up close to my face.

“They look fine to me.”

“Well, what do you know? Have you ever had a manicure?”

“Yeah. That one time when you took me with you to the Ritz. A manicure and a pedicure. Never again. The manicure was okay, but I got this thing about having someone I don’t know get paid $50 to mess with my feet.”

“You are a dweeb.” She said.

"Yeah, but I'm your dweeb," I replied, moving to hug her, but she pulled away.

She opened the refrigerator door and removed a bottle of Chardonnay. Taking her lead, I pulled two wine glasses from the cabinet and set them on the counter.

As she poured, she asked, “What did you do with that package. I don’t see it on the counter.”

“It’s out in the garage.”

"What's it doing out there?"

"Just sitting on my workbench."

“Why?”

“I’m not sure what to do with it?”

“Just mark it ‘Return to Sender’ and put it back in the mailbox.”

"I was gonna do that, but…"

“But what?”

“But I opened it?”

“You did what?”

“I opened it?”

“Why?”

“I got curious.”

"Don't you know tampering with the US Mail is a federal offense?"

“How did I know you would say that?”

“Well, it is. It’s a federal offense. I saw that on a History Channel special. You could go to jail. What is in the package?”

“I think it’s drugs.”

There was a long silence.

“Drugs. What kind of drugs?

“I don’t know. It looks like about a pound of cocaine.”

“How do you know it’s cocaine?”

“I don’t. It’s a white powder compacted into a brick.”

“You didn’t try it, did you?”

“No!”

“Are you sure?

“Yes! When we got married, I promised that I’d stop doing drugs.”

“Yeah, but you did smoke some pot with Dan at his cabin on the river last summer.”

"I did. But remember, I looked at you before I did it, and you gave me a nod, so we smoked a bowl. For the first time in twenty years, I got high. And you know what? It felt good."

Again, there was a long silence before she said, "We've got to get that shit out of the house as soon as we can. We can't just put it in the mailbox and wait for the mailman to pick it up. We need to take it back to the post office and tell them it was sent to us by mistake."

“It’s 5:30 pm,” I said. “The post office closed at 5:00 pm.”

“Then we need to call the police.” She said adamantly.

“What happens if we call them?”

“Well, they’ll come and take it.”

"And you think that will be it? Won't they want to catch the people that were supposed to retrieve it?"

“I don’t care about that. I just want it out of my house.”

“What if they are already watching us? What if they come looking for it and we say we gave it to the police. Then they would know we opened it. I think they might not be happy.”

"Then, use a Sharpie to mark it 'Return to Sender' and put it in the mailbox."

I nodded, and we both took big gulps for our Chardonnay.

***

At that time of year, the sun sets at around 7:30 pm. The men in the black Toyota sat waiting at the corner a few houses down from the mailbox. As they sat anxiously awaiting darkness, the garage door opened. They slumped down in their seats and watched as a red Ford backed down the driveway onto the street. Two people, the man who had been in his pajamas earlier that day and a woman, were in the car. They drove away slowly.

The passenger watched closely as the Ford rounded the bend and disappeared, and then he said, "I’ll walk over and check the box.”

“What if it’s not there?” The driver asked.

“Then we go around back and try to get into the house.”

“What if they come back while we are in the house?”

“We’ll deal with that when it happens.”

“Maybe they left to take it to the post office.”

“The post office isn’t open at night, dumbshit. What if? What if? What if? What if I smack you upside the head? Just shut the fuck up.”

With that, he got out of the car and walked toward the mailbox. He looked around before opening the box, just to make sure no one was watching. The box was empty.

Returning to the car, he went to the window and signaled the driver to roll it down.

“Let’s go.”

The men moved to the sidewalk in front of the house and walked past the mailbox to the next house. The passenger ducked down next to a bush and motioned for the driver to do the same. Then he looked around again to make sure no one was watching. The neighborhood was quiet except for the cicada's trilling in the background. He stood and moved into the side yard between the houses with the passenger trailing behind.

There was a five-foot-tall metal fence with a locked gate. Both men scaled the fence and dropped onto the grass quietly, then moved to the back of the house. A built-in swimming pool was in the center of the yard, covered by a screen enclosure. The pool light was on, and strings of decorative lights hung from the enclosure. As the driver opened the door to enter, he heard a thumping sound from across the yard. A growling beagle exited from what looked like a doggie door and began barking and running toward them. The driver backed out and fell over a small table with a planter. The plant crashed to the paved surface, spewing dirt and clay pottery shards across the pool deck. He regained his balance and exited, but the screen door closed before the passenger could make it out. The dog latched onto the left leg of his blue jeans, growling ferociously. He shook his leg hard, but the dog hung on. He reached down, trying to hit the dog's head with his fist, but missed. Finally, with a second glancing blow, the dog let go momentarily, but it came right back and bit him on the hand, breaking the skin. He kicked at the dog, connecting on the hindquarters, and it yelped.

Seeing an opportunity to escape, the driver opened the screen door, and the passenger retreated, holding his injured hand. The door closed quickly, and the men began to run back around the corner the way they came. Then they heard another thumping sound just like the first one, and they saw the fierce little beagle darting toward them through a second doggie door in the screen enclosure. The men hit the fence and scampered over at almost the same time. The beagle reached the fence and continued barking, and the next-door neighbor's side yard light came on. The men hurried back to the car, jumped in, and sped away.

“Fucking mongrel.” The passenger said as he hit the button for the interior light inside the car. There was blood oozing from bite marks on the back and heel of his hand. He opened the glove compartment, found some fast-food restaurant napkins, and dabbed at the injury.

“What do you want to do now?” The driver said.

“I saw a CVS drug store out on the main road. I need to get some antiseptic and bandage this thing.”

The driver put the car in gear and eased from the curb slowly.

As they pulled into the parking lot, the passenger's phone rang, and he looked at the screen. "De Marco again." He hesitated and then sent the call to voicemail.

"We gotta get that package. I say we wait for the dude and his wife to come home, go to bed, sneak in, grab it, and get the hell out of Dodge, " the passenger said.

“What about the dog?”

“We put it to sleep?”

“How the fuck are you going to put it to sleep?”

“Benadryl.”

You’re gonna drug the dog?

Yeah. I’m gonna drug the dog and hope the little shit dies.

“That’s cruel.”

“Cruel? That little shit bit me. He deserves to die. I'm gonna pick up the drug here at the CVS, and then we'll go to the grocery store across the street and get some hamburger. We put four or five tabs into the raw burger and throw it over the fence into the backyard. We make a little commotion to get the dog's attention, and he comes out. He finds the snack, swallows the pills, and in thirty minutes, he's down for the count. By this time, his owners are sawing Z’s, and we go into the kitchen through the back door. The package will be in the kitchen. I know it."

The driver was skeptical. But what the hell did he know.

***

It was about 9:30 pm when we pulled into the garage. My wife hurried into the house. Exiting the car, I hit the button to close the garage door and stopped in front of my workbench, staring at the unwrapped package. As I walked into the kitchen, my wife had already poured another glass of Chardonnay for both of us, and she asked, "Did you put that package out into the mailbox?"

“Not yet. I’ll do it in the morning.”

“Do it early. Get it out of the house.”

Then she looked around the kitchen and said, “Where is Sassy?”

I looked around, too, and moved to the family room. "I don't know. She's usually here waiting for a treat when we walk in the door. Maybe she’s outside taking a dump.”

I went to the sliding glass door and opened it. There she was. Just sitting, facing the screen door. Next to her was the overturned table and broken planter.

I said accusingly, “What did you do?”

She looked at me, ears down, but as usual, said nothing. "I wish you could talk," I said. Then she looked back at the screen door.

I said, "Mom's home," and she perked up, turned, and ran into the house quickly, leaving me to clean up her mess. There was a trash can, broom, and dustpan in the corner, so I tidied up as best I could in the dim light.

As I returned to the house, my wife asked, "What took you so long?"

“Sassy had an accident.”

“Did she poop on the deck?”

“No. She knocked the table with the planter over and broke the plant.”

“How did she do that?”

I gave her a quizzical look and said, “I’m not sure. Maybe she’ll tell you. She certainly wouldn’t talk to me. Maybe we should have gotten a Labrador Retriever. They’re a lot smarter.”

Rolling her eyes, my wife found her place on the sofa and began watching a rerun episode of Friends. She looked up from her half-full glass of white wine and reminded me that I left the box of leftover food from the restaurant in the car and that I needed to bring it in and put it in the refrigerator.

I’d seen just about every episode of Friends at least twice. Not that I watch it myself, but it seemed to be on every evening at some point, and I got snippets whether I liked it or not. I was completely over it, but that's what marriage is all about…acceptance.

I went to the car, retrieved the Styrofoam container, and placed it inside the garage refrigerator to be eaten for tomorrow's lunch. I couldn't help but look over my shoulder at the lonely package sitting quietly on the workbench. It seemed to be calling me.

“What time do I have to take you to the airport tomorrow?" I said to my wife as I walked back into the kitchen.

"I have an 8:32 am flight. I'm taking a carry-on bag, so I need to get there by about 7:15 am."

"Okay. We can leave at 6:45, then. Are you going to bed early?"

“Yeah, in about an hour. As soon as we finish the bottle of wine. It’ll help me sleep.”

“I have some work to do in my office, so I’ll stay up a little later. I can always come back and take a nap after you fly out.”

She nodded but said nothing. I filled up my glass of wine and moved to my office.

I booted up the desktop computer and did an internet search. ‘Testing Process to Identify Drugs’.

Surprisingly, a plethora of information filled my screen. As I scrolled, I stopped at the second one with the heading Drug Identification Test Kits. With one click, I found multiple options. Test for meth, amphetamines, MDMA, heroin, fentanyl, cocaine…everything a drug abuser might need to ensure he or she was getting the good stuff. Priced from $20 to $240.00 depending on how many tests you want to conduct. YouTube even had a step-by-step process for a kit that cost only $49.95 plus shipping. But since I flunked Chemistry in high school, I figured I might need help.

My cell phone charge was down to 32%, so I plugged it in and scrolled to find the phone number of one of the guys I knew from work named Connor something. I had him listed in my contacts as Connor IT, and his job designation is Information Technology.

Before I retired, I interacted with him several times in the office, and on two occasions, we went out to a local bar with a couple of other guys for drinks. The guy was a genius. He seemed to know a lot about a lot. On one of our excursions, I learned that he dabbled in recreational chemicals.

"I'm going to call him after my wife goes to bed," I thought to myself.

***

I heard the door to the bedroom close and knew my wife would be asleep pretty quickly after all of the wine she had throughout the evening. She always drinks more wine than I do. Luckily, she's not as discriminating and is perfectly happy with Yellow Tail. Add a couple of melatonin gummies, and her lights would be out in thirty minutes.

The phone rang and Conner looked at the screen to ID the caller.

“What?” he said tersely.

"Hey, Buddy!" I said when he answered the phone. "You got a minute?"

“What can I do for you?”

“Glad I caught you before you went down for the night.”

"I never get to bed before midnight. I got a fast metabolism. I only sleep four to five hours a night. Now, what do you need?"

“Do you know how to test for drugs?”

Connor said nothing for a long moment.

“What do you mean?”

"I mean, if I had a substance that I thought was a recreational drug, would you know how to identify it?"

“Maybe.”

“Could you be a little less cryptic?”

"Hey. You called me at 9:30 pm on a Thursday. Maybe you could give me a few more clues about the need for this important information."

"Sorry. I received a package in the mail addressed to someone I don't know. I opened it, and it appeared to be cocaine. How can I test it?"

Connor chuckled audibly.

"You know tampering with the US Mail is a federal offense, right?"

“So, I’ve been told.”

"You also know that possession of a Schedule II controlled substance, such as cocaine, is a felony punishable by a minimum of two years in prison, and you will likely have a roommate named Bubba, don't you?"

“You’re a funny guy. How can I test it to see if it’s cocaine?” I said.

“Snort some of it.”

"What if it's not cocaine? What if it's fentanyl, or what if it's cocaine laced with fentanyl, and I overdose on it?"

"That's a lot of what ifs. It's true that should it turn out to be pure fentanyl, you might easily OD, but that's unlikely. That much fentanyl would be enough to kill the whole fucking community. From what I have read, the Mexicans get the chemicals from China and do the blending. Then they portion it out with other drugs like ecstasy south of the border and ship it up here in pill form. If the powder you have is already laced, which is also unlikely, you’d want to do a very small portion. Snort it and wait about two minutes. You’ll know.”

"There must be some chemical I can mix it with to test it like on TV. You know. The cops put it in a little vial and shake it. If it turns purple, the perp gets the bracelets."

“You have been watching too much Law & Order. Bracelets?”

“I searched the internet and found test kits for sale. You don’t know anybody that has one, do you?”

"Only cops, dealers, or big-time users would have a kit like that. I can't afford to do much cocaine at $125 a gram. If I do find a good deal on a special occasion, it's usually from a friend I trust who won't sell me some bad shit. We snort it. We sit back and enjoy the rush."

“Do you want to come over and test it for me?”

There was a long pause.

“Why don’t you want to test it yourself?”

“I promised my wife I wouldn’t do drugs.”

“Then why are we even talking about this. Mark the package ‘Return to Sender’ and ship it back to whoever sent it.”

“That’s what my wife said.”

“Well, at least one of you is smart.”

"But I'd really like to know if it's cocaine."

There was another long pause.

“How much of this shit do you have?”

“About a pound.”

"A pound. Potentially, you have a pound of cocaine. Do you know how much that's worth on the street?"

“I know it’s a lot.”

Connor was quiet for several seconds, and I heard scratching sounds.

"A pound is roughly 453 grams. With a street value of $125 per gram, that's $56,750.00." Connor said.

We were both astounded.

Then Connor said, “I’ll be there in about an hour. What’s your address?”

***

The passenger returned to the car with two plastic bags. One contained the ground beef and a whole lime, and the other held a bottle of Montezuma Tequila.

He set them down on the rear seat and then set out to dress the wounded hand. He poured hydrogen peroxide onto a gauze pad, wiped the blood away, and then wiped the excess away with another pad. Then, he taped a 4' x 4' pad over the bite and wrapped it with tape.

He grabbed the bottle of tequila and the lime from the back seat. Taking a pocketknife out, he cut the lime into quarters, careful not to let any juice get near his bandaged hand. He uncapped the tequila and took a long pull, then immediately sucked on the lime quarter. Then he passed the bottle to the driver, who just looked at it for a second or two and then took it.

“When are we going back?” the driver asked.

"Soon." The passenger said, passing a lime wedge to the driver.

“I gave up tequila.” The driver said.

"Why?"

"The last time I drank it, I got so fucked up I thought there was a tiger in my room."

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

"No. We'd been watching that movie. You know. The Hangover with that actor, Bradley Cooper, and that funny guy, Zack."

“Yeah, I know the movie.”

The driver took a long draw on the bottle, sucked the lime, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve and passed it back.

The passenger opened up a bottle of Benadryl and removed five tablets. Then he opened the package of ground beef and pushed the pills into the meat. Rewrapping it, he put it back in the bag and then took another long swig of the tequila.

“I need to take a piss.” The passenger said.

“I’m hungry.” The driver said. “How about we go to McDonald’s? I like their Filet of Fish sandwich. You can take a piss inside.”

“Fine.” The passenger said. “I’ll get a Big Mac and a Coke.”

“I’m all tapped out. You got a twenty?” the driver asked.

The passenger shook his head and reached into his front pocket for the bill.

“Thanks,” the driver said. “You go in. I’ll do drive-through and pick you up.”

Within a few minutes, the passenger was picked up at the front door, and the driver began the short trip back to the neighborhood. Once parked around the corner from the house, they sat quietly, munching on their late fast-food dinner.

“I don’t get to eat a lot of seafood.” The driver said.

“Seafood?” The passenger asked.

“Yeah. You know. Fish.”

"You call a Filet of Fish sandwich from McDonald's 'seafood'?"

“Yeah. It’s fish. Ain’t it?”

The passenger thought about saying, "I don't get to eat a lot of steak," addressing his Big Mac dinner, but he didn't see the need to respond. While his partner was technically correct, he thought a deeper dive would be fruitless.

“When are you going in?" the driver asked, scrunching up the sandwich wrapper and wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"It's 9:30 now. I'm gonna go into the backyard and toss the hamburger close to that doggie door. Then I'll make some noise to get his attention. I think opening the door to the screen enclosure will do it. Then I'll run back around the corner and watch to see if he takes the bait."

“What if it doesn’t work?”

"It'll work. Shut the fuck up. By 10:00, the dog will be drowsy and asleep by 10:15. Then we go in."

The passenger exited the car, leaving the driver alone in the dark. After about five minutes, he returned. Once in the car, he said, "Worked like a charm." The little shit wolfed down the burger and then sniffed around the pool deck for more. Then he just sat there sniffing the air. Now we wait."

The passenger’s phone buzzed. He looked at the screen and said, “Fucking De Marco.”

Without a salutation, he said, "We're picking it up now."

"You better be," was the response, and the line went dead.

The wait seemed longer than it really was. The passenger looked at the time on his phone and said, “Let’s hit it.”

They both got out and stooped down low, looking around as they moved down the sidewalk. Once they passed the house, they veered off toward the backyard and quietly jumped the fence.

The passenger peered through the screen enclosure into the kitchen windows. A light was on over the stove, but the kitchen and the adjacent family room were dark. He slowly opened the screen door a few inches, then let it close, making a clanking sound, which should have been enough to alert the dog. The men stood quietly and waited. There was no movement from the doggie door. They stood for a few more minutes, and then the driver tested the door again just for good measure. No dog appeared, so the men entered the enclosure and moved toward the sliding glass door that led to the family room. The door was unlocked, and he slid it open quietly. As the two men entered, the passenger pulled his phone from his pocket and hit the flashlight button, giving him just enough illumination to scan the room and see the smooth tile floor in front of him. It was quiet except for a very faint whimper coming from a dog bed directly below the TV. The passenger smiled and whispered, “That’ll teach you. You little shit.”

He lifted the light higher to check out the coffee table in front of the couch. Nothing was on the table but two extinguished candles and a TV remote control. Then he moved the light to the breakfast nook. The light revealed a partially complete jigsaw puzzle on the table.

They walked into the kitchen and scanned the counter and granite island. No package was found. After a few seconds, they heard what sounded like a garage door motor engaging. They quickly moved to the island's far side, squatted down low, and waited, but no one entered the laundry room from the garage. They heard muffled voices…two men. Then, they heard the sound of the garage door closing. Again, they waited, but no one entered the house.

***

“What took you so long?” I said to Connor as he walked up the driveway into the open garage.

“Had to make a stop. Let’s see what you got.”

I walked back toward my workbench, Connor following closely behind me. I had covered the box with a red towel and removed it with a ceremonious flourish. "Viola!" Connor shook his head and said, "What are you, a matador?"

We both stared at the box for thirty seconds or so and then I picked it up and turned it over, showing Connor that it was sealed.

“I thought you said you opened it.” He said.

"I did. I almost tried it, but then I resealed the box. Then I thought about it. I was going to try it. Then I was going to send it back. Then I thought about calling the cops and turning it in. Then I thought about seeing if you could test it to see if it's real."

“Let’s reopen it.” He said.

I hesitated, but then I set it down on the workbench, grabbed the Xacto knife, and cut the tape along the same line as before. I removed the lid, revealing the plastic-wrapped brick of what we hoped was the real thing.

Three strips of tape held the plastic flap in place, and I carefully unsealed them, leaving the brick in the box. Lifting the flap, I leaned down to smell the substance.

“What are you doing?” Connor asked.

“Checking to see if there is a distinct odor.”

“Why?”

"Well, I went on the internet and found out that cocaine has no odor. If it smells like a chemical of some type, it's probably not cocaine. If it smells like a chemical, it's probably something else like meth.”

"It's not meth," Connor said confidently.

“How do you know?”

“Meth is shiny. It’s crystals. And it smells like the chemicals that it’s made from.”

I leaned down closer and said, “No smell.”

Connor reached over to the peg board above the workbench and grabbed a standard screwdriver. He pulled the flap farther back, dipped the end of the screwdriver into the powder, and raised it up to his left nostril. Closing his right nostril with his other hand, he snorted the powder and then pressed both nostrils together with his hand.

His eyes were closed, and within twenty seconds, his jaw slackened, and he let out a breath of air.

“So?” I said.

“Good shit. Really good shit?”

Without another word, he dipped into the powder a second time. He snorted another sample in the other nostril with the same result.

“Definitely cocaine.” He said. “I can’t say if it’s pure, but I can say that if it's stepped on, it was done lightly."

He handed me the screwdriver and said, “Your turn.”

I looked at it, took it, and started to dip it into the powder, but then I remembered my promise to my wife. It was as if she was sitting on my shoulder, whispering in my ear, "Don't do it! Don't do it!"

I returned the screwdriver to the pegboard and said, "I can't. I promised."

“Don’t be a pussy.” Connor said.

"Look. You may not know it, but I've made a lot of mistakes in my life. When I was your age, I did a lot of drugs. I drank way too much. I bedded lots of babes. I got married, then I got divorced. Then, I got married again and continued drinking and drugging. Then I got divorced again. I'm not going to fuck this one up."

“So, what’s your plan?” Connor asked, leaning toward the pegboard for the screwdriver.

I thought about it and said, “My wife wants it out of the house.”

"Well, before we package it up and ship it back, can I cut out a gram or two or six?"

“Who do you know that we can sell it to?” I asked.

"I know a few people who will buy some of it. If we're careful, we can offload it in a week or two and make a bundle."

“But what if the original owners get wind of our little caper. They will likely not be happy campers.”

“That’s why we ship it back.” Connor offered.

“What do you mean?”

"Baking soda. We get a pound of Arm & Hammer, replace the coke, package it up, and mark it 'Return to Sender.' It looks like it's never been tampered with. It takes three or four days to return to wherever it came from. If we do it right, they don't even think of testing it, and they start over with a new shipping and receiving plan."

“That sounds really good, but at some point, the shit hits the fan. Will they come back at me?" I said worriedly.

"You don't know shit. As far as they know, you're a good citizen. You took it to the post office the next day."

“So, we split the profits?”

Connor considered it and said, "You found it. I'll move it. Fifty-fifty.”

“Baking soda,” I said. “My wife keeps some in the kitchen pantry.”

“Is there enough?”

“I think so. We just bought a big box a week ago at Costco. I think it’s a pound. I’ll go get it.”

I entered the house through the laundry room and the darkened kitchen. I opened the door to the pantry and switched on the light. Searching the shelves, I found the unopened box of baking soda, grabbed it, and walked out, turning the light out as I left. I stopped at the island, and as I removed a one-gallon plastic storage bag from the drawer, I heard a soft whimpering sound from the family room. I looked over to see Sassy on her bed. She must be dreaming, I thought to myself as I turned to go back into the garage.

Connor had already removed the plastic container of drugs from the box, and I handed him the storage bag. He massaged the original bag to loosen the powder that was formed into a brick. He carefully poured out the powder into the new storage bag. Then, after licking his finger, he swabbed the interior of the original bag to remove the substantial residue. He put the finger into his mouth and rubbed his gums, taking advantage of remnants of the powerful drug.

I opened the baking soda box and filled the original plastic bag. I seated it into the small box and massaged it until it almost fit. It was not as dense as the drug and had to be compacted, so I folded the flap over, put the box top in place, and pressed carefully, making sure not to damage the box. I removed the lid, replaced the tape, and sealed the plastic bag. It appeared to be reasonably close to the original packaging, probably as close as we were going to be able to get it.

Connor removed the excess air from the storage bag of cocaine and sealed it. I watched him closely as he completed the process, and then I said, "Remember that we are looking to sell the coke, not put it up your nose."

He failed to make eye contact but said, “Got it.”

Then I began rewrapping the box carefully in the brown wrapper.

"I gotta bounce," Connor said.

“Bounce? What the fuck is that? Street slang?” I said sarcastically.

“I’m out. Tomorrow I’ll get with my contacts. We gotta unload this stuff quick. I know a guy that will take an ounce in about a minute. I can get two grand for that. I’ll call you when I do the deal, and you'll get paid."

“Hey. This is me and you. Nobody else knows. Especially my wife.”

Without another word, he stuffed the storage bag with the drugs down his pants and said, "Open the garage door. I'll be in touch."

I went back to wrapping the box in the brown paper. Remembering my previous mental notes, I realized that I had to make sure there were no wrinkles, the tape overlapped the original tape, and the cuts I made with the knife were hidden.

On the workbench, I always kept a plastic cup with pencils and markers for my simple projects. Taking a black Sharpie out, I marked "Return to Sender—Not at This Address" above the label. I left the fully rewrapped package on the workbench as I walked toward the door. Early tomorrow morning, I will take it to the post office and be done with it.

I knew my wife would be happy when I told her the package was gone from the house. I was proud of myself. I had resisted the urge to do the cocaine.

Time for bed.

***

The driver and passenger initially hunkered down on the far side of the kitchen island. Hearing the continued voices coming from the garage, the passenger decided to move around the corner to the dining room. From there, the passenger had a clear view of the entrance from the laundry room, the kitchen, and the family room. The beagle was snoring now.

The door from the garage opened, and the two men saw the owner of the house enter and go to the pantry adjacent to the kitchen. He came out, stopped at the island, and got something from a drawer. He looked across the room at the sleeping dog. Then he went back to the garage.

They waited quietly, not knowing what the two men were doing in the garage. The passenger thought about confronting them…grabbing the package, and running. But he really had no idea where the package was. If it wasn't in the garage, he would be exposing himself and his partner as burglars for no reason. The homeowner could call the police, and a chase would ensue. It was too late to do anything but wait it out.

The sound of the garage door opening put the men on alert. There was more muffled conversation than quiet. After what seemed like a long time, the door from the garage opened, and the owner entered the kitchen. He stopped at the refrigerator, removed a bottle of water, twisted off the cap, and took a big swig. They saw him look across the room at the dog sleeping on the bed below the TV and smile. The men heard him say out loud, "You musta had a tough day." Then he moved to the sliding glass doors leading to the pool deck, locked them, and returned to turn out the light over the stove. Now, in the dark, he made his way to the stairs leading to the second-floor bedrooms and disappeared.

The two men waited several minutes before peering into the darkened rooms. They could hear the slight thumping of activity as the owner of the house prepared himself for bed. As the sound diminished, the passenger moved to the laundry room and opened the door to the garage. He flipped on the light switch and saw the workbench on the far side of the garage. As he walked into the garage, he saw the package sitting on the bench and breathed a sigh of relief. He had it.

He crossed the room, picked up the package, and quickly returned to the kitchen. The driver waited there, saw him smiling broadly, and motioned for him to follow. The two men exited the sliding glass doors, closing them quietly and making their escape without notice.

Sassy continued snoring.

***

I couldn't sleep much that night. I kept thinking that I was getting in over my head. Connor was a good guy, I thought. But he seemed to like getting high a little too much. That might cause him to be a little careless. But then I thought about what I might do with the money. If it all worked out, I'd have nearly thirty grand. Me and wifey could take that trip…that Viking Mediterranean Cruise from Barcelona to the coast of France, onto Italy, south to Rome, Naples, Amalfi, then Sicily. Around the boot and up the east coast, stopping across the Adriatic in Croatia and ending in Venice. We had been dreaming of a retirement trip like this for a long time. My wife said several times that she wasn't ready to retire yet. She was worried about our finances and thought she would work for a few more years. This might be the answer.

But I knew I'd have to hide the source of the windfall from her. I handled the finances, but she wasn't stupid. I'd probably have to fabricate a story about the stocks I'd bought taking off in the bull market. Yeah, that might work. But then I thought she'd say something like, "Well, if you make so much money on those stocks and you cash out, we are gonna have to pay a shitload of tax on them in the first quarter of next year." And she would be right…if the windfall came from stocks. If it was drug money, not so much. The Mediterranean would have to wait.

I finally fell asleep sometime in the middle of the night and was awakened by her alarm at 6:00 am. Now I remembered that she had had an early morning flight and that I would take her to the airport. I lay in bed dozing as she dressed and readied herself for the business trip.

"Are you going to make me coffee, or do you want me to spend $6.00 on a Starbucks Skinny Latte?" she said sarcastically as I languished in bed with my eyes closed. I grudgingly rose from the blankets, moved to the kitchen, and turned the lights on.

One of the first things I noticed was that Sassy wasn't at my feet begging to be fed. I thought she might be outside taking an early dump, so I continued making a pot of coffee. After I pressed the start button on the coffeemaker, I looked toward the sliding door, and Sassy was lying on her side. Next to her on the rug was a pile of partially digested food that she had regurgitated during the night. She was panting heavily but lifted her head as I approached.

"Did you eat something that didn't agree with you?" I asked, knowing that an answer was unlikely to follow. You made a mess. I guess I should clean it up before you try to eat it again."

The coffee maker huffed, and I knew the brew was almost complete. I waited until the light went out and poured a cup for both my wife and me. After adding condiments, I delivered the cup to my wife, who was blow-drying her hair.

"I think Sassy is sick," I said loudly to my wife, setting the cup of coffee next to her on the bathroom counter. She shut off the hair dryer and said, "Why?

“She threw up.”

“What did you feed her?

“Nothing.”

“Then why did she throw up?”

“How should I know? Am I a vet? Am I a dog whisperer?”

“Well, you don’t have to be so sarcastic.”

“Well, you don’t have to accuse me of being the cause of Sassy’s digestive distress.”

We both sipped our coffee and were quiet for several minutes. Then I said, “Let me go check on her.”

When I got to the door, she appeared to be livelier. She was sitting but wobbly, and her eyes were a bit unfocused.

"Do you want to go outside?" I asked, reaching toward the door handle to unlock it. But it was already unlocked. I remembered locking it before I went to bed. I always locked it before bedtime, but now it was unlocked.

I slid open the door and walked out onto the deck. Sassy followed but was not steady in her gait. She got to the exterior doggie door but seemed confused, so I opened the other door, and she followed me out into the yard.

She squatted to pee as girl dogs do, and I congratulated her as a good master does. "Good girl." Then we walked back inside the house.

"Are you ready for breakfast?" I asked in the same tone I use every morning. She seemed to be getting stronger and wagged her tail as if to say, "Yes, Daddy."

I picked up her food and water bowls as she waited near the sink and moved into the garage. Flipping the light on, I portioned the cup of dog food into her bowl and glanced across the garage toward the workbench. The package was gone.

I stood silently, staring at the workbench for a long moment.

***

“Connor. It’s me. Answer your fucking phone.”

This was the fourth time I called him and the fourth message I left for him. I was getting a little worried. He had the pound of coke. I knew he enjoyed its stimulating effects and had no one to provide guardrails for consumption. What could go wrong?

I loaded my wife’s carry-on bag into the back of the SUV, and she got into the passenger seat, ready for the thirty-minute trip to the airport.

I kept thinking about the sliding glass door. Did I lock it? Now I couldn't remember. It was always just habitual. And if I couldn't remember that, well, maybe I put the package of baking soda into the cabinet before I turned the light out. But I'd surely remember that, wouldn't I?

“What time do you get back on Tuesday?” I asked.

“I sent you the flight information.” She replied tersely.

"Well, I saw your text, but I didn't read it, and now I'm driving. I know you don't want me using my phone while driving, so how about giving me a clue?"

“Sorry,” she said, reaching for her phone.

“I get in at 12:28 pm. Delta 128 from Atlanta.”

"Great. That'll give me time to mow the front yard and take Sassy for a walk. How about we go out for dinner on Tuesday evening. I'll make a reservation at that little Italian place you like so much."

“I’d like that. Thank you. I’m sorry I’ve been a bitch lately. There’s a lot of stress with the merger and all. You’re lucky that you are out of the rat race.”

“It’s all right. I’ve been thinking. How about we plan that Mediterranean cruise in September? I think we can get a good deal.”

“Did we win the lottery?”

"Well, no, but we have a nice nest egg. I'm a lot older than you, and we should do it before I need a wheelchair and you need to wipe drool from my chin."

“Well, that’s a few years down the road.”

"Hopefully." I said, "I just think we should look into it. I've always wanted to see Barcelona."

We didn't speak for a mile or two, and then she remembered, "Oh, while I'm gone, you need to do two more things. One. Pick up the dog poop in the backyard. I didn't get to it; it hasn't been done in a week.

“You always do that,” I said.

"Yeah. Well, you need to do it. I'm the one who is still working. You are the guy sitting around in his pajamas until noon surfing the net. And the second thing…last week, I told you about that wasp nest over by the pool pump. It's getting bigger, and the Terminix man hasn't come for another month. I left a can of that Raid Wasp and Hornet Killer on the kitchen counter. You don't have to get too close."

I pulled the car into the 'Departing Flights' Lane and stopped at the Delta terminal. The rear liftgate opened, and I hustled to retrieve her bag, which I then placed on the curb. I gave her a big hug and a kiss on the cheek and said, "Call me tonight when you get to the hotel and have a minute."

She kissed me and scurried off into the terminal.

I got back in the car and sat there for a long moment until one of those pesky airport rent-a-cops told me I had to hit the road or be towed.

My phone was connected to the car by something called Bluetooth. I wasn't that technically savvy, but I knew I could press a button and say, "Call Connor IT," and the amazing technology would make the connection. The call went to voicemail again. I left another urgent message and drove all the way home in silence.

I heard Sassy barking as the garage door opened. That was a good sign. She must have been feeling better. Our next-door neighbor was a Japanese woman married to a Jewish guy. I rarely saw the husband, but the woman was often in her yard. I usually waved when we saw each other, but she looked the other way. She had complained to me once before that Sassy's barking disturbed her. As I pulled into my driveway, she was standing in her yard. I got out of the car, and she shouted, "Your dog bark." Not knowing how to respond, I just nodded and bowed. I tried the only Japanese line I knew, "Arigato Gozaimasu.”

She just stared at me for a long time. I bowed again respectfully and made a hasty retreat into the open garage.

Before walking into the house, I stopped at the workbench and looked at it more closely. Not finding the box, I pulled the two drawers open simultaneously and scanned the contents. No package. Where the fuck was it? Could my wife have come out in the middle of the night and taken it, then put it into her luggage to get it out of the house? Why would she do that? Didn't she trust me? I told her I would mark it 'Return to Sender' and either put it in the mailbox or deliver it to the post office.

But she wouldn't do that, and I hadn't done either of those things. I was too inquisitive. Instead, I embarked on a darker road that could put me in a world of hurt.

***

It was midnight when the driver pulled the car into the open commercial garage, and the door closed behind it. A sturdy man stood inside the entrance, waiting until the door had closed completely. Both men got out of the vehicle and moved through the dimly lit walkway, followed by the sturdy man.

The passenger of the vehicle carried a plastic bag with the CVS logo on the outside in his left hand. They arrived at the business's office, and three men sat quietly at the table. Two men stood flanking the man, who remained seated as the three men entered.

De Marco said, “You got my shit?”

The passenger held up the plastic bag and said, “Right here.”

"What happened to your hand," De Marco said, noticing the passenger's right hand.

“I got bit by a dog.”

De Marco smiled and said, "You are lucky. If you had come in here empty-handed, your injury could have been fatal."

Seemingly unaffected by the threat, the passenger walked closer to the table, removed the box from the bag, and placed it in front of the De Marco.

“Return to Sender,” De Marco said, reading the handwritten note on the label.

“It looks like the package was on the way back to California, but you caught it just in time.”

The passenger smiled and said, “I told you I’d handle it.

De Marco raised the package up off the table and studied it. Then he removed a large folding knife from his pocket and opened it with a flick of his wrist. He made cuts in each end and along one side, then quickly folded the brown wrapping paper back.

The box was upside down on the brown paper, and he slit the clear tape to release the top from the bottom of the box, then he turned the box over and removed the top.

"It looks good," he said. "Scale." One of the men flanking him moved to a credenza, returning with a digital scale and setting it on the table in front of him. He flipped on the switch.

De Marco removed the plastic bag containing the white powder and set it on the scale. Almost immediately the scale revealed the total weight as just a fraction over one pound.

He smiled broadly. Then he looked at the passenger and said, "You had me worried, but you came through." He opened a drawer and removed a stack of hundred-dollar bills. He counted out five of them and passed them across the table. The passenger took them, hesitated for a moment, and then left, with the driver following close behind.

De Marco picked up the cell phone that sat next to his lit cigar in the ashtray, entered the password, chose a speed-dial number, and waited. Within a few seconds, he said, "It's here." Then he ended the call.

He set the phone down and picked up the cigar, drawing on it to reignite the tobacco. He inhaled and blew out a narrow stream of smoke.

"Tequila," he bellowed, and soon, a petite brunette set a bottle of Anejo in front of him with three small glasses. She stood silently. He glared at her. She understood, and she uncapped the bottle and poured out three portions, then placed them squarely in front of each seated man.

After the third shot, the men heard the garage door opening. Within a few minutes, two black men stood in the doorway, smiling.

“You’re a day late.” The heavier black man, who appeared to be the alpha, said.

“Better late than never,” De Marco said, pointing to the plastic package on the table in front of him. “You got the cash?”

The smaller of the two black men stepped forward and produced a pouch from the small of his back. He unzipped it, removed a wad of cash, and set it on the table next to the plastic bag.

The big man picked up the bag of powder while De Marco picked up the money.

As he did, four men dressed in black uniforms labeled SWAT swarmed into the room with assault weapons pointed directly at De Marco.

The heavier man said, “Alberto De Marco, you are under arrest for possession and the sale of narcotics. All three of you stand up and face the wall.”

The uniformed officers searched the three men. De Marco was unarmed, but the other two men carried Glocks, and they were disarmed and placed in handcuffs.

Once all three men were secured, the smaller black man opened the plastic bag of white powder. He removed a drug testing kit from his jacket pocket, leaving it open on the table. He portioned a sample of the powder into a small vial, capped it, and shook it. The undercover police waited. The smaller of the two looked at the bigger man and shook his head.

"What the fuck?" the officer in charge thundered.

Then he moved to the table and dipped his fingers into the powder. Taking a portion to his nose, he sniffed it and then tasted it.

“Baking soda. Fucking baking soda.”

De Marco smiled broadly and said, "Hey, that's some good shit. You can make a lot of cookies with a pound of that shit. Do you bake, officer?"

They stood there silently for a long moment, and then the alpha officer said, "We got a warrant to search the place. Tear it up. There's got to be something here."

The uniformed officers forced the three men back into their seats, and the search began. After two hours, the smaller of the two undercovers said, "Nothing. We gotta kick 'em."

“Uncuff them.” The alpha said. Then he turned and walked out of the room.

***

It was Friday morning, and Sassy greeted me as I came into the house from the garage. She was her old self, thank God. Connor would be at work. Since I worked at the same hotel with him for several years, I knew the hotel number by heart, and I dialed it. The operator answered, and I asked to be connected to the IT department.

“Information Technology, Dorothy speaking, how can I help you?” the voice answering the call said.

"Hey, Dot!" I said cheerfully.

She hesitated and said, “Is this who I think it is?”

“Maybe. Who do you think it is?”

"I think it's that dirty old man who used to work here.”

“Hey, I’m really not that old.”

“Yes, but you do have a dirty mind.”

“Me? You must be thinking about someone else. Hey, can I speak with Connor?”

“No.”

I hesitated and said, “No?” questioningly.

“No, you can’t speak to him because he’s not here.”

“Oh. Can you have him call me?

“I would be happy to do that, but he’s sick today.”

"Sick? I was with him last night, and he was fine."

"Well, he's either too sick to show up or too well to come to work today and is taking a long weekend."

"I tried calling him, but he's not answering. Do you have his address?"

“No.”

"No, you don't have it, or No, you won't give it to me?"

“Both. Even if I had it, I couldn’t give it to you. That would be a violation of Connor’s personal privacy. Why not speak to our illustrious Personnel Manager. Maybe you can convince her to give it to you.”

“I have him in my phone with only his first name. Can you at least tell me his last name?”

“Ballentine.”

“Thanks. Would you transfer me to Personnel?”

“Happily,” she said curtly.

I don’t know what I ever did to Dorothy to get that kind of reaction. I thought she liked me. I thought everybody liked me. But I guess I’m an acquired taste. Maybe I should have told fewer questionable jokes.

The phone in Personnel rang four times and then went to voicemail.

Reaching a dead end, I went to my computer and did a Google search for Connor Ballentine. I was directed to the White Pages, where, for a $11.95 fee, I can get a full report on just about anybody I'm searching for. Using my credit card, I joined and found a local address for Connor Ballentine at 432 Doorknock Drive, Apartment 4A. Then, using the MapQuest program, I got directions to his place on the other side of town, about thirty minutes away from my place.

"Wanna go for a ride?" I asked Sassy. She still didn't answer but perked up, wagging her tail and running around in circles. I guessed that meant yes, and we went to the car. I opened the passenger door, and she leaped onto the seat, facing forward, her front paws on the dash, with what was undoubtedly great anticipation. I was excited, too.

After starting the car, I said, "Hey Siri, Open Spotify on my phone and play the Best of the Eagles." I love this Bluetooth and Spotify, which sure beat FM radio.

We pulled into the apartment complex's parking lot, and based on the address, I searched for what I thought was building four.

There it was. Building 4. I surmised that 4A would likely be on the fourth floor, and I was right. Sometimes I amaze myself. Other times, not so much.

As I reached the top of the stairs, I heard loud but muffled music emanating from apartment 4A, and I put my ear to the door. I heard no voices. I knocked lightly on the door. Nothing. There was a doorbell on the right, and I pressed the button. Nothing. I turned the knob and found that the door was unlocked.

"Hello! Connor?" I said as I entered the darkened room. I shut the door behind me and moved down the hallway, past the kitchen, and into the living room. Connor was sitting on the floor with his head slumped down, presumably asleep. A small pile of coke was on the glass-top table with two lines pre-portioned and ready. An empty glass was in his lap, the contents of which soaked his pants. And the room smelled of stale beer.

I said, “Connor?” There was no movement and no reply. He didn’t stir. I got closer and realized that he wasn’t breathing. “Holy shit!” I said out loud. “Connor! Wake up!” I reached down and checked his pulse on the carotid artery of his neck. Nothing.

“Fucking Connor,” I said out loud. “Leave it to you to overdose and fuck up my Mediterranean cruise.” That’s cold, I thought.

My first instinct was to call the police immediately, and I felt my pocket for my phone. I'd left it in the car cradle. I sat down in a chair across from him and stared at him for a long time. The remainder of the coke was still in the plastic bag on the table.

A lot of questions went through my head. Was he alone when he died? It looked like it. There were no other glasses on the table or in the room anywhere. Surely, if he had company, he would have offered them a beer. How much coke do you have to do before you die of an overdose? Based on the amount of the drug left on the table and the amount remaining in the bag, it looked like there was plenty left, but he could have done at least three or four grams…alone…by himself. That's a lot. Especially if it's good shit. But what did I know? I hadn't done drugs in years, and I never had the money to binge it.

I should just leave. Pretend I was never here. Somebody will call the cops. But it’s Friday. He lives alone. Nobody will miss him until he doesn’t show up for work on Monday. I can’t just leave him here all weekend. But he is dead. It won’t matter…much.

Or I could get my phone and call the cops anonymously. The 911 operator could track my phone and find out it was me. I could go to a pay phone if I could find one. There aren't many left around, maybe outside a convenience store. But the 911 operator would track that, too, and there are always cameras outside convenience stores. They would see me making the call.

How about if I go get my phone, call the cops, and wait for them to arrive. Then I tell them the whole story. The truth. The shit would hit the fan. I might be arrested. But what would be the charge? There might have been intent to distribute, but I didn't have possession. I'm gonna need a lawyer. This is going to get expensive.

Oh, and what about the guys we ripped off? Well, we didn't really rip them off—or did we? They got a shipment from California. Maybe the shipper ripped them off. A lot of people are going to be unhappy and look for a payback.

And my wife…she’s gonna be really pissed. I can hear her now. “Put it in the mailbox. Return to Sender!”

Using Connor’s house phone, I called 911. I heard the police cars long before I saw them. They arrived at the apartment complex en mass with three squad cars and an unmarked unit. There was a knock at the door, and I shouted, "It's open." I sat quietly in the chair, staring at poor Connor's dead body. The day before, I thought he was a genius. Today, not so much.

Since I was the one who called it in, I wouldn't be considered a suspect in a murder. Still, I was, at the very least, a material witness in a drug overdose and the confiscation of almost a pound of Schedule II narcotics. The initial questioning was fast and furious. After about an hour, I was transported to the station and found myself alone in a barren room with no windows and a camera pointing at me from a corner. All I could think of was that episode of 'Crooks are Stupid' I'd recently watched.

After about thirty minutes, the door swung open, and the same two plain-clothes detectives who had been at the apartment took seats across the table from me.

“Tell us again. Why were you at the deceased’s apartment?”

"I went there to check on him. I called him several times, but he didn't respond. I was worried."

“Were you good friends?”

I hesitated. “No. Just acquaintances. I knew him from work at the hotel.”

“Then why were you so concerned?”

“I couldn’t get in touch with him.”

“Why were you so anxious to get in touch with him?”

“Do I need a lawyer?”

“I don’t know. Do you? Have you broken the law?”

"Look, you guys. I'm just a retired hotel guy doing the day-to-day. Checking my nest egg to make sure I don't outlive it and trying to keep my trophy wife happy."

“Answer the question. Have you broken the law?”

“I…I don’t think so.” I said haltingly.

There was a knock at the door. One of the detectives rose and opened it. Two black detectives stood outside, and the three men had a short discussion; they walked in and stood next to the table.

The larger of the two detectives looked straight at me and said, "The drugs that were found in Mr. Ballantine's apartment weighed just shy of one pound. To be exact, the weight was 15.6 ounces. There were approximately four grams of coke on the glass-topped table. The coroner said Mr. Ballantine likely died of an overdose of cocaine. There was no sign of a struggle or unusual marks on his body. We'll have to wait on the Medical Examiner's report to confirm the actual cause of death."

I found myself breathing heavily and staring at the dingy carpet on the floor. I looked at the big black detective and said, "It's all a big mistake. I got curious. I never meant for it to go like this."

“Like what?” The detective said.

I could feel my face flushing, knowing I had to give it up.

"I went to my mailbox yesterday to check on my first Social Security payment. I just retired two months ago and was excited to get that first check in the mail. I worked my ass off for forty-five years in the hotel business. I saved a chunk of change, but I'll need that monthly income even though my wife is still working."

"Get to the point, " the detective said firmly. "You went to the mailbox, and then what?"

"Well, the check wasn't there, but there was a package. The name on the package was 'Alphonso Ribiero,' but it was my address. Well, the only Alphonso Ribiero I know is that guy on America's Funniest Home Videos, so it was obviously sent to the wrong address."

Two of the cops were smiling, and one was laughing, but the big black cop didn't see the humor in the situation.

“What did you do next?”

“I took the other mail and the package into the house and told my wife about it. She said I should mark it with “Return to Sender’ and put it back in the mailbox to be picked up the next day.”

“So, you did that?”

"Well, no. I left it on the kitchen counter for a while, and later, I moved it to my workbench in the garage. I was going to put it back in the mailbox in the morning. I really was."

“But you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t. Curiosity got the best of me, and I thought I could open it carefully and see what it was. Then I would reseal it and send it back.”

“What was in the package?”

"Under the brown paper wrapper was a box. It was the same kind of box you get from a bank with blank checks. I opened the box, and there was a clear plastic bag with what looked like a compacted white powder.”

“Did you open the bag?”

I hesitated again for a long time. The cop said firmly, “Did you open the fucking bag?”

“Yes, but I didn’t do anything with it. I was worried it might be drugs and it could be laced with Fentanyl or some shit like that, and I might overdose. Besides, when I got married this time, I told my wife I'd never do drugs again."

“So, you used to do drugs.”

"It was a long time ago and only pot, really. Except for a few times when friends had some coke. She's gonna fucking kill me."

“What happened then?”

“Nothing.”

"Nothing happened? If nothing happened, how did your buddy Mr. Ballentine die of an overdose of cocaine?"

"Maybe I need a lawyer," I said.

"Maybe you do, but we can't help you if you lawyer up now. It sounds like you are a victim. You have been duped. Maybe you should let us help you. How did Mr. Ballentine get involved?"

"I thought there was a way to test it to see if it was drugs. He was a smart guy. I had his number, and I called him. He came over, and he tested it."

“How did he test it?”

“He snorted it. He said it was real cocaine.”

“Did you snort any of it?”

"No way. I told my wife…" The detective cut me off and said, "How is it that a pound of coke found its way across town to his apartment?"

“I wanted to package it back up and put it in the mail, but he said he could sell it and split the money with me? I asked how much money, and he said it was a lot…I’d make maybe $30K. My wife and I have been discussing taking one of those Mediterranean cruises. That money would just about cover it without me having to dip into my 401K."

The big detective said, “That makes a lot of sense,” though I thought I detected a bit of sarcasm in his voice.

The detective asked, “Did you think that the real owner of the drugs would come looking for their shipment?”

“Yeah, we thought about that.”

“What did you decide?”

"Baking soda. Connor suggested we replace the real coke with baking soda, package it back up, and return it to sender. So that's what we did."

“But you didn’t…return it to the sender, did you?”

"I was going to, but then the package disappeared."

“How could it disappear?”

"I don't know. Connor left with the real drugs, and I packaged up the baking soda. I taped it up like it was when I got it, marked it 'Return to Sender' with a Sharpie, and left it on the workbench. The next morning, the package was gone. That's why I was so worried and was trying to get in touch with Connor."

“What did you think happened to the package?”

I thought for a long time, then said, "Maybe someone came into the house when we were asleep and took the package. I always lock the back sliding glass door, but it was open when I got up in the morning."

***

The driver took the two one-hundred-dollar bills from the passenger as they sat in the drive-through line at twenty-four-hour Popeyes.

“I love me some red beans and rice to go with my spicy hot chicken fingers,” he said. “Tomorrow we should go to a movie. That new Transformers flick is showing at the Cineplex.”

The passenger was silent, staring at the three one-hundred-dollar bills in his hand. He wasn't sure it was worth all the trouble. The whole thing could have gone south. He wasn't blamed for the loss of the last shipment. The cops were onto them. Luckily, he had spotted the undercover skulking around in the post office lobby near the mailboxes. And he saw the two cops hunkering down, waiting in the unmarked car on the far side of the parking lot as he drove up. He was no fool. He parked the car, walked into the building, deposited a blank sheet of paper in the mailbox, and left. If the cops noticed him, he was just another dude mailing a letter. He wondered how many days they sat on that place waiting for some idiot to come for the package of drugs.

This was different. There were no cops. But there was a loose end. The guy who picked up the package from the mailbox. The owner of the house. Fucking traffic. If he had just gotten to the place thirty minutes, even twenty minutes earlier. None of this shit would have happened. But now the deed was done. The stress was getting to him.

The passenger's phone rang as the order was handed to the driver through the drive-up window. He looked at the screen. It was De Marco.

“Hello,” he said cautiously.

"Hey, buddy. Where you at?"

“We’re getting some chicken. What’s up?”

“We had a little hiccup.”

“What kind of hiccup?”

“The kind where the cops showed up and put me in cuffs.”

“Are you in jail?”

"No. The funny thing was…that package you brought me. That stuff in the plastic bag… wasn't what it was supposed to be."

“What was it?”

“Baking soda.”

The passenger sat silently with his unopened box of chicken fingers in his lap.

“Are you still there?” De Marco said after a few moments of silence.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m still here but I don’t know nothing about baking soda. We picked up the package from the guy’s house. We brought it straight to you, like you said.

“Tell me the whole story.”

“What do you mean?”

"Did you get the package from the mailbox or from inside the house?"

"From the house. The guy hadn't put it back into the mailbox, so we had to go in and get it.

We were at the house when I talked to you on the phone at 9:30. Remember I told you I got bit by their dog. Well, I drugged the dog with Benadryl to put it to sleep. We waited until 10:15 pm and went in. I think the woman had gone to bed, but the guy was in the garage talking to someone. The package wasn't in the kitchen or family room. We hid in the living room 'til he went to bed. We went out to the garage and found it on the workbench. Then we left."

De Marco thought about it and asked, "What else was on the workbench?"

The passenger said, “I don’t know. I don’t remember. All I wanted was to get the package and hit the road.”

De Marco narrowed his eyes and said, “Think hard. Did you have to turn the light on in the garage?”

“Yeah.”

When you turned on the light, how far was it from the door to the workbench?"

“I don’t know. Maybe twenty steps.”

"Well, as you walked over, were you looking at the package?"

“Well, yeah.”

"What else was on the workbench?"

The passenger stood quietly, thinking, his eyes closed.

“Tape. A roll of tape?”

“What kind of tape?”

“Clear tape.”

“Packing tape,” De Marco said. “Was there a knife or scissors?”

“No. But there was a little silver thing like a metal pencil. It had a sharp point.”

De Marco's closed his eyes for a moment, and he said angrily, "That fucking guy has our dope. He opened the package, switched the coke for the baking soda, and resealed the package."

He ended the call abruptly. He looked at the opened package on the table in front of him, picked up the brown paper that had wrapped the box of baking soda, and looked at the address.

***

Without another word, the four policemen stood and left the room, leaving me to sit there looking at myself in the one-way mirrored window. I don't know how long I was there. They had taken my cell phone, and I never wore a watch. It was a long time.

Then the door opened, and two of the four officers walked in and sat down.

“You are in deep shit.” One officer said.

Tears began to well up in my eyes, but I said nothing.

"You know that white powder that you substituted for the drugs?"

I nodded.

"Well, guess who has it?"

I looked at him and said, “Who?”

“A guy named De Marco. Wilfredo De Marco. You ever heard of him?”

“No.”

"Well, Wilfredo is well-known to us. He runs dope on the west side. Our undercovers have been onto him for a long time, and we were doing a deal with him for a pound of coke. We got the call that his shipment arrived, and as the deal went down, we learned that there was no coke. Instead, everyone, including De Marco, seemed surprised to find out that the package contained baking soda."

“So, did you arrest him?”

“For what? Possession of baking ingredients? We had him in cuffs. And you and your buddy Connor fucked it all up.”

I couldn't think of anything other than, "So, at least you got the coke off the streets."

"True, but we were gonna get Wilfredo and his boys off the streets, but he walked. And guess what?"

“What?”

"It's a sure thing that Wilfredo thinks you still have the dope. I'll bet Wilfredo will come looking for his dope, and he knows where you live."

Now, I was afraid. At least my wife was out of town and wouldn't be back until Tuesday. "What am I going to do?" I said.

"Well, you are in luck, Bucko! With your help, we are going to set a trap for Senor De Marco. You are going to go home like nothing happened. You will go about your business. We will be close by. We will know when he comes to your neighborhood."

I was worried and asked, “But you’re not going to let him near me, are you?”

“Look. You got yourself into this with your curiosity. Now you are going to help us catch this asshole.”

Another cop came through the door with a plastic bag of white powder and set it on the table in front of me.

“You are gonna take this home with you. Put it on your kitchen table. Then wait. I’m pretty sure Mr. De Marco will be in direct contact with you very soon.”

“You’re not going to leave me alone, are you?”

The lead detective smiled and said, “Don’t worry. One of our cops will be hidden in the back of your SUV when you get home. Go into the garage. Shut the door and let him out. He’ll be inside your house until the shit hits the fan.”

“The shit is going to hit the fan?” I said.

“Maybe that was the wrong way to put it.”

“Wait! Wait! Wait! You plan on using me as bait to get to some drug dealer?”

The detective stopped and put his hand on my shoulder. Then he said, "Think about it. If Connor hadn't overdosed, you would have been a partner in dealing drugs just so that you could take a Mediterranean cruise with your wife. Doesn't that make you a drug dealer, too?"

What could I say?

“So, here’s the deal. You go along with our play, and you get to walk. We cut you loose, and wifey doesn't even know that you were such an idiot."

“Yeah, but do I have to testify at trial?”

“Yes. If and when this goes to court, you will be there.”

Again, I was left speechless.

***

De Marco was seething. He was angry but not sure who should bear the brunt of his wrath. His boys who were sent to make the pickup had fucked up. Sure, they eventually came through and delivered the package. Still, the fact that they were late due to what they claimed was heavy traffic was such a dumb fucking excuse that they deserved to pay a heavy price.

Then he thought about the guy in the house. Why would he decide to go to all of the trouble to replace a pound of coke with a pound of baking soda unless he thought he could get away with it and keep the dope for his own. Would he be able to unload it? Or would he just hold onto it because he likes to snort a shitload of cocaine? Who the fuck knows. But it didn't really matter. The guy had his dope. It was his dope. He had already paid for it. Granted, the buyer turned out to be a fucking cop. But he could find another buyer. He had already paid for the shipment. But now he knew that the cops were watching. The deal had gone bad, but he had skated. It was time to be extra careful. The guy in the house was the target, but there was no rush.

He called the passenger and told him to return to the warehouse ASAP with the driver. He sat waiting with his other two sidekicks, and once they arrived, he laid out the plan.

"I'm getting my fucking cocaine back, but there is no rush to go in. We need to make sure we have the element of surprise. We go in strapped, quiet, and careful. And I'll bring this." He said, holding up a Taser.

"There's also a dog. A beagle. The dog barks, which could be a problem. The fucking dog also bites, so we have to be careful. If the little shit comes after you don't shoot. I'll take it down with 30,000 volts.

He looked at the passenger and said, "You and your partner will be lookouts. When we get there, you will stay in the car. Keep your phones on, and let me know if there is any movement outside." 

He pointed to the other two cohorts and said, "You two will come with me and go into the house. We go into the backyard with weapons drawn. We get into the house, we find the dope, we take out the owner, and we leave. Boom, boom, boom. Easy peasy. Ready?”

“We are going to kill him?” Asked one of the men?

“Fucking right, after we make him suffer a bit.”

They all looked at each other and nodded but no one said anything. De Marco stood and said, "We go at 6:00 a.m., just before daylight. Put on dark clothes. Get some sleep."

***

I was shitting bricks when they walked me back to my car. I'm so fucking stupid. I have it all. I worked hard all my life. I saved a sizable pile of cash in my 401K invested conservatively in mutual funds. I got a lovely house that's paid for in a nice neighborhood. I got a wife who loves me, though she can be a real bitch sometimes. And I got a good dog named Sassy. What more could a guy ask for in retirement?

But I almost threw it all away. For what? Was it for a thrill? Was it to be a big shot? Was I going to break my promise to my wife and start doing drugs again? Did the package awaken the need to get high, the addiction that was a big part of my life when I was younger? Who the fuck knows…?

One of the detectives had shed his suit and tie and now wore jeans, a Chicago Bears sweatshirt, and a Cubs baseball cap. I hate Chicago sports-I'm a Packers fan. But this is the guy that will be secreted in my wayback for the trip home.

He carried a leather tool kit. I asked him what was in the bag, and he said it was a receiver with microphones. He was going to wire the main rooms so that a surveillance team could monitor the activities inside the house. That made me feel a little better—just a little.

He jumped into the back of the car and covered up with a tarp. I got in the driver's seat, started the engine, and sat there idling.

The other detective came over to the window and knocked on it. I pushed the button to roll it down, and he said, "What the fuck are you waiting for?"

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I thought other cops would be coming behind me.”

“There will be plenty of other cops, but you won’t see them. When we need to go in, we will be there. Don’t worry.”

After twenty minutes, we arrived at my house, and I used the remote to open the garage door. Sassy barked incessantly, welcoming me home.

The cop exited the car and asked, “Does that dog of yours bite?”

"Only people she doesn't like," I replied.

“How will I know if she likes me?”

“You’ll know when she doesn’t bite you. Don’t worry. I’ll make the introduction.”

Sassy jumped up and down, and I gave her a dog treat from a jar on the counter. When she finished, she sniffed at the ankles of the cop who remained frozen against the door from the garage. As she wagged her tail, I said, "She likes you. Look at her tail." He bent down and patted her on the head, and she accepted his attention by licking his hand.

The cop went to work setting up the surveillance system, informing the team once it was completed. Each microphone was tested, and he received confirmation that sound levels were adequate.

I went to the refrigerator and removed a half-full bottle of Chardonnay, then walked to the cabinet for a glass. The cop watched me and said, "One glass. You need to stay sharp."

I said, “If I was sharp, I wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“Can you lock the dog in the back bedroom? We don’t want the little bugger getting hurt.”

"Sure, but if someone comes into the backyard, Sassy will alert, and we'll hear her bark. I'll block the doggie door so she can't get out."

“That’s good. We get some advance warning of a potential breach.”

“Yeah, or a critter climbing across the screen enclosure. It happens a lot late at night around here.”

As he set up a video camera on a small table-top tripod, he said, "They probably won't come in from the front, but let's keep all the doors locked except that slider. We want them to come in over there."

I moved to unlock the slider and asked, “How about lights?”

“We’ll leave the one over the stove on. Kill the rest.”

With the camera in place, he said loudly, "Surveillance team. You should have a live feed. Copy?"

I heard nothing since the cop was the only one with an earpiece, but I assumed we were a 'Go.'

The digital display on the microwave showed the time at 4:00 a.m. I was always in bed by eleven. I was beat and walked to my Barcalounger in the family room. I started to use the remote control to turn the TV on, and the cop said, "No TV. We need quiet. No background noise." I leaned back in the recliner, sipped my wine, closed my eyes, and waited—for what, I wasn't sure.

***

"We'll take two cars," De Marco said using an iPad to pull up a neighborhood map on Zillow showing the location of the target house. "You lookouts will be right here on the corner. Set up facing the house. One of you keeps an eye on the front, and the other looks back down the street. I don't expect any action at this time of the morning except maybe some schlub leaving for work. You'll know when a garage door opens up. Just hunker down and watch closely."

"I'll park here." He said, pointing to the screen. "The three of us will go in from the back. That way, we can see the whole backyard. We go to the left and enter the screen enclosure together. I go first and handle the mutt if it comes after me. You guys are right behind me. One goes around the pool to the far side of the house. The other stays near the entrance, and I head toward the sliding glass door. Watch for my signals. Stay low and out of sight."

“What if the doors are locked?” one man asked.

"Then I'll pry it open with this," he said, removing a small pry bar from his rear pocket.

Under cover of darkness, the men got into the two cars and made their way across town to the subdivision. They split up, and the lookout car found its place next to the curb. De Marco's car continued down the road. He decided to reconnoiter the entire neighborhood, covering a perimeter of about two blocks around the target house. There were cars parked in the driveways and a few on the street, but no people outside at this hour. Most houses had outside lights illuminated at their entrances and ornamental lights on their bushes, but he saw very few interior lights.

He brought the car full circle and turned left onto the cul-de-sac behind the target house. He went to the end, did a U-turn, and parked next to the curb. Nothing moved. A dog barked, but it seemed far away and in the opposite direction. Removing the key from the car's ignition, the three men sat momentarily, getting their bearings. Then De Marco opened his door, signaling the others to do the same. They got out quickly and closed the doors as quietly as they could.

There was no moon. While there were streetlights, it was pitch black in the yards, but the men carried small flashlights. De Marco moved to his left, across the street toward the side yard of a house that backed up to the target house. This house had no fence in the backyard. That was good, but before entering, he stopped, raising his hand to signal his guys to stop. He looked left, then right. They waited, making sure there was no movement. He could see over some short bushes into the house's backyard. There were no lights on.

He moved across the yard to the black aluminum fence. He scanned it for a gate, but finding none, he moved to the far end where he could climb it more easily. All three men jumped over the fence into the yard outside the screen enclosure. Then they waited.

A dog barked inside the house next door, but the sound was muted, so they continued to wait quietly. “Fuck it,” De Marco said. We are going in.”

He moved through the door to the sliding glass door as the other men came in behind him. The slider was locked, so he jimmied it with this pry bar and entered the family room. No one was there, and all of the lights were off. De Marco scanned the room but saw nothing of interest.

The door to the bedroom opened slowly. An elderly man in his pajamas flipped on the light switch. He was holding a shotgun as he walked out into the kitchen. He bellowed, "What the fuck are you doing in my house?"

De Marco moved toward him with the Taser ready. The man raised the shotgun, pointing it directly at him.

After a split-second hesitation, the old man pulled the trigger. Anticipating the discharge, De Marco dropped behind the kitchen island, avoiding the blast. A woman screamed from the bedroom. De Marco's two cohorts beat feet out the door and into the backyard, running back the way they came toward the fence.

The old man raised his weapon again. De Marco stayed down, expecting a second blast at any moment, but the man retreated to the bedroom and slammed the door shut. It was very quiet except for the faint sound of a dog barking next door. But there was no dog here in this house. That should have been the first sign that they had jumped the fence into the wrong backyard.

It was still very dark. De Marco ran out the open door and got to the fence just as the other two men climbed over. He jumped over and said, "I'm not leaving empty-handed. Call the others and tell them to skip. Get to the car and wait. It'll take a while for cops to respond to the shotgun blast at this time of the morning. I'll get there as soon as I can."

Then he ran down the fence line and peered into the backyard. This time, it was the right house.

***

Sassy began to bark at something, but there was no activity in my backyard. I was sound asleep in my recliner when her barking roused me. I stood with the cop, peering carefully through the window from behind sheer curtains. That's when we heard the shotgun blast from the house next door. It was surprisingly loud, even though it was thirty yards away.

The cop in my house said, "Surveillance team, we've got shots fired at the house next door to the south." After a few seconds, he said, "Copy that." Then he looked at me, pulled his sidearm, and said, "The troops are on their way. I'm going outside. You wait here and stay out of sight."

Sassy continued barking, so I went to the bedroom to calm her down. When I opened the door, she bolted out into the family room and continued barking at the sliding glass door. I commanded, "Quiet! No bark!" but she ignored me as usual.

I watched as the cop went to the side fence where a ten-foot-tall hedge obscured the view and access. He tried to see through the bushes, but failing that, he moved left, out my gate into the side yard. The neighbor's fence had a gate, too, but it was locked. I couldn't see him from my vantage point, and the only sound was my dog's incessant barking.

I reached into the glass jar on the counter for a treat to placate the hound, again thinking that a Labrador would probably have been a better choice.

Just then, a man appeared outside my patio door and slid it open. Sassy bolted toward him in attack mode. He aimed the Taser at her, and as she lunged forward toward him, he pulled the trigger. Two of the prongs hit her, one on her left front side and the other near her tail. She yelped loudly and fell to the tile floor, writhing and twitching.

Needless to say, I was scared shitless, and I recoiled backward toward the pantry door. The man pulled a pistol from the small of his back and pointed it at me.

“You, motherfucker. You got my dope?” he said angrily.

I pointed to the table in the breakfast nook. There sat the partially open baggie of white powder.

“Is it all there?”

“Most of it.”

“How much is gone?”

"Maybe five or ten grams."

“Did you put it up your nose?”

“No. I don’t do drugs.”

“So, where the fuck did it go?”

“I gave it to a friend.”

“Who is this fucking friend?”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s dead.”

De Marco had to stop and think about this twist but eventually said, “Why the fuck did you keep that package?”

“It was addressed to my house. I didn’t know what it was, but I got curious. It was that name.”

“What name?”

"The one on the package…Alphonso Ribiero. You know…he's the guy from America's Funniest Home Videos. I wondered why anybody would send a package to my house with his name on it. At first, I thought it was a joke. When I opened the package, I realized it was probably drugs.

***

The surveillance team was in a van with the company name 'Handy Andy' parked two streets over. They had been monitoring the microphones and video feed in the house for the last two hours. Still, nothing out of the ordinary was transmitted.

Two unmarked cars with two plainclothes cops each were stationed in driveways. One was about five houses down at the end of the cul de sac. The other was around the corner, monitoring traffic on the main road leading in. When the cop that was with me radioed, "Shots fired!" they all converged on the house where the shotgun blast had come from. One man stayed in the surveillance van.

One of the teams moved to the front door, and the other moved to the left side of the house. The cop who had been with me must have alerted them on the radio that he was on the right side of the house and moving to the backyard.

The sun was rising, peaking through the trees just above the horizon. When the Police got to the front door of the house, it was locked, as expected. One officer pounded on the door and yelled, "Police. Open up!" There was no response.

The first team that had gone left jumped over the fence and made their way around to the back of the house with guns drawn. The cop who was with me had already made it to the sliding glass door and stood there with his weapon pointed at an old man who carried a shotgun.

“Police! Drop the weapon!” he demanded.

The old man looked dazed and hesitated.

“Put your weapon on the ground!” The cop yelled forcefully. “We are the police.”

An old woman's face could be seen peering out from the bedroom. She yelled, "It's the Police, Charlie. They're here to help. Put the gun down."

He did.

The one cop left in the van had been monitoring radio traffic from the other cops entering my neighbor's house, but he had removed his headset and didn't hear the activity in my house.

I'm thinking, "Where are the fucking cops? Weren't they supposed to be here protecting me?"

Sassy had stopped jerking, and her eyes were open, but she wasn’t moving as she lay on the tile floor.

I said, “Can I check on my dog?”

“Fuck your dog,” DeMarco said.

“Why don’t you just take your drugs and go?” I implored.

DeMarco remained inside the sliding glass door, and from a distance, we both heard, "Police! Drop the weapon!" A few seconds later, "Put your weapon on the ground! We are the Police."

He turned and moved to one side, taking cover but peering out onto the pool deck. Then he realized that the voices were coming from the house next door.

The cop in the van turned back toward his monitors and saw me with the intruder in my kitchen. He replaced his headset, but neither of us was speaking by this time. He alerted the team on the radio.

DeMarco turned back from the open door and glared at me.

I said, “Just take the dope and go!”

He looked over at the plastic bag of white powder on the table about fifteen feet away. As he quickly moved toward it, I picked up the can of Raid Wasp and Hornet Killer. He moved back to the open doorway leading to the pool deck, and I thought he would leave.

But he didn't. He turned back at me with the baggie in his hand, gave me an evil smile, and pointed the gun at me. I quickly pointed the can at his head and pressed the button.

The spray from the can was almost as powerful as a garden hose, and the poison chemical hit him squarely in the face, then down his neck and torso. He was blinded but pulled the trigger on the gun, and the bullet went wild, over my head and into the wall. I ducked as he fired two more times, but those shots also missed their mark. Then he stopped, wailing and rubbing his eyes with his empty hand.

I hesitated momentarily, found some courage, and ran straight at him. My shoulder hit him square in the sternum, lifting his body slightly and forcing him backward into the swimming pool. Just as his body hit the water, five cops swarmed onto the pool deck with guns drawn, pointing at me.

I was still holding the can of Raid Wasp and Hornet Killer. I assumed they would want me to drop my weapon. So, I did.

Sassy got up and scampered onto the pool deck like nothing had happened. She was happy to see what she apparently thought were some new friends who might give her treats.

I couldn’t wait for my wife to get home so I could tell her that the yard was mowed, the dog was walked, I picked up the poop, I emptied the can of Raid Wasp and Hornet Killer, and best of all…the package was gone.

***

At the trial, I learned that the medical examiner's office had returned their final report. Connor Ballantine died of cardiac arrest, a heart attack. He had a congenital malformation called a mitral valve prolapse that was exacerbated by the consumption of an exorbitant amount of cocaine.

Poor guy. He couldn't just say 'No' to drugs.