Junky (9 page)

An average night went more or less like this. We started work about eleven o'clock, getting on the uptown IRT at Times Square. At 149th Street, I spotted a flop and we got off. 149th Street is a station with several levels and dangerous for lush-workers because there are so many spots where cops can hide, and it is not possible to cover from every angle. On the lower level the only way out is by the elevator.

We approached the flop casually, as though we did not see him. He was middle-aged, sprawled against the wall, breathing loudly. Roy sat down beside him and I stationed myself in front of them with an open newspaper. Roy said, “A little to the right, too far, back a little, there, that's good.”

Suddenly the heavy breathing stopped. I thought of the scene in the movies where the breathing stops during the operation. I could feel Roy's tense immobility behind me. The drunk muttered something and shifted his position. Slowly the breathing started again. Roy got up. “Okay,” he said, and walked rapidly to the other end of the platform. He took a crumpled mass of bills from his pocket and counted out eight dollars. He handed me four. “Had it in his pants pocket. I couldn't find a poke. I thought for a minute he was going to come up on us.”

We started back downtown. At 116th we spotted one and got off, but the flop got up and walked away before we could get near him. A shabby man with a wide, loose mouth accosted Roy and started talking. He was another lush-worker.

“The Fag scored again,” he said. “Two notes and a wristwatch down at 96th Street.” Roy muttered something and looked at his paper. The man went on talking in a loud voice. “I had one come up on me, ‘What are you doing with your hand in my pocket?' he says.”

“For Chris' sake, don't talk like that!” Roy said and walked away from him. “Fucking wrong bastard,” he muttered. “There aren't many lush-workers around now. Only the Fag, the Beagle, and that tramp. They all envy the Fag because he makes good scores. If a sucker comes up on him he pretends to feel his leg like he was a fag. Those tramps at 103rd Street go around saying ‘Goddam Fag' because they can't score. He's no more a fag than I am.” Roy paused reflectively. “Not as much, in fact.”

We rode to the end of the line in Brooklyn without spotting a single flop. On the way back there was a drunk asleep in a car. I sat down beside him and opened my paper. I could feel Roy's arm across my back. Once, the drunk woke up and looked at me sharply. But both my hands were clearly visible on the paper. Roy pretended to be reading the paper with me. The drunk went back to sleep.

“Here's where we get off,” Roy said. “We better go out on the street for a bit. Doesn't pay to ride too long.”

We had a cup of coffee at the 34th Street automat and split the last take. It was three dollars.

“When you take a lush on the car,” Roy was explaining, “you got to gauge yourself to the movement of the car. If you get the right rhythm you can work it out even if the mooch is awake. I went a little too fast on that one. That's why he woke up. He felt something was wrong, but he didn't know what it was.”

At Times Square we ran into Subway Mike. He nodded but did not stop. Mike always worked alone.

“Let's take a run out to Queens Plaza,” Roy said. “That's on the Independent. The Independent has special cops hired by the company, but they don't carry guns. Only saps. So if one grabs you, run if you can break loose.”

Queens Plaza is another dangerous station where it is impossible to cover yourself from every angle. You just have to take a chance. There was a drunk sleeping full length on a bench, but we couldn't risk taking him because too many people were around.

“We'll wait a bit,” Roy said. “Remember, though, never pass more than three trains. If you don't get a clear chance by then, forget it no matter how good it looks.”

Two young punks got off a train carrying a lush between them. They dropped him on a bench, then looked at Roy and me.

“Let's take him over to the other side,” said one of the punks.

“Why not take him right here?” Roy asked.

The punks pretended not to understand. “Take him? I don't get it. What does our queer friend mean?” They picked up their lush and carried him to the other side of the platform.

Roy walked over to our mark and pulled a wallet out of his pocket. “No time for finesse,” he remarked. The wallet was empty. Roy dropped it on the bench.

One of the punks shouted across the tracks, “Take your hands out of his pockets.” And they both laughed.

“Fucking punks,” said Roy. “If I catch one of them on the West Side line I'll push the little bastard onto the tracks.”

One of the punks came over and asked Roy for a cut.

“I tell you he didn't have nothing,” said Roy.

“We saw you take out his wallet.”

“There wasn't nothing in it.”

A train stopped and we got on, leaving the punk there undecided whether or not to get tough.

“Fucking punks think it's a joke,” Roy said. “They won't last long. They won't think it's so funny when they get out on the Island doing five-twenty-nine.” We were in a run of bad luck. Roy said, “Well, that's the way it goes. Some nights you make a hundred dollars. Some nights you don't make anything.”

•

One night, we got on the subway at Times Square. A flashily dressed man, weaving slightly, was walking ahead of us. Roy looked him over and said, “That's a good fucking mooch. Let's see where he goes.”

The mooch got on the IRT headed for Brooklyn. We waited standing up in the space between cars until the mooch appeared to be sleeping. Then we walked into the car, and I sat down beside the mooch, opening
The New York Times
. The
Times
was Roy's idea. He said it made me look like a businessman. The car was almost empty, and there we were wedged up against the mooch with twenty feet of empty seats available. Roy began working over my back. The mooch kept stirring and once he woke up and looked at me with bleary annoyance. A Negro sitting opposite us smiled.

“The shine is wise,” said Roy in my ear. “He's O.K.”

Roy was having trouble finding the poke. The situation was getting dangerous. I could feel sweat running down my arms.

“Let's get off,” I said.

“No. This is a good mooch. He's sitting on his overcoat and I can't get into his pocket. When I tell you, fall up against him, and I'll move the coat at the same time. . . .
Now!
. . . For Chris' sake! That wasn't near hard enough.”

“Let's get off,” I said again. I could feel the fear stirring in my stomach. “He's going to wake up.”

“No. Let's go again . . .
Now!
. . . What in hell is wrong with you? Just let yourself flop against him hard.”

“Roy,” I said. “For Chris' sake let's get off! He's going to wake up.”

I started to get up, but Roy held me down. Suddenly he gave me a sharp push, and I fell heavily against the mooch.

“Got it that time,” Roy said.

“The poke?”

“No, I got the coat out of the way.”

We were out of the underground now and on the elevated. I was nauseated with fear, every muscle rigid with the effort of control. The mooch was only half asleep. I expected him to jump up and yell at any minute.

Finally I heard Roy say, “I got it.”

“Let's go then.”

“No, what I got is a loose roll. He's got a poke somewhere and I'm going to find it. He's got to have a poke.”

“I'm getting off.”

“No. Wait.” I could feel him fumbling across my back so openly it seemed incredible that the man could go on sleeping.

It was the end of the line. Roy stood up. “Cover me,” he said. I stood in front of him with the paper shielding him as much as possible from the other passengers. There were only three left, but they were in different ends of the car. Roy went through the man's pockets openly and crudely. “Let's go outside,” he said. We went out onto the platform.

The mooch woke up and put his hand in his pocket. Then he came out onto the platform and walked up to Roy.

“All right, Jack,” he said. “Give me my money.”

Roy shrugged and turned his hands out, palm up. “What ­money? What are you talking about?”

“You know Goddamned well what I'm talking about! You had your hand in my pocket.”

Roy held his hands out again in a gesture of puzzlement and deprecation. “Aw, what are you talking about? I don't know anything about your money.”

“I've seen you on this line every night. This is your regular route.” He turned and pointed to me. “And there's your partner right there. Now, are you going to give me my dough?”

“What dough?”

“Okay. Just stay put. We're taking a ride back to town and this had better be good.” Suddenly, the man put both hands in Roy's coat pockets. “You sonofabitch!” he yelled. “Give me my dough!”

Roy hit him in the face and knocked him down. “Why you—” said Roy, dropping abruptly his conciliatory and puzzled manner. “Keep your hands off me!”

The conductor, seeing a fight in progress, was holding up the train so that no one would fall on the tracks.

“Let's cut,” I said. We started down the platform. The man got up and ran after us. He threw his arms around Roy, holding on stubbornly. Roy couldn't break loose. He was pretty well winded.

“Get this mooch off me!” Roy yelled.

I hit the man twice in the face. His grip loosened and he fell to his knees.

“Kick his head off,” said Roy.

I kicked the man in the side and felt a rib snap. The man put his hand to his side. “Help!” he shouted. He did not try to get up.

“Let's cut,” I said. At the far end of the platform, I heard a police whistle. The man was still lying there on the platform holding his side and yelling “Help!” at regular intervals.

There was a slight drizzle of rain falling. When I hit the street, I slipped and skidded on the wet sidewalk. We were standing by a closed filling station, looking back at the elevated.

“Let's go,” I said.

“They'll see us.”

“We can't stay here.”

We started to walk. I noticed that my mouth was bone dry. Roy took two goof balls from his shirt pocket.

“Mouth's too dry,” he said. “I can't swallow them.”

We went on walking.

“There's sure to be an alarm out for us,” Roy said. “Keep a lookout for cars. We'll duck in the bushes if any come along. They'll be figuring us to get back on the subway, so the best thing we can do is keep walking.”

The drizzle continued. Dogs barked at us as we walked.

“Remember our story if we get nailed,” Roy said. “We fell asleep and woke up at the end of the line. This guy accused us of taking his money. We were scared, so we knocked him down and ran. They'll beat the shit out of us. You have to expect that.”

“Here comes a car,” I said. “Yellow lights, too.”

We crawled into the bushes at the side of the road and crouched down behind a signboard. The car drove slowly by. We started walking again. I was getting sick and wondered if I would get home to the M.S. I had stashed in my apartment.

“When we get closer in we better split up,” Roy said. “Out here we might be able to do each other some good. If we run into a cop on the beat we'll tell him we've been with some girls and were looking for the subway. This rain is a break. The cops will all be in some all-night joint drinking coffee. For Chris' sake!” he rasped irritably. “Don't round like that!”

I had turned around and looked over my shoulder. “It's natural to turn around,” I said.

“Natural for thieves!”

We finally ran into the BMT line and rode back to Manhattan.

Roy said, “I don't think I'm just speaking for myself when I say I was scared. Oh. Here's your cut.”

He handed me three dollars.

Next day I told him I was through as a lush-worker.

“I don't blame you,” he said. “But you got a wrong impression. You're bound to get some good breaks if you stick around long enough.”

•

My case came to trial in Special Sessions. I drew a four-month suspended sentence. After I gave up lush-working I decided to push junk. There isn't much money in it. About all a using street-peddler can expect to do is keep up his habit. But at least when you are pushing, you have a good supply of junk on hand and that gives a feeling of security. Of course, some people do make money pushing. I knew an Irish pusher who started out capping a
1
/
16
-ounce envelope of H and two years later, when he took a fall and went away for three years, he had thirty thousand dollars and an apartment building in Brooklyn.

If you want to push, the first step is to find a wholesale connection. I did not have a connection, so I formed a partnership with Bill Gains, who had a pretty fair Italian connection on the Lower East Side. We bought the stuff for ninety dollars per quarter-ounce, cut it one-third with milk sugar and put it in one-grain caps. The caps sold for two dollars each, retail. They ran about ten to sixteen percent H, which is very high for retail capped stuff. There should be at least a hundred caps in one-quarter ounce of H before it is cut. But if the wholesaler is Italian he is almost sure to give a short count. We usually got about eighty caps out of these Italian quarter-ounces.

Bill Gains came from a “good family”—as I recall, his father had been a bank president somewhere in Maryland—and he had front. Gains' routine was stealing overcoats out of restaurants, and he was perfectly adapted to this work. The American upper-middle-class citizen is a composite of negatives. He is largely delineated by what he is not. Gains went further. He was not merely negative. He was positively invisible; a vague respectable presence. There is a certain kind of ghost that can only materialize with the aid of a sheet or other piece of cloth to give it outline. Gains was like that. He materialized in someone else's overcoat.