Ecigs going bootleg

George looked cautiously around the dark alley before opening the trunk to his vehicle. "Are you a cop? Are you associated with any type of law enforcement in the United States?" He made sure the bar's backdoor video was pointed directly at him and his would-be customer.

His solemn faced customer shook his head, "No, I'm just a citizen in bad need." He kept fingering the lapel of his sports jacket, a clear sign he was nervous. It was obvious he was afraid of going to jail.

George had learned to ask. He knew law enforcement officials were allowed by law to lie to a suspect, but, by law, when he asked the direct question, they were required to answer truthfully; otherwise, the bust would not be valid. Either way, George would be back out on the street before the cop made it back on the street. George had one of the best lawyers money could buy, and the guy was one of his best customers.

"What strength is it," the customer asked.

George didn't know how to answer. They always wanted to know. But he couldn't be sure. Five years ago when the FDA first banned ecigarettes, he could tell them. He thought he would have plenty of left over stock in his store. But when the public found out they would not be able to buy ejuice anymore, they had lined up down the block to buy whatever supplies he had. The DIYers had been the first to stock up. One guy boasted he had enough 99.9% nicotine to last 20 years stored away in his deep freeze.

For a while, after he closed his ecig business, things were quiet. But then desperate friends and relatives had begun calling him at home, asking for help. "I thought it would all blow over pretty soon. I couldn't imagine they would really shut it down. What were they thinking?" were just a few of the questions people had for him in those early days. The incredulous questions stopped after a few months, though, and things became more specific, right to the point.

"Do you have any cinnamon?" the guy asked.

An amateur, a newbie. George looked the man in the eye. Even in the dim light of the alley, he could see sweat popping out on the guy's forehead. "How did you know to contact me? Who sent you?"

"The viper told me you could hook me up."

'Well, I can't really tell you what the nicotine strength is. I don't know. If it's too strong, take smaller puffs. As for the flavor, you can add your own flavor. Just buy some food flavoring. Tell them you're making a cake."

"What if it's too weak? What do I do?"

"It won't be." George had no way to know. He was buying cigarettes at the local gas station and Walmart, and soaking them in water to get the nicotine he needed. He'd tried soaking the patch and even the gum, but regular cigarettes worked the best.

The guy looked down at the dirty asphalt beneath his feet. "I gotta get off cigarettes. I can't afford twenty dollars a pack. Christ's sake, I'm stealing my kid's milk money now. My boss told me if he smelled cigarettes on me one more time, he's going to fire me. He's already paying a fine every year for having me on the payroll.

This time George stared at the asphalt. A lot of emotions were swirling around in his head, none of them good. "I know bud, I hear it all the time." He wanted to reach out and pat the guy on the shoulder, let him know he understood. But he'd learned not to let his guard down.

"There's a cake shop on Third Street that sells the flavors. You can get any flavor you want there. Don't tell them I sent you, though. Just tell them you want to make some cookies."

Suddenly two cops stepped around the corner of the sleazy bar fronting the alleyway. George quickly pulled out a joint and told the guy to light it for him as one of the cops walked up to them.

"What are you two up to out here in the dark?" the younger officer asked.

"Just sharing a joint with my friend," George replied. The feds had legalized marijuana two years ago, but you couldn't smoke a joint inside any business that sold liquor.

The cop eyed the open trunk. George had learned a long time ago to hide everything in individually locked containers. Without a search warrant, the cop had no right to search his belongings. "What's in the bags?"

"Just personal belongings. I keep my dope in here so nobody will be tempted to steal it."

"How about opening up some of those bags and let me take a look for myself? the cop asked.

"You got a search warrant?" George asked.

The older cop stepped up. He had been eyeballing the video camera. "Bob, we need to move on down the street. These two aren't doing anything wrong, and you don't have any PC to open their locked bags."

George knew the older cop had already figured out what he was doing. But without a search warrant and in plain view of the camera, they were jeopardizing their careers by even suggesting an illegal search.

The young cop turned to the older one, "He's peddling ejuice, and we both know it. The pot is just a front for being here."

The older cop looked nervous. "Not today, Bob. Today, we walk on."

The young cop looked over his shoulder at George. "I will see you later, smart guy," and walked away.

"That will be twenty bucks," George told the customer, and handed him the bottle of ejuice. "See you in a week." He hoped this was enough to keep the guy from using his kid's milk money to buy cigarettes. Probably not, though, nicotine is a hard habit to quit, harder than heroin.