Tweakerworld by Jason Yamas

Author:Jason Yamas
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Unnamed Press

Skip Blazenhoff sports no power suit, has no framed photographs of him attending galas with politicians. His office is as far west as the Sunset District extends before turning into ocean, in a run-down strip mall sandwiched between a T.J.Maxx and a Jenny Craig weight loss center. I’d pictured an elevator ride up to a glass-encased luxury high-rise office. This is not that. Driving here, there were signs every half mile for the San Francisco Zoo, just around the corner. There is no receptionist or espresso maker in the lobby. Skip himself is in his late sixties with a shoulder-length snow-white mane and a mustache that would make Sam Elliott seethe with envy. He wears a baggy, untucked flannel and cargo khakis. His office is a boiler room dressed up like an antique book shop after an explosion: no computer, nothing that appears manufactured after 1981. He digs through his desk, which is covered in legal pads filled with chicken scratch.

“Aha!” He snags an empty pad. “I’m Skip, you’re Jason, tell me the rest.”

I ask if I need to give him money to ensure confidentiality applies. He assures me it does.

“I’m a big-ass drug dealer,” I blurt out.

When Skip speaks, he sculpts every word with his hands, an echo of an accent confirming he must’ve been raised in one of New York City’s five boroughs, maybe Long Island. He warns me that when discussing past crimes, privilege always applies; however, the court takes exception were I to offer my counsel any knowledge of future crimes. He suggests that I phrase such remarks as hypotheticals. He receives my information with ease. I don’t believe Skip is gay, but chemsex isn’t fresh material to his ears. He asks what I want from this. I tell him I want to ensure I never get arrested.

“Easy,” he clamors, “stop selling, don’t import, leave the jurisdiction.”

This isn’t the answer I’m here for and he knows it.

“Assuming someone of my standing,” I venture, “decided not to stop?”

Skip warns that the most rudimentary advice he can offer is that one should never perform deals out in the open and always remain cognizant of one’s surroundings. Busts often stem from wrong-time, wrong-place scenarios: a domestic quarrel, expired tags, or a broken taillight. He cautions that anyone performing large transactions should worry about becoming the subject of a targeted investigation, that San Francisco’s narcotics division often teams with the DEA.

“You think they’re already after me?” I ask.

“I really can’t say,” Skip says. “Many are in business for years before the authorities know their name.” He says a profusion of criminal informants is always the most likely way to appear on their radar. The authorities will follow their subject for months, documenting movements, mapping where the drugs originate to where and how they disseminate. “They’ll wait till it’s airtight,” he adds, “before getting a warrant for a raid or performing a controlled buy.”

“Tell me about those,” I say.

“Controlled buys,” Skip explains, “are the sale of narcotics by a suspect to

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