Five pieces of jade

CHAPTER 10

Yumeko admitted him with concern plainly written on her face. Part of it was certainly for the missing houseboy, but it was likely that an equal amount reflected her worry that she had incurred Tibbs' decided displeasure. "I am so sorry,*' she said before he could speak. *'I did not tell; it was entirely my fault. I think so much about Mr. Wang that I forget Chin Sool"

Then, to Tibbs amazement, she held out her arms to him.

No gentleman could refuse that except under drastic circumstances. Virgil gathered her in and pillowed her head on his shoulder. He was acutely aware of the shaking of her body, of the acid tension that was racking her. He had held girls in his arms before, but never one who was not completely of his own racial background. He was not prejudiced, it was simply that he had never been able to shuck off the drastic inhibitions that had been implanted in him during his years as a boy in the Deep South. To him, at that moment, Yumeko was Japanese. The fact that half of her heritage was the same as his was subjugated and he remembered only that she had been bom and raised in a foreign culture.

"Please, you will forgive me?" she asked.

For a moment he wondered if she were using her femininity to enlist his sympathy. Then he felt again the trembling of her body and knew that her question was genuine. "Of course,*' he said, and then forcefully held her at arm's length. He studied her as she looked up at him and he wished fervently, at that moment, that she was not involved in a murder investigation and one of the prime witnesses, if not a suspect, in the unhappy affair.

*'I think that you'd better tell me all about it," he said.

Yumeko continued to look at him. "I have made a little food; will you sit and eat with me?"

He had forgotten about dinner. To accept would be an-

other breach of police ethics and he knew it. "If you*d like," he answered. "But I want to know all about Chin Soo."

"Please to sit down." Yumeko gestured toward the living room. "It will be only a few minutes.*'

She came to the door after a scant five minutes and let him into the dining room. She had set two place mats and a small, intimate meal was waiting in basic Japanese style-a number of different items each presented in a small bowl. There was no evident main dish as in Western dining. Tibbs sat down, imfolded his napkin on his lap, and recalled the time that he had prepared to have lunch in the kitchen of a converted farmhouse that served as the headquarters of a nudist resort.

A candle stood in the center of the table, but Yumeko did not light it. They helped themselves in silence for a few moments, then the girl began to explain. "When I come here Chin Soo was houseboy to Mr. Wang. I do not know how long he was here, but for a while anyway, because he did not act like he had newness. Mr. Wang spoke to him many times, always kindly, but Chin said little. I do not under- ^ stand what they said, because they speak in Chinese." |

"Chin was from the old country, then? I mean, he was not a Chinese-American."

"That is so, he was from Hong Kong, I think." "Good. Go on."

'When Mr. Wang was made dead I have shock, I did not notice that Chin Soo was not here. His room is upstairs in the back of the house, so at night I never see him."

"One question. Did Chin Soo ever seem to be-^fond of you?"

Yumeko lowered her eyes. "I do not think so. Mr. Wang did not encourage this and Chin Soo saw too clearly what lam."

For a little while it was quiet, then Yumeko continued. "I tell you now all that I know. Mr. Wang secured for me a position. I did not wish it, but it was his desire that I not live here all day, that I go outside and see people." "I think he was right," Tibbs commented. "Because it was his wish, I went; from the first day of work I came home to find. ." She did not want to finish that sentence. "Chin was not here also, but that I did not think about. Then for a little while I think that he ran away because he was scared. But when he did not come back, then I called you on the telephone."

Virgil ate some spinach, which ordinarily he did not par-86

ticularly care for, but the kind that Yumeko had fixed was delicious. "How old is Chin?" he asked. "He has, maybe, twenty-five years." "Is he taU?" "No, you are more." "Is he a strong man?"

"Not to be unusual. I do not think that he killed Mr. Wang with the knife, it would be too hard for him. Also Mr. Wang was very good to him. He was very good to everybody."

Tibbs was content to let things rest at that point for a little while; he finished his meal without again referring to either Mr. Wang or the missing houseboy. Instead he tried to put Yumeko at ease and at the same time to probe for anj^thing that she might have forgotten to tell him. It was not until she had cleared away the food bowls and had brought in tea that he reopened the principal subject. "Yumeko, did Mr. Wang ever say anything to you that suggested he might be facing trouble of some kind?"

*That is yes," she answered. "He said to me that there were evil spirits, but he did not mean that as it sounds, he meant that there were real things, things like evil spirits that were bothering him."

Virgil, now fully alerted, asked, "Did he say anything else, Yumeko?"

"He said also that the wind does not always blow out the candle, even if the flame is. ." She could not find the word.

"Meaning that it was weak?"

"I think so."

*Teebler

"No."

*'Faltenng?"

"Yes, that is so! That is the word he said." She looked relieved that her language inadequacy had been overcome.

"Was he seeing a doctor?"

"I think not. He was old, but for a man of such age and small build, he was not weak-not faltering."

"It was something else then-something from outside."

"I think yes."

"Have you any idea what it was?"

She shook her head. "I do not know. He never told me, and myself I see and hear nothing."

Ideas were beginning to form in Virgil's mind. "Yumeko," he said. "I want to ask a favor of you. Could we go into the jade room?"

She rose quickly. "Come, please. It is good that you are with me."

She led him into the rear of the house, unlocked the door with a key that was already in position, and turned on the lights. The chalked outline that had been on the carpeting was no longer there. Despite this last piece of cleanup, the presence of the former owner still seemed to hang in the air; Tibbs understood why Yumeko did not care to enter alone, and why she would probably continue to feel that way for some time to come.

"I'm trying to learn a little about jade," he said, "but the pictures in the books don't help a great deal."

She looked at him. "You like the jade?" she asked.

"Yes, I'm beginning to very much, but right now I want to learn certain things about it for another reason."

She understood. "I will help you. I myself do not know a great deal, but Mr. Wang is teaching me." She stopped abruptly and out of the comers of her expressive eyes twin tears began to roll down her cheeks.

Virgil stepped forward, folded his arms around her again, and patted her gently on the back, letting her recover herself while he remained quiet and waited. Even at that somewhat strained time he was intensely aware of her attractions. Then, reluctantly, he let her go.

It didn't make matters any easier when Yumeko looked up at him and said, "You are very good to me."

He swallowed and found his proper voice. "Explain to me about the jade."

Yumeko located the set of hidden keys and unlocked two of the cabinets. "In China they do marvelous work in many different stones," she explained. "Of these the best is jade, but also very good is rose quartz, rock crystal, lapis lazuli, and some others. There are also softer stones like serpentine and Bowmanite that are made into carvings; they look like jade but they are not real. Sometimes they are called *new jade,' but it is not so."

"I understand that there are two kinds of jade."

"That is so, Virgil. Nephrite, it is real jade, for a long time it was the only jade. Then they find a new stone, also beautiful and very, very hard. It comes from Burma in a small place and is called now jadeite. I shall show you."

From one of the cabinets she had unlocked she took out an immensely complicated carving of a vase surrounded by entwined stems and flowers. It was all one piece, milky white in color. Quite casually she handed it to Tibbs, taking it off the small, carefully carved wooden stand which obviously had been made to hold it alone.

"Please to examine," she invited. "Do not make upside down, for the lid of the vase is loose and it is all hollow inside. This is very difficult to do. It is a real vase and it can be used as one. But it should not be done; it is too valuable for that."

Somewhat gingerly Virgil held the remarkable carving in his dark brown hands and studied it. The man who had made it had been a true artist as well as a master of the technique of working one of the hardest and toughest stones known to man. He could not begin to estimate how many weeks and months of patient labor it had taken to create this unquestioned work of art. He was in awe of it and understood without question why it was so expensive.

"It is not always that jade is green," Yumeko said. "It is found in almost every color, even black. The Chinese say that there are one hundred colors of white jade. That is mutton fat that you have-it is a very good kind."

When he had finished studying the valuable piece she took it from him and handed him another. It too was largely white, but there was also in the stone a suggestion of a very light and delicate green. The carving was of two Chinese women poling a boat; the wooden stand on which it fitted had been shaped to suggest waves and the texture of water. 'This of the two sisters is jadeite," she explained. "It is harder than nephrite, rarer, and even more expensive. But it is also most beautiful. Do you have knife?"

"Yes," Tibbs said.

"Try to scratch it, you cannot. True jade is harder than any steel, so no knife can make even a small mark."

Virgil studied the carving he held, one which had been done halfway around the world by a man whose name was unknown, since all jade carvings were anonymous. "Yumeko," he asked, "do you have any funeral jades here?"

She looked at him, a little surprised that he was aware that such things existed. "Sometimes Mr. Wang had them, but not very often: he did not like. Jade for him was things beautiful; funeral jades are from tombs, sometimes made to bury with the dead for him to enjoy in the next world or to show his wealth, sometimes smaller ones to cover and fill the holes in the body."

"I'm studying about jade now," Tibbs said. "I will have to be careful or I will fall in love with it and I can't afford that."

"It is not always so expensive. Sometimes we have pieces for only maybe seven, eight hundred dollars. All are jade; sometimes people sent to Mr. Wang carvings that were very beautiful but not jade. He would not sell them except maybe to Mr. Wu who knew also that they were not real jade."

Virgil stayed for more than an hour, sensing that he was not wearing out his welcome, studying the many carvings that the room contained. He had not realized how many there were, they were so artfully displayed. He actually began to calculate if it would be at all possible for him to acquire a piece of his own someday, then he forced the thought out of his mind; jade was for those in the higher brackets and that was not a description which ordinarily applied to policemen, even top-ranking ones.

"Yumeko," he said when he was preparing to leave. "Did Mr. Wang import anything but the jades themselves? Was anything else packed with them?"

She shook her head. "His furniture, I think, it was made in Taiwan, but it came here many years ago. Otherwise he import nothing but jade. I think he have friends in many places in the Far East; they find for him real jades and send to him from places like Taipei, Singapore, and Bangkok. Never from Red China, for he did not like that place, even though it was his homeland."

That was interesting information if true. "You are sure about that?"

"Yes, very sure. Nothing ever comes in from the communist places: Mr. Wang would not buy pieces from the red people. Even though he had some of his own family people living in China, on the mainland."

Satisfied for the moment, Virgil thanked her once more for her hospitality and her help. Then he went to the door and, without lingering, took his departure. He drove straight to his apartment, let himself in, and then picked up his phone. After dialing he waited only a few seconds until Bob Nakamura answered. "Listen," Tibbs said, "I'm going into L.A.; I may be on to something. Feel like an evening on the town?"

"Why not. Where are you?"

"At home. Do you remember the outfit you wore when we staked out the bowling alley last month?"

"Right. Forty minutes OK?"

"Don't rush, we've got all night."

Virgil hung up and then walked thoughtfully into his bedroom. As he began to change his clothes he considered what he had learned that evening and how the pieces of the problem were beginning to fit together. From his closet he took out a pair of well-scuflfed workingman's shoes, faded blue jeans, a shirt that had nothing left of its pride and only part of its original substance, and a worn cloth jacket that had never had more than minimum pretensions.

Carefully he laid aside the well-tailored suit that had cost him almost a week's pay and put his neatly shined shoes on the floor in the corner. He stripped down to his shorts and then put on the old trousers and the shirt, which was worn dangerously thin at the elbows. When he had completed his dressing he looked completely the part of a Negro laborer, and his manner began subtly to reflect his new role. His mind was no longer on the case for the moment: he was living again some of the days he had spent when the type of clothing he now wore represented the best that he had had. That had been many years ago, but their memory remained acute and he could never purge them completely from his mind. It was not acting, it was a regression to a seventeen-year-old who was only eleven years past the shock of discovering that he had been bom a mutation of the majority who inhabited his country and that for the rest of his life he would remain one.

He mixed himself a whiskey and soda and drank it slowly, mapping his plans for the remainder of the evening and the night. He left the bottle out and set a fresh glass beside it to await his partner's arrival. Bob was not much of a drinking man, but tonight liquor on the breath was almost a necesity. Or if not that, at least very much in character. He felt better after the highball and made himself another; he was just finishing it when the doorbell rang.

Bob Nakamura presented a different picture. There were few Japanese-Americans who ever appeared disreputable, but many of them earned a living from the soil and dressed accordingly. The transformation in Bob's case even included grime under his fingernails and a faint odor of perspiration which clung to his garments. "What's on the program?" he asked.

"The narcotics beat, but we're not out to make buys. I { want to know what's going on. If we have to buy, we do, i but we're not after the pushers. Actually I don't think that I there's too much junk around."

"I've heard too that it's tight. Anything else?" "Yes." Virgil motioned toward the makings of a highball. "Help yourself. This is to go no farther, but there may be a new drug out on the street. Something particularly dangerous. Even worse than horse."

Nakamura looked up, bottle in hand. "Worse than heroin?"

Tibbs nodded. "A synthetic, leave it at that. Just don't take any; don't even sniff it if we run across some."

Bob looked at him. "Virg, do you realize what you're saying?"

"Yes, I do. There's strong evidence that it's connected with the case I'm on."

"Is it addictive?"

*'Extremely so."

Nakamura dropped into a chair. "Good Lord."

Virgil lifted his own glass. "Now you know what we're up against."

Bob thought for a few moments. "Does LAPD know?"

"I presume so-the Bureau will have put them in the picture."

"Was your Mr. Wang peddling this stuff?"

"That's one of the things I'm trying to find out. When you're ready, we'll start."

"Two minutes, I need this drink now. I brought a car, incidentally, in case you need one in character. I picked it up from the dealer lot; it's a nine-year-old Chevy, but it runs better than it looks."

"Good." Tibbs picked up the phone again and called the night-watch supervisor at police headquarters. "This is Virgil," he reported. "Bob Nakamura and I are going into town. Would you advise the LAPD that we're coming into their jurisdiction? We expect to be on the street most of the night. We're going to 1212 South Alvarado, after that to the Central Market area and then South Central."

"Will do. Do you expect to need any help?'*

"If we do, we'U ask for it."

"Do that. I'll pass the word to room 321-it is narcotics you're on, isn't it?"

"Right." Virgil hung up.

"By the way," Bob asked, "why are we together?"

"We're in love," Tibbs answered.

"I always did think that you were kind of cute.'*

Virgil aimed a mock kick at him and then set down his glass. Together they left the apartment, climbed into the ancient car that Bob had borrowed, and headed toward the freeway.

After passing the four-level intersection Bob continued to head south on the Harbor Freeway until he reached Olympic. 92

There he turned off and headed west, past the headquarters of the All-America Karate Federation which Virgil knew so weU, and on to Alvarado where he turned south.

The California state facility for paroled narcotics offenders had once been a motel; it still looked so like one that hardly a night went by without someone driving in looking for accommodations. What had been the guest rooms were now occupied by men, three or more to a unit, who were free to accept employment during the daytime and who paid a minimum price for their beds and food. Many of them had long histories of addiction; several had been through the agonies of withdrawal many times. What there was to be known about the narcotics scene was hkely to be known there.

When Tibbs and Nakamura arrived they were expected; one of the parole officers was waiting for them. "What can I do for you, gentlemen?" he asked. He knew who they were and the appearance they made had no effect on him.

"I'm on a murder investigation," Virgil told him. "It has a narcotics angle, but we're not out to burn anyone for that, not this trip anyway. I need information."

"Billy Lester might be able to help you."

"How do you want to work it?" Bob asked.

"Go on into the office, I'll send for him."

Some five minutes later Billy Lester appeared. He proved to be a tall, rangy Negro, well past fifty and sporting a trimmed beard which had a suggestion about it of a Spanish cavaher. He came in and seated himself, completely at his ease. "Boss man tells me you kinda want to know what's goin' on," he said.

"That's right," Tibbs acknowledged. "We're not out for the pushers or the junkies this time round. It's something bigger."

"You after the importer hisself?'*

Bob Nakamura shook his head. "Murder," he said. Lester understood perfectly; explanations ended at that point.

"What you want?" he asked.

Tibbs walked over to the soda machine, fed in coins, and extracted three drinks. He passed them around and then took a long pull of orange before he answered. "We'd like to know how things are."

Lester crossed his feet. "Man, they ain't good. You ain't heard?"

"No, tell us," Virgil invited.

"Well, all of a sudden the junk-it's gone. Just a little bit

left. When it's used up, if no more comes in, then the panic's on. You know what that means-no junk anywhere. That's when the junkies start hitting the drugstores, looking for doctors' cars, and go for paper. Some of 'em are pretty cute when it comes to faking symptoms so's they can get a prescription. But if they make it, it's only one fix. A lot of 'em will hit the hospitals if it gets really bad; put in for the cure. Anything but cold turkey: man, that's hell!" ^

"Maybe you haven't heard," Bob said. "There was a big bust late this afternoon-about six. Down toward Watts. They got more than five kilos, in bulk."

Lester looked startled. "Man, that's bad news! I'm off the stuff myself, but that was probably the last stock in town. It's gonna be bad, real bad," He shook his head.

"Billy," Virgil said, '*you heard, didn't you, that four junkies were DOA in two days?"

"Sure, I heard. Some say they got hot-shotted-^the stuff was too good and they went out right there."

"In one case that was probably it," Tibbs told him. "The other three were different."

Lester finished his drink and set the bottle down. Then he leaned forward and spoke more softly. "I know what you mean, the word's out It was the new stuff, wasn't it?" Virgil nodded. "I think so."

"I told 'em," Billy continued, "but that's the trouble with junkies-let something new come along and some of 'em's gonna try it just to be sure they ain't missin' nothin'."

"Like fruit salad," Tibbs suggested.

"Yeah, that's it, mix up all the pills in a bowl and then everybody take two or three just to see what you get. Some awful funny things come out of that. But the new stuff, man I don't want none of that."

"Whaf s the word?" Bob asked.

Lester didn't hesitate to answer. "If you get it right, man, you fly-higher than anything else that's ever been. I know a couple guys who tried it. They're just living till they can get some more again."

"Think it's going to catch on?" Virgil asked. Lester stared at him. "What do you think, man-course it is! Some junkies, they don't care what happens so long as they get that big lift. And with the new stuff there really in the sky. I ain't never had none, but they say it's like the first time all over again, only bigger and better."

"I'll give it to you straight," Tibbs said. "We know what 94

it is. If you get hooked on it, there's no out. Then, if there isn't any more, God help you."

Slowly Lester inclined his head. "I hear you talkin'. I been there and I don't wanna go back. I've fixed once in a while, but the steady stuff is out."

Virgil knew that the chances of that being true were limited, but it wasn't his immediate concern. "Thanks," he said to Lester, and shook hands. Then he nodded to Bob and together they went back to the borrowed car.

"Where to?" Nakamura asked.

"Let's try the Central Market. If we can't hit there, then we'U pretty much know what the score is."

"Do we buy?"

*'Yes, if we have to. I've got some funds. If they offer us any of the 'new stuff,' we buy that too."

Bob started the car, drove out, and headed north. "Do you want to fill me in?" he asked.

"You've got most of it already. The main item is that the new narcotic seems to be pretty closely tied in with the Chinese gentleman who got himself killed on my beat. The problem is: everyone that I've talked to has given him top marks for sterling character."

" Tor ways that are dark and tricks that are vain, the heathen Chinee is pecuUar,' " Nakamura quoted. "There's some limited truth in it, despite the fact that it's as racist as hell. He could have conned everybody."

"By a lengthy process of incredible logic and almost inhuman deduction, I was able to reach the same conclusion," Tibbs said. "Incidentally, his houseboy's disappeared."

"Well that could be it!. . I'm sorry, I've been like this aU day. Is anybody looking for the houseboy?"

"We are-among other things."

"I think I see a faint glimmer of light." Nakamura kept quiet while he threaded his way northward through the downtown and the largely Spanish area where the block-long Central Market was located. There he parked the car, not too difficult at that hour, locked up, and joined Virgil on the sidewalk. "You call the signals," he said.

"How many people can teU the difference between Chinese and Japanese?" Tibbs asked.

"Damn few, particularly among the Caucasians."

"All right, the missing houseboy, whose name is Chin Soo, is your cousin. Not brother, somebody might know better, but cousin is hard to dispute. That gives us a legitimate reason to be interested in him. "

"And why do we think that he might be down here?"

"Because he may be involved in the dope flow that seems to be centered about Wang's home. The old man could have been involved himself, but there are some reasons to doubt that. That leaves two possibilities, the girl Yumeko and Chin Soo. Chin took a powder three days ago."

"I can see why it would be very interesting to interview my young cousin. Have you any angles?"

"Yes, but first things first. I want to find out what the scene is."

Together they began to drift, looking into the coffee and doughnut stands, apparently window-shopping even where the stores were closed. Gradually they made their way eastward south of the Little Tokyo area, working toward Main Street and its missions, sex-oriented theaters, and hock shops. In this environment Virgil let his shoulders droop slightly forward and moved his feet with a suggestion of a shuffle. Bob Nakamura was more self-effacing, as though he had not been in the country too long and was still slightly afraid of his environment. Many times, when they encountered someone alone who appeared to be on the street like themselves, Tibbs asked if he could make a connection. When he did, his speech intentionally reverted to the black English of his boyhood; the r's disappeared and the heavy slur that it had cost him so much work to eradicate returned like a mother tongue. He knew that the typical Negro speech of the South marked the black man more surely even than the color of his skin. Those who got rid of it usually prospered; those who could not were assumed by the Caucasian majority to be lacking in intelligence, whether they said so or not.

His appearance, his manner, and his speech made him simply another Negro on the street, seconded by a slightly confused Japanese who was probably a homosexual. And they were addicts, as well they might be. But every time they found what might have been the right man, they got only a shake of the head.

While Virgil carried on alone, probing into the alleys and the dark entryways, Bob walked the several blocks back and retrieved the car. In it they drove south, down Central Avenue into the completely black area marked by a wide mixture of businesses, nude bars, vacant storefronts plastered with obsolete election posters, and billboards which flashed the smiles of Negro models and celebrities promoting products and services.

On foot once more, and shadowed by his apparently docile partner, Virgil tried to make contact with the retail narcotics market. Ordinarily it would not have taken him too long; the Los Angeles Police Department was seriously understaffed in its narcotics division and without the additional manpower that it needed, it faced an almost superhuman task. A high priority went to the school campuses where addictions were spawned, but even that vital function was curtailed by lack of funds. But the lack of adequate surveillance in itself could not account for the almost total absence of any of the usual traffic on the streets. Time after time Tibbs tried, but whenever he made his approach, he received nothing back but silence and sometimes blank stares.

"How much longer are we going to keep trying?" Bob enquired.

"Until I get something specific; I knew it was going to be tough."

"Just wanted to know," Bob said. "I can stay with it as long as you can."

At the end of the block they were on was a closed theater; when they reached it just beyond they found a small knot of young blacks whose business, whatever it was, was their own. When Virgil saw them he did not hesitate. While Bob appropriately hung back, he walked up slowly, knowing that he would stop whatever conversation was going on. Silence greeted him as he joined the circle.

He looked around the group, apparently a little bit in discomfort, and then asked, "Hey, where kki I make a hit? I gotta get it real bad."

No mimic could have done it-^the difference would have been apparent to those who listened-but by his voice, more than anything else, he convinced them. Not all, perhaps, but one lanky youth of about twenty answered him. "Man, where you been?"

*Travehn'," Tibbs answered with proper vagueness. "We got in little while ago. I need it, man, he'p me!"

Again he was subject to casual but intense scrutiny. Then one of the group nodded toward Bob. "Who dat man?" he asked.

"He's ma frien'," Virgil let his eyes flutter slightly as he said it and they read him.

"He don' belong here," someone said.

Tibbs responded properly; he drew himself up a little, but not too much, and repeated, "He's ma frien'."

The lanky young man took over. "You in trouble, man,

deep trouble. You ain't heard. They ain't nothin', nothin' at all."

Virgil's eyes searched in different directions, as though they could seek out a reprieve from that statement "They's always some," he protested. "Ain't nevah dried up."

With a casual movement of his hand the youth invited him to follow. Virgil did so as Bob, apparently hesitantly, tagged along well behind. Walking with almost maddening slowness the young Negro led them behind the theater and down an alley. Tibbs was unafraid; he sensed that he had been accepted on short acquaintance and if the party got rough, he could take care of himself. Bob too was far more qualified than his somewhat dumpy figure suggested. Neither of them was armed; the clothing that they wore was not suitable for concealing any kind of an adequate weapon.

Their guide apparently was unconcerned about who they might be; he led the way farther down the alley and then stopped before a small detached garage. It was a clapboard affair, built to minimum standards behind a house that was steeped in neglect. It had once been painted, but the color was so far gone it had faded into nothiugness. The tall youth pulled open one side of the split door and pointed inside.

The floor was covered with dirt and ancient leaves. In the comers some worthless items had been haphazardly stored. But the thing which demanded attention was the man lying, face down, in the litter. He was clothed ui an old pair of jeans and a shirt which he had half torn off his body. If he was even aware that the door had been opened, he gave no visible sign. His body was steadily rolhng back and forth, interrupted only when he kicked his legs violently as though some unseen creature was trying to seize them iu its jaws. His hands were across his face, protecting it in part from the debris in which it was all but buried. As he ceaselessly rolled and twitched, he kept up a constant, chilling series of subdued cries and moans. As Virgil watched he turned over and began to roll on his back, revealing the mask of sweat that covered his face. His eyes were alternately wide open and squeezed tight shut, as though they too shared the agony that racked his body. His rolling, twisting movements never ceased as his body fought to find some nonexistent position which would offer it a modicum of relief.

"You know what dat is?"

"I know," Tibbs answered. "Cold turkey. Man, he needs stuff awful bad." 98

"Yeah,'* the man who had brought him answered. "I know. He's my frien', and I ain't got nothin' to give him. So he's got to take it, Hke mebbe you too by tomarra'. So ifn I ain't got none for him, what for you?" Then he fell silent and watched his friend, aware of his unanswerable argument.

"Mebbe a doctor?" Virgil suggested.

His guide shook his head. "He can't take another bust The Feds, they doin' it to him 'cause they grabbed all the stuff." The seeming injustice of that caused him to tighten his thick lips and for a moment his fists clenched.

"If'n I had some junk, I'd give it to him," Tibbs said.

The lanky youth shut the door, consigning the man inside to his fate. "He ain't the only one. All over town. You know what a panic is?"

"No junk."

"Yeah, no junk. Well, man, we got us a panic. There ain't nothin', so you're shit outa luck. Unless you want to try the new stuff; that might help ya."

Virgil rolled his eyes wonderingly. "What dat?" he asked.

They emerged back onto the street once more. "I dunno, it's sumthin'. Ya might get hot-shotted; ya gotta take a chance."

Tibbs grabbed him as though in mild desperation. "I wan* it," he said, "I wan' it bad! Where kin I get it?"

The youth shook his head. "You gotta find the Chinamen," he answered. "They got it."

"An' what's it called? I gotta know that!"

The young man shook himself loose. "Jus* ask for jade dust," he answered.