He felt jittery, almost as if he were wearing the wrong skin. He’d called Sticks and told him what was up, and Sticks had said he would be right there. That was three hours ago. And he still hadn’t come. The stupid asshole was probably high and shacked up with some girl. Sticks might not be out to Lee’s house again in time for the trade. No biggie. Tate didn’t plan on giving him a cut anyway. As far as he was concerned, the score was his money and no one else’s. He pulled out the last of his weed and slumped onto a couch. The shit was laced with so much angel dust that he couldn’t smoke it. He tried to separate the weed and the angel dust on a table in front of him, but it wasn’t working. “Hey, Lee,” he shouted. “You got any ganja?” “Yeah, man. Hold up.” Tate stood and paced the room again. He tried to lay down on Lee’s waterbed, but the wavy motion made him nauseated, and he rose and returned to his pacing.
