Needle (37 page)

71

“Get down here,” Perry said to me in a tone that I always hated.

“Fuck you!”

“Come on, dude. I need you to run to Angelina’s for me.”

“Forget it.”

“Please! Hurry up and catch the train and I’ll pay you back when you get here,” he said as he was beginning to sound desperate.

“Get it yourself,” I told him.

“I can’t.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because they’re watching me like a hawk.”

“So what,” I said as the threat of being declared medically noncompliant never deterred him before.

“You don’t understand,” he said. “They actually have a security guard posted in the hallway right outside my room. It’s way too risky. Come on, man—please! I’m beginning to get really sick.”

“Then just swallow your fucking methadone for once.”

“They’re cutting back on the dosage and it barely even takes the edge off,” he said.

“Perry, you’re gonna have to let it make do.”

“I can’t. I traded it to this guy across the hall for a big bag of weed,” the liar finally admitted.

“You’re
definitely
more fucked-up than I am.”

“I know. Please come down here.”

“Listen, I don’t even have enough money to get there,” I told him. “You’re gonna have to rough it out until I can find a way to sell something.”

After angrily hanging up the phone, Perry shut the door of his room and proceeded to get dressed. A few moments passed before he cracked it back open and peered down the corridor at a patrolling hospital guard. It was 11:30 a.m., and as lunchtime was fast approaching Perry knew the guard would be temporarily leaving his post to grab a sandwich.

By 12:30 the guard did leave, and without a moment’s hesitation Perry darted out of the room, down the staircase, and out of the hospital through a service exit going completely unnoticed. He then flagged a cab heading downtown and arrived at Angelina’s within minutes.

The boutique had been out of hairclips and nail polish for quite a while, so after selecting a silky, purplish-looking scarf, Perry brought it to the front of the store.

“Give me two,” he said in a hushed voice to a dope dealer manning the register.

“Be careful, papi,” the dealer cautioned him. “It’s hot out there.”

Not overly concerned with the warning, Perry grabbed the dope and scarf and headed in the direction of Houston Street.

Although once again the dope purchase went unseen, Perry was in the wrong place at the wrong time as the police were about a half-a-block away busting dealers that were fearlessly operating in the street. Unfortunately, since Perry had already been a guest at the local precinct on two occasions, his face and tendencies were well known to narcs patrolling the area. As a result, when they caught sight of him they had a feeling he was there for one thing and one thing only and of course, they were right.

As Perry turned onto Houston he suddenly felt a firm grip on the back of his neck.

“Hey dickhead!” said a voice with an all too familiar ring. “Nice of you to drop by. Get your hands against the wall.”

“Ah Christ,” Perry said as he looked back in disgust to see one of the cops that had attempted to bust both of us near Ming’s Dynasty in April.

“Where’s your fuckin’ boyfriend?” asked the officer as he pushed Perry firmly against the wall of a building.

“He died.”

“Well then I guess you should be thankful we got to
you
in time.”

This was going to be a bad scene. Unless he was able to talk his way out of the predicament, Perry was about to be arrested for the third time in six months and the fourth time in less than a year. With those numbers it was quite likely that after seeing the judge, he’d be spending 30 days at Riker’s Island for being such a stubborn junky.

“Come on, man—give me a break. I’m supposed to be in the hospital right now,” he pleaded while brandishing his catheter. “I’ve got a really fucked-up heart.”

“Don’t worry about it—we’ll send you back with a note.”

Perry thought his medical condition would save him, but the cop either didn’t believe the seriousness of the situation or didn’t care. Regardless, as far as Perry was concerned, there was absolutely no way he could afford to get arrested…and I suppose desperate times call for desperate measures.

“Hey listen,” Perry said as he was being searched. “What if I tell you who my dealer is?”

Note, I said
desperate
—not moronic and self-defeating.

“I don’t think we need your help,” the disinterested cop told him,
obviously dismissing the offer as insincere or not of any real value. “In about two minutes he’s gonna be sitting right next to you in the van, anyway.”

“Not
my
dealer. He’s too smart for you stupid fuckers.”

That definitely raised the cop’s level of interest, and about a millisecond before he inquired further with a punch to Perry’s midsection, the rat started squealing.

“WAIT-WAIT-WAIT, I swear!!! Look at the dope in my wallet. There’s no stamp on it.”

One common feature to every bag of dope in the city is that each had a stamp identifying the operation that provided it, and most of the bags in this part of town were marked with the image of a skull and crossbones and the word, “POISON” appropriately emblazoned beneath. Bags of dope originating from Angelina’s, however, were completely and uniquely
unmarked
.

As the cop found and inspected the bags, a light bulb, though not fully lit had at least begun to flicker. Unfortunately, his partner, apparently much less impressed with the discovery had proceeded to usher Perry into the van.

“Oh come on, man!” Perry squealed as he was led away. “Fine, go ahead! Lock me up and you know what’ll happen? I’m gonna come right back down here tomorrow for two more bags and a fuckin’ blouse!”

“Wait a second!” said the first cop who was still pondering the unmarked bags. “What did you just say?”

“I said I’ll be back tomorrow for more,” Perry repeated.

“No, dickhead—I mean the blouse. You said something about a blouse.”

Now Perry
knew
he had him, which sparked-up a bit of belligerent bravery.

“Yeah, a blouse! Preferably purple to match the scarf you just knocked the fuck out of my hand,” Perry said. Actually, the scarf was more of a deep lavender but either way, that bulb was now burning with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns.

The now intrigued cop removed the cuffs and then pulled Perry to the side as he officially became a police informant—giving away the greatest, safest, dope-dealing operation the city had ever known, just to save his own miserable ass.

“Listen,” the cop said. “If you’re telling me the truth and we make a bust, I’ll send you a page on your little beeper there, and you can
come pick up part of the seizure for yourself. And then we can continue to do business together. But if you’re lying to me, you’re gonna be the sorriest motherfucker there ever was because when I find you—and
believe me
, I
will
find you—I’m gonna slap these fucking cuffs right back on those skinny, little, junky-wrists. Only this time we won’t be loading you into a van. You’ll be getting on a boat. Catch my drift, motherfucker?”

I’m not sure whether I was more shocked that Perry had become a police informant, or that the cop couldn’t come up with something a little more original than throwing his puny body in the river. Regardless, when I finally heard about the boneheaded betrayal I was more than a little miffed.

72

By the middle of October and over the course of three weeks and four recording sessions, I had managed to complete two more vocal tracks while Perry remained fucked up, in the hospital, and strapped to an IV.

The routine was always the same. Each week I would head into Manhattan to score at 125
^th
Street, bring Perry his share of the dope, and then proceed to the studio where—if scheduled to sing—I would act responsibly and refrain from using until the session concluded. And by carefully managing a drug regimen consisting of almost daily but alternating doses of heroin and methadone, I was able to remain high on
something
while convincing myself that I was physically addicted to
nothing
. Whether or not this was actually the case I haven’t a clue because I never ran out of drugs, as Perry kept me stocked with meth and I would usually find a way to raise the funds necessary to replenish my stash. On one occasion, I sold my father’s sapphire ring. Over the course of several others I would relinquish the expansive collection of books that I’d accumulated during college.

Unexpectedly, upon hearing the recorded fruits of my labor for the very first time, my mother was actually impressed enough to ignore the fact that I remained unemployed while continuing to live under
her roof. And, incidentally, though she was somewhat upset by the bartering of my books for “spending money,” she was hardly affected by the fact that my father’s ring was now sitting in a pawn shop in Harlem.

On October 15
^th
, I returned to the city to record vocals for two songs that Perry had escaped from the hospital to work on the previous night. Of course, I would first have to provide him with a care package of dope, so after exiting the train I walked over to a dealer on the corner of 125
^th
Street and Lexington Avenue.

“Give me a bundle,” I told him.

“I’ve only got four bags left,” he said. “Take these now and I’ll go re-up.”

We made the exchange and I then pretended to wait for a bus. I stood there pretending for almost fifteen minutes, and as I allowed a procession of busses to pass by I began to feel as though I was attracting attention. In Manhattan, you rarely wait more than a few minutes for anything, especially a bus, and because it was a weekend with few commuters milling about—I felt especially conspicuous. I decided to make do with what I had, at least for now, and descended to the subway knowing that I could always make a stop at Angelina’s later.

When I arrived at Lenox Hill, Perry was in his usual, reclined, and medicated position.

“I was only able to get you two bags,” I told him as I tossed the dope onto his bed.

“That’s not enough.”

I noticed he was beginning to sound a lot like Matt.

“I’ll stop at Angelina’s on the way to Fast Trax and bring you some more later,” I said.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have a feeling the cops are watching them, or they may have been raided already.”

“How do you know?”

“I ratted them out.”

“YOU WHAT!?!”

“I had no choice,” he said, and then explained the circumstances surrounding the awful betrayal.

“I can’t believe you did that,” I told him as it felt like my heart had been ripped in half.

“I couldn’t help it,” he said. “If I got arrested I would’ve ended up at Riker’s.”

“Big deal? You should’ve taken one for the team you stupid fucker! I would’ve.”

“Sure you would’ve,” he responded. “Get the fuck off my back.”

“Yeah, I’ll get off your back until I get busted…you fucking rat!”

“Stop being such a pussy,” he said. “You still have 125
^th
Street and I’m sure you’ll learn to live with it. Besides, the cop promised me some of the stash after they bust the place.”

“So what! It wasn’t worth giving up a safe place to score for some free dope and a quick fix.”

“Just listen to yourself,” Perry said. “You’re not thinking like a junky.”

“I’m thinking like a junky that doesn’t wanna get busted you fucking moron! What the fuck were
you
thinking?! You’re a selfish, stupid, rat-motherfucker, Perry, and once again you’ve managed to—”

At that point we were interrupted by a knock at the door as the hospital nutritionist had stepped in to inquire about Perry’s lunch selection.

“Good afternoon Mr. Ward,” she said. “Today you have a choice of either baked chicken or tuna casserole.”

“Sorry ma’am,” I interjected. “Mr. Ward is now restricted to a diet of lettuce and cheese.”

With that, I stormed out of the room in a blind fury. After returning to 125
^th
Street for the rest of the dope, I took the #6 downtown to the studio and completed the tracks that were expected of me. I then got myself completely loaded in the bathroom as I thought about Perry and the new development.

What a spineless, rat-fuck
.

I was beyond upset and just couldn’t get over it; however, I realized I would have to shelve my anger and attempt to make peace if we were ever going to successfully see things through. So, before heading back uptown to give the coward his dope, I decided to stop at a pet store for something to raise his spirits while he was still in the hospital, though, given his disgusting behavior he hardly deserved it.

“Here’s your dope you fucking rodent,” I said to him after making it back to his room.

“I can’t believe you’re so pissed off.”

“
I
can’t believe you’re so stupid.”

“Here you go you big pussy,” he said with a stupid grin as he handed me a lavender scarf. “Keep it… as a memento of Angelina’s. You’ll feel better.”

“That’s so weird.”

“Why?”

“Because I have a present for you too,” I said as I tossed him a plastic exercise ball, complete with ‘oversized air vents and rounded foot-treads to ensure comfort.’ “Actually, it’s designed for hamsters, but I’m sure you’ll
learn to live with it
…you rat-face fuck.”

73

I stepped outside the building for a cigarette and realized I had about an hour to kill before the next train would be departing from Stamford. I had dedicated the better part of the morning to drug-fundraising by selling several text books to the University of Connecticut, and though Perry and I had an ample supply of dope—I decided to stay on task and head into the city to score, anyway.

“What’s up?” a voice suddenly said from behind.

I turned to notice a fourteen or fifteen year-old boy lighting up a smoke. At first glance, he seemed much like the other overindulged, snot-nosed kids seen wandering around the malls of Stamford, wrapped in Ralph Lauren and armed with their own lines of credit.