The taxi reached fulcrum point at the end of Main City Bridge. It's called fulcrum point because that's where everything tipped over. Here, a man in sunglasses was directing traffic. He directed the taxi into it's own special lane, whereupon big white jeeps maneuvered to box it in.
A commotion of moustachioed men with the better grade of polyester shirt swarmed the car. The back doors flew open and three men seized Tractor Mike. They were screaming about a "Mr Ali."
Mr Ali? What the fuck? Is there no end to random bullshit in this country?
A man was poised to snatch my door open, too. I didn't flinch, a mammal playing dead. But his official moustache, hyper smile and knowing eyes intimated that this wasn't random bullshit.
We had been chosen. Marked and ambushed. They knew the car, the route... I wondered if they knew about the ounce of number 4 in my secret pocket?
If they did, that could mean Mandatory Life. Before they got to throwing my carcass into the Kafka-squared goat-fuck of penal justice, we could have a conversation. I hoped.
Not bothering to introduce themselves as Narcotics Control Bureau, the guys directed us in convoy to headquarters. In the back seat, they worked on Tractor Mike. Proposed he should confess, since they knew about Mr Ali and the drugs. Tractor fronted perplexity, but we knew it was a matter of time, most likely.
I focused on preparing for the next stage, the conversation. Already dreading the stage after: withdrawal, plus whatever. A big portion of Hell, with Hell on top, no glazed cherry.
Bundled through an office of sneering, lounging cops, I assured myself that whatever happened, I should be able to hang on to enough money to obtain a razor. I could make a shiv, if I wasn't too sick. If I got too sick, I could try becoming a little green bird in my own head, and fly away.
I finalized that plan while watching them strip search Tractor...