He said, “Sam, let’s hear him out.”
“Harold, for God’s sake, this junkie’d say anything…”
“And burglars, Christ, I know a million of them!” the hype said, still handcuffed, talking desperately to Harold as Sam Niles tried to aim him toward the open door of the police car. “Mostly daytime burglars. All dopers. Lazy broads lay around in bed so long these days it’s pretty hard to rip off the pads in the morning like we used to, but I still know lots and lots of burglars. Want a burglar, Officer…?”
“Bloomguard.”
“Officer Bloomguard, yeah. Want a burglar, Mr. Bloomguard?”
“Why not listen to him, Sam?” Harold asked as Sam Niles tried to push the addict down into the back seat of the police car.
“And tricks. Man, I can teach you a few tricks. You could learn something from me, Mr. Bloomguard. I been around this world over forty years. Been shooting dope since I was fifteen and I’m still alive. Listen, you know how to tell a hype even if he’s healthy? Look for burn holes in his clothes and blisters on his fingers. When he’s geezing and on the nod, he’ll burn himself half to death when he’s smoking cigarettes. That ain’t a bad tip, is it?”
“Not bad,” said Harold Bloomguard. “Sam, lemme just talk to him for a minute.”
Sam Niles dropped his hands in disgust, threw his hat in the radio car, sat on the front fender of the black and white while the hype told Harold Bloomguard of his miserable life and his jealous rage at a girlfriend who had been cheating on him.
“… and I got me some plans for that bitch, Mr. Bloomguard. I’m gonna wait down the hall in her apartment house and when her new boy comes sneaking in, I’m gonna creep up behind him, see? I’m gonna hit him over the gourd with a wrench then I’m gonna drag him into the broom closet and pull down his pants and fuck him! Yeah! And then I’m gonna drag his beat-up, fucked over ass to my old lady’s door and ring the bell and say “Here, bitch! Here’s your girlfriend!”
“This guy’s got style!” Harold Bloomguard said to Sam Niles who replied, “Oh yes. Real panache. Let’s invite him to choir practice, Harold.”
“And listen, Officer, because you been nice enough to listen to me I’m gonna save you from embarrassment. Guess what? You want the real truth? I ain’t even sure you can get me booked. Know why?”
“Why?” asked Harold Bloomguard while Sam Niles was ready to throw the hype and Harold into the car.
“Because I think I mighta got burned on this score. This rotten motherfucker I bought the dope from sometimes tries to sell you pure milk sugar and hope you don’t catch him for a few days. He’s so strung out he’ll do anything to make a little bread.”
“You think this is milk sugar?” Harold asked and took the bindle out of the pocket of his uniform shirt as Sam Niles got off the car, stepped on his cigarette, adjusted his steel rimmed glasses and said, “Harold, let’s go.”
“I think it’s probably milk sugar,” the hype nodded, “and you’re gonna have to let me go soon as you run one of those funny little tests at the station. Taste it. I think it’s pure sugar.”
“Harold!” Sam Niles said as Harold opened the bindle curiously, making sure that the hype’s hands were securely cuffed behind him.
“Harold!” Sam Niles said, stepping forward just as Harold licked his finger to touch the sugar and just as the hype made good his promise to teach Harold a few tricks.
The addict blew the gram of heroin out of the bindle into the air and Sam Niles watched the powder fall to the Bermuda grass at his feet and disappear.
“Oh God,” said Harold Bloomguard, dropping to his knees, pulling up grass, looking for the evidence the hype had just blown away.
The addict held his breath for a moment as Sam Niles stepped forward towering over him, gray eyes smoldering. But then Sam Niles wordlessly unlocked the addict’s handcuffs, put them in his handcuff case, returned the key to his key ring, took the car keys from the belt of his Sam Browne and got behind the steering wheel while Harold Bloomguard crawled around the grass searching for a few granules of powder.
“I don’t think you could even pick it up with a vacuum,” the hype said sympathetically. “It’s very powdery. And there was only a gram.”
“Guess you’re right,” said Harold Bloomguard, getting in the police car beside the silent Sam Niles just in time to keep from losing a leg as Sam squealed from the curb heading for the drive-in for a badly needed cup of coffee.
“Sorry, Sam,” Harold smiled weakly not looking at his grim partner.
The junkie waved bye-bye and decided that Harold was a very nice boy. The addict hoped that all five of the sons he had fathered to various welfare mothers would turn out that nice.
It was almost ten minutes before Harold Bloomguard spoke to Sam Niles which was probably a record for Harold Bloomguard who sat and tried to think of something conciliatory to say.
Unable to think of something he decided to entertain Sam.
“It was consti-pa-tion, I know,” sang Harold Bloomguard to the melody of “Fascination,” watching Sam Niles who did not smile, which forced Harold to sing, “I’ll be loving you, maternally With a love that’s true…”
Getting only a languid sigh from Sam Niles he switched to a livelier melody and sang, “Gee, but it’s great after eating my date, walking my baby back home.”
Finally Sam Niles spoke. He said, “Harold, I don’t mind your dumb songs but if you don’t stop stratching those pimples on your neck with that penknife, I’m gonna stick it up your ass.”
And then Harold tried to forget about losing the heroin by remembering a disturbing dream he had last Thursday and had not yet discussed with his partner. And as he concentrated he folded his tongue into a long pink tube and blew little spit bubbles which plinked wetly on the dashboard and made Sam Niles grind his teeth.
“Sam, there’s something I’d like your advice about.”
“Yes, yes, yes. What the hell is it this time?”
“I think I’m getting impotent.”
“Uh huh.”
“I haven’t awakened one morning in the past week with a diamond cutter. Or even a blue veiner.”
“You’re not impotent.”
“How do you know that, Sam? I mean how do you know it’s not happening to me? I was reading about impotency recently and…”
“Stop reading, Harold. That’s part of your problem. You read about these diseases and then you’ve got the symptoms.”
“You think it’s hypochondria but…”
“You’re going to choir practice too often. Cool it for a while. Too much booze makes a limp noodle. Also you’re getting old. Twenty-six. You’re over the hill. At your age you should drink Vano starch instead of booze.”
“It’s not funny Sam. It’s serious.”
“Really scares you, huh, Harold?”
“Indeed,” said Harold and Sam Niles gritted his teeth again. He had come to hate the word “indeed” because it was one of Harold’s favorite expressions.
“Well, I’ll tell you, Harold. Being impotent wouldn’t be too bad for you because Carolina Moon and Ora Lee Tingle are just about the only broads you ever ball lately and I think you only do that to be a respectable member of an unrespectable group that gets drunk once a week and gangbangs two fat cocktail waitresses.”
“That’s not fair of you to say that, Sam. You know some of us don’t approve of more than one guy mounting the same girl the same night. You and Baxter and Dean never do it. You know I don’t.”
“You did it last week!”
“I didn’t!”
“Then what the hell were you and Ora Lee doing off in the bushes?”
“Only fooling around. I just can’t board the train like horny old Spencer or that pig Roscoe Rules.”
“Did you have a blue veiner?”
“A diamond cutter as a matter of fact.”
“Then what makes you think you’re impotent?”
“Because I haven’t woke up for a week with anything but a limp noodle!”
“So you’ll be low man on the scrotum pole at the next choir practice,” said Sam Niles, turning a Bloomguardism against him.