The Story of Junk (15 page)

Then he turns into a road that looks exactly like the suburbs. The surrounding housing projects, brownstones, and mosques have evaporated. Tall trees line both sides of the street. Otherwise, it's empty. No dogs, no strollers, no toys scattered over yards—just rows of parked cars and small houses, big lawns. Christmas lights are on every house, and not a sound from one.

“Where
are
we?” I ask. Moe answers with a word I don't catch. Most of what he says is unintelligible:
Gzeezer m'buh-buh ovah y'ar
—that sort of thing. Neanderthal.

“Dis izzit,” he says, pulling up to the curb. “Ai don' tell awn.”

Excuse me?

“He shouldn't be long,” Kit interprets. She gets him, somehow. It's weird.

“Do you see that?” she says, poking me in the ribs. “What's that about?” Moe is feeling his way across the lawn, crouching in the dark like a marine under fire. His shadow is that of an ape. He knocks on the side door of a single-story white frame house. The door opens and he stumbles in.

In the car, we snort some very icy C, compliments of Moe. “He does get good coke,” Kit says. Then we grow impatient. “I know he's getting high in there,” she grumbles. We might be sitting out here all night.

A patrol car approaches. My feet grip the floor. We stash the coke under the seat. The patrol car slows. The cops look us over as they pass.

“Be friendly,” I say under my breath and slide behind the wheel.

“How friendly?” says Kit.

We smile, give a wave. They stop.

One cop rolls down the window of his car. I do the same. “Don't tell me I was speeding, officer,” I say, girly as can be. “Everyone's been passing us by.” He's a young one, this cop, could be he just started shaving. Likes his aftershave, that's for sure.

He shines a flashlight directly into my eyes. “This your house?” he says.

“Uh, no,” I say. Brilliant.

“You ladies lost?”

“Ain't that the truth!” I let my eyes blink a few times. That still works with some guys. “We were going to a friend's house for dinner in—” Damn! I can't think of a name. I don't know Brooklyn neighborhoods. I steal a look at Kit. She's fishing in the glove compartment. What's she looking for? A map?

“Bensonhurst,” she mutters.

“We're looking for Bensonhurst,” I say. “Are we close?” The flash doesn't move from my face. He better not ask for my license. I don't have one.

“Nice car,” says the cop. “You don't see a lotta these anymore.” It's a stupid car, an old Chevy Nova, gray inside and out. An old-lady car. “Kinda late for dinner,” he says.

“Is it? We've been driving around a long time.”

He gets out and pulls something from his belt. My blood goes cold. I'm fighting for control of my mouth—my tongue is stuck to its roof.

“Have you ever been arrested before?”
Fuck all
. They couldn't have seen that coke!

“You're kidding me, right?” I say. It's a ticket book in the cop's hands. A ticket for what? Loitering? Write the ticket and go.

He leans in the window, averting the flash, looks around the car. “You sure you're not ladies of the night or sumpin'? Not waiting on your pimp in there?” He gestures toward the house.

“Aw, c'mon,” I say. That ape better stay inside.

Kit leans across me, looking at his badge. “Capoletti?” she says. “I know a drummer in the city named Capoletti.”

He points the flash at her. “Hey, yeah—that's my cousin from Flatbush! You know him?”

“Well,” she says, turning to face the windshield. “I'm in a band.”

“No kiddin'—which one?” We tell him, Toast.

“Get out! Hey, Tony,” he yells to his partner, more seasoned by the look of him. “These ain't no working girls. They're from the Toast! I seen you play! Last year. My brother-in-law took me. Yeah, I remember you now—you play pretty good. Guitar, right?” He turns off the flash, studies my face. “And you must be the singer. You're great, man. How about this! And I thought you were hookers.” Yuk yuk.

“When you gonna come play in Brooklyn?” the other cop shouts. “We like the girl bands out here.”

“There's a guy in our band,” Kit says.

“Don't listen to him,” Capoletti mutters. “He's not too hip. But I know a guy might want to book you—my cousin owns a coupla clubs over here, and in Queens. I'll give you his number. He could use a new act, and you can tell him I said so. Listen,” he says. “Can I get your autograph? For my baby sister. She's sixteen.” He opens his book and passes it through the window. “Here,” he says. “Sign one of these.”

I sign Sylph's name on a summons and hand the book to Kit. Are they watching us from that house?

“Listen,” Kit says, very buddy-buddy. “Anytime you want to come to one of our gigs, just let our manager know and we'll put you on our guest list. I'll write down his number, too.”

“Can you point us back to Manhattan?” I ask in clipped tones. The coke has me grinding my teeth.

“Yeah, yeah, sure, I'll draw you a map—hey, why not?”

The door to the house opens and Moe comes lurching out.

“Who's that?” says the cop. Moe stands there, not moving. “He with you?”

Kit leans over me for Capoletti's map. “That's our manager,” she says. Cocaine makes her quick. “He went over there to see if he could use the phone.”

The cop hauls himself back in the patrol car. “Tough stuff about your dinner,” he says. “But Bensonhurst's where you go for Italian ice. You wanna eat good, you gotta go to Sheepshead Bay.”

“Thanks a bunch,” I say. “Sure am glad you guys came along.” Kit kicks me.

I roll up the window and they drive on, too slowly, about the speed of Moe. He's moving in our direction. I roll the window down.

“Fuzzeesh?” he says.

“It's okay,” I tell him. “They thought we were lost. Let's go.”

“Uh,” he replies. “Fug.” He looks down the empty street. “Them g'zuys, man,” he says, shaking his head. “Mo' bread, y'know whu' I zayne?”

“The stuff is more expensive than he thought,” says Kit. How much more? A hundred dollars more. I groan. Shit, I'm beginning to sound like him.

“Look,” I say. “Hey Moe! Did you at least bring us a taste?” He wipes one palm with the other. Oh, right. We have to pay for it.

“This is ridiculous,” I say. “How long did it take us to get here? An hour? My people can't wait. I can't sit here and dilly-dally all night. I'm coming in.”

Moe shifts his feet, hangs his head. “Uh, don' know.” Fucking dummy.

“Whack,” he says.
What?
“They've got a gun,” he says loud and clear. “There's three of 'em,” he adds. “Okay people, bu' y'know, nervous.”

“Did you sell them some of this coke?”

A goofy smile. “Don' fly,” he mumbles. “Patience.” He slouches back to the house.

“I'm going in,” I say after a minute.

Kit says, “I'm not staying out here by myself. This neighborhood gives me the creeps. And what if those cops come back?” I think she can handle that.

We turn up the volume on the radio and Moe returns high as a kite. His smile looks triumphant. The reason: he's brought us a taste. We snort it out of the bag. It's not worth the trip, but it's late now and I have to get something—my troops will be panting at my doorstep. I order the minimum—a gram.

“They ain't gonna like this,” Moe growls, I think. “You wanna make any kinda bread, you gotta buy weight.”

I start to roll up the window. “Some other time,” I say. “Tell them it's bad form to keep a lady waiting. You hear me? Now let's go or I'll change my mind.”

Late that night, I go to Vance and cop to the truth. He grew up in Brooklyn, too.

“Shit,” he says, scratching his cheek. “You gotta be more careful.” He counts what money I have and shakes his head. “You'll never catch up to what you owe dealing piddly. You might as well get a job.”

“Never mind that,” I say. “What do we do?”

“Look, we're friends, right? I take care of my friends. I'm not gonna be hard with you girls. I'll advance you another quarter. Step on it, turn it over, and we'll be even.”

I have to acquiesce; he's got me. He pulls a video off the shelf. Marcy's mulling cider. If only I could be in the movies: I wouldn't have to do drugs.

It's six a.m. when we get home, and the world is powdered white. White inside, white outside. White. “From now on things will be different,” I say. “No more dealing from the living room.”

“The bedroom, either,” says Kit.

I'll move the business to our spare room next to the kitchen. The junk room, we've been calling it. So be it. It's been housing Betty's storage since the day I moved in. She'll never come back for it, I don't think so. She went hooking on Third Avenue, we heard. She didn't have a place to put her things. Still doesn't.

Some of Betty's things are useful. There's a nice table among them—her mother deals Early American. It'll make a good desk. I go to a headshop and acquire a brass counterweight scale—no more plastic minijob for me. I need something accurate. At a housewares store in the Village, I buy a small table to rest the scale on, a white aluminum folding number that attaches to the wall. Ridley installs it. Mr. Leather brings a black Formica sheet to place on the desktop and I get a sleek black lamp to sit on that. Next I acquire a sifter to grind the mannitol into the dope. Vance has given me a recipe. I taste it. It's slower to come on, but nothing can stop the power of this baby. I'm ready to go to work.

I work all day and into the night, when Dean comes by unannounced. “I thought I'd see if anything's happening,” he says, and I use the money for Vance's stuff to buy a gram from him. I haven't got time to go and sit through another movie; Dean's
here
. To break even, I'll have to cut the dope even more. Instead, I raise the price. Isn't this the best dope money can buy?

Okay, then. Let money buy it.

NICE GUYS

I'll say one thing for Dick: he's persistent. I can't get him out of my mind.
Someday you'll thank me for this
. It bugs me. What is he—a fortune-teller, or a cop? I hate that my fate has taken his shape. It's demeaning. Dick isn't the one I'll ever have to thank–it's heroin. Heroin brought me this. It put me under its spell. When the D.E.A. knocked, the spell was broken, and my world came crashing down. I sit here and watch it fall. Is this better than a cell with a bare bulb and a bench? I can't even tell.

That Dick. He wants to be a nice guy. He wants to understand. He's asked a thousand questions and still he keeps calling. Has anyone threatened me? Tried to shake me down? Any of Angelo's buddies? “I don't know about his friends,” I say. I don't even know about mine.

It's tough getting along in this city. Opposing forces don't always act like the enemy—most of the time they're your friends and neighbors, people of similar sympathies whom you wouldn't begrudge a thing. You don't want to believe they'd turn you in. But alliances huddle and break apart, stars rise and fall. To stay alive, you have to keep a few secrets. Half the population has gone underground just to pay the rent.

Who set me up? Dick refuses to say. I know he's just looking out for me, the way all dicks like to do. It's pathetic. Oh, Dick … Dick … Dick. He's waiting for me to tire, to slip, to give someone else away. It's bad enough one guy's gone down for me; I'm not about to send in a second string. Dick thinks I'll cave in if I have to, but I don't. I've been to a lawyer and I know.

“You decide if you want to cooperate,” the lawyer said.
Cooperate
—the very word made me wince. “Frankly,” he said, forcing a smile, “I think you've done enough. But I can tell you this,” he added quickly. “If you can stay away from your drug buddies, you'll have a much better chance at getting off.”

He looked at Kit. He looked at me. “I don't need to see them again,” I said. Kit looked over at the door.

“The less you know, the less you can tell the cops,” the lawyer explained, as if everyone knew this but me. “You want the cops off your back and the D.E.A. wants information. As long as they think you can give them what they want, they'll keep coming back for more.”

“I wouldn't want that,” I said.

“Then,” he said, “you don't have to worry.”

This advice cost me every penny I had. “This isn't drug money,” I said, when I handed him the cash.

“I don't want to know where it came from,” he replied.

“Well, I earned it,” I said.

“That's good,” he said, and slipped it in a pocket.

He didn't wear a suit, this lawyer. He dressed in a beige cashmere sweater, a pair of pressed chinos, and tasseled loafers. He'd helped a friend of Kit's escape a smuggling charge two years before. He was a deal-maker, rich and relaxed. Judges knew him well; politicians too. He'd never lost a case. Like Dick, he didn't make any promises, except for a day in court. “Until then,” he said, “just stay honest.”

“I'm honest,” I told him.
I
believed it.

“You did break a law.”

“Look at me,” I said. I was dressed up and sweating. “Do I seem like a criminal? What good would it do to put me in jail?”

He folded his hands across his chest. “You've been lucky so far.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Lucky.”

I once knew a guy who went to prison for a murder he didn't commit. He was given a life sentence with no chance of parole. He kept himself apart from the other prisoners, refused to be lumped in with convicts. “I'm not a killer,” he always said, “so I can't be a convict.” He was in jail fifteen years before a judge finally agreed. I got caught red-handed and here I am walking away. There can only be one explanation: I am not a criminal.