The Story of Junk (27 page)

“I'm sorry,” I say.

“Well,” she says, “I'm not going to worry about it. If I have to, I'll move to Italy—I don't care. I love Italy. Okay if I come over?”

Around eleven, I hear from Claude Ballard. Can he and a buddy stop by? I want to say I'm not open, but Claude's a good friend now and I can't say no to a friend. Besides, he's a famous artist. You just don't say no to the famous.

Claude strides past me, leading a tall dark man who introduces himself as Fred. This guy's a beaut. His black satin skin fits over his cheekbones like a sheet pulled taut on a wire rack. No problem having
him
around. His eyes sparkle at the sight of me. Can't help but like the guy. I'm just not in the mood for company.

“Where's Kit? She here?” Claude asks, taking a peek in her studio.

“Not right now,” I say. She's over at Bebe's getting us some coke, been gone more than an hour. Nothing unusual.

He's spotted a couple of her photographs hanging on the wall. I really ought to have one of his paintings, he says. I'd like one—his paintings appeal to me—but my cash is always tied up and his prices have gone beyond anything I can afford. Besides, I won't trade anything for drugs. I already have all the TVs, VCRs, air conditioners, and cameras I ever wanted. I have my books. I pay for my drugs in cash, so should everyone else.

“I don't trade art for drugs, either,” Claude says, screwing up his nose. But he'll trade something for one of Kit's photos. He doesn't mind trading art for art.

Come to the studio, he says. Pick something out. Sure, sure, I say and weigh out his gram. Wait, he says. Just a quarter, okay? I wonder what's going on.

They want to get off in my kitchen. That's a surprise. Thought Claude was a snorter. Shit, what a day.

Since we're alone, I tell them okay. Fred ties off first, boots it up. Claude can't find a vein. Finally he pushes the plunger. His eyes fall back in his head. His color changes, his mouth droops, his knees buckle, but Fred catches him before he falls.

Oh, Jesus. This can't happen here. No way.

“Hold him up!” I bark. “Hold him, I'll get ice.”

I pull two trays from the freezer but I can't get the cubes loose. Fred snatches one of them from my shaking hands, slides it upside Claude's neck, but he can't hold the ice there and keep Claude on his feet, the body's slipping. Fred drops the ice, it clatters to the floor. Claude's lips are already blue, his limbs flaccid, his eyes lost.

“How could he do this?” I say, complaining as I help Fred move Claude's body to the shower stall next to the kitchen sink. We force him in and turn on the cold. The minutes tick by, each a nail in his coffin.

“He hasn't been getting high,” Fred gasps. “He just came back from Hawaii. Had a cure.”

Great. Doesn't he know what kind of stuff I sell? Stupid, very stupid, shooting up God knows how much when you've got no tolerance, when you're practically clean. How am I going to explain this? Will I have to call 911? I envision the cops blowing in the door. Wait—me, call the cops? Am I insane?

“Fred,” I say, swallowing hard. “We've got to get him out of here.”

“I know.”

“He can't stay here.”

“I know.”

“Conscious or not, he's gotta go.”

“I know. I'll take care of it.”

“How?” I ask. How is this babe going to “take care of it”?

We back Claude out of the shower, the minutes tick by. His arms and legs flop like damp rags across his body. There's no expression on his face at all, no joy, no pain, no anger. Nothing. Fred embraces him from behind, grips him across the chest. We go on trying to revive him, to walk him, but nothing we do moves him back to life.

Tears well up in Fred's eyes, his face a mask of fear. I go cold, then hot, then cold again. I force my head into calm, think
think
. Then it hits me: saline. Saline shot.

“I know what to do!” I shout. “Hold him. Talk to him. Walk him,” I say. “Don't let him fall.”

“Claude?” Fred pleads, his voice a whisper. “Claude, can you hear me? Don't die on me, buddy. For Christ's sake! Claude? Oh, man.”

“Shut up, Fred!” I shout. I'm at the sink, dumping salt in a spoon. “He's not gonna die. He can't. We won't let him.” If I say it, maybe I'll believe it.

“You think it's too late?”

“Just hold him, okay?”

Shit shit shit—I can't remember the proportions! How much salt to how much water? Do you cook it or not? Fred doesn't know and I can't remember. My brain fights my fear. I don't know what I'm doing. I have to fake it. Fake it? This is no joke. My hands quake. The salt spills over the spoon onto my shoes, there's salt all over the floor. I look over at Claude. He's gone. He's gone.

I load the syringe, the one he's just used. Fred holds him upright. I get on my knees beside them.

I can't find a vein. Claude's arms are so smooth. The clock is ticking. I hold my breath and poke his arm. No good.

“Try again.”

I try again. Zilch. I give up on the vein, push the point into muscle. Fred is still holding him from behind. Now he stiffens and shakes Claude up and down, trying to shake him out of it, madly shaking, yelling Claude's name. He feels for Claude's pulse, listens for a breath. Nothing.

“That's it!” I say, too loud. “You've got to go, Fred! Get him outta here.” I move to help.

“I can do it,” Fred mumbles, dragging Claude's body toward the door. The goddam door. I want to pull it off its hinges.

“I'll call 911,” I say. I don't want to, but I will. I know cops come along with the ambulance, but Claude is famous, after all. I better do what's right.

I make up a story in my mind as Fred drags the body through the door. “You haven't been here,” I say. “If the cops happen to come, I don't know you.”

“I understand,” Fred says, not looking at me.

“Don't worry,” I say. “He'll come around. Just get him in the air. It's air he needs now. Okay?”

We heave Claude onto the stairs. Fred's got his head and chest, I toss over the legs. I can't stop trembling. I hear the clock ticking. “You start down,” I say in a rush. “I have to clean up. Then I'll come out to help you.”

Fred wraps one of Claude's arms around his shoulders, grabs his waist, starts bumping down the stairs. I run back in and shut the door. No time to breathe. I dump the needles in the toilet. But the dope, what am I supposed to do with that? I can't just smoke it all and I can't simply flush it. I can't. It's not paid for.

Shit, I didn't get their money, either.

Make the call! Make the call! I shout at myself. Slowly, don't know why I move so slow, I dial 911. When someone answers, I start in. “There's a man passed out in the hall,” I say. “He might be dying. Heart attack or something. Drunk, I don't know. He looks bad.” I give the address and a phony name and number. “Hurry,” I say. “He might be dead.”

I stash the dope in three different places, wipe up the floor. The place is a mess, straws everywhere, mirrors, razor blades. Damn, the spoons! The blackened bent spoons. I throw them in the sink to wash them, but I can't get them clean, can't unbend them. Those bent stems say it all. I bury them in the garbage. What about the scale? I have to put it
somewhere
. Clock is still ticking. I lock the scale in a file drawer, then consider what might happen if I put the dope in a trash bag and drop it down the airshaft. Minutes pass. Minutes pass. I hear nothing. Funny how the phone doesn't ring.

Half an hour goes by and nothing happens, no one comes. Finally, I open the door, step out on the landing, lean over the rail.

I don't get it.

I go back inside and dial Claude's number. Fred picks up. “What happened?” I ask. “Where's Claude?” I hold my breath.

“He's here,” Fred tells me. “He's fine.”

“He's
fine?
”

“He woke up a minute or two after you went inside. All of a sudden, just snapped awake.”

It's the salt shot, I think. It worked. It
worked
. I did the right thing.

“It must have been the salt,” I say. “Took a while 'cause we didn't put it in his vein.”

“Yeah,” says Fred weakly. “I guess.”

“Did the cops come?”

“Yeah, they came, but we were sitting on the stairs by then.”

“What stairs?”

“Your stairs.”

“The inside stairs? Not the stoop?” I'm almost screeching.

“Yeah, the stoop. I told them we'd been to a party, that someone must have spiked Claude's drink. All they did was laugh. They asked if I wanted an ambulance, but we got a cab instead.”

“They didn't ask whose party it was?”

“Yeah, they did. I told them I didn't know, exactly. That I stopped there to bring Claude around.”

“Good,” I say. Fred's a good guy.

“You gotta tell Claude what happened,” I say. “Or it'll happen again.” Does Claude realize I saved his life?

“He doesn't know anything happened.”

“You have to tell him, then. I don't think I can.”

“Yeah,” says Fred. “I guess.”

“I'm sorry,” I say. “But you know … you know the situation here. I can't risk the cops.”

“I know. It's okay.”

I hang up and make myself a promise:
no one
is going to shoot up in this apartment ever again. No one, not even a celeb. Especially not.

I used to count myself lucky because I'd learned how to make drugs work for me. I had them in my employ. I used them to govern my world. Always, I stood in it alone. I longed for a companion. I imagined it would be Death. To addicts, death is a plaything, a fascinating friend. Alive, it's us against the world. Die, and we join the ranks of millions. I see it happen every day, and I don't even have to leave the house.

Time for a vacation, I think. I have to get out of New York. I want to get away from this junk, from junkies, from myself. This room, this dark little room … this holed-up existence, this
dark
. The walls are closing in, there's no light in my eyes. Every time I open the door, I feel a shadow cross my soul. So when Angelo stops by at two and asks if I'll make a run for him to Thailand, I accept, without a thought.

THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE

Thailand, the Golden Triangle, the dope-smuggling capital of the East. Angelo's not coming with me. He's sending his brother, Mario, instead. I've never met Mario, and won't until we leave. “I'd feel better,” I say to Angelo, “if I knew I was going with you.”

We're in the office, counting money. No, says Angelo. He can't go. There are too many stamps on his passport. He shows me. It's falling apart, every page covered with visas, yellow, red, green, black, blue: New York, Tokyo, Hong Kong, Bangkok, Los Angeles, Paris, Milan, Honolulu, Bali, Bangkok.

“A collector's item,” I say softly. He's been making these trips for years.

“Too long,” he says, rubbing his chin. He has to lie low awhile. He puts out a couple of lines.

“Okay then,” I say. “Me and Mario.”

No, he says, we need another mule to carry the dope. Do I know anyone we can trust? I know Kit would go, but someone has to stay behind to take care of the business and I guess it'll have to be her. Oh, well. I can hear her moving in the kitchen, just outside the office door. She talks about a woman, another musician in an art band, who's carried several times before, Amsterdam to New York. She's not a regular user. This one smuggles just for the money. Mary her name is, Mary Motion.

She's a big-boned woman, tall, with droopy dark-blond hair falling over her pear-shaped face. Her eyes are honest brown, her mouth thin, kind of serious. She looks perfectly normal and doesn't ruffle easy. I hire her.

Angelo is happy, especially when I tell him the deal I get on our excursion-fare tickets, New York-Tokyo-Bangkok-Singapore-Tokyo-New York. Funny how this was the one thing I would never do; now I can't wait to leave. It's a dream come true: the best dope in the world at the lowest price. At last, after all these years sitting in this chair, I'm going straight to the source.

I buy a Southeast Asian guidebook, to study the local customs. Opium, it says, is growing in the hills. Watch out for tribal warfare. I feel my eyes shine.

Angelo says each of us can keep an ounce of the total we'll carry. “Maybe you can sell some of mine,” Mary Motion proposes.

“Maybe,” I tell her, “but I think I'll have my hands full.” I'm to hold two o-z's for Angelo; the rest I'll sell at the usual price. By now I owe him big, several thousand and climbing, more than this nickel-and-dime business can pay a woman with a family of four: Kit, myself, and our two growing habits.

Angelo peels the large bills from the roll I've given him, lays them on my desk in a stack. “For the tickets,” he says. I don't count it.

The night before departure, we meet with Mario at Angelo's East Side hotel. I tell them yes, I have the tickets, the itinerary. Where's the money for the stuff? Mario smiles and pats his belly, shows me a moneybelt. It's full. So is his belly. He's a little on the plump side, this Mario, about thirty-five, round and jolly in the face, thin sandy hair brushing his ears, a few inches taller than me. His eyes are the lightest of blues. He bears no resemblance to the dark, ringlet-haired bantam who is Angelo. Hard to believe they're brothers. Mario's not even much of a doper. A schoolteacher, he says. Three kids at home.

I ask where we go to make the buy. Mario knows the way, but he seems a little dim; Angelo draws him a map. Mario keeps it with the cash. Like Mary, he's doing this for the money, the easy money—the stuff there's never any of. I need money, too, but for me this is more about the dope. We do a few lines for the road and I go home to pack. Angelo's leaving town, too, leaving the country. He doesn't say where. He'll call me. He doesn't say when.