Heroin Chronicles (9 page)

“Hey, Librarian,” he manages, panic percolating, hold it together now … “It's Dos, brother, it's Dos Mac here …”

Overhead lights come on with a deep clunk, and Dos is released. He sucks open air, his mouthpiece knocked aside, and is grateful for it. Pushes himself up to a sitting position.

The Librarian hangs over Dos, blocking the light like a shadow puppet. Sharp angles, that signature hat.

“Well I'll be goddamned.”

It's a rusty sound, that voice, dried syrup, tinted with cigarettes and filtered by the surgical face mask the Librarian wears.

“Mister. Dos. Mac,” he says, separating the words.

“That's me, son,” answers Dos, hoping he sounds calmer than he feels.

Librarian saying, “Gotta ask you first. Have you been in contact with any livestock, any individual who might possibly be carrying a communicable disease, shit along those lines?”

Dos shakes his head negative.

The Librarian extends a rubber-gloved hand. “Okay then. My second question then: what's a downtown nigger like yourself doing up here in the nosebleed section?”

Dos accepts the man's paw, and is hauled to his feet.

Mask dangling from its chinstrap, the Librarian is frowning at the spine of a blue hardbound volume. He taps it and looks up at the stack in front of him, which is a couple of feet higher than the top of his hat, leaning crazy. Says, “You're not for real.” Says, “Thought Dos Mac, the gentleman, is all about peace …”

Dos raises a shoulder, thinking this was most def a mistake. The Librarian could be working for anybody and everybody. He had thought the man was strictly on muscle jobs for the city, but he could very easily be doing the odd Chinese gig, in which case … but this was paranoia.

Librarian saying, “Intelligent motherfucker like you? I don't need to point out—huh, do I?—that the mere presence of a firearm in the home exponentially increases the chances of …” He falters, distracted by some tiny aspect of the book's binding. He shakes his head rapidly, pops a pill of some kind. As he turns to Dos, he is shifting his mask back into place over his mouth and nose. “I'm not putting a judgment thing on you, man. No sir. Everybody gotta look out for their own …”

Dos ducks his head, murmuring his agreement.

“I mean, shit,” continues the Librarian, stripping off his gloves and producing a four-ounce bottle of hand sanitizer. “I don't even wanna know what you need it for. Just, let's leave it there.” Squirt. Rubs his hands vigorously, grabs a new pair of gloves.

Feeling the compulsion to give him something, Dos is aware of himself saying, “… Folks know I got computers, com units, and whatnot down at my place, word is I better watch my back should people get ideas …” Thinking, if this man can't smell a bullshitter …

The Librarian, adjusting his glove, lifts a hand and sets an index finger against his masked lips.

“Yo. Hush, Mac, I got you. I don't wanna know about it and that's my word. Wanna just plant this seed, though, an alternative approach, check it. Rather than bringing some heavy gun energy into your castle. I talk to the DA, we set up a man or two down at your joint, discretion for sure … 'Scuse me, is that a no?”

Dos has been shaking his afro. Says, “Don't want to put you all out. Just, just the loaner, and I'm straight.”

The Librarian scans him. Curious. His eyes glaze a touch, and snap to a point just over Dos's left shoulder.

Spooked, Dos throws a glance behind him. Books, space, darkness. Returns his attention to the Librarian, who is in fugue mode.

“Crop sprayer.”

Dos swallows. “Don't follow, my man …”

“We used to do it like that in the sandbox. You know about that? Helicopter, nerve gas, just blanket spots, neighborhoods. You could do it with drones. Insurgents hiding out, yeah, you get them but this, this shit kills everything, so you get … you get everybody else too. Regardless …”

Dos knows about this practice but doesn't see the relevance. “What's that got to do with—”

“Chinese, Russians, Saudis, all doing it to each other on the island. Knock out the competition and all that. Say to themselves, damn, it'd be nice to have that Brooklyn Bridge contract those other folks got and all, something sweet, meaty. Chrysler Building, whatever. Do a flyover, spray 'em, then before their crew can get more live bodies in there, you take the site. That's the realness. You haven't seen this?”

The Librarian seems to want to have a conversation about this subject, Dos is thinking it's fucked up to be talking to somebody when you can't see their mouth. He can only say, “I don't get out much, man. Doesn't surprise me, I've just never seen it, I don't go anywhere. Keep my head down.”

The Librarian is nodding, looking at him. Out of nowhere he drops an explosive laugh, loud in this huge space even through the surgical mask, which morphs into a dry coughing fit.

“Head down, yeah,” says the man, recovering. “Well, brother, that can only be a good thing. All I'm trying to say is, watch for low-flying helicopters, and you spot one? Run. See, the way I figure it … and mind you, I try to stick with this plan myself … if you don't appear aligned with one crew or the other, you're less likely to get targeted. Word to the worldly wise. You dig?”

Dos is nodding.

“Yeah,” the Librarian is looking around like he's misplaced something, “yeah, just keep your head down like you're doing, you'll be all right, baby. For all I know? You and me are the last …
educated
black men on this island. I need you around, Mac, need somebody I can talk to. So, hey, if you tell me you got people trying to creep up on you, you want to be able to defend yourself in your own
home
, I hear you and am happy to be of service … You know what's a motherfucking shame and a travesty is the fact that a man has to …”

He disappears behind a pile of books, into the semidarkness. Continues talking quietly but Mac can't make out specifics.

This motherfucker, thinks Dos, this motherfucker is insane. I can make a break for the exit, should this go south. Throw my bag at him and move. In fact …

Dos takes two steps toward the doorway and the Librarian is in front of him, mask down again. Smiling crookedly. Eyes black, with greenish shards, whites bloodshot. He points his chin at a gun, flat on both gloved palms. Shrugs.

“This here,” he says with a chuckle, placing one hand over the pistol, “is a CZ-99 semiauto. Fifteen-round mag. Not so different than what y'all must've been issued. Point and shoot. Easy like that.”

Hands Dos the gun, butt first.

“I appreciate this, I really do, man,” says Dos. The weapon has been gaffer taped, light but solid; Dos thinking, I really do hate guns. I jockeyed a desk,
I sat it out
, there's a reason why I walked the path I did. Even so. Unzips his bag and places the pistol, gingerly, inside.

“This is a loan; heard me, you'll get it back.”

Waving this away, Librarian says, “Hell, I borrowed it myself. And I reckon the previous owner ain't exactly gonna miss it, nah mean?” Winks at Dos, then snaps his be-gloved fingers. “Reminds me.” He digs in a jacket pocket and fishes out a laminated card. “You're gonna want one of these, kid.”

It's one of those city-issued jobs, featuring only a barcode and the words,
JUSTICE DEPARTMENT, PROPERTY OF THE STATE OF NEW YORK
.

Seen these before. Carried by protected scavengers/freelancers, like the Librarian here. Who says now: “Take it. For real.”

Dos is pretty positive he's already had his DNA replicated, somewhat standard government stuff, etc., etc. Hell. If he looked hard enough he'd find a clone of himself swanning around. So he's not about to get all precious about his genetic code; otherwise he wouldn't handle such an object.

Plus, he's anxious to bounce. So as it is, he accepts the card, sliding it into his sweat jacket pocket. “Thanks, brother. Again, I owe you large.”

The Librarian bats this sentiment out of the air.

Silence descends on them like a saturated blanket. Dos nods and makes to move for the stairs—

The Librarian intercepts him, wagging his skull, still wearing that shattered smile, snatches Dos's upper arm, hands like talons, a dead man's hands, thinks Dos.

“Snipers,” whispers the Librarian. “Snipers everywhere, Mac. What's more …”

Comes closer, Dos smells sweat, cigarettes, stomach acid, and a faint undercurrent of urine. We all probably smell something like that, he reckons, weird I can't smell myself.

The Librarian speaks, quieter still, out of the side of his mouth: “Don't know about cameras but this bitch is bugged. Can't speak freely. Walk directly out the front and do it quick fast. I'll straighten it all out with the boss, though, not to worry. Jah bless, Mac, you're my brother.”

Dos gets a stinging slap on the shoulder, probably meant to be friendly, but he's already turning, and without a backward glance he speed walks out of there, dragging his tank and cart. His bag feeling far heavier already.

Parked under a nonworking streetlight on the northwest corner of First Avenue and 33rd Street, Dos Mac is lightheaded, his chest tight. His balls ache, his mouth is dry. The Jones has him. His oxygen tank, dead weight, lies abandoned somewhere near Herald Square.

His choice of the former NYU Medical Center is based on the fact that he knew where it was—next to what very little remains of an older hospital, once called Bellevue, which has apparently been entirely demolished. Good fucking riddance, mulls Dos, who'd had the misfortune of being consigned to that institution years and years ago now, in the meaningless past.

Gets lucky in the sense that NYU is still up and running. No question, a private military-industrial joint now. Point of fact: the spot is jumping, here in the pumpkin dusk, UN, army, NYPD, unmarked vehicles coming and going. Dos even spots an old-school ambulance, lights on, no siren. Stenciling on its side reads,
CORNELL/NEW YORK HO
. Everything's worn, mismatched.

Choppers sail past every couple minutes, visible only by their floodlights overhead. An open pickup truck rolls by, packed with Chinese men shoulder to shoulder.

All things in moderation
, rambles the Jones in his inner ear.
Old dog, new tricks
…

He can smell the proximity of the pharmaceuticals. They vibrate, rattle him on a cellular level. Drug radar erect, drug meter pinned. There are drugs and they lie within reach. He's come this far to be warmed by their honey-sweet light, and yet he finds himself afraid. For if he cannot get to them, he will freeze to death, from the inside.

Scratches at his beard, rough. If Dos didn't know better, he'd tell you he is suffering withdrawal symptoms. Impossible. Doesn't fucking make sense, but there it is. It hurts, Dos is beat, and longs to have this done with, to float into the delicious embrace of the medicine, one fucking way or another.

A bird in the hand
, says the Jones, and his stomach quivers. Unzips the bag, unsteady on his haunches, withdraws the gun, trying to decide how and where to carry the damn thing, settling on the shallow pocket of his sweat jacket, which barely covers the weapon and necessitates that he hold it by the butt.

Pulls the hood on the jacket up over his unkempt hair.

Observes the sorry details of his position, this parody. An unlit New York City alcove, a weaponized junkie in a hooded tracksuit, resolute, ill intent, eyes on the prize. Not exactly a novel picture. Ghetto stuff, unbefitting a learned man like Dos Mac.

Funny I managed to avoid such a situation until this very moment. All that focus and energy wresting free of the near-inescapable, gravitational field of a black hole like Brownsville. Shit. What heights I've known. Relatively speaking. And yet here I am.

Corrects himself immediately; of course, I am not a lost user, not anymore, don't be a fucking clown … I am, simply, an adult human, having a crazy day, indulging a craving, and am I not entitled to a little break, some misbehavior, as disciplined as I am, as hard as I apply myself to my work?

Scrolls through the available options for the umpteenth time. In terms of approach, they're pretty limited. Not much to do but waltz right in there and get as scary as possible.

Dos figures if there's a move to make he'd better make it before he passes out. The traffic has abated to the point where it's just gotta be done.

Plenty of time for analysis and/or shame, logics Dos, after I secure some drugs.

It's just me, thinks Dos, stepping into the street, abandoning his bag. Bearing witness to my own debasement.

Hands jammed into his insubstantial pockets, eyes on a Humvee and an NYPD Volt, both of which seem to be unmanned. Dos heads straight across First Avenue, aiming himself at the hospital's main entrance. He doesn't feel scary.

The gun is half in and half out of his jacket, Dos thinking he might be rushing events, contemplates turning around, the borrowed pistol continuing to slip, Dos scrabbling at the thing, feeling the duct tape, the rubber grip, his fingers seeking a more solid purchase, sliding through the trigger guard …

Doesn't so much hear the burst as register the abrupt absence of sound, followed swiftly by a numbness in his left hip. He is then aware that there has been a gunshot of some kind, pivots slightly uptown as the Librarian's disembodied mug floats on by, sniggering, mumbling,
Snipers
. Of course, thinks Dos, of course, and he turns again to face the hospital, peripheral vision gone, scanning the rooftops and balconies for some sign of …

Trying to work out why he would be targeted, trying to understand the intent of the handful of soldiers and cops emerging from the hospital entry, apparently headed his way, apparently shouting things he cannot quite hear. Dos brings his left hand out of his pocket and notes with detached interest that it is warm and wet with blood, tucks in his chin to discover yet more blood, an alarming quantity of blood, and it occurs to him that someone must have been quite severely hurt, and if this is the case it might make his mission to score that much more difficult.