The Story of Junk (18 page)

“Soon?”

“Well, I'm working right now—”

“Please, can't I send my friend? I can't even describe how awful this is.”

“Isn't there someone else you can call?” There has to be someone.

“Not Belle,” he says. “Please don't tell her, okay? I know this is a hard thing to do. I wouldn't ask you but … I'm asking.”

“Can I call you back? I'm sorry, I can't talk right now. I'll try to come see you later myself.”

“Not too much later, okay?”

I hang up and turn back to Belle with a shiver, spilling the dope in my hand on the table. Some of it falls to the floor. Belle moves to catch it, her eyes meet mine. “I'll get it,” I say. But I don't.

She sits back in the chair. “What's up?”

“This guy,” I say, busying myself at the scale. “Friend of a friend, has AIDS. I think he's dying. Wants some of this,” I tap the table, “to die with.”

“How awful,” she says, her mouth active, her breathing long. “This horrid disease. Deeply sad. And frightening. It's not always possible to know what you need to about a person, is it? And always to remember where you've been—there are so many reasons one might not want to.”

“I suppose we ought to get tested,” I say.

“I suppose,” she concurs, and purses her lips. “Have you heard anything about Honey?”

“I heard she had her eyes done.”

“Well, I heard she has HIV.”

“Why would anyone say a thing like that?” I feel my temperature rise.

Belle lays a hand on mine, the hand now holding the dope. “Because of that guy,” she says, in her fill-in-the-blank way. “You know who it is. The one who made that devotional movie, what's it called—?”

“
Thrill Sucker?
”

“That's the one. He died the other week.”

“Did Honey have an affair with
him?
”

“I don't know, I didn't ask. I think she shot up with him or something.”

I never know whether to slap Belle or give her a hug. I hate her for telling me this.

“This is a drag,” she says with a shake of her head. “Can we not think about it anymore?” She asks if I feel like a movie.

No, I say. I have to think about this. It's not going to go away. The first time a guy with AIDS came here and asked to use the toilet, I wanted to refuse him. Let him sit on my throne? I knew kissing didn't kill, but those lesions on his ass—I didn't know about
them
. I let him use the toilet but I scrubbed it down afterward with bleach. I felt bad doing that, but I just didn't know. The next time he called was from a hospital bed. He had the dementia and I couldn't make out a thing he said. I think he wanted me to bring him dope. I didn't want to go near him.

“I don't blame you,” says Belle. She looks ashen. I'm beginning to think drugs don't affect her well. She does them for fun but they get her so
down
. I wonder why she keeps it up.

“I hardly do drugs at all,” she says, her eyes falling again on the dope. Tell me another one, I want to say, but I don't get the chance. “I'm too occupied trying to work out how to make money,” she tells me. “Even you seem to have figured it out.”

Even me?

“I realize you're making a living at this, but it's not what you were meant to do.”

Whoops. She's hit an open wound. “I'm writing,” I say, avoiding her gaze. “Every night after business. I can hardly keep myself in notebooks.”

“That's all right, then.”

No, it isn't. What I have in my notebooks aren't quite stories, or ideas. They're more like swallowed cris de coeur, the scribbles of a mind in half-light. “I'm not especially proud of what I'm doing,” I say. “But I couldn't stay in any job.”

“Then you have to stop.”

“It's not so easy.”

“It's going to get you in trouble,” she says. “You'll get sick.”

“Yeah.” I stare at the wall, thinking of Bill. I know I won't call him back.

“Look,” Belle says, anxious to change the subject. “I hate to ask you but … well, you couldn't get some of the other thing?”

“Sure, I could.” She's talking about cocaine. Belle never calls drugs by their names. Too specific.

“Can you get it tonight? An eighth?”

“No problem,” I say. Brooklyn Moe should be available.

“I'd ask Honey,” she confides, “but her thing hasn't been so good lately—and please don't tell her I said that.”

“Like I said, no problem.” I do my best to dredge up a smile.

“I wish you were selling
it
instead of this,” she says, packing up to go. “This stuff is so low-class. By reputation, I mean,” she adds quickly. “The way it makes you have to live—you know.” She takes a quick parting hit off the dope, gives me a self-conscious look. “I want you to promise you'll never sell to my son.”

This is a problem—a conflict of loyalties. He's already been here several times.

“He'll pressure you for it, I know,” she goes on. “I'm not entirely sure he's interested in drugs, but I have reason to suspect. He may have got involved with a junky girlfriend and I don't want it to become an issue. Can you promise?”

I promise, but a knot forms in my chest. As soon as Belle leaves, I take a quick hit, too. Dear Belle … Poor Bill. If I had a prayer, I'd say it. If I had a heart, I'd beat it.

RICO

It's the middle of April when I hear from Rico again, calling from Sticky's office. This is awkward: Kit has never wanted him in this apartment, I can't see him. I say, “Want me to come over there?”

“No … Ah, no. Can't talk. Explain when I get there.”

“Rico's coming here?” says Kit.

The phone again—Rico. He doesn't have the address. “Kit there?” he says. “Okay, good.”

The next call is from Lucky. He's managing a rock club in midtown now. Somebody famous must be playing there tonight, unannounced. This happens now and then.

“Did you hear?” Lucky says.

“No, what?”

“I'm just going to say this the way I heard it. Sticky's dead.”

“What?” I hold my breath.

“He OD'd last night.”

“My God, no. At the joint?”

“No, he was home. One of the kids found him.”

“I can't believe this.” Sticky, an OD?

“Believe it. It's terrible. I just called to say, watch out for the wife. That Angie. She's telling everyone he got the stuff from you.”

“That's ridiculous!” Am I shouting? “I haven't seen Sticky in months.”

“I didn't think so,” Lucky says, his voice steady. “But watch out. She's got a
mouth
, that one. She could make
trouble.
”

“She's full of shit.”

“You know that and I know that, but other people think other things.”

“Sticky OD'd,” I say to Kit when I get off the phone. She's in the kitchen, putting on hair dye.

“Is that why Rico called?”

“I guess.” I can't say more. I choke up.

When Rico arrives, he makes for the office as if he's been here a thousand times. “You okay?” he asks, giving my shoulder a nudge.

“Not really. You?” His face is drawn, his skin sallow, his hands never at rest. They tug at his clothes, scratch his legs, rub his nose.

“It's been a weird day,” he says with a sigh.

“So I hear. Lucky told me.”

“Yeah, shit. You holding?”

I put out a line. Least I can do. How many has he given me?

“How is this stuff?”

“You'll see. What's all this about Angie?”

“Oh. Angie, yeah. That's why I wanted to see you.” He takes out a hanky and hocks up a good one, picks up a straw and vacuums the line whole.

“Can't you shut her up?” I ask.

“No one can shut that bitch up. That fuckface. I knew it was a mistake for Sticky to marry her. She's a goddam two-faced fuckin' bitch.”

“He was in love with her.”

“I know, I know. Damn! If the Down hadn't killed him, she would have. Did.”

“She didn't force it down his throat. She wasn't even living there.”

“No, she was. She went back.”

“She was there when it happened?”

“No, of course not. Out somewhere with her mob friends.”

“A boyfriend?”

“I don't know! I don't know nothin'. Sticky's dead, that's all I know. The service is tomorrow night.” He gives me the details, the time, the place. “You comin'?”

“Of course.”

“Maybe you shouldn't.”

“I have to.”

“Maybe you should sit in the back.”

“I don't have anything to feel guilty about!”

“I know, I know. But Angie—”

“She won't be the only one there. Must've been some rotten street shit Sticky copped.”

“Yeah, sure. Listen, what I came to tell you—”

“Something else?”

“Your phone. I think it's tapped.”

“Come on.”

“No, really. I checked it out. There's something wrong.” He lays a hundred bucks on the table. “Let me buy some of this off you, okay?”

While I'm weighing it out, he tells me there's a number you can dial to check the phone line for bugs. Repairmen use it. So do cops. He gives me the number, says not to write it down. We dial. If it rings busy, I've got trouble. If it beeps, the line's clear.

It's busy.

“You think Angie dropped a dime?” I ask.

“I don't know if it was her, but she does know … people. You get into this business, you can piss people off.”

“My people aren't pissed. My dope is beautiful. My life is beautiful. My packages are divine. When my people leave here, they go happy.”

He takes another snort. “When was the last time you saw Sticky?”

“Come on, Rico! It wasn't me.”

“Okay. I was just making sure. Things can happen. Don't worry about the phone,” he says. “I can have it fixed from the office. I know this guy, y'know, he works downtown, for the city. You know. I'll ask him, he'll take care of it. But stay off the horn for a while.”

When he leaves, Kit takes his chair. She's overheard the whole conversation. “I don't get why you believe anything Rico says. You know he's crazy.”

“I guess.”

She looks thoughtful. “You really used to have sex with him? He's so fucked up.”

“Well, he used to be more attractive. Anyway, he had cocaine.” I take out a couple lines of D. Kit lifts a set of works from a drawer.

“You don't even like coke.”

“Okay. I got off on him.”

“You're weird.”

She thinks this is weird? Wait till she hears about Ned.

Ned is a boyfriend I had in college. I met him one day when my roommate left for class. He'd spent the night with her. In those days, Ned was living for his dick. I guess I was too, for a minute. We never really got along, except when I blew him, except when I licked his ass. He never complained about that. I would. To him, I was nothing but a drive-in window. He's been living off women as long as I've known him, never even had an apartment of his own. I don't know why I let him keep coming around. So what if he has good pot? Pot? Give me a break. I never told him I'd moved on to dope, he wouldn't get it if I had. On top of all the other indignities, he's a square.

Ned's been here a few times when Kit happened to be out. I've said nothing about it to her; he's been dropping in on me so long, it seemed more normal than disloyal. I want to put an end to it once and for all, though Ned does have a magnificent dick and Kit has none of any kind. Doesn't matter. He doesn't know what he's missing. He'll find out. When I played him Kit's records he wanted to meet her. He promised to come over later. I tell her about it now.

She gags. “I'm a monogamous person,” she says. She can't live with the knowledge I'd have sex with anyone else, even if it's a man, even if the man is Ned.

“Monogamous? What was that with me and you and Betty?” I ask, then I drop it. Not fair.

I make Kit a promise: no more sex with Ned. That feels strange. I've had other boyfriends and a girlfriend or two, some were lovers, some housemates, but I was never with them for the long run. I never thought I'd have a long run. Now here I am with Kit, for however long time will tell, doing what our bodies tell us, dressing in each other's skin—the skin of the High House of Heroin, in the mythical Land of Grim.

On the next night the phone still rings busy when I dial the secret number, and I know: it isn't Angie who put the heat on me; it's Rico. He resents me, and Kit, doing this, living here, I can tell. That business about fixing it for me … he fixed it all right. It was Rico.

I go to Sticky's funeral with Pedro and Mr. Leather—the first time since we met I've been anywhere without Kit, not counting when she was out of town. When I reach the chapel, I'm glad Kit hasn't come because the first person I see is Betty. She's with Angie, of all people, and she doesn't look good.

Betty gives me the evil eye. We don't speak. Angie couldn't be nicer. She even apologizes for that nasty rumor about me doping Sticky, though I'm sure if Betty has her way, I'll never hear its end.

At the restaurant after the service, drinks are on the house. It's a sad occasion, but I'm strangely giddy throughout. Mr. Leather is deep in his cups, jerking his head to the music playing. He's had a letter from Big Guy—sorry, he meant to tell me. In all the excitement, he forgot. The letter is postmarked Hawaii, and includes a note addressed to me.

It's a warning. Big Guy is glad I quit Sticky's, the atmosphere's so unhealthy, but it pains him to know I'm still dealing. He's heard about Duke and Earl. I should get out while I can—please, get out. He's clean now, he says, and he misses us.