Thing was, Al didn’t have the cash to pick up the substitute, filler drug, fentanyl, at least not weight. Already got a plug up in Canada who could hook up a quarter kilo for just ten bands. That was half the going price, typically eighty k a kilo, and the craziest part was—he meant, but did Henry have any idea how many pills that would make? Only took ten mcg’s, twenty-five for the long-gones—and that was mcg’s, not milli- but micrograms to match the punch of one oxy. That would come out to oodles, dude, a fucking butt ton of merch. And plus he’d heard of a heavy hitter in the city who was always looking for bulk. Nobody to fuck with, though, otherwise Al would a just fucking gone for it, sold a load of blanks and run away to Mexico or some shit. But this fentanyl shit fucked you up just as good as any oxy or codeine or morphine or whatever, actually probably even like better, so this guy wouldn’t never be getting no customer complaints, feel him? All this was fail-safe and foolproof and now was the time to get the ball rolling, Al said, then sent a stream of menthol out of his mouth.

“Only coming to you with this because I love you, dude.”

“And because I got eight bands in my pocket.”

“Michelle said nine?”

“Almost,” Henry said. He thought of the dissolving resolution, of the nest egg in the bank, and accidentally told Al it could be ten if need be.

“Fucking a.” Al raised the fifth.

“No,” Henry said. He moved the plate from Al’s block tower to his. Sniffed another line to keep his head straight and mind made. “Not doing it. Thanks but no thanks.”

“Why not?” Al’s voice tweaked into a child’s whine.

“You joking?”

“You see a clown nose? A water-squirting flower on my shirt, here, dude? I’m dead-ass serious and want to know why not.”

“It’s illegal, for one.”

“Says the slope ex-meth-head,” Al snapped. “Sorry. Too far.”