Dealing

Dealing

The street and shop lights blinked and illuminated the night Bali street. Danu Baskara looked at one of the discotheque’s neon signs and reaffirmed it. This is the place. He swung the door open and was immediately greeted by the crowds—mainly foreigners—dancing to loud EDM music. The smell of alcohol and smokes that lingered on the air touched his smelling sense. This was probably the worst kind of place Danu had ever visited, and he swore, if not because of his job, he wouldn’t step inside this dreadful spot. The second he entered the discotheque, his head started to ache and cold sweat broke at the back of his neck. He never liked loud music and smokes, and the situation had triggered his body to react opposingly. Have to get this done quick, he thought.

He quickly scanned the place and spotted a bar near the VIP corner. The man he had business with said to have a rendezvous there. He slipped through the sweaty crowds and sat in one of the bar stools.

“Are you Sir Pudja?” A stranger suddenly patted his shoulder.

Danu glanced at the stranger and smiled. “Oh, yes, yes. I am Pudja.” He gestured the man to sit next to him. “You must be Andre?”

“Yeah, that’s me.” He sat on the stool. “Man, you look horribly pale. You okay?” The man reached out his black backpack and took some small packs of ‘stuff’ Danu had ordered. Danu received the packs and sneaked them into his shirt’s pocket.

“Nah, I’m fine. Just... stuff happened with my wife,” Danu shrugged. He stealthly studied the man. From his figures, Danu could recognize that he was the typical middle-aged man who barely held his liquor, but pretended he could.

“Running away through drugs, eh?” The man responded jokingly. “It happens all the time.”

Danu laughed heartily, but he was actually struggling to control his hurting head. It seemed that his anemia relapsed. He could just grab the anemic pills he hid inside the pocket of his pants, but he had to focus with the situation at hand and tried not to draw suspiscions. He had to hold the pain while he could.

“You’d better give me the finest quality,” said Danu while signaling the bartender to come over. “Whisky? Bourbon?”

“Whisky,” answered the man. Danu ordered a beer for himself and a whisky for the man. “Don’t worry, my boss knows his stuff.”

Danu’s sights began to blurr and he felt a sick twist in his stomach. He had to act fast. The bartender came with his orders. The man took two shots, and Danu took his chance. He fake-sipped his drink. “Ah, your boss’s here?”

“Yeah, he’s in the VIP section... talking business with foreign dealers and stuffs,” said the man with a drunken voice, just as Danu predicted. Then, he cleared the glass in one shot. “You better not... tell him I told you that. It’s s’pposed to be a secret. Hey! One more whisky!”

Danu glanced at the VIP corner. He blinked and tried to focus his sharp gaze among the crazed crowds. He finally found him, the most-wanted, dangerous drug dealer, exactly as the confidential data described him to be. The music were getting louder as the night rolled in and people started shouting and yelling. Danu shook his head—he had reached his limit.

With his remaining strength, he whispered through a communication device that was disguised as a watch on his left wrist. The very device had recorded the conversation he had with the man all this time. “He’s here.”

He got up and bumped into a rugged, drunk man. Felt offended by the sudden force of Danu’s tall, muscular body, the man punched him right on the nose and shouted insulting words Danu couldn’t decipher. He fell onto the floor with blood flowing from his nose. The last thing he heard was the sound of the local police troops forcing open the discotheque and ordered the civilians to lift their hands up.