Getting Higher (9 page)

For the rest of the day, Crank and Joe tried to find someone to stay with. They asked all their friends, even some people who weren't friends. They asked Jack and Artie and Harry and even Wanda, but no one would have them. Either they didn't have room, or they wouldn't be home, or they just didn't give a damn.

At about midnight, when Joe and Crank decided they were tired, they went back to the alley where they'd hid from Benny. They found some boxes to cover themselves with and an old piece of carpet to lie down on; then, they sprawled out on the cold pavement and went to sleep.

At least it didn't rain that night.

*****

Chapter Fifteen

 

It rained the next morning.

It rained hard, too--a full-fledged storm with thunder and thick clouds. Across the city, people abandoned their short-sleeved shirts and spring clothes and struggled into jackets and raincoats. Umbrellas were suddenly everywhere, floating down the sidewalks, folding and unfolding at dripping doorways.

In the alley where Joe and Crank slept, much of the downpour was blocked by the buildings on either side, caught by wide rainspouts and overhangs to pour in the street and cascade into sewer grates. The two men were covered with cardboard boxes and newspapers, which kept off some of the rain that got through to them there in their crevice. For a while after the rain had started, they slept on, sunk in oblivious twin stupors and boxed away from the worst of the storm.

Once the wind changed, though, a heavier sheet of rain penetrated the alley and Crank and Joe started to come around under the onslaught. They were curled up near the back of the alley, against the brick wall that made it a dead end.

There was a fire escape directly above them, rusty garbage cans piled around them, a big rusty dumpster by the wall, and the rain drummed like tap dancers as it fell onto all of that metal. The hollow tattoo of the droplets combined with the chill and the soak of the rain to awaken the snoozers, to rouse them from their comas.

"Aw, shit," moaned Joe, putting an arm up to shield his face from the rain. "Damnit." For a minute, he just lay there, blinking his eyes at the cloudy morning light and massaging his features. Stretching, he knocked away some of the boxes and paper he had covered himself with the night before. Straining and yawning, he pulled his body up and sat back against the wall.

On the ground beside him, Crank was wallowing on the brink of consciousness. He writhed around for a moment more, snorting and groaning; then, Joe kicked him in the side, and his eyes suddenly flew open.

"What th'...," he grumbled, his voice a hoarse croak. "What th' fuck?" Crank yawned loudly, stretching his mouth in a wide oval...a maw like a whale's. He looked at Joe, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the light.

"Hey, shithead," said Joe. "It's about time."

Crank sneered angrily. "Sonnuva' bitch," he growled. "Why'd ya' wake me up, asshole?"

It's rainin', man--really comin' down." Joe nodded toward the street.

Crank followed his gaze; out there, the rain was heavy and constant, filling the cracks and potholes and making tiny streams rush along the curb. It was coming down so hard that Crank could barely see the other side of the road, could hardly make out the slick brick fronts of the buildings planted there.

Crank stared for a while, ignoring the waterfall that struck his own body, soaking his red hair and beard. Then, he swore under his breath, closed his eyes and rolled over on his side, turning his back on Joe. The rain continued to douse him as he lay there.

"Aw, c'mon fuckhead-- ya' wanna' get soaked?" Joe chucked a hand on Crank's shoulder and shook him. "Let's go, man. People are gonna' see us, anyhow. It's fuckin' daylight and they can see right in here. It'd be our luck somebody'd call th' damn cops on us."

"Go to hell," muttered Crank. "I don't give a fuck."

Joe shook Crank again, harder. "Hey, man, I mean it. You wanna' stay here, fine. Me, I'm takin' off...now. I'm gonna' go out, find somethin' ta' eat, an' go down ta' see Shack. We get paid today, remember? Forty fuckin' bucks." One more time, Joe yanked Crank's shoulder; then, he withdrew his hand and stood up. "Last chance, man. You stay here, I get your share a' th' cash."

Crank still didn't move. He just lay there like a corpse, on his side, half-buried under soggy newspapers and cardboard. He completely ignored Joe, didn't even twitch; he was a stone, a fat drippy brick that had broken off the corner of a building and toppled down heavily to crash with a thud in the alley.

Joe looked down at him for a moment. Then, he turned and waded through the trash toward the end of the alley. "Fuck you, too," he said disgustedly as he walked out into the heavier downpour on the street.

Joe looked back into the alley one final time, then headed down the street. His bare feet slapped the pavement, landing in puddles of cool rainwater that made them feel good; he was still without shoes from the night of the fire, and wore only his faded blue T-shirt and the slacks the cop had given him.

Joe decided to head directly for the pushers' neighborhood. Right now, he had no money at all, and the only way he was going to get food or booze was to pick up his pay for delivering the last batch of dope he had carried with Crank. Usually, he and Crank went to visit the dealers later in the afternoon, around three or four o'clock; today, though, he figured he'd drop by earlier. Though the pushers didn't spend a lot of time waiting around their cellar, Joe thought he might at least run into one of the guys on the street.

And so, Joe walked off into the drumming rain, following Maple Avenue toward the Franklin Bridge. There, he would cross the Stonybank River into the South Side, then walk the few blocks to the pushers' place. The trip would only take him about twenty minutes; then, he would finally have money in his pocket, and would be able to stop at Tap's or Big Man for a beer.

As he walked down the street, the rain got worse. With each step he took, it seemed to pour harder and harder. A strong wind was still blowing, sweeping curtains of rain against people and buildings alike. Cars moved slowly down the street, creeping like turtles or drunks through the frenzy of buffeting water. What people there were on the sidewalks ran for shelter, rushing blindly with drawn umbrellas like weapons in the wind.

Even as the weather kicked up, Joe kept walking down Maple Avenue. The rain didn't bother him much, even with all of its wind-driven force. He had to slow his pace a little, but other than that, it didn't affect him or make him turn back. He just kept going, as people around him fled and cars veered and stalled on the pavement. By now, he was completely soaked, his hair so wet it looked as if it had been painted on his skull; still, the storm was a relief, the cold rain and wind helping wash away the memory of the heat and fear of the fire in Crank's apartment.

Suddenly, Joe heard a sound from behind him: feet smacking pavement, nearing swiftly through the rain. He turned and was surprised to see Crank running up, coughing and panting and sopping wet. As he ran, his huge roll of fat bounced up and down, rippling beneath his sweatshirt like gelatin. He no longer wore the long overcoat the woman had given him the night of the fire; he had left it behind in the alley, shed amongst the trash like a dead snakeskin.

Joe stopped and watched as his friend caught up with him. "You sonnuva' bitch," he said. "I knew you wouldn't pass up no cash. What's your problem today?"

Sliding his hands to his knees, Crank leaned over and panted. "Well...Joey...I need...to get stoned. That's...what my fuckin' problem is..."

Chuckling, Joe shook his head. "You fuckhead. Are you goin' now, or not?"

"Of course...I'm not goin'. That's why...I ran th' whole fuckin' way...up the road...to catch
up
to ya'. I just... came along...to get a better view a' th' damn river!"

"Well, hey, if that's what you wanna' do, fine. I'm goin' to th' South Side to get my money. You wanna' stay here, go ahead."

Turning, Joe started down the street again.

"Ha ha," sneered Crank behind him. "Very funny." Then, after standing there stubbornly for a minute, he followed.

"You damn bastards! You stupid, fuckin'
idiots
! I don't believe you assholes
did
this, I really don't! You guys got your heads in your crotches or somethin'? Holy fuck!"

The man named Fart was screaming. He was standing in front of Crank and Joe, holding them both by their shirts. Fart was furious, shaking with uncontrollable rage; as he glared down at Joe and Crank, his eyes were wild, red with the power of an enraged grizzly bear.

"You fuckers!" screamed Fart. "I'm gonna' kill you! I'm gonna' kill you
both
!" He started shaking Crank and Joe, jolting them around in his hammy grip. He held one man with each hand and slammed them together like rag dolls.

Through the haze of confusion that clouded his mind, Joe looked around at the scene. Behind Fart's massive body, he saw the other two pushers, Monkey and Shack. In the darkness, they were sitting in their lawn chairs, watching the violence implacably. Joe could just make out their faces in the shadows: Shack was cool and aloof, smoking a cigarette while his fat friend pummeled Joe and Crank; Monkey was more intense, scowling and shaking his head from side to side. On the card table before them, there was an empty, crumpled shopping bag; Joe recognized it as the one he and Crank had used to make deliveries for the pushers on Wednesday.

Fart was still shouting wildly, forcing Joe's attention once more on his ugly, angry face.

"You cunt-faces! You damn shitheads!" As Fart yelled, his breath washed over them, a horrible blast like shit and rotten eggs. "You lost our money!" he bellowed. "You fuckers lost our money!!"

"What're you talkin' about?" spoke up Crank, meekly. "We delivered it, man, just like you told us. We took it to the usual place an' dropped it off, just like always!"

"Yeah," agreed Joe, nodding his head. "What's th' big deal?" He still couldn't figure out what was going on. He and Crank had gone down to the basement and walked over to the pushers' corner to pick up their money; when they slid aside the curtain of blankets that hid the little niche, they were suddenly grabbed by Fart, who had been screaming and slapping them around ever since. Neither Joe nor Crank yet knew why.

"The deal, fuckhead," shouted Fart, angrier than ever, "is I'm gonna' rip your damn cocks off an' stuff 'em down your throats!! That's what th' deal is!!"

Suddenly, from the shadows, Shack spoke; he hadn't said a word since Joe and Crank had arrived, and his voice surprised them. "Guys, you really don't know, do ya'? You really don't know what you did."

Crank shook his head. "No, man, we don't. Nothin' went wrong the other night! It was just like usual, man--no problems, no cops, no nothin'!" As he talked, Fart rattled him, seemingly annoyed by the sound of the chubby guy's voice.

"Well, boys, I guess I'll tell ya' what happened." Shack stood up and walked around the card table to stand behind Fart. He stared over the fat man's shoulder, watching Crank and Joe. "Y'see, what you guys did was, well, ya' lost all our money. All th' cash from those deliveries you made, it's all gone. We are now in the hole, and we owe big bucks to our distributors. They want money for the stuff they gave us to sell, an' we don't have any. Understand?"

"No," hunkered Crank. "How th' hell could we have lost your money? I keep tellin' you, we did everything like usual. We made th' deliveries, collected th' money, an' dropped it off the same night."

"On Wednesday night, you dropped off the bag full of money, am I right?" Shack looked at them and they nodded. "You went to the old Gulf station in North Side, on Charlotte Street, right?"

"Uh-huh," said Crank. "You got it. That's where we always drop your shit off, every time we make deliveries."

"Okay, so you took it down to the Gulf station. It was all in th' shopping bag. Who did you give the bag to?"

"Well, a blue Mustang pulled up, an' we gave th' bag to some dude named Freddie."

"Fuck!" shuddered Shack. "Why in hell did you assholes do that?"

"What th' fuck're you talkin' about?" asked Crank, looking bewildered.

"Why'd you give the money to this dude, huh? Was he your regular contact, man? Was he th' guy we usually send down? We usually have Jack do that, you asshole. You remember Jack, dontcha'? Tall guy with glasses, drives an old Chevy?" Shack's voice rose as he went on. "Why in hell'd you give all that money ta' some guy you never seen before? Sonnuva' bitch, didn't you even ask where Jack was?"

"Uh, no. We just thought you were sendin' a new guy. You did it before, y'know? Remember that black chick?"

"That was a long time ago, assholes, an' you knew who she was. She told you she was workin' for us, we warned you she'd be there ahead of time. Did you know this guy Wednesday?"

"No, no we didn't. We just thought..."

"No, fuckhead," said Shack, his voice a shout, "you
didn
'
t
think! That's the problem! You gave that bag to th' wrong dude! Our boy, Jack, pulled into that gas station at exactly midnight, an' you guys were already gone! He looked around, an' found this in a garbage can out front!" Shack turned and grabbed the empty shopping bag from the card table, thrust it against Crank's face. "It was empty, man,
empty
! You fuckers!"

"Hey, we're sorry," muttered Crank. "We fucked up, y'know?"

"You're damn
right
, you fucked up!" screamed Fart, shaking the men some more. "Now, I'm gonna' fuck
you
up!"

Joe was getting nervous; the putrid odor of Fart's breath and the iron grip that he had on his shirt were starting to make him worry. "We're sorry, Shack, really. We didn't know, okay?

We blew it, man, but we didn't do it on purpose. We didn't rip you off or nothin'."

"No, I don't think you did," said Shack. "I don't think you 'guys're that smart. Besides, if you took that money, why in hell would you come back here?"

"Don't let this guy beat on us, man," said Crank, his voice shaky. "We're sorry."

"Hey, I know you are. Don't worry, Cranky, Fart ain't gonna' kill you."

"I ain't?" snarled Fart, glaring at the two men.

"No, you ain't. We don't kill people, man, that's not what we're here for. We got us a small outfit here--a nice, quiet operation that runs real smooth. All we wanna' do is make some bucks and keep everything working smooth. We kill someone, the fuckin' cops'll be all over our asses, an' then we'd all end up outta' business, right? Nope, we ain't gonna' kill you. Let 'em go, Fart."

Reluctantly, the fat man took his hands off Joe and Crank. The two men stumbled as he let go.

Shack walked back around the card table and sat down in his lawn chair again. "No, we ain't gonna' kill you guys. However, we
are
gonna' keep your pay for this week. You don't deliver, so we don't deliver. Also, you don't ever work for us again. We're gonna' find us some new delivery boys. You are hereby fired, you fuck-ups."

Crank looked stunned. "Aw, c'mon man! We need the money, y'know? We always do our shit, you know that. This is th' first time anything ever got screwed-up."

"Yeah," smiled Shack, "and it's also the last time. Goodbye, fellas. Don't ever show your ugly faces around here again, or I might not hold Fart back like I did for ya' today."

"But, but...," stammered Crank, trying desperately to reason with Shack.

"No buts. Get outta' here." Shack motioned to Fart, who walked over and shoved them away. They fell to the floor, sprawling over boxes and junk.

Fart stomped after them, cracking his knuckles and leering.