“Heroin users tend to appear a bit more functional. If they’re not high, some of ‘em can fool you. But crackheads look like crackheads 24/7.”
“Yeah! Yeah!” Joe blurted. “Go get ready. I’ll be downstairs.”
Donna giggled and hopped out of her seat. “You know I know what I’m talk’n about,” she said over her shoulder as she walked out.
She went down the hall to the lady’s locker room. Since there were, of course, more men than women assigned to any unit in the Organized Crime division, it didn’t surprise her that the locker room was empty. She entered a combination to open her locker and pulled out a large duffle bag. Inside was everything she needed to ugly herself enough to pass for a drug addict.
She changed into tattered leggings, a dingy t-shirt, and a pair of beauty supply flip-flops. In other words, the “hood-rat” uniform. She grabbed a cheap red purse, and filled it with deodorant, a bunch of miscellaneous pieces of paper, a broken cellular phone, and a roll of tissue. It was what they usually found in an addict’s purse when searched. The big, red bag was loud and noticeable, a helpful visual identifier for her surveillance team.
Donna grabbed a smaller bag and walked over to the sink. She pulled a few items from the bag and placed them on the sink. She looked in the mirror at her straight, chin-length bob-cut hair and frowned. She’d just got it done, and it wasn’t like the police department was going to reimburse her for the fresh shampoo she was about to ruin.
She grunted and dipped her finger into a jar of petroleum jelly and rubbed the greasy substance between her palms. After a deep breath, she massaged it into her freshly washed hair. She used just enough to make it look oily and dirty, then she combed it into a stringy bun at the top of her head. A dark eyeliner smudge only on the bottom lid gave her that zombie dope-fiend appeal. And a little petroleum jelly mixed on her lips with a light coat of powder on top added the crusty lip effect.
Donna gathered the items, returned them to the bag, and went back to her locker. She tossed it inside, slammed the locker shut, and headed out. As promised, Joe was parked just outside the door in a covert vehicle—a 2010 Honda Accord.
It only took ten minutes for them to reach the targeted location. Joe grabbed the radio and alerted the surveillance team of their arrival. He pulled into a gas station a block and half from the targeted location and handed her what appeared to be a cellular phone. But, in actuality, it wasn’t a cell phone. It was a COH, or consensual overhear device. The device would provide a little extra protection by allowing her team to hear everything she heard.
She turned it on and tucked it into her bra. “How do you copy?” she queried.
The sergeant's voice came through the radio. “Loud and clear.”
Then Marco came through. “We got eyes on about seven; four lookouts, 1 on the northwest corner, 1 southwest, 1 northeast, and 1 southeast. And, surprise surprise, they’re all wearing a white t-shirt, blue jeans.”
“Lee, what does the spot look like?” the sergeant asked over the air. Lee, her teammate, had the dope boy look. He was usually the undercover that made the bigger buys. Donna understood why she was making the buy instead of him. Lee buying a dime bag wouldn’t fly. Which is the reason he was tucked in somewhere, secretly conducting surveillance.
“Alright, we got two on security, and one on the pack. Security on the porch is wearing, get this,” he chuckled, “a blue t-shirt and jeans.”
Donna got the joke. Sadly, the description of suspects was usually male, black, white t-shirt, blue jeans.
“Security at the fence is a male, black, long locs, white t-shirt, grey sweats.”
“What about the seller?” Joe asked.
Lee responded. “Male, black, light complexion, anorexic motherfucker wearing all black.”
“Okay. She’s getting out,” Joe announced.
Donna hopped out of the car and walked into the gas station where she bought a bag of hot Cheetos and a dollar juice. That was the ghetto breakfast, lunch, and dinner. When she walked out of the gas station, Joe was gone. She opened the bag of chips and began her flipflop journey to the target location.
It didn’t take long to make it to the block. She ignored the lookout, and he ignored her as she turned the corner. She popped Cheetos in her mouth and gulped juice until she reached the fence that surrounded the dope house. She leaned on the fence and looked up at the dealer on the porch.
“Wassup, Shorty? Whatchu want?”
“Gimme two,” Donna told him, popping another Cheeto in her mouth. She made a hissing sound with her tongue because the shit was hot. As she stood there trying to buy dope, she wondered to herself why people eat bullshit that burned their tongue. She shook her head and gulped a large portion of the way too sweet blue juice.
“Two what?” the dealer asked suspiciously.
Donna narrowed her eyes at the skinny, barely grown boy on the porch. He needed security, she thought as she took another drink.
“Stop playin’ with me. My motherfuck’n mouf burnin’. Can you give me two so I can go?”
“Bitch, who you talkin’ to?” he blurted with his chest puffed out.
“Ughhh!” she grunted as if frustrated. “Come on, bae,” she whined. “I’m just trying to get you to hit me two times.”
The dealer relaxed and leaned back in the filthy, raggedy ass La-Z-Boy that had no business on a front porch and nodded at his security, who immediately held his hand out for payment. Donna reached in her bra and pulled out a twenty. She handed it to security and waited while he handed it to the dealer. In turn, the dealer slipped a tiny package in his hands. The guy on security walked over to the fence and handed her two, tiny foil-wrapped packets.
“Thanks,” Donna said as she stuffed them in her bra. She went to walk away, but the dealer called out for her to stop. She turned and looked back at him.
