"I'm not."
"And I ... don't make you no narco, neither."
"Right again."
A little light seeped into the rheumy eyes that radiated pure fear. "What do you want from me?"
There had been no questions before. No questions when a stranger in a trench coat showed up at his door with a glassine bag of powder for him. Just snatch it up and find the spoon and heat it up and slam it home.
Now he had questions.
"You want to know something," he said, "don't you?"
"Everybody wants to know something, Junkman."
"Ain't nothin' free. You're gonna hold me here ... until it hits again ... and then you figure I'll talk."
"Nope. I'm just going to walk out."
He sat up. The metal bed groaned. So did Junkman. "Look, man, you gotta tell me where you scored!"
"I don't gotta do nothing," I said.
"Man, I'll die!" He pushed away from the headboard and half collapsed on the filthy mattress. "You don't know how it is, man. I can't make it by myself."
He dropped his head in an attitude of pure pathos, staring blankly at his hands. They weren't trembling. Thanks to me, he'd shot up not long ago. But they were empty—as empty as his prospects.
"Man, man, I didn't know I wanted to keep on living so bad. Used to be ... I thought dying was nice ... only come to find, it's worse'n livin'."
"They got treatment centers, Junkman."
The shake of his head was barely discernible. "Forget it. Wouldn't do nohow. Ain't nothin' for me but this." His smile was a death mask. "You're lookin' at a real, hardcore head, Mr. Hammer. You see ... I like it. Mother's milk. Nectar of the gods. Only thing worth livin' for."
"But you're killing yourself, Junkman."
"Yeah, man, but slow. Like real slow... floating, man...."
"Only when you aren't floating, Junkman, you're hurting—hurting all the way. Is it worth it?"
"Well ... that ... that's ... the bad part. I admit it. Look, Mr. Hammer, I appreciate what you done for me. But you know I am gonna need another fix, and soon. I am really gonna need another fix. You think maybe you could help me out again?"
"We can talk about that after."
"After what, Mr. Hammer?" He was mellow now.
"After you answer some questions."
"I was right ... I was right about you...."
"You said it yourself—the street has dried up. Who's holding back the stuff, Junkman? What the hell is shaking out there? A price war on?"
"Might be a war coming."
"Oh?"
"Snowbird and the Syndicate."
"I thought they worked together?"
"Snowbird ... he has ambitions."
"So he's holding back?"
"No! No ... no ... too much heat ... cops got lucky couple times, and now ... no stuff. Not for ages, not for ever. Everybody's waitin' ... dying inside and waitin'..."
"Till the Snowbird comes through?"
"That ... that bastard don't care about nothin' or nobody. He ain't no user. He ain't dying. He don't know how it feels to have your guts churn up inside you like they was tryin' to crawl out."
I shifted and the chair complained. "Junkman, businesses can't let their customers die. Otherwise there won't be a business."
"Sure, sure, and it is comin' in. It is comin'."
"Who says?"
"The street. Word on the street."
"Who's spreading that word?"
"Snowbird's boys. Only ... I can't wait two more weeks, Mr. Hammer. Man, I'm carryin' one heavy fuckin' monkey, you know? I got King Fuckin' Kong on my back! I don't need it next week! I need it right now!"
"What happens next week?"
He got his head up and his eyes had more of a shine in them. "Mr. Hammer, that's just the word that's out. I told you. I don't know from nothin'."
"Where's the new shipment coming from?"
"I don't give a shit, understand? I just know I'm gonna need it...."
"Junkman," I told him, "I can tap a couple of sources, but whatever those guys can spare, you won't be off the hook for more than today. I'm sorry, man, but that's all I can manage. It's tighter outside for me than it is for you. I have my contacts, my sources, but this is your world."
And welcome to it.
"Yeah, Mr. Hammer, I hear you, but you got bread, man. I ain't even been able to hustle a tie clip since the heat went on."
"A week is a long time," I reminded him. "If you know who I can hit, to get the stuff, you better give me the word. And maybe I can score you some."
His cheeks seemed to sink in even further and he fell back against the headboard again. "Just the Snowbird and his boys. That's the only ones I know."
I shrugged. "Then I can't help you."
He smiled weakly. "So, then, it's dying time, man, right? If it ain't on the street..."
"The Snowbird's cupboards are bare? I figured he was just doling out a supply."
"What supply? He's waitin', too."
"Who's his source?"
It was another slow span of time before he spoke again. "You're asking too small a fry, man. All I know is ... it all ... comes down the line."
"Who's in line ahead of Snowbird?"
The Junkman rolled his palms up helplessly. "You said it, Mr. Hammer ... the Syndicate. The Evello Family, working their middlemen ... the receivers."
"No names?"
"No names, no faces, nothin', man. They're just there, and if they don't come through fast ... man, this town's gonna be really strung out, like you never seen."
"You know Russell Frazer?"
His voice was a harsh whisper: "I know the fuckin' fink."
"He bought it," I said.
"Bastard tried to O.D. me, once." His eyes came up and peered at me through the mental haze. "Come around saying he felt sorry for me. Do me a favor, for old times, fink Frazer. Gimme a hot shot. Tried to boil me out." Somehow he managed a skull-with-skin grin. "Sent me flyin', but I fooled him—man, I came down. Who's he think he's dealin' with? Bastard fink."
Then my words finally sank in and he squinted, trying to get me in focus. "Bought it? You mean ... he bad-tripped out?"
"Naw. Knife job."
The Junkman nodded approvingly. "Good. Good fuckin' riddance. Now he won't be hittin' no more school kids. That's the new way, Mr. Hammer—screw the old trade ... hook the straights. Suck the money kids." He shook his head. "That bastard was due."
He took a breath, then fumbled in the ashtray for a broken cigarette butt.
I gave him a fresh Lucky and held a match out to the tip. He drew on it till the tip burned red, but then just held it without smoking.
"Who ... who carved his ass?"
"The cops said it was a mugging."
His dry lips stretched humorlessly across the bad teeth. "Not that fink. He just made too many ... too many bad runs."
There was more I wanted to ask him, but it would have to be another time. The Junkman's eyes weren't all the way closed, but he was off in happy land.
I took the burning cigarette from fingers already scarred from hot tips, and squashed it out. No need to let the hellish flames take this old hotel, and Junkman, sooner than necessary.
But the old junkie had told me something.
I wasn't sure just exactly what it was, but something had been fed into the computer between my ears, and was sitting there waiting for other bits and pieces of information that would finally read out an answer.