Getting Jitters

By Dan Megill

It was 7:00 p.m. on a muggy summer Sunday—a time when any sane man would’ve been at home with a cold one, but there’d been word that the gangster known as Jitters was bringing in a shipment that night—and I was at the station, trying to find somebody who knew something.

But no one knew anything. Not over the phone, at least. Second Prohibition was still new enough that a lot of people were sympathetic to Jitters. This case needed old-fashioned police legwork, so I pulled on a greasy ball cap and an old neotarp duster and headed for the U of New Chicago where I knew the Mermaid would be preying on innocent college kids.

I got off the pod and there he was, not a hundred paces away. I shook my head. In a decent town, a dealer like the Mermaid would pretend to hide, but not here. As I approached, a campus security officer paid him and departed with a steaming cup. Deplorable. But at least it meant he didn’t see me coming.

“Thinking of going back to school?” I growled, grabbing hold of his cart in case he tried to bolt.

“Malone!” He faked a smile. “Good to see you!”

“How’s business, Mermaid?”

He sighed. “Not good. I got some great stuff here—fake Rolexes and second-hand electronics—but the students aren’t buying. Thought I’d try my luck someplace else.”

I leaned in to consider his wares, letting him sweat for a few seconds. Then I reached to hit a switch on the left side of his cart, and suddenly we were bathed in green and white light—his cart’s sign had changed to a twin-tailed mermaid.

“I didn’t—”

I pushed another button beside the first, and steaming liquid dribbled onto the ground from a concealed spigot.

“French Roast, tonight?” I asked, smelling it.

He gave up. “All right Malone. What do you want?”

“Jitters is bringing in a shipment tonight. Colombian Dark Roast.”

“That so? I get my stuff from Mudman.”

“I know. And you can tell Mudman he’s on our list. But Jitters isn’t just doing coffee. He’s doing cola, tea, chocolate…”

The Mermaid shrugged. “Folks have always had that stuff. If they want it, why stop ‘em?”

“He’s covering the beans with chocolate, Mermaid! And selling them to kids!”

The Mermaid’s eyes widened. “But that will stunt their growth!”

“That’s right. Unless you stunt the growth of his criminal empire. Help me out, for the kids.”

The Mermaid swore quietly. And then he told me what he knew.

“But you didn’t hear it from me,” he finished.

“You’re clear for the night, Mermaid. But don’t get comfortable.”

As I turned to go, a nervous student hurried up, bouncing on his toes.

“Trenta, cream and sugar,” he said breathlessly, ignoring me.

I shook my head in disgust. “Go home, kid. Get some sleep. I know I won’t.”

The “Burro” docked at the skyport at 4:53 a.m. My sniffers confirmed it was a bean shipment, but, though I fought to stay awake through the tedious hour of customs and unloading, there was no sign of the man I’d come for. I tagged the crates and followed from a distance. I was the only human on this op, but the NCPD had plenty of drones.

They led me straight to Dirty Business.

Really. That was the name of his shop: “Dirty Business.”

How could I not have seen it? Dirty Business was a popular organic juicery for the movers and shakers in New Chicago. I’d even tried some of their fresh-squeezed OJ since everyone coming out of there seemed to have an extra spring in their step. Now I knew why.

I slouched in, out of place among the crisply-dressed businessmen, and took a seat near the back.

One of the waitstaff edged over, looking me up and down. “Brother, you look like you could use a pick-me-up.”

“You have no idea,” I squinted at his nametag, “Joe.”

“Coming right up.” He winked and left me alone. The other waiters ignored me.

This was my chance.

My drones could handle the ID and arrest, but I wanted to be there when we put this case to bed. To look in the eyes of the monster who robbed my city of sleep.

Slipping through a door to the back, I followed my tracker signal to a warehouse where a skinny kid in glasses was supervising the unloading. For a moment, I doubted myself—could this be the notorious gangster?—but then he peered at the crate I’d hidden behind, and I had no choice but to move.

“Carl Raff!” I called, reading his name off facial rec as I strode forward. “You’re under arrest for the violation of New Prohibition: distribution of caffeinated products including coffee, soda, chocolate, and tea. Got anything to say for yourself, Jitters?”

Raff turned, momentarily shocked, but as I finished speaking, he began to laugh. “New Chicago’s finest have caught up with me at last, have they? You’ve come to put me away for my crimes?”

“That’s right, Jitters. It’s closing time. And I’m recording your confession, so by all means, keep talking.”

“You poor fool. The cops and courts will never shut me down. Who do you think my best customers are?” He looked around, noting the drones. “And you know it, too. That’s why you didn’t bring in any other officers. How long do you think I’ll stay in prison after you arrest me? Why even bother?”

His utter confidence stopped me cold. His words hit like hammer blows, but only because I knew they were true. I stumbled back onto a crate, feeling the full weight of it: I was a servant of a corrupt system. I’d spent months running this man down, but it wouldn’t make any difference. And I hadn’t slept a wink last night.

“Aw, officer,” Raff said. “You look tired. Can I get you a drink?”

Can you guess which song from the 1990's inspired this story? Share in the comments!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Raised a homeschooler in rural Pennsylvania, Dan Megill splits his time between international aid work and writing the third book of his science fiction trilogy. He loves ultimate frisbee, ukulele, bridge, gaming in all forms, improv comedy, and energy projection powers. You can read further samples of his writing at his website.

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