‘Hey. I can dump one, no problem.’

‘No. I can store it. I wasn’t expecting two barrels. A briefcase maybe.’

‘This is steroids, Faber, not heroin. There must be half a million doses here.’

Faber whistles. ‘Those steroid guys really work for their money. The mark-up would make a crack dealer piss himself laughing.’

‘Faber, this wouldn’t be you trying to weasel out of giving me my fifty large? Because if that’s the case I can drive this truck to any one of a dozen people I know.’

‘That would be a bad idea, Daniel.’

‘Tell me why, arsehole.’

So he tells me. ‘Because your buddy Deacon, she’s already gone in the freezer.’

My stomach sinks.

‘Okay, dickhead. You watch your little screen and you’ll see me coming.’

‘I better see you coming fast. It’s cold in that freezer.’

I hate this guy and I wish he was dead.

Faber’s playing it cool, but he must be sweating over his decision to send me for the steroids. Even with a monitor on my ankle I’m a wild card and he knows it. Greed made him hasty and now he’s had an entire day to think about the possible consequences. I bet that pointing monkey just cannot wait to roll me into the freezer beside Ronelle, and start peddling his steroids outside health clubs all over New Jersey.

I drive slow, keeping to the speed limit, with the radio tuned to local travel news, in case there’s a pile-up on the motorway I need to avoid. Accidents mean blues, and this pick-up screams drug money.

Traffic is light and there’s a sweeping mist scything past the streetlight beams. All those little drops, like half a million twinkling steroid pills.

I drive on without seeing a single cruiser, in spite of our mayor’s road-safety drive, and in a couple of hours I’m back on good old I-95, cruising past monolithic Borders and Pottery Barns, past giant empty parking lots and all-night diners. I am envious of the people inside in their cocoon of light, enjoying the simple pleasure of some late eggs or a coffee refill. Not that I’m hungry yet, with the congealed lump of Mexican takeaway melting slowly in my stomach acid.

Christ. When you’re inside a diner you wanna be outside and when you’re outside you wanna get back in. What are you, schizo?

I’m talking to you, aren’t I?