A Case of Need: A Novel (30 page)

“I just want to talk.”

“No kidding,” he said and sipped the drink. He smiled slightly. “Word sure does get around.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah,” he said. He glanced at me. “Who told you about it?”

“I have ways.”

“What ways?”

I shrugged. “Just … ways.”

“Who wants it?”

“I do.”

He laughed. “You? Get serious, man. You don’t want nothing.”

“All right,” I said. I stood up and started to go. “Maybe I got the wrong man.”

“Just a minute, baby.”

I stopped. He was sitting at the table, looking at the drink, twisting the glass in his hands. “Sit down.”

I sat down again. He continued to stare at the glass. “This is good stuff,” he said. “We don’t cut it with nothing. It’s the finest quality and the price is high, see?”

“O.K.,” I said.

He scratched his arms and his hands in a quick, nervous way. “How many bags?”

“Ten. Fifteen. Whatever you have.”

“I got as much as you want.”

“Then fifteen,” I said. “But I want to see it first.”

“Yeah, yeah, right. You can see it first, it’s good.”

He continued to scratch his arms through the silver material, then smiled. “But one thing first.”

“What’s that?”

“Who told you?”

I hesitated. “Angela Harding,” I said.

He seemed puzzled by this. I could not decide whether I had said something wrong. He shifted in his chair, as if making up his mind, then said, “She a friend of yours?”

“Sort of.”

“When did you see her last?”

“Yesterday,” I said.

He nodded slowly. The door,” he said, “is over there. I’ll give you thirty seconds to get out of here before I tear you to pieces. You hear me, cop? Thirty seconds.”

I said, “All right, it wasn’t Angela. It was a friend of hers.”

“Who’s that?”

“Karen Randall.”

“Never heard of her.”

“I understand you knew her quite well.”

He shook his head: “Nope.”

“That’s what I was told.”

“You was told wrong, baby. Dead wrong.”

I reached into my pocket and brought out his picture. “This was in her room at college.”

Before I knew what was happening, he had snatched the picture from my hand and torn it up.

“What picture?” he said evenly. “I don’t know no picture. I never even seen the girl.”

I sat back.

He regarded me with angry eyes. “Beat it,” he said.

“I came here to buy something,” I said. “I’ll leave when I have it.”

“You’ll leave now, if you know what’s good for you.

He was scratching his arms again. I looked at him and realized that I would learn nothing more. He wasn’t going to talk, and I had no way to make him.

“All right,” I said. I got up, leaving my glasses on the table. “By the way, do you know where I can get some thiopental?”

For a moment, his eyes widened. Then he said, “Some what?”

“Thiopental.”

“Never heard of it. Now beat it,” he said, “before one of those nice fellas at the bar picks a fight with you and beats your head in.”

I walked out. It was cold; a light rain had started again. I looked toward Washington Street and the bright lights of the other rock-’n’-roll joints, strip joints, clip joints: I waited thirty seconds, then went back.

My glasses were still on the table. I picked them up and turned to leave, my eyes sweeping the room.

Roman was in the corner, talking on a pay phone.

That was all I wanted to know.

A
ROUND THE CORNER
at the end of the block was a stand-up, self-service greasy spoon. Hamburgers twenty cents. It had a large glass window in front. Inside I saw a few teenage girls giggling as they ate, and one or two morose derelicts in tattered overcoats that reached almost to their shoes. At one side, three sailors were laughing and slapping each other on the back, reliving some conquest or planning the next. A telephone was in the back.

I called the Mem and asked for Dr. Hammond. I was told he was on the EW that night; the desk put the call through.

“Norton, this is John Berry.”

“What’s up?”

“I need more information,” I said, “from the record room.”

“You’re lucky,” he said. “It seems to be a slow night here. One or two lacerations and a couple of drunken fights. Nothing else. What do you need?”

“Take this down,” I said. “Roman Jones, Negro, about twenty-four or -five. I want to know whether he’s ever been admitted to the hospital and whether he’s been followed in any of the clinics. And I want the dates.”

“Right,” Hammond said. “Roman Jones. Admissions and clinic visits. I’ll check it out right away.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“You going to call back?”

“No. I’ll drop by the EW later.”

That, as it turned out, was the understatement of the year.

WHEN I FINISHED THE CALL
I was feeling hungry, so I got a hot dog and coffee. Never a hamburger in a place like this. For one thing, they often use horsemeat or rabbit or entrails or anything else they can grind up. For another, there’s usually enough pathogens to infect an army. Take trichinosis—Boston has six times the national rate of infection from that. You can’t be too careful.

I have a friend who’s a bacteriologist. He spends his whole time running a hospital lab where they culture out organisms that have infected the patients. By now this guy is so worked up that he practically never goes out to dinner, even to Joseph’s or Locke-Ober. Never eats a steak unless it’s well done. He really worries. I’ve been to dinner with him, and it’s terrible—he sweats all through the main course. You can see him imagining a blood agar petri dish, with those little colonies streaked out. Every bite he takes, he sees those colonies. Staph. Strep. Gram negative bacilli. His life is ruined.

Anyway, hot dogs are safer—not much, but some—so I had one and took it over to the stand-up counter with my coffee. I ate looking out the window at the crowd passing by.

Roman came to mind. I didn’t like what he’d told me. Clearly, he was selling stuff, probably strong stuff. Marijuana was too easy to get. LSD was no longer being made by Sandoz, but lysergic acid, the precursor, is produced by the ton in Italy, and any college kid can convert it if he steals a few reagents and flasks from his chem lab. Psilocybin and DMT are even easier to make.

Probably Roman was dealing in opiates, morphine or heroin. That complicated matters a great deal—particularly in view of his reaction to mention of Angela Harding and Karen Randall. I wasn’t sure what the connection was but I felt, somehow, that I’d find out very soon.

I finished the hot dog and drank my coffee. As I looked out the window, I saw Roman hurry by. He did not see me. He was looking forward, his face intent and worried.

I gulped the rest of my coffee and followed him.

[Ed note: the three-step synthesis of lysergic acid diethylamine (LSD) from common precursors has been omitted from this manuscript.]

I
LET HIM GET HALF A BLOCK AHEAD OF ME
. He was hurrying through the crowds, pushing and shoving. I kept him in sight as he walked toward Stuart Street. There he turned left and headed for the expressway. I followed him. This end of Stuart was deserted; I dropped back and lit a cigarette. I pulled my raincoat tighter and wished I had a hat. If he looked back over his shoulder, he would certainly recognize me.

Roman walked one block, then turned left again. He was doubling back. I didn’t understand, but I played it more cautiously. He was walking in a quick, jerky way, the movements of a frightened man.

We were on Harvey Street now. There were a couple of Chinese restaurants here. I paused to look at the menu in one window. Roman was not looking back. He went another block, then turned right.

I followed.

South of the Boston Commons, the character of the town changes abruptly. Along the Commons, on Tremont Street, there are elegant shops and high-class theaters. Washington Street is one block over, and it’s a little sleazier: there are bars and tarts and nude movie houses. A block over from that, things get even tougher. Then there’s a block of Chinese restaurants, and that’s it. From then on, you’re in the wholesale district. Clothes mostly.

That’s where we were now.

The stores were dark. Bolts of cloth stood upright in the windows. There were large corrugated doors where the trucks pulled up to load and unload. Several little dry-goods stores. A theatrical supply shop, with costumes in the window—chorus girl stockings, an old military uniform, several wigs. A basement pool hall, from which came the soft clicking of balls.

The streets were wet and dark. We were quite alone. Roman walked quickly for another block, then he stopped.

I pulled into a doorway and waited. He looked back for a moment and kept going. I was right after him.

Several times, he doubled back on his own path, and he frequently stopped to check behind him. Once a car drove by, tires hissing on the wet pavement. Roman jumped into a shadow, then stepped out when the car had gone.

He was nervous, all right.

I followed him for perhaps fifteen minutes. I couldn’t decide whether he was being cautious or just killing time. He stopped several times to look at something he held in his hand—perhaps a watch, perhaps something else. I couldn’t be sure.

Eventually he headed north, skirting along side streets, working his way around the Commons and the State House. It took me awhile to realize that he was heading for Beacon Hill.

Another ten minutes passed, and I must have gotten careless, because I lost him. He darted around a corner, and when I turned it moments later, he was gone: the street was deserted. I stopped to listen for footsteps, but heard nothing. I began to worry and hurried forward.

Then it happened.

Something heavy and damp and cold struck my head, and I felt a cool, sharp pain over my forehead, and then a strong punch to my stomach. I fell to the pavement and the world began to spin sickeningly. I heard a shout, and footsteps, and then nothing.

I
T WAS ONE OF THOSE PECULIAR VIEWS YOU HAVE
, like a dream where everything is distorted. The buildings were black and very high, towering above me, threatening to collapse. They seemed to rise forever. I felt cold and soaked through, and rain spattered my face. I lifted my head up from the pavement and saw that it was all red.

I pulled up on one elbow. Blood dripped down onto my raincoat. I looked stupidly down at the red pavement. Hell of a lot of blood. Mine?

My stomach churned and I vomited on the sidewalk. I was dizzy and the world turned green for a while.

Finally, I forced myself to get to my knees.

In the distance, I heard sirens. Far off but getting closer. I stood shakily and leaned on an automobile parked by the curb. I didn’t know where I was; the street was dark and silent. I looked at the bloody sidewalk and wondered what to do.

The sirens were coming closer.

Stumbling, I ran around the corner, then stopped to catch my breath. The sirens were very close now; a blue light flashed on the street I had just left.

I ran again. I don’t know how far I went. I don’t know where I was.

I just kept running until I saw a taxi. It was parked at a stand, the motor idling.

I said, “Take me to the nearest hospital.”

He looked at my face.

“Not a chance,” he said.

I started to get in.

“Forget it, buddy.” He pulled the door shut and drove away, leaving me standing there.

In the distance, I heard the sirens again.

A wave of dizziness swept over me. I squatted and waited for it to pass. I was sick again. Blood was still dripping from somewhere on my face. Little red drops spattered into the vomit.

The rain continued. I was shivering cold, but it helped me to stay conscious. I got up and tried to get my bearings; I was somewhere south of Washington Street; the nearest signpost said Curley Place. It didn’t mean anything to me. I started walking, unsteady, pausing frequently.

I hoped I was going in the right direction. I knew I was losing blood, but I didn’t know how much. Every few steps, I had to stop to lean on a car and catch my breath.

The dizziness was getting worse.

I stumbled and fell. My knees cracked into the pavement and pain shot through me. For an instant, it cleared my head, and I was able to get back to my feet. The shoes, soaked through, squeaked. My clothes were damp with sweat and rain.

I concentrated on the sound of my shoes and forced myself to walk. One step at a time. Three blocks ahead, I saw lights. I knew I could make it.

One step at a time.

I leaned against a blue car for a moment, just a moment, to catch my breath.

“That’s it. That’s the boy.” Somebody was lifting me up. I was in a car, being lifted out. My arm was thrown over a shoulder, and I was walking. Bright lights ahead. A sign: “Emergency Ward.” Blue-lighted sign. Nurse at the door.

“Just go slow, boy. Just take it easy.”

My head was loose on my neck. I tried to speak but my mouth was too dry. I was terribly thirsty and cold. I looked at the man helping me, an old man with a grizzled beard and a bald head. I tried to stand better so he wouldn’t have to support me, but my knees were rubber, and I was shivering badly.

“Doing fine, boy. No problem at all.”

His voice was gruffly encouraging. The nurse came forward, floating in the pool of light near the EW door, saw me, and ran back inside. Two interns came out and each took an arm. They were strong; I felt myself lifted up until my toes were scraping through the puddles. I felt rain on the back of my neck as my head drooped forward. The bald man was running ahead to open the door.

They helped me inside where it was warm. They put me on a padded table and started pulling off my clothes, but the clothes were wet and blood-soaked; they clung to my body, and finally they had to cut them off with a scissors. It was all very difficult and it took hours. I kept my eyes closed because the lights overhead were painfully bright.

“Get a crit and cross-match him,” said one of the interns. “And set up a four kit with sutures in room two.”