“Come on, Rog.”
“You’re on H, huh? I keep forgetting.”
“You know what I’m on,” Andy said tightly.
“Sure, but that was before. I mean, you’re not on any more, are you? You’ve kicked it, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Sure. So what was it you wanted?”
“What’ll I get for ten?”
“A sixteenth,” Rog said softly.
“What!” Andy said, outraged. “Are you kidding?”
“This is good stuff. I’ve been getting from the Coast. Very good stuff. By China way. Cuts this Italian and Lebanese stuff all to hell. You know something, Andy? In Frisco they’re pushing it eighty-five per cent pure. And we’ve been getting it watered to fifteen per cent. You buying or not?”
“Come down to eight bucks.”
“Can’t do it. What do you say?” Andy hesitated, wetting his lips. Then, reluctantly, he nodded. “Come on back to the piss-wah,” Rog said.
He stood and began walking toward the back of the cafeteria and then down the flight of steps to the men’s room. Andy followed close behind him.
“You been blowing?”
“A little.”
“Laddy Fredericks, huh? Good deal,” Rog said. He shoved open the door to the men’s room. Two men were at the urinals, and he waited for them to clear the room. When they were gone, he whispered, “Where’s the ten?”
Andy reached into his pocket and handed him the wad of bills. Rog counted them slowly. He reached into his jacket pocket then and palmed something into Andy’s hand. “There’s your stuff. A sixteenth. Cheap at half the price.” He reached into his inside pocket. “Here’s the spike. I want it back, pal.” He handed Andy the syringe.
“I’ll return it.”
“You’d damn well better.”
“Sure.”
“It’s a real pleasure dealing with you,” Rog said, smiling. “It ain’t often I sell to somebody who ain’t an addict.”
Andy stared at him for a moment. “I’ll see you,” he said, and then he walked out of the lavatory.
He hated Rog. He hated Rog because it had been he who first introduced Andy to the drug, and he hated him because they no longer shared the fraternal spirit of the addicted. Sure, Rog still had a habit, but Rog was now the Man, and so Rog was a person to be respected and feared and loved and hated. Rog was the man with the key, the Man, and without that key, there was nothing. And so Rog was loved, but he was also despised because he knew the ways of the addict, and sometimes the addict crawled to Rog, and Rog enjoyed the crawling immensely.
Andy walked to the silverware trays, took a tablespoon from one of them, glanced around him briefly, and then put the spoon into his jacket pocket.
He had copped.
He had the junk in his pocket, and all he had to do now was shoot up, and then he’d be all right, then everything would be much easier. And the Fredericks gig, well, hell, this wasn’t going to hurt that any, was it? Even if Rog was a bastard, he’d come through, he’d even lent a spike, hell what other pusher would do that? Still, he was a bastard, pulling a tease like that, taking all his sweet—
“Andy?”
He heard Rog’s voice behind him, and he whirled. Did he want the stuff back? Had he changed his mind about the syringe?
“What is it?”
“You got any change?”
“What?”
“Pin money. Here.” He crushed two folded bills into Andy’s palm. “I’ll see you when you return the outfit,” he said, and then he walked out of the cafeteria. Andy stared at the money in his palm. Two dollars. Well, now how the hell do you like that? Rog parting with money! Will wonders never cease? I’ll be goddamned!
He pocketed the money and stepped onto the sidewalk. He walked to the curb, wondering where he could go, and then he had a sudden idea.
He raised his arm. “Taxi!” he called.
11
For a moment Bud didn’t know quite what to do.
He stood looking into the tub, then it registered on his mind that Andy had left the apartment, and he felt a curious mixture of relief and responsibility. The relief was short-lived. It fled almost instantly under an enormous guilt feeling, and he rushed back into the living room and picked up the phone, dialing Carol’s number quickly. He waited impatiently, drumming his fingers on the arm of the butterfly chair. The phone rang five times and then someone said, “Hello?”
“Carol? This—”
“No, this is Louise. Who’s calling, please?”
“Hello, Louise. How are you? This is Bud. May I speak to Carol, please?”
“She’s already left for work,” Louise said.
He glanced at his watch quickly. So late already. Goddammit, why hadn’t he thought of that?
“Louise, do you have the number at her office? This is pretty important.”
“Is it about Andy?” Louise asked.
“Yes,” Bud said.
“Why can’t you leave her alone? Haven’t you caused my family enough grief with that bum?” Louise asked. “My mother—”
“Look, Louise—”
“Hold on, I’ll get the number,” Louise said coldly. She was gone for several moments. When she came back on the line, she said, “Columbus 5-1098. I don’t see why—”
“Thanks, Louise,” he said, and he hung up quickly. Columbus 5-10... He lifted the phone and dialed rapidly, waiting for the rings on the other end.
“Benson and Parke, good morning,” a sweetly innocent voice said.
“May I speak to Miss Ciardi, please?” he asked.
“What extension is that, sir?”
“I don’t know.”
“One moment, plee-yaz.”
He waited again, his feet jiggling, his fingers dancing nervously.
“That’s extension fifty-one, sir,” the voice came back. “Will you make a note of it for future—”
“Yes, would you ring it, please?”
“One moment, plee-yaz.” He heard the hum of the switchboard on the other end of the line, and then another phone was lifted.
“Bookkeeping,” a voice said.
“Miss Ciardi, please.”
“Second.” He listened and he could almost feel a hand coming down over the mouthpiece on the other end. And then, filtered through the fingers of that hand, the muted voice shouting, “Hey, is Carol around? Hey, Carol, telephone.” The hand was removed from the mouthpiece, and the voice came through clearly again. “She’s on her way. Hold on, will you?”
He waited, and when her voice came onto the line, he almost leaped at it.
“Carol?”
“Yes, who—”
“Carol, he’s gone. I went down for some eggs and stuff, and when I got back—”
“Is anything missing?” she asked quickly.
“What do you mean, missing?”
“Your watch, your typewriter, your toaster, anything he might hock. Take a look, Bud, quickly.”
His watch was on his wrist. He’d looked at it a few moments before, so he knew Andy had not taken that. The typewriter — that was on the top shelf of the closet, but Andy could hardly know it was there. Still, he may have searched the apartment and possibly — goddammit, he was awfully fond of that typewriter — why... He put down the phone and went to the closet, opening the door.
He reached in automatically for the suitcase that rested on the floor, and when his hand grasped empty air, he stepped back and looked curiously at the floor of the closet. He checked again, looking where it should have been, and then looking to the left and right, and then running his hands over the dusty closet floor.
The suitcase was gone.
It had cost him sixty bucks less than three months ago, the time he’d gone up to see... well, it was gone now. How much would a hock shop give for a sixty-dollar bag? He went back to the phone.