Lowland Rider (16 page)

"
What?
"

"He's dead. It doesn't hurt when you're dead. Do it."

The man tried to push the body with his feet, but it was too heavy, and he had to get on his knees, drag the body so that it was parallel to the tracks, and roll it off. Jesse did not hear it land. The din of the train was too great.

"Take these," Jesse said, handing the packets to the man. "When the train comes, throw them at the front of it."

The man's eyes widened and his mouth gaped. Jesse had to laugh. "You
crazy
, man! Don't you know what this shit
is
?"

"Dream dust," Jesse answered. "Let the train dream. Throw it. And aim well."

The light of the train was now visible in the tunnel, and soon the bright, white eye rounded the corner and bore down on them. It was a through express, and would not stop.

"Get ready…" he told the man, "… set…
now
!"

With a sob, the man hurled the packets into the face of the onrushing train. Jesse imagined he heard a pop, and then two white bombs exploded through which the train roared unperturbed, like a plane through a cloud. The fine white powder made sudden traceries in the air that the train pushed to either side, and there was an ever so slight hiccup in the rhythm of the wheels as they passed over and tore up the dead man, but that was all. The sound died away, and, except for a few barely distinguishable wisps of pale residue on the platform, there was no indication that drugs had ever soiled Utica Avenue station.

"You just made a big mistake, man," the Chicano said, trembling.

"Everyone does. When they're born."

"You gonna kill me?"

He looked at the man for a long time. "No. I don't have to."

"They're not gonna let this go. We'll find out who you are, man."

Jesse nodded. "When you do, let me know."

The man frowned, and the sound of another train came from far off. "Stay there," Jesse told the man. "Right there until the train leaves."

The train, a local, slowed as it appeared, and the doors slammed open. Three people got off further up the platform, and Jesse stepped into the nearest car. He stood just inside the door, the gun, unseen by the few other passengers, hanging at his side. The Chicano stood glaring, unable to move, and the doors closed. The train began to move, and the Chicano, now protected by the door, shrieked curses at Jesse, who heard them only as a slight whine above the clatter of the wheels and the lurching of the car, like a wasp on the other side of a closed and locked window.

Montcalm's
face was pasty in the light of the fluorescents. He could feel sweat on his upper lip, and he covered his teeth with his lips and sucked downward to dry it. Montcalm didn't like to sweat, and he didn't like the man who stood at the sink next to his own.

Rodriguez wasn't sweating at all. In spite of the heat and the tight-fitting black suit he wore, his skin was as dry as sand, each lock of dark hair powdered into place. "And I tell you," he was saying, "it had to be your man."

"And
I'm
telling
you
it
wasn't
." Montcalm held his hand beneath the tap and splashed cold water onto his face.

"I pay you good, Roberto. Why you wanna double-cross me?"

"
Jesus
, Tony! Use your head! I mean…" He lowered his voice, squeezed his hands into fists to keep his temper in check. "If it'd been my boys, we
wouldn't've
gone after the shit, we'd have gone after the
money
. If it
was
us, which it wasn't."

"You get stuff. I give you stuff."

"Then why wipe it? If I wanted it, why throw it into a fucking train? It doesn't make any sense!"

Rodriguez's face grew very stern. "Somebody pressing you, Bob?"

"Huh?"

"Pressing. Sniffing around. Checking you out. You going chicken on me? Getting religion?"

"Hell, no! There haven't been any leaks, nobody's asked me
nothin
'."

"You're not trying to scare me off, discourage me? Because if you were, this would be the way. A way that would give you all these excuses, these alibis."

"I swear to God, Tony, I had
nothing
to do with this."

"You don't want my business, Bob? You don't want the money? Or the smack? You could just tell me. You didn't have to blow away ten grand street value of good dope."

"I
didn't
."

An old man with a battered, plaid suitcase walked into the men's room. Both Rodriguez and Montcalm glared at him with such hostility that he turned immediately and shambled out.

"I want your money, Tony," Montcalm continued. "I want your business. I wouldn't fuck it up for anything. So why blame me? I mean, you got competition, don't you?"

The suggestion enraged Rodriguez, and he shook a long, dark finger at Montcalm. "I got
no
competition, asshole! Not over there. Nobody messes with me there, so don't go telling me it's some fucking competition, all right? Now you listen to me, Bob. Maybe you're on the level, and I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, although I don't often do that. But you better make damn sure this doesn't happen again. You're the law down there, and when I make arrangements with the law I expect it to protect me, just like any other citizen. So you—or one of the boys on your payroll—you find this guy and you stop him. Waste his ass. And you either bring me his balls in a bag, or I'm gonna take my business somewhere else."

"But, Tony, it might've just been some crazy . . ."

"You're fucking right, pal. Crazy is the word. You find him, and you kill him. If he ain't your own man, then it's no sweat. If he is and you been
jivin
' me, then you're fucked. Because you're gonna have to kill one of your own. And I don't think the rest of your boys will like that a whole lot . . ."

"Tony . . ."

"But whatever happens, I'll find out, won't I? You find this motherfucker and you
kill
him, Bob. And till you do, all bets are off. No more money, no more dope."

Montcalm could feel the blood rush to his cheeks. "Look, you can't just cut me off like that . . ."

"I like dealing on your line, Bob. It's nice and safe. It used to be. You're gonna have to prove to me it still is. Get him. Then we'll talk some more. But unless you can tell me you got him, just stay the fuck away from me."

Rodriguez pivoted and walked quickly out of the men's room. Montcalm remained, leaning with both hands on the white porcelain, a sick lump in his throat. He thought of Gina, of the money in the locker that he would have to start spending to feed her habit, of the way people went higher and then slipped back, until it became harder and harder to climb any more, and he thought finally of that
goddammed
sonovabitch
who fucked it all up, that
sonovabitch
who he would find, and stop, and kill.

Butch Devlin hated to scrub tile. Actually, it wasn't the tile that he hated as much as the grout in between. Hell, the tile itself wiped clean as a whistle, and stayed smooth and cool on a hot summer day like this. Of course he couldn't know that it was a hot summer day. He never knew what the weather was like until he went home. But it had been a hot summer morning when he came in, so odds were damned good that it would be a hot summer day when he got off at five.

Despite the air conditioning that kept Penn Station at a constant comfortable temperature, Devlin yanked his handkerchief out of his hip pocket and smeared it across his damp forehead. It didn't make sense that such a little job could make you sweat so much. Or maybe it wasn't the job, he thought. Maybe it was the crack.

The thought made him edgy, and he stuck out his lower lip and rubbed the small, wiry brush into the can of cleaning compound. As he scrubbed on his hands and knees, he remembered with a combination of pleasure and guilt how he had first smoked the stuff. Mike, one of the black janitors, had introduced him to it. Devlin didn't often hang out with the blacks, but Mike was different—cheerful, friendly, not at all sullen like the rest of them Devlin worked with, the ones who made it a point to ignore him in the locker room. Mike was about Devlin's age—mid-thirties but acted like an older man, deferential to the whites. If there was mockery behind the easy smiles, it was well hidden. Devlin had never seen it.

He and Mike had talked about drugs one day during lunch break, and Devlin mentioned that he smoked grass occasionally. "Grass is okay," Mike nodded. "But you ever smoke crack?"

Devlin had heard of it, and had the impression. that it was dangerous, something like angel dust.

"
Naw
, man," Mike responded to Devlin's concern. "Ain't a thing like that shit. It's just cocaine, only you smoke it instead of snort it."

"Cocaine's too rich for me."

"Ten bucks too rich? Come on, Butch."

"Ten bucks?
You
come on. How can coke sell so cheap?"

Mike shrugged. "Hey, I don't question gifts from God, man. All I know is that it makes grass feel like
Winstons
."

Devlin thought for a moment, remembering the one time he had smoked grass that had been laced with opium, not realizing the presence of the additive until he had come down from his first toke, a whiff of magic that had sent him into what seemed like a half hour's romp through the most colorful and vivid landscape he had ever dreamed of. "Good shit, huh?”

“Dynamite. You
wanta
try it?"

They met after their shift was over, grabbed a burger, and took a train up to 155th Street. Devlin was nervous about going so far uptown, but Mike only laughed. "Hell, Butch, we ain't
goin
' to Harlem, we're
goin
' to Washington Heights! There're white guys up there, don't worry."

Mike led Devlin to a run-down apartment house, where they went around to a back stairway and down to cellar level. Mike knocked and after a minute a small panel slid back, showing a pair of white eyes set in a black face. Mike smiled at the eyes, and the door opened. Mike and Devlin went in, and Mike led the way down a long corridor past the doorman, who, Devlin noticed, had a holstered revolver in full view.

"Hey, Mike," he whispered, "what the hell is this? Prohibition or something?"

"Nah, they just like to make sure the customers don't have to worry about
bein
' interrupted. No sweat."

Devlin followed Mike to the end of the corridor, where he knocked again, and again the door was opened by a man wearing a holster and pistol. The man smiled and beckoned them in, murmuring "
Howya
, Mike?" The room was large, with several more doors opening off it. It was thickly carpeted, and comfortable looking chairs and sofas were placed in clumps centering around a smaller forest of green glass water pipes. Several people were sitting in these islands of comfort, smoking from the pipes. Lights from the floor lamps glowed dimly in the thin mist, soft music played, and a sharp, indefinable odor filled the air.

"Step right up, Butch," Mike instructed, walking to the far wall. He took out a ten dollar bill, put it into a drawer that slid out from the wall, and closed the drawer. In five seconds the drawer slid open, and Mike took from it a small vial that contained some yellow white pellets. He held it up so that Devlin could see. "The automat of dreams," he whispered, grinning. "Do it."

"Ten, right?" Devlin asked. Mike nodded, and Devlin took two fives from his wallet, put them in the drawer, and slid it shut. When it reopened, he took his vial and joined Mike.

Two hours later he had spent three hundred dollars. He had never smoked any grass that could compare with the crack. Even hash, which he had bought once or twice, was not its equal. He spent his money and didn't care about spending it, until he realized he had none left.

"Then the party's over," Mike grinned, making a gesture with his hands like a genie granting a final wish. "Let's go."

The next night after work, Mike asked Butch if he wanted to go back to the base house again. He wanted to all right, but he had no more cash. He'd purposely stayed away from the bank during his lunch hour, figuring that if he didn't have it, he wouldn't spend it. "No thanks," he told Mike. "I'm tapped out."

"Well, look," Mike told him. "I got fifty bucks. It won't last long, but we could get a couple good hits out of it."

"No man, I don't want you paying for my dope.”

“Hey, consider it a loan. You can pay me the twenty-five when you got it."

Twenty-five dollars didn't seem like much, and Mike really seemed to want Devlin's company, so he agreed to go with him. When they got there, Devlin found that he was right, twenty-five bucks wasn't much. In fact it wasn't nearly enough. So he cashed in his watch for three more vials.

It went like that for a number of weeks, until Devlin grew slowly addicted to crack. He denied that fact to himself, of course, and was finally forced to deny the drug to himself as well, as his savings account was depleted within a month. His options were simple—either stop smoking crack, or start stealing.