Heroin Chronicles (8 page)

At the moment, however, anything that might bring him closer to drugs must be put into play.

Extreme times, extreme measures
, says the Jones, from behind his inner ear. It's the voice of his former sponsor, Charles Morgan, for reasons Dos doesn't care to explore, a voice island-tinged, disciplinarian, prone to faux-profundity and platitudes, probably to lay down cover for the workings of a simple mind.

Dos takes a long, truly loving gander at his lab, his cell, his womb, his asylum. The amount of sweat and effort he's put into making it safe, making it a proper workshop. February 14 was a blessing in this way; he'd never felt as secure anywhere else. So much of him is here. His plans, his model of the perfect subway system, with its flat-zero carbon footprint, a version of the jammie he'd set up in Washington, D.C., writ large …

If you love something, set it free
, says the Jones, which apparently is going to persist uttering goofy clichés that don't even apply to the situation at hand.

Regardless, Dos figures, making a final scan of his improvised safe house, he has little choice but to set out, because sometimes a brother simply has got to get high.

That smack won't be coming to him. He'll have to go to the smack. He tosses the radios in with the rest of his crap, and shoulders the bag.

Outside.

The air, the air crackles and pops with toxins, chemicals, fumes. The air is visible, a permanent fog. It's gotten much worse, worse than even a month or two back. Dos sucks at his oxygen, glad for the mask. Behind his chunky glasses his eyes burn, tear up. Would def not want to wipe at them with his bare hands; he learned that lesson early on.

On the corner of Chrystie and Delancey he squats, blinking rapidly. Feeling that inner drug-tug in his stomach. Thinking, can't believe I'm actually doing this.

Thinking, goddamn, peep all this. It's
all
Chinese now.

It was nearly all Chinese prior to 2/14 anyway, but given their resilience, economic superiority, and their steady access to bodies/cheap labor, they seem to be doubly thriving in this new environment. Dos is well aware that the Chinese have been awarded a fair number of Reconstruction contracts. And with that seems to have come a new energy, a new confidence. A palpable sense of Chinese superiority cuts through the nasty fog. What limited bustle can be observed seems purposeful, competent.

Glances that Dos has had at evil-looking Chinese military units leave him humbled. Wouldn't want to come to those dudes' attention. So, in this sense, the impression that he is completely invisible is a positive thing.

There's a trickle of rickshaws, electric vans, and sporadic drifts of workers on foot. Nobody loiters or appears remotely shady, with the exception of himself, reckons Dos; so he wouldn't dare approach any of these folks. No uniform, no proper ID … Where are the hustlers, the freaks, the lesser criminals? It's a rhetorical question. If he understood the Chinese even a little, such human debris would not be exactly welcome.

Oh snap. With discomfort, Dos recalls the Chinese government's posture of zero tolerance regarding narcotics. Given that these various neighborhoods have been all but handed over to the dominant group's rule of law, this area is looking less and less score-friendly.

Rising to his feet, ridiculous in his gas mask and flip flops, Dos Mac figures he'll have to press on. Head north, into Christ knows what.

Stepping around an open manhole, he trudges up Chrystie, dragging his oxygen tank behind him, clanking and top heavy on its rickety cart.

Ludlow between Houston and Stanton.

Third Street at Avenue C.

Avenue B between 7th and 6th Streets.

The “laundry” on 7th Street between B and C.

Nothing but blank spaces, in some cases the entire façade having been cemented over if not removed wholesale.

Near the former site of the “laundry,” a work crew crouches, uniform gray coveralls, silently engaged in some kind of mah-jongg–like game. Dos Mac is positively ignored. Which is a good thing.

Dos realizing he's reaching as far back as the late 1980s, which is fucking sad, and that by the second address his wanderings have become nothing more than a masturbatory nostalgia jag. The Jones doesn't mind. It seems to only intensify the thirst, as the muscle/body memory is as strong as the perfume of a former lover. He digs on it, digs the internal heat.

Dos doubles down on this, his righteous mission to score. He's strong enough to make it this far? Motherfucker, he's strong enough to complete this simple task. The tug in his sphincter is, if anything, amplified as he moves through this neighborhood.

Does a nigger have to go uptown? Never comfortable around the dealers in Harlem … not that he expected to find anybody still hustling. What's going on uptown? Maybe, just maybe, an abandoned lab, somebody looking to unload weight for which there is no longer a market … but Dos knows he's just pipe-dreaming. Anything worth anything has been stolen, swapped, or sold.

Here, just look at his sorry ass. Dos Mac should be a subject for derision, should be attracting gawkers despite the thin population. But not so; not a solitary soul registers his movements. Dos makes no attempt at stealth, but he gets the sense that he's resonating ghostly, shadelike.

Besides appearing pathetic, and besides the fact that he's aware that a low profile is what will keep him standing, Dos Mac starts to question his own solidity; is he simply being snubbed, or has he somehow slipped into another dimension of being? Some sort of high-level physics at play here? Is he less real than the tire on the flatbed pickup that slows to collect the group of men, not pausing as they chase the vehicle and haul themselves up and onto the back of the truck, disappearing into the dirty fog?

Even the past has long split the scene, nothing is remotely recognizable, and all is brutally clean. Near silent as well, with the exception of far-off construction sites to the north and south. To all appearances virtually every structure has been carved out, shaved, scrubbed free of any former identity, and converted to serve some new and strictly functional purpose, or no purpose at all.

As Dos approaches 11th Street between A and B to find the entire block of former tenements razed, and an ad hoc shanty town in its place, he gets his first fleeting view of what might possibly be children and females. He takes a tentative step onto 11th Street. Chinese army tents, some semipermanent-looking, hard-plastic structures. The lingering smell of cooking animal meat, causing his mouth to immediately fill with saliva. He reminds himself, suddenly ashamed and slightly nauseous, of his principles regarding matters dietary.

The hood of old is gone, figures Dos. Which suggests he bring this swing down memory lane to a close. Operate in the now. The surface of the city he once knew is forever altered, and Dos Mac has to accept this fact, move forward accordingly. Or perish.

By the time Dos reaches what was at one time known as Union Square, he has to admit that he had no idea that Chinatown had exploded so comprehensively.

All Chinese.

With the exception of a small but intense Ukrainian/Eastern European enclave Dos stumbled through as he moved west, at about Second Avenue and 9th Street. Vehicles and buildings with Cyrillic lettering could still be observed. The old buildings less molested than further east. Knots of white dudes tracked his passage, chattering rapidly amongst themselves, hair cut close, veins protruding. No women, no women at all. Bemuscled goons with tattooed necks and hands displayed shoulder-holstered Glocks over their wifebeaters and polo shirts. Another trio of thugs, leaning out of a small truck, wanted to be very sure Dos clocked their hypermodern automatic rifles. All of which radiated some Aryan Nation shit for Dos, who put his head down and scurried on … As much as his mission calls for improvisation, he wasn't about to start up a conversation with these killers, despite the fact that they appeared rather likely to be in possession of narcotics. And all the more likely to start taking shots at him just out of boredom, or to audition their fancy weaponry.

Otherwise? The Chinese, goddamn, those fuckers have the lock on like every little thing.

Those Eastern European yahoos were way far from welcoming, but it was the first and only time on the journey thus far that anyone appeared to actually notice him. To see him, to see him and let be known he has been seen.

Hunkered down at the intersection of 15th Street and Union Square East, Dos sees it. In this new paradigm, there is no space for a drug like heroin. Oh, he can dig it. Any substance that might render the user vulnerable is less than useless. Allow your attention to flag here, you're extending an invitation to be looted, hollowed out, and stripped for parts like an abandoned car.

No, manic clarity is called for, and not the chemically induced kind of clarity … Watching an industrial crane lift crates off the back of a semi in the middle of the former park, flanked by gasmasked gunmen in Port Authority uniforms.

This is meth-amp territory, if anything. Good for physical labor. But a substance which, at least in Dos Mac's estimation, is the narcotic equivalent of a panic attack.

Dos seeks to escape this colorless nightmare, if only for a matter of hours. Not gonna hassle anybody. This is all he's looking to get done. Merely a short hiatus in the daily grind. Tomorrow morning? He'll be back at his desk, primed to do God's work, hankerings sated and silenced.

“That's it, man,” he whispers, itching at his beard. “That's all I'm doing, taking time out. To look after me.”

Well shit: his goal is certainly not to make himself all the more viciously present in the manner of the coked and methed up.

Look left, right, and sideways. Downtown is a fucking bust.

No. Dos will have to continue north. North is where the major Reconstructions sites are, and that's where dealers will orbit should there be any.

Friendless, there's no one, figures Dos. I need a gun.

The thought takes him from behind, and comes complete with a plan. The thought stops him cold.

A hospital. Why had he not thought of this from the jump?

Get a gun, get to a hospital, jack the staff for whatever's on hand in the opiate family. Do it fast and easy, nobody need get hurt. Forget digging up a bag; that format would seem to be extinct.

Get a gun. Tougher than it might seem, given the prevalence of guns. Helpless as he is, Dos will have to ask somebody nice, who in turn will have to give him a weapon of his own free will. It won't be the Chinese, or the Ukrainians.

Unbidden, the Jones pontificates:
That which kills you only makes you s—

“Shut the fuck up,” says Dos out loud. “Trying to think.”

No. If I want to get a gun with only a moderate amount of risk, only one man springs to mind. And a serious wild card of a motherfucker at that.

The Librarian. Damn. I gotta see the Librarian.

* * *

Approached from the west, past the gigantic flame pits of Bryant Park, the New York Public Library remains almost eerily intact.

Mac makes his way around the corner of 42nd Street and pauses within sight of the famous twin marble lions. He is exhausted. At this point he's so far north, there's no way he'll make it back downtown without running out of oxygen. He's not positive if this will make any difference, but it's a huge risk.

Nobody around. Pauses to listen … Beyond the general hubbub of the fires and the clanging due east, which Dos assumes to be construction at Grand Central, the streets are barren.

Up the exterior stairs, his oxygen tank lighter and lighter, bouncing along behind him … he tries the main doors, finds them open. Dos steps inside and takes a moment, his weak peepers calibrating to the gloom.

The Librarian, he didn't want to think about how he knew this cat. Sure, he wasn't a bad guy, but damn. Goes without saying, this is not a dude you want to sneak up on unannounced.

On the other hand, Dos would hate to wake the man up. That could be an even darker scenario.

The lesser of two. Mac clears his throat.

“Librarian!” he calls, voice cracked and arid. Bounces off the vaulted ceiling. “Librarian! Dos Mac here! I'm unarmed, brother, I come in peace!” Trying to keep his tone light. You never know how the Librarian will come at you.

Dos gets no response.

There's two conflicting knots in his intestines; one is related to fear, and one is all junk-lust. It's the latter that pushes him upward.

Nothing ventured
, drones the Jones, and Dos shuts it down. Jesus, what bullshit.

Calls: “Coming upstairs!”

Tough to see much on the stairwell, so Dos takes it slow and easy. Hefts the near-empty tank so as to make less noise. His flip flops feeling insubstantial and wrong against the cold stone.

One flight, and Dos takes a moment. Out of shape, breathing ragged. What the fuck does he think he's doing? I mean, honestly? Despite his military credentials, he is an engineer, a technician, a brain. The brother at the party who faded into the background, the dude who spoke too quiet or too loud, his movements subtly wrong, nervous, the kid who could never bust anything smooth. The guy you didn't notice till he, inevitably, knocked something over. Dos always liked to say he was a lover, not a fighter, but he wasn't much of either really.

Abort, reckons the Mac. Fuck this. Takes a step backward, reversing himself down the stairs. Cut your losses, son. Feels vastly relieved, having made this decision.

Crack.

A flip-flopped foot has found some kind of shell, crushing it under his weight. Not like the Librarian, thinks Dos idly, to leave garbage lying around … the Librarian, who to put it mildly is a bit of a neat freak …

Wham, and Dos's head hits a stair, as his legs are cut out from under him. The cart and tank go tumbling, and he finds himself facedown in a frighteningly professional choke-hold.

Smells: latex, baby powder … alco-gel. No doubt.