Without any acknowledgment, the pimply-faced, grubby excuse of a youth whizzed past her.

“That guy gives me the creeps,” Gloria snarled. “I wouldn’t drink a cup of coffee that bloke brought me if you gave me a hundred quid.”

The nurse nodded in agreement and shrugged, and the two of them went back to work.

Marcus tried to keep himself calm. He did not want to ruin the arrangement he had with Jerry’s employer, Francis (Franny) O’Rourke. Franny didn’t consider himself a drug dealer. He thought of himself more as a concierge. He “procured” special orders for the very rich and upwardly mobile pseudosocial elite: famous and not-so-famous musicians, artists, fashion designers, and models. He maintained a network of drug dealers. Whether it was weed, hashish, cocaine, heroin, fentanyl, opioids, or acid, Franny O’Rourke was your one-stop-shopping provider of mind-altering enhancements. He charged a “finder’s fee” of 25 percent, but it was worth it to most of his clientele. Except Marcus. The fee was rather steep, and his habit was increasing.

Marcus handed over the envelope with the cash. “Why the pressure?” he coolly asked.

“No pressure, mate. Just doin’ what I’m told.” Jerry shuffled his feet.

“I believe you have something for me?” Marcus was not in the mood for games.

“Oh yeah, that. Franny says no dice until you pay up.” The kid wiped his sniveling nose with his ragged sleeve.

Marcus thought his head was going to explode. “We had a deal, damn it.”

“Maybe you and Franny did, but it seems like one of you queered the deal. Like I says, doin’ my job.” Jerry was squirmy, and it made Marcus uncomfortable. One never knew what a drug addict would do. And of all people, Marcus should know.

Trying to think quickly, Marcus suggested, “What if I get something better than cash?”

“What? Are you daft? Nothin’ is better than cash.”

“Ask Franny if he’ll take the dosh in diamonds.” Marcus knew he could pinch one of his wife’s diamond earrings without her ever knowing. Her collection would make Harry Winston blush.

“Eh, I dunno ’bout that, mate.” Jerry continued to shuffle his feet. He wiggled as if he had ants-in-pants syndrome.

Marcus tossed his cell phone to Jerry. “Buzz him. Text him. Do whatever. And make it snappy. I don’t want those nosy biddies out there wondering what’s taking you so long to deliver a coffee.”

“All right . . . all right. But I’m using my phone. I don’t want him freakin’ out from some odd phone number showing up on his mobile. Private, ye know.”

“For cripes’ sake. Get on with it, damn you.” Marcus felt as if there were steam coming out of his ears.