blurring_the_edges_12_tee_time_blues birdmad Upon reading Henry Ash's note, you go back up into the apartment and get an outfit you can wear to the golf-course tomorrow. Knowing Henry, the place is as snotty as they come so you will have to look as conservative as possible. The intrigue is entirely too much for you and even after you get home, you don't sleep. Taking another shower before you lie down, you ponder the mechanical sound of the swamp_cooler cranking away rather ineffectually in the increasingly humid night. You would buy an air conditioning unit if you didn't already know that your mom would rather be uncomfortable on principle than to reap the benefit of something gained through dishonest means. Sometimes it plagues you to be doing things in such contrary fashion to the values you were raised with, but you are less and less convinced that there is any reward awaiting such faith. If you've learned anything, you have learned Zoe's lesson, take as much as you can whenever you can, so long as you know your own personal limits. Do you know your limits, Alex? Or are you content to keep the freefall going? The sun will be up and the temperature will be pushing 90°F by the time you meet Henry and Billy at Firebird. You put on the charcoal grey Izod shirt and the pants from that suit that Greg had his tailor make for you. Your only problem is that you have no golf shoes and in country club setting, you know that would go over about as well as a long, loud fart in church during the homily. Fishing in the closet, you opt for the boat shoes which fit well enough with the outfit. By the time Six AM rolls around and you are ready to go, you can smell coffee in the kitchen and warm tortillas. Not expecting you to be up this early on a saturday morning, your mom is making herself a quick breakfast. You tell her that one of your friends from the office has invited you to go to a country club for a round of golf, admitting that you know next to nothing about the game. She seems distracted and uncomfortable, as if she might be ill. You begin to worry and ask her if she is alright. She says she is fine, but you don't believe her. You try to press the matter, but, she insists that she is okay, just a little sore along her shoulder and chest from sleeping awkwardly. Before stepping out into the driveway, you give her a quick kiss on the cheek and head out the door, promising to be back before noon because "there's no way in hell that i'm gonna be stuck wandering around in a-hundred-and-fifteen degree weather at high noon out on a golf course, No way." Taking the freeway to the east Valley from way down on the edges of Laveen turns out to be relatively quick as there is next to no traffic at six-fifteen on a Saturday morning. It seems safe enough that you will be in a relatively visible place like the country club, but if anything, you don't trust Billy. Strapped to your ankle is a vintage Sykes-Fairbairn British commando knife, solid black all the way down to the blade. You pull into the gate and immediately feel out of place amongst all the expensive European cars in the lot. Your modest, but trusty little Ford seems to be the only car in sight that doesn't have a German pedigree. To avoid feeling too out of place, you find a spot near what looks to be the employee parking and put the little guest-parking pass card from the envelope on your dashboard. As you walk in to the clubhouse, Henry and Billy are there to greet you. You are surprised in the light of morning to see Henry looking a little bit frazzled. "Hey, Cisco!" Henry calls out to one of the clubhouse attendants, "A set of drivers and three buckets of balls over here, okay?" "Sure thing, Mister Ash" "I don't know about you, Alex, but I think I've changed my mind about hitting the links, I hear it will be up to 102 by eight-thirty and 107 by ten and I don't feel like barbecuing my ass out there on a day like this one's shaping up to be." "Cool," you answer, relieved, "I was thinking the same thing, but i figured it would be bad manners to bitch about it." "Very sharp," he says, seeming like a bit too much of a glad-hand, but sounding relatively sincere nonetheless, "I respect that. For being in this shitty business with a bunch of spoiled brats like all of us around here that you work with, you've got a weird kind of Zen going for you man." "Some people tell me i'm cold." "Maybe, Alex," he says as you are all walking toward the driving range, "god knows, i saw what you did to Nick last year over that chunk of change he owed the Five Jimmys." "Umm, yeah," you mumble, feeling a maybe a slight tinge of conscience. It bothers you that in all this time, Tripod Billy has still said nothing to you or to Henry other than a couple of quick "Uh-huh"s. Everyone knows that he isn't an idiot, but seems to get off on being little more than just dumb muscle. And people tell you you're cold. Scratch that, Billy just isn't "right." That's probably the best way to say it. "I'm not trying to be rude, Henry, but what's the business you wanted to discuss?" "Oooh, sharp, businesslike, and straight to the point. Billy, we have ourselves a winner here." "So, get to it, man." Henry explains to you that for having slowed down quite a bit in the last year and a half, the coke business is getting to be a little deep and weird, even for his tastes and he is looking to change markets. "I've been talking to Eric and he knows your poison, god knows, Junk seems to be the drug du jour nowadays, between that, and a little coke on the side, i've got people in England who can get me that new Ecstasy shit as well." "Well..." "Don't fret about Greg and Tony, they are starting to get the same cold feet about the powder business as i am. While you were taking your little pussy-oriented vacation from the game, Tony, Mike, Billy and I all had a weird run-in down in Tucson with some crazy fuckers from someplace called Sinaloa. We got just enough shit out of the deal to keep us both high and in business for at least another six months, but after that, none of us wants to deal with those scary fucking beaner cowboys again." Suddenly, Billy pipes in, "Seriously, i didn't know there was such a thing as a Mexican redneck, dude, but these guys were it." "So what's on the table, Henry?" "We can negotiate that as we go along, my biggest question right now, Alex, is if we can call the hatchet officially buried between the three of us. I know we fucked your day up pretty bad that day out by the highway, but you gotta know it wasn't personal." Teeing up to take another swing, you look at Henry, and then at Billy. Out of the two dozen or so balls you have sliced, barely nicked or just barely knocked into the green of the driving range, you get all of this one and send it pinging off the ball-retriever's little caged cart. "Yeah," you say, feeling a little bit relieved, teeing up again, you slice the next ball wide right and not very far into the distance. Henry extends his hand and you shake it, Billy follows suit and claps you on the shoulder as if you were old buddies. If nothing else, this restores your ability to get your hands on decent weed again. You have a cigarette and leave the range. Eric's apartment is not too far away and it's about time for you to pick up that re-fill on your prescription. 030415 what's it to you? who go blather from