Neon Nights Chapter 22

Though Carly had never shown an affinity for business, she had chosen Economics 101 as her requisite tour of duty through the world of capitalism and cash flow. To her surprise, the professor had been fascinating and had inspired kids who would not go on to do anything in his chosen field, to care about the dismal science for ninety days.

"Everything in life is a supply and demand problem," he had said. "If you take nothing else away from this semester, take this statement, and use it whenever you need an answer to a challenging question in life. It works every single time."

She took the advice to heart, and damn it, it had never seemed to fail her.

Supply and demand.

Kids willing to take unnecessary risks. Scumbags willing to exploit that risk.

She typed Neon Jungle Festival into the search bar on her browser. The first result was the festival's website. She clicked on it and found a crisp and clean site with photos of elaborate stages,

massive crowds, and women in various stages of undress, painted and primed to "feel the music." She put her head back in exasperation at the thought that one day her sweet daughter might end up "dancing the night away" while every horny college student in a ten-foot radius tried to grope her.

She clicked on the schedule.

East Bay was the kickoff show for the tour this year. The previous year, the show had made fifteen other stops across the country.

She looked under the blog section.

Rave reviews of the show from famous YouTubers who reported on it from the ground. Expertly crafted videos portraying a neon utopia where it never rained, and you could have all the world's carnal pleasures for just $399.

If it did rain, like it did for the Charlotte show, you could have even more fun because everything would be muddier.

She navigated back to the results page and clicked on the second result from the New York Post, "Neon Jungle Festival = A Zoo'rific way to Die."

Neon Jungle attendees outside New York City this weekend got more than they bargained for in their ticket price, as the event played host to a shocking drug overdose on stage during the final set of the event. One of the dancers on stage, a fifteen-year-old girl who had snuck into the show with a fake ID, collapsed and convulsed in front of the crowd of 70,000. Emergency personnel attempted to revive her and raced her to the hospital but were unable to do so. The concert was marred by reports of inadequate restroom facilities, major-name acts that didn't show up,

and poorly staffed venues that couldn't accommodate the needs of such large crowds.

Her eyes got a little wider.

Result three: the Washington Post, "Festival organizer blames unions for staffing issues."

Result four: the Charlotte News, "Jungle Festival faces a lawsuit from attendees hit by falling column."

And it kept going.

Every city, every show, a new disaster.

She wondered how they kept getting event permits approved by the cities and towns they played in.

Who approved this train wreck to come to East Bay?

She went to the city's website and checked the permitting section. There in the fine print, was her answer.

After correctly completing your application and paying your $200 fee, the approval or denial of any event will go to the City Council for review, with the City Manager holding the final vote.

Marc crossed back over the 30 Bridge and headed toward the station.

The White House trip was worth it. He’d had the chance to push Billy and, perhaps most importantly, show him he had not let go of the past.

When he got to the stoplight at the end of the bridge, a ding alerted him to a missed call.

He touched Carly's name and was bombarded out of the gate. "Why didn't you pick up the phone right away?" she asked.

"You just called, and I called you right back!" Marc replied, exasperated.

"It wasn't fast enough." "Women don't usually say that."

"We always like to take precedence over everything. We are a ‘drop what you're doing and attend to us’ kind of species."

"I'll note it in your file."

"Are you aware of what a dumpster fire this show has been in every city it has touched?" she asked.

"It hasn't been real good on this one for sure," he said.

Marc watched a collection of families cross the road to the beach carrying mountains of accessories, their carts piled so high that he wondered if anything was left in their rental units.

But as far as beach days went, this one was as good as you were going to get.

Eighty-three and not a cloud in the sky.

He would have loaded up to stay as long as he could too.

"It's not just East Bay. There are fifteen shows a summer. We are the first stop this year, but there wasn't a show last year where someone

didn't die, overdose, get run over, contract food poisoning, or have some other major issue. It's unbelievable that cities have still allowed it to come through."

Marc stopped her.

"Hang on, aren't you the same person that walked away from me a couple of hours ago and called me several unflattering names in the process?”

"I've had time to heal. Also, I'm excited about what I found, and the department requires me to work collaboratively with you."

"Well, it's great info."

"It's called the internet. Don't give me too much credit, but you'll love this part."

"Like, really love it?" Marc asked.

"Your boy Larry is the one who gave them their permit."

"No shit," Marc said with a smile so big it hardly fit on his face.

Given the number of no-vacancy signs along the road and the thousands of half-naked people walking the streets, Marc was surprised he made it to the station so quickly.

When he walked in, only a handful were on duty. The holding cell attendant sat at his desk with an apple in one hand and a newspaper in the other.

"Hey Leon, can I get back there to see the deals on wheels guys, please?"

The veteran officer of over thirty years picked his head up and laughed.

"You got it, Detective."

"How's your daughter doing in college? Did she get any job offers yet?" Marc asked.

"Thanks for asking. She did! Headed to the big city to take on the world of finance."

"That's great! Tell her I know she will be running that company one day."

The man beamed with pride. "I will, thanks."

The cells were at capacity with about six men per room. It would stay that way since it was a Saturday, and no one would see the judge until Monday. Most occupants were now sobered up from their Friday night shenanigans and faced sixty-some-odd hours of their vacation behind bars thanks to stupidity that wasn't reserved just for the youth.

Leon buzzed the door, and it opened to an expansive square-shaped room with four cells behind plexiglass windows and the "Hollywood cell" at the opposite end from the entrance, which featured old- school prison bars and a cot on each side.

The two men from the van were laid out and appeared to be asleep, a skill that could only be learned through years in the prison system,

given the noise and craziness of the other occupants. Both had a set of crutches by their bed.

"Rise and shine, boys," Marc said as he approached the bars.

The taller man on the left side rubbed his eyes and looked Marc over, while the shorter man on the right didn't budge.

"Who wants to chat first?" Marc asked. Neither one of them moved or said a word.

"No takers, huh? Okay. I pick you," he said to the taller man.

He walked up to the bullpen, where a male and female officer sat eating Chinese take-out like it might be their last meal.

"Afternoon. Can you pull out the guy on the left there for me and move him to interrogation, please?"

"Sure thing, Detective," the woman said.

A piece of rice hung off the side of the man's mouth, which he wiped away as he walked over.

"Sorry, it's been so busy down here. We have to eat when we get the chance," the man said.

"I get it," Marc said. "I feel like all I do is shovel my food these days."

Marc grabbed a coffee on the way in and sat at the end of the long table. A few minutes later, a tired-looking man sat down slowly at the opposite end.

"Mobile drug lab driver. That your dream as a kid?"

"I ain't have no dreams. My childhood wasn't no picnic,” the man said.

"That's dark," Marc said.

"All the world ain't supposed to be light." "Darker," Marc said.

"You want to ask me about my first wet dream too? Psycho-analyze me?"

Marc took a sip of coffee and sized up the man before him. His face had bandages over most of the real estate available, and his leg sat propped up on a chair, the cast white as a hotel room sheet.

"I love those stories when people share them, but we can keep our focus elsewhere. Who do you work for?"

"Independent contractor, as they say." Marc laughed.

"You file your taxes like that?"

"Fuck the government," the man hissed. "So …. no, huh?"

"You keeping me out of jail if I talk?"

“Can't say a hundred percent, but I can do my best."

The man sat up straighter in his chair in an almost laughable attempt at a position of strength, his face grimacing with every movement.

"Not good enough. I say anything, my life is over, and I have to start from scratch somewhere new and worry about getting offed every

day. I'd rather do my stretch, get three squares, and come back out in five."

"Five? You're facing fifty-five, my friend." The number caused the man to pause.

Marc laid into him harder.

“My bet is the drugs you produced are the ones that have been running through these shows putting kids in the hospital and the ground. For all I know, it might be more than fifty-five."

The man considered his options.

"I want my lawyer. Same thing I told the last guy that was pushing on me."

"Who's your lawyer?"

"I look like I can afford a lawyer on speed dial, Detective?"

"Well, you had $20,000 in cash in that van, so … yeah, I think you can afford a lawyer."

"Wasn't my money." "Whose was it?" Marc asked.

The corners of the man's mouth rolled up, and he relaxed back into the cold metal chair.

"You in White Wave, or do you run with those little high society pricks?" Marc asked.

"I ain't saying nothing except this … there are people out there that will burn you to the ground. I would tread real careful if I were you."

"Let me get this straight. Your tactic to bargain with me is to threaten me?"

"No threat, just fair warning," the man said.

Marc finished his coffee and threw the cup in the trash. Then he stood up and moved his chair closer to the man, staring hard into his eyes.

"You know Jason Trailer?" "No."

"Your boy down there know him?" "No."

Marc looked at the man and had a spark of inspiration.

"You know what? He seems more likely to talk than you. He looks softer, like he doesn't want to risk all the good years for some people that don't give a shit about him." Marc winked at him. "I'll bet I can get him to name you as the mastermind too."

"Don't mess with him, Detective!" Marc snapped.

"Who are you to tell me how to do my job?!" Marc roared back over him.

The man's eyes widened, and he slumped back into his chair. "I meant just let him be. He doesn't know better."

"I don't give a shit. He's going to talk to me or go up for the rest of his sunny days."

The man's bravado had disappeared.

"He's my brother, man. He's had a disability since he was born. I didn't want him with me in this life, but he couldn't do anything else. I'll get you what you need, but you gotta keep me and him out of jail."

"I told you that if you help me, I will do everything I can to help you. Now, let's try again; are you in White Wave?"

"Nah, those are my boys, but we like to be free to roam and do business with whoever we want. We’re like scientists for hire."

Marc looked at him with a healthy dose of skepticism. "Scientists? You two?"

"We look like dumb-ass rednecks with a kindergarten education, but science was always our thing for whatever reason. Could barely read and write, but we liked to blow shit up and make weird stuff to pass the time."

"When did you get into the drug business?"

"Wasn't long after I left school in tenth grade. I was working at a supermarket for five minutes, getting nothing an hour, and saw a buddy slinging dope driving a new Camaro. Wasn't a tough sell."

Marc nodded; the story as familiar as any he had heard in his line of work. Life had beaten them and given them no opportunities, and the only way out was to sell.

"What about the bus? You guys do that all yourselves?" Marc asked. The man beamed with pride.

"That's my baby. I built it from scratch. We can push out some volume, and we got us a good customer base."

"White Wave?"

"Yeah, those boys like our stuff for sure."

Interrogations were like a dance with an unwilling partner, someone you grabbed from the side of the dance floor and pulled out onto the floor with you. That person didn't want to be there, and it was up to you to find a path forward that didn't make you both miserable.

"What about the tainted pills running around the show? How big is that batch?"

"We ain't put none of that mess in our product. We need people to buy more than once, not drop dead."

"Where did that batch come from? I know it's on the street right now."

"Those guys probably made it themselves. They got a guy over there, Roy, who sometimes cooks stuff for them. He's such a screw-up, though. There's no telling how badly he butchered it. He was probably out of his mind while he was doing it."

"How much did you make for them?" The man got silent.

"Really, you tell me all this, and then won't tell me what we can nail them down for?"

"It was a good amount. I'm sure they still got some left."

"How good?" "Good."

Marc ran his hand across his chin and sunk back into his chair. "Where do they keep what they buy?"

"Billy's office. He's got a big gun safe in there that they store pills and shit in."

"Why did you run from the officer when he put his lights on?" Marc asked.

"Truth is, I was texting some chick, and by the time I realized what was happening, I felt like I had to run."

"Women," Marc said. "You ain't lying."