“What’d I do with what?” I asked.
“The syringe and the package. We know you had it, pal. You dump it over the roof there?”
“I don’t know what you mean by a syringe,” I said. “You use a syringe for enemas, don’t you?”
The second cop came back and said, “He’s a wise guy, Tommy. He’s one of the wise-guy type.”
Tommy nodded and clenched his fists. “You just keep on being wise,” he told me. “You just keep doing that. We know you’re on it, son, and all we got to do is catch you. You get booked for possession then.”
“Possession of what?” I asked.
“I told you,” the second cop said. “He’s just a wise guy.”
“You high now?” Tommy asked, studying me shrewdly.
“I don’t know what you mean by high.”
“He don’t know what we mean by high,” the second cop mimicked.
“You guys come around talking about syringes and highs, and I’m just in the dark here. Don’t they teach you guys to speak any English at all?” I said.
“They speak English downtown,” Tommy said. “You’ll find out the first time we cop you with a package of H.”
“What’s H?” I asked.
“Come on, we’re wasting our time,” the second cop said. “He dumped the junk and the works.”
“Man, you guys sure do talk foreign,” I said.
Tommy shook his head sadly. “You don’t know the road you’re on, kid. It’s a shame.”
“Yeah, I bleed for him,” the second cop said.
“I’m bleeding, too,” I told them. “From that goddamn sun.”
“Keep your nose clean, cokie,” Tommy said. “Remember, we catch you with a bindle, and you’ll go cold turkey behind bars.”
“Don’t snow me, dad,” I said. “I know the law better than you do.”
“What?”
“For intent to sell, I’ve got to be holding two or more ounces of H, M, or C. Sixteen ounces on the other junk. For a possession felony, I’ve got to be holding a quarter ounce or more of the big three, or two ounces or more of the other—”
“It’s a misdemeanor to be holding any quantity of narcotics,” the first cop said.
“Spitting on the sidewalk’s a misdemeanor, too,” I said.
“You punks think—”
“Did you find any H, dad?” I asked. “You got anything to pin on me? It s no crime to be a drug addict, you know. So why don’t you go blow your whistle at traffic a little?”
“You goddamned addicts—” he started.
“What’s an addict?” I asked innocently.
The second cop said, “Argh,” and drew back his hand like he was going to slap me across the face. Tommy grabbed him and said, “Come on, let the bastard stew in his own juice.”
I did just that, man.
As soon as they were gone I cut out for the roof top across the way, and then I headed back for my pad. Helen was there that afternoon, and, — oh, did her face light up. She was still on the junk then, and it was a pleasure to see that face light up the way it did because she’d been real low when she’d called and I’d told her to come on over. That was the day I had to swipe a jacket from Gimbel’s — was it Gimbel’s or Macy’s? — but I got away with it clean, stashed under the old overcoat I was wearing. You’d think those stupid bastards would wonder about a guy wearing an overcoat when it was so hot outside. I ditched the coat back at the apartment, and Helen told me to hurry and get the stuff, and then I hocked the jacket and copped from Rog, real good stuff it was, too, Rog never laid a bad bindle on me ever. And if it hadn’t been for the cops, we’d have both been stoned an hour earlier, but it was a good thing they chased me up on the roof at least because that way I could ditch the deck.
Which apartment was that, anyway? Man, how many pads did I fall into after I left the Jerralds band and came back to New York? Dozens, at least. First the place on the Street, and then the one on Third Avenue, and then down in the Village, and then that place one of Helen’s friends got for me for the summer — that was in 1948, wasn’t it? — sure, sure, and then that long string of places I lived in, when everything else was gone and when I had to duck out each month before the rent was due and even that was kicks in a way, fooling all the goddamn happy ants who work for bread by giving you a roof, and what about the hotels, Jesus, all the one-night stands in shoddy hotels, more hotels than you can count on your fingers and toes. New York City has some of the sleaziest hotels in the world if you know where to look for them, and I knew where to look because I had to know where to look. What about that place on Forty-seventh — Forty-eighth was it — that night Helen and I were on the town and we latched onto that guy from Texas who talked about his oil wells and his Caddy. You had to hand it to Helen, she could look like a million bucks whenever she had to, even when she was low, except when she was real sick with it. She wasn’t sick that night, though.
We’d popped off just about a half hour before, both of us at her place, and then Mr. Millionaire landed in our laps, and did Helen turn it on then, all the wattage, nine thousand volts of sparkling electricity because she wanted what Dallas had in his wallet, folded so neatly, and, man, she got it all right. When Helen wants something it’s pretty damned tough to keep her from getting it. We got enough bread that night to keep us in the white stuff for two weeks. I told her she was wasting her time. I told her she should buy into one of these Park Avenue syndicates and make herself a fortune, if she could get that much from only pretending she was going all the way. She damn near scratched my eyes out that night, funny kid Helen, as if she were in a dream world, even though she knew what she was doing always. Still, it was as if she didn’t want to know what she was doing, didn’t want to be reminded of it. Like she was almost taking a revenge on herself or something, doing everything she had to do, and getting so goddamned hooked it wasn’t funny.
And every time I’d say I wasn’t hooked she’d laugh that mocking laugh of hers and tell me I was hooked clear through the bag and back again. A lot she knew about it, hell, I wasn’t hooked at the time, few caps a day, well maybe half a dozen, that’s hooked? I seen guys with habits as long as John Silver, when you’ve got a habit that long, then you’re in trouble, man. Try kicking a habit like that, and you wind up in the booby hatch picking at the coverlet. Me, I just enjoyed the stuff, that’s all. Some guys pick their noses, and that’s a habit; me, I favored drugs — so what’s so bad about either? So long as you got control there’s nothing to worry about, and who can say it isn’t the biggest boot alive? Who can say it doesn’t knock your brains out — well, did, anyway, not any more now, of course, because now I’m off it, which is the only way to be, naturally. But how would you know that was the only way unless you tried the other way? And trying it was the end, trying it was really the mother-loving end, because when you want that stuff, and then when you get it and just...
Now how’d we get back to this again, huh? I thought we were going to steer away from this, and here we are right back to it, with a taste of it in the mouth. Now spit out that taste, spit it out. How many days has it been since I’ve had a fix?
How many hours, how many minutes?
Seconds?
Thanks, I haven’t even had firsts yet.
That’s the way! Oh, Jesus, are we sharp this morning. This morning we don’t need anything to keep this trigger brain clicking. Not heroin, and not anything, why the hell don’t I just go across to that closet and dump that jive in the garbage and forget all about redeeming Buddy’s bag?