Chapter Three

Meeting suppliers was always some tricky shit. This was why Quinn usually bought most of the supplies, Kurt stepping in once or twice if it was an easy job like buying from Mike. Weed suppliers weren’t dangerous like coke addicts – they were secretive, cunning and extremely intelligent. The majority of them weren’t brave and outright in their act but they had enough pride to become famous and keen enough to keep their names from the police.

The Skanks supplier was one of the few scholars in Ohio – he worked in a shack that posed as a shoe repair store but with the right password and cash on hand he could sell you anything: from weed to opium to barbiturates and sometimes if you were willing to pay, chloroform. To cover up his tracks, he had a degree in Criminology and Sociology at OSU and juggled working in a law firm with little to no social life. He even had a Wikipedia page. Kurt had always looked up to the man who called himself John (he refused to believe that was the man’s real name) and appeared on the surface to be a man in his mid-thirties who looked twice his age with a severe fashion problem and talented hands. He spoke with a small voice and always wore tracks and a sweatshirt but Kurt could see through the cleverly disguised personality.

John was a genius of a different kind, one who had started off selling weed at the tender age of fourteen to make money for his ailing mother, as the rumors had said. He was a legend, an artist even. And through the nerd exterior Kurt could see without the glasses and ugly clothes that John, or whoever he was, was a really good-looking man who had talent in weaving lies and remembering them. A handsome, confident man who worked in a shoe repair store with little to no pay and a harem of girls around him was never a good façade. Kurt wished he could learn from him but whenever he approached the man, there was something about him that scared Kurt a little.

Maybe it was the dark aura, or the cold, emotionless eyes he stared at you with over his glasses; or even the little voice he spoke with that sometimes if you didn’t hear a word or two, in a state of paranoia you could easily perceive that he had just whispered some evil premonition that if you went home you might find a dead cat on your doorstep with its blood painting a sign on the door. Then there was the other feeling that John knew everything, more than he let on. Sometimes Kurt felt as though John knew the world about his customers, from their address to where they worked, and although it scared Kurt shitless, he knew how important it was to know more about your customers than they knew about themselves.

Being an expert drug seller was allowing your mind to cross the thin line between sanity and insanity. John had obviously crossed over and back. No one else understood it, no one had a tiny shiver run through their body as soon as they stepped into the store like Kurt did or noticed the way how the repair store was the only business building on such a deserted street…but John did because he knew everything and had a way of manipulating it to elevate his status in the drug industry.

John was an Einstein born in the wrong age of dumb blondes stereotypes and buck wild rednecks. It was possibly the reason why he had invested so much in the drug industry when he had all the money he needed at the moment. It could have been his way to cope, to do something so brilliant and damnable right under everyone’s noses yet always have a sly escape and the perfect alibi to keep his dignity.

Keeping secrets. That was what John liked. Purely on Kurt’s suppositions, of course. 

Even though Kurt had told himself to get it together, that this man was no threat to him as long as he wasn’t a threat to John’s business, he still couldn’t help his eyes from scanning the small shop warily, trying to pick out a hidden camera among soles and heels and glancing back every now and then to see if anyone was outside. He tried to do it as surreptitiously as possible because John was quick to note people’s actions and very much like Sherlock Holmes, be twenty steps ahead.

Quinn was by his side, calm and cool as ever. She leaned against the counter with casual indifference and whispered the password, the words coming out silky smooth through her pink lips that were dangerously close to John’s ear. John never liked it when people came too close to him; Kurt saw it firsthand how he flinched away or took two steps back to pretend to be busy with something. He never liked it except for when Quinn did it. Kurt wasn’t surprised, however. She was pretty, tall and blonde. What guy, even Einstein, wouldn’t want a girl like that?

John glanced over at him, looked him up and down and with a small smile disappeared through a door behind him.

“You owe me so much for this,” Quinn said. “You don’t know how awful it is to be so close to that guy.” She visibly shuddered.

Kurt felt for her. “Why do you do it?”

She fixed him with such a piercing glare he could feel it cut through him. “You don’t know how dangerous this guy is, Kurt. One mistake, one little slip up and you’re dead.” Kurt’s mouth fell open slightly. “Let’s just say, he’s very over-protective of his job.”

The backdoor creaked and Quinn faced John again with a smile that fell between playful and sexy. John placed the brown paper bag on the table, took the cash and muttered a small, “Thank you,” to her. He stole a quick glance at Kurt again and opened his mouth as though he was about to say something, but then he decided against it.

“Have a nice day, Kurt,” John said instead.

Kurt didn’t catch it then but as soon as he left the store he realized – he never told John his name.

He turned to Quinn with wide, questioning eyes but she shot him a look that repeated what she said before. Let’s just say, he’s very over-protective of his job. Kurt underestimated John. He thought he was being stealthy, only making appearances once every couple months so there was no reason for John to know a thing about him. But there he went contradicting himself. Of course John knew his scarce visitors; those were always the most important, the ones to keep a serious eye on.

They entered Quinn’s Sedan and she handed him the brown bag to put in his satchel. She drove off without a word and when they were a block away from Kurt’s house which was a good few kilometers from John, she parked on the curb and rested her head on the steering wheel, taking deep, slow breaths. When she looked up at Kurt she had tears in her eyes.

“I don’t understand,” Kurt said, then found himself laughing. “I honestly thought we were doing really well in hiding.”

Quinn shook her head. “How can you hide from someone who probably has eyes everywhere?” She threw up her hands in exasperation. “Well, fuck it. Our covers are blown. I say we keep living life and not let this little bump slow us down.”

Kurt nodded although his mind was elsewhere, calculating and over-analyzing the situation. He had underestimated John. Of course there was a reason why people called him The Legend. Any thought of hiding something from him was close to impossible.

“No wonder why he never got caught,” Kurt thought aloud. “How does he do it?”

“Do what?” Quinn said, starting the car and pulling away from the curb. “Be so fucking smart?” She reached into the backseat, pulled out a sub and took a vicious bite from it. She pointed it at Kurt.

“Keep all these secrets and lies,” Kurt answered, politely denying the offered sub. He couldn’t eat in frantic situations like these. “Won’t a normal person eventually break down? You know, something inside him might snap and one day he would just walk into the police station and hand himself up?”

Quinn shrugged. “Who ever said he was normal?”

“He must have some sort of driving force,” Kurt said pensively. “Like a parent or a significant other.”

“Please don’t, Kurt,” she pleaded. “Don’t get yourself into unnecessary trouble. I can’t lose you too.” She pulled up in front of the complex and held him with such remorseful eyes it made Kurt feel guilty for even having such a thought. “Promise me you won’t do something stupid, like visit him and start asking a million and one questions.”

“I won’t,” he said, trying for light and cheerful. “He’s not that interesting that I’d put myself in danger just to know.” He believed the exact opposite. John was that interesting and when Kurt wanted to know something that wasn’t readily available – he made it his duty to do so. It was stupid and impulsive and just like in all the books he read, the character either got himself killed or seriously harmed. But Kurt had too, to make up for the dull ache in his life.

Quinn’s lips turned up at the corners but he couldn’t figure out if it was relieved or piteous. “Just… Just ask the right people, okay?”

Kurt nodded. “I’m not that stupid Quinn.” He hopped out of the Sedan. “See ya Monday.” He closed the door and waved goodbye before heading up to his apartment.

The first thing he had to do was call The Mack. Surely some truckers could have had previous dealings with John and maybe a little bit of information too.

*O*O*O*

The first part of his second plan was set into action. He had called The Mack and she too had warned him about John but offered to talk to her guy friends anyways. After that he checked up on Blaine to see if the boy was still up for their date the next day.

“Of course!” Blaine said brightly. “Do you need me to come pick you up?”

“Oh thank God, I’d be really grateful for that, thanks,” Kurt replied. He hated asking for things, hated knowing that because he didn’t have someone else had to give him. Kurt liked his independence but after his parents died he had to knock down his pride a bit and accept how things had to be. Even having to borrow Quinn’s car although she was his good friend made him die a little inside but what choice did he have really?

There was a lot of noise coming from the other end, a loud crash and then a very irritated shout from Blaine that stretched the name Cooper into ten syllables. The phone went silent and then a heavily breathing Blaine came back on.

“Sorry,” he said, clearly irritated. “My stupid brother was doing something stupid.”

“You have a brother?” Kurt asked. “I’m guessing his name is Cooper?”

“Yeah but that’s not important,” Blaine said quickly. “What are you up to?”

Kurt didn’t change the topic just yet. “Maybe I could meet him sometime.” The wheels in his head were already turning.

“Maybe.” It sounded very much like a “no”. “Do you have anything planned for later?”

“I’m gonna go visit my parents and then, I don’t know, do homework or something.” Of course that last part was a lie.

“Oh,” Blaine said softly and remained silent for a while. He was doing the moment-of-silence-for-Kurt’s-dead-parents thing that everyone did and thought was appropriate. Kurt rolled his eyes.

“Well, gotta go now.” He tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “See you tomorrow.”

“Sure,” he said, his voice still solemn. “Bye.”

Kurt hung up, sat on his bed and sighed heavily. The house was void of all shouting and loud TV watching because Peter wasn’t home. He was most likely trying to pick up a woman at a bar or was passed out in an alley. Whichever, it was none of Kurt’s business as long as he still had food and shelter.

He checked the time noting that it was four pm. “Best get this done with,” he said to no one in particular. His wallet had one hundred dollars in it and that was to buy some flowers and make a little groceries. He tried to budget his money, spending only twenty dollars a week because the money his parents left behind was to save up for college and to keep a secret from Peter. It hurt having to pretend that he had nothing, or what his parents left behind was barely anything but he couldn’t let Peter know he had money because surely, all of it would have gone straight down the drain. As of that he’d resorted to buying monotonous clothes to make it look like he had none and getting the cheapest apartment in Ohio. It was a wonder that Peter never asked where the money magically appeared from to pay the rent but Kurt was thankful that the man didn’t ask too many questions as long as there was food on the table and a couple bucks in his hand to buy alcohol.

The cemetery wasn’t that far from the complex and along the way was a stand selling flowers. Kurt bought some chrysanthemums and roses and after spotting the grocery, decided he would go there on his way back. Getting nearer now, his brain registered the area and automatically, he feel into a deep depressed state.

Before he even went through the gate, the deep ache in the pit of his stomach had hit him and tears started streaming down his face. His hand crushed the flowers but he barely noticed. The tombs were too far from the entrance, too damn far, and already he was on the ground, crying so hard he couldn’t breathe and the pain, that pain that travelled throughout his entire body was too much for him. His throat and eyes burned, propping up against a cold, hard tombstone with his mouth open and no sound coming out. One second he inhaled so sharply his lungs hurt and his chest heaved and at that moment everything just felt even worse. It was indescribable. Emotional pain didn’t have words. Only feeling. Inconsolable feelings that no one else but you understood.

Now he remembered why he hadn’t visited the graves in two months. This…this was one thing he couldn’t handle.

When he had fallen on his side he didn’t know and neither did he hear the moment when his cries were audible and he started bawling, but suddenly there was this thick, middle-aged woman with bushy brown hair helping him up from the ground, wrapping a strong arm around his waist and dragging him over to the bench outside the gate. She sat him down and allowed him to rest his head on her shoulder as she dusted off his clothes. Kurt turned his head into her shawl so he could muffle his cries, not caring that he was getting snot all over it but extremely welcome for the warmth and comfort this stranger provided. She could have been a homeless woman for all he knew but he needed her. More than he ever knew he needed someone else.

“It’s okay sweetheart,” she said soft and light and somehow it cut through his screams. “I bet Ferdinand was a great, great man.” Ferdinand? It must have been the name on the tombstone he was leaning on and the lady mistook his grieving for him. He wanted to tell her, shout at her that he wasn’t crying for any fucking Ferdinand but it was his parents, his parents, the both of them! But he couldn’t. He could barely breathe, much less form words. A warm hand rested on his back and rubbed soothing circles. It passed through his hair and another sharp shock of angst sliced him as he remembered lying down on his father’s lap with his fingers rubbing his scalp so calmingly that he fell asleep.

His hands clutched the woman’s blouse and the other her back. It was dying down now, he could tell. The circles on his back was comforting, slowing down his breathing and reducing his bawls to hiccups and gasping and the tears had run their course but he was just letting out the last bit.

“That’s it, honey,” she said. “Let it ease away slowly.”

When he stopped he was tired and so worn out it felt like if he had just run a 10k marathon. His head was pounding and the wetness on his face was uncomfortable. He was pretty sure his entire face was a flaming tomato with puffy eyes and swollen lips from when he had bitten them trying to keep back his screams. His brain registered the situation he was in and he pulled back hastily. The woman’s arm dropped from his back.

He looked up into serene green eyes. “I’m so sorry,” Kurt apologized, looking at her damp shawl and wrinkles in her floral blouse.

“But it’s not your fault, honey,” she said and smiled so lovingly her eyes crinkled. “Everyone experiences pain at some point in time, some greater than others.”

“B-but I ruined your sh-shawl,” Kurt said weakly. He was still hiccupping so his words stuttered.

“That’s fine, if that’s what you’re worried about! All it takes is some washing detergent.” She giggled and her cheeks turned red against her pale skin. “Are you okay now?”

“I’m fine. I think… I think I really needed that.” He tried for a smile but it was too much effort. Wordlessly she pulled out a rag and offered it to him. “Thanks,” he mumbled and finally got rid of the stickiness on his face. He thought about handing it back to her but figured who would want back a snot-covered rag anyways.

“What’s your name, boy?” she asked, taking off her shawl. She folded it neatly and placed it in a large leather purse. “My name is Lucy Graham.” Kurt shook the proffered hand.

“Kurt Hummel.” Telling an old lady his name wouldn’t do anyone any harm anyways. “Thanks a lot, Ms. Graham.” 

“Oh please, call me Lucy.” She smiled sweetly again. “Do you need someone to talk too?”

Kurt shook his head. It felt better not to talk about his parents’ death because of the reminder it gave him. Maybe he bore a little to this random lady but he wasn’t ready to take it that far. “I’m good now, really.” He looked up at the still bright sky and down back at his empty hands. “Shit! I lost my satchel.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed then reached behind her and pulled out the familiar Marc Jacobs washed up messenger bag that he used only on special occasions. The old black and purple JanSport shoulder bag was for clubbing and school. This bag was his life. It was the one possession of his mother that he had remaining after Peter made them sell every brand name items his parents owned to make money. Kurt clutched it tightly to his chest. “These too.” She handed him the flowers he dropped.

“Thank God,” he said. He frowned at the ruined flowers. “Thank you a lot Ms Gra- I mean Lucy.” He sensed their encounter was coming to an end. “You helped me more than you know.”

She waved her hand. “Anytime, dearie. Just know that Ferdinand loves you.”

Kurt nearly laughed but caught himself in time. “Actually, I didn’t come to see Ferdinand. These flowers were for my parents. Their graves are kind of far away.” He rubbed his arm. “Were you here for someone too?”

“I see,” Lucy said. “I came to see my husband.” Then she did that wry smile that Kurt wore on so many occasions. It didn’t mean anything, just a twitch of the lips to fill the gap in conversation. “Have a nice day, Kurt.” She got up from the bench. “Did you need any help delivering those flowers?” She paused, adding as an afterthought.

Kurt kindly denied her offer, certain of himself that he was ready to face the graves now. “I think I’ll try it alone this time.”

Lucy nodded. “Just know you don’t always have to be alone.” Then with a cheery wave, she picked up her purse and shuffled away.

Kurt watched her turn the corner before reentering the cemetery. He made it past the first pathway and his parents were on the second. The pain was nothing more than a dull throb during the walk but when he stood in front the tombstones, it came back in full force again. He fell to his knees and even when he thought he had no more tears, they were suddenly there again. The roses were for his mother, the chrysanthemums for his father. He opened his mouth to say a few words but they couldn’t get around the hurting lump in his throat.

So instead he talked to them in his mind, told them what he had been up too for the past two years, that he wasn’t doing very well but he was still an excellent student. He was hanging around with the wrong group but he wasn’t doing anything insane (unless they counted smoking weed and snorting coke as insane, which it probably was) or to tamper too much with his life.

By the time he finished he stopped crying, the annoying headache still there. He massaged his temples. “I love you guys,” he ended and stood up. Taking a deep breath, he looked around and noticed a man not too far away leaving the cemetery with black hair and a patched jacket. The jacket was familiar and even the drunken lilt to his walk. Perhaps it was Peter. Or maybe it was just another griever. Kurt looked back at the grave and noticed the lilies surrounding the tombstone of his mother.

Unwillingly, a smile formed on his face knowing that someone else missed her too.