Shoot It Again

CHAPTER 8

Riding the subway again gave me a slight sense of security. It wasn't only the protection of the crowd—being on the go always was my tonic. There wasn't any Robert Parks in the phone books, but I found a listing for his lawyer, Maxwell Wyckoff. On the off-chance he hadn't been hospitalized yet, I wanted to see Robert: I needed money—eating and room rent dough. I'd given up on the idea of moving to Europe: soon as the police learned I was Stanley Collins, all ships and planes would be checked. Hell, now I couldn't ever return to my hotel room, cash in my open boat ticket.

Later for Europe—and poor Syd.

There was another reason for seeing Parks: only one way I could contact the syndicate—or even Mr. Ping, if he'd stand still long enough to listen to a proposition before silently blasting away—was via a junkie. A user could put me in touch with his pusher, who could do the take-me-to-your-leader routine until I reached somebody big enough to buy what I had in my duffel bag. Robert was the sole hophead I knew and there was a strong possibility he'd been snowing me over in Villefranche, had been on the junk here. Certainly —if he wasn't in a hospital—Parks would have made some sort of dope contact by now: his habit would have forced him to.

Sitting in the reception room of his Wall Street office, I glanced at a fascinating copy of the Law Journal. Wyckoff didn't even ask me into his office —he came out to the reception foyer. “Yes, Mr. Biner?” he asked, a look of distaste on his round face. He shaved too often—the area under his double chin was blotchy.

“I've misplaced Robert's address and he isn't fisted in any phone book or...”

“Young Parks entered a private hospital yesterday. He can't be visited for several weeks.”

“What hospital? Lexington?”

“I'm not at liberty to divulge that. What is it you want, Biner?”

“Can you give me his mother's address?”

“I'll have to know exactly what you wish to see her about, first.”

“Well... when Robert asked me to be his nurse on the trip home, he agreed to pay me. In the excitement of my sudden leaving, I didn't bother to ask for my... pay, and then, at Idlewild, you took him away abruptly. It happens that the sale of one of my pictures, which I was counting on, hasn't come through and I can use the...”

Wyckoff walked over, pressed the elevator button. “Mr. Biner, unless you leave immediately, I shall be forced to call the police. Blackmail is an ugly...

“Blackmail?” I cut in, boiling. “I want the money he promised me! Returning to the States so suddenly has upset my plans.”

“Biner, you're either crazy or stupidly brave to have come here. There's one aspect of Robert's mess which has never been satisfactorily explained to me, nor to his mother. Robert went abroad a clean, sensitive youngster—within a matter of weeks he returns a dope addict, his life wrecked. While I am aware you allegedly rescued him from the clutches of hoodlums, I also am aware Robert would never have mixed with such lice if he hadn't met the wrong type of people abroad. I feel certain some... uh... Beatnik, like yourself, put him on the narcotic path. Now, you come around asking for money, which smacks of blackmail.” The elevator door slid open behind him. He jerked a fat thumb at it.

Furious, I yelled, “Is this the thanks I get for risking my life to rescue him from a mess—in which he involved me! I never saw Robert in my life until he arranged to have my passport stolen! Have me arrested—I'll sue the hell out of you!”

“I accept that risk. Now, either you leave this second, never attempt to contact Mrs. Parks or myself again, or I shall phone the police. The choice is yours.”

Really feeling like a whipped cur, I stepped into the damn elevator, punched the main floor button.

Walking uptown, still sweating with anger, I didn't know what to do. I needed a room, a place in which to lay low for a while, to think... and I had less than thirty bucks in my pocket. Passing a cheap bar north of Canal Street, I felt sick with hunger. Buying a late paper I went into the bar, took a roast beef sandwich from the food counter over to the bar, ordered a beer. The bartender was an antique with the map of Ireland on his pale, veined puss.

Eating the sandwich, I glanced through the paper—nothing new on the killing, no mention of my name. When I ordered a second brew, the barkeep said, “Sure a scorcher today. I see you've been to the beach. Many people in swimming?”

“Yeah.” It was nearly six p.m. and the bar was empty except for a wino at the other end, staring up at the old movie on the ceiling TV, as he munched pretzels and nursed a drink.

The bartender thought making small talk was part of his job. Placing a beer in front of me he said, “Mister, I notice by your tan you're no stranger to the beach. Don't see many folks taking care of their health these days. I say folks have lost faith in each other, in God. What do you say, mister?”

“What? I say you're a 100% right,” I mumbled, my mind a whirling blank. I dropped a dollar on the bar. “Give me a straight bourbon chaser.”

Two women came in, sat at a table near the door. The bartender made no move to serve them. Both wore cheap, long-sleeved print dresses, looked in their late twenties. The younger had a swarthy face, chunky figure. The other dog was scrawny all over. Quickly casing the bar, the women talked to each other in a gossipy whisper.

Drinking the whiskey slowly, hoping it would relax my brains enough to let me think, I felt depressed as could be. “See you know how to drink, mister,” my gabby bartender said. “I swear, nobody even knows how to get an honest toot on any more. Great saints, all they do now is throw the stuff down their throat, become vomiting drunk. Main trouble with our world, no longer any honest values.”

“Aha.” In the dirty mirror running behind the bar I saw the chunky bimbo turn, look my way. It was hardly a compliment—against the wino I was obviously the best catch. She had a weird face—the make-up put on in hard, definite lines.

Turning to see what I was watching in the mirror, the barkeep snorted, “Of course you know the kind of women they are?”

I nodded again, wishing he'd shut up, wanting to be alone, thinking hard. The whiskey warmed my belly, and that was all it did.

“Mister, in my work I seen whores, honest women in their own way. Misfortune forced them to peddle their hips, but at least in the old days they accepted their fate, gave a man what he paid for. Whores today, like Lucille over there—ain't misfortune which makes them take to the street: they do it to support their needle. A habit...”

“Wait a minute...”

“... a habit they could break with any true will power. But with the crooked values of today, who knows of will power? Docs say smoking causes cancer but the companies advertise more than...”

“Hold it: the stocky one is a junkie?” I managed to cut in.

“Indeed she is. The new curse of the poor and the damned, dope. Opium ruined the mighty Chinese nation hundreds of years ago. Same is happening to us today. I see young punks who...”

My brain slowed down as he chattered on. I turned and looked directly at this Lucille, put on a small act. “You sure she's really a dope addict, bartender?”

The map of Ireland broke into a snort-laugh. “Been hooked for over a year. Three cap gal.”

“Cap? What's a cap?” I asked, playing along like a straight man.

“Fix, a shot of dope. Means she needs three capsules of the stuff a day. Lucille's an educated one too, could be a nice sort.”

“But she looks so... healthy,” I said, to be certain. “I thought they were all sickly, nervous?”

“Mister, you haven't been around. Just as well— the Devil's playground is overcrowded as always. Notice she's wearing a long-sleeved dress in all this heat? Arm is full of dark marks where she shoots the evil into her soul. Looks okay now, probably had her shots. But see them when they're in need of a fix—they look like death eating a cracker. I...”

“What's her drink?”

“Scotch and milk. I...”

“Take one over to her table, please. Give the mutt with her whatever she laps up, too.”

The map of Ireland rubbed his rummy nose, very disappointed in me. He made two drinks, waited until I'd paid for them, before waddling over to their table. When the girls turned to glance at me, I motioned for Lucille to come over. Instead, she coldly shook her head, turned her back to me as she sipped the Scotch. I strolled over to the table and she said in a warm voice, “Listen, don't ever snap your fingers at me like calling a pet pooch. I keep thing on an even level—a business level.”

“Fair enough,” I said, finally sitting at their table: I didn't want to get hooked for any more drinks.

Her scrawny friend showed a row of dirty teeth as she said, “Me, I don't mind being finger-snapped.”

“Maybe some other time, dearie,” I told her, turning to Lucille. Despite the bad make-up job, she had wonderful eyelashes, like fine feathers, and her facial structure at close-up was full, unusually strong. “If you're open for business, let's go.”

She gave me a cold look, then grinned, all her face getting into the act. “Got yourself hot and excited out at the beach, buster? Going by your tan, you must live on the beach—be hot all the time.”

I stood. This Lucille sat for a moment, then slowly got up and stretched, really a feline gesture. Taking her purse, she said, “See you, Bea. Come on, eager, I'll take the starch out of your pants.”

Reaching the street she said, “Since we're in business, it's fifteen bucks.”

-"I'm interested in the rest of the night.”

“Well now, that's the kind of executive talk I like to hear. A whole night costs sixty bucks.”

Shrugging, I took her arm. “Where we heading for?”

“I have my own pad—for all night Johns. My name's Lucille.”

“Tony.”

We turned into a side street and pulling her arm away, she pointed to a small tenement on the other side of the block. “See that house over there? Red one, next to the stinking grocery shop? Apartment 2F—which cleverly stands for the front apartment, second floor. I'll walk ahead. Wait a few minutes, then walk right in, like you belonged. Okay, Tony?”

Examining the dusty window of a shoddy liquor store for a few minutes, I wondered if I was about to be mugged—decided I had to chance it. Crossing the street I casually walked into a narrow hallway smelling of stale foods, up wooden stairs, and in the dim light made out a crudely lettered 2F. Lucille opened the door before I knocked, wearing a dirty negligee. I stepped into a living room/kitchen, plainly furnished—including, to my smug surprise, a full bookcase, and a cheaply reproduced Degas print on one wall. In the other room I saw the large bed, open door to a tiny bathroom.

I rested my duffel bag on the table; Lucille came over and kissed the side of my cheek, awkwardly pressing her body against me. I grabbed the sleeves of her negligee as she whispered, “The money, Tony, sweet.”

Pushing the robe up her arms, I saw the main vein in her left arm an angry purple, surrounded by faint scars and skin bruises. Pulling her arm away, she said, “Come on now, Tony—some green stuff.”

Holding her left wrist I asked, “On junk, Lucille?”

She yanked her wrist savagely away, right hand caressing my hips, the sullen face alarmed. “Cop?”

“Nope.”

Staring up at me with bold dark eyes, she shrugged. “You're big... but not cop-beefy. You're not packing a gun and I never saw a dick with hair pretty as yours. You a user, too?”

“No.” Pulling a chair over, I sat down, blocking the door.

She suddenly giggled. “What's the matter, no hot hurry-hurry to bed now?” Turning on a table radio she began dancing, the robe billowing out to show solid thighs. Lucille moved with heavyweight grace. “Tony, I must have the money in front. You understand?”

“Relax. I've a business proposition for you...”

“Fat stuff, what the hell you think you're pulling? I want my sixty bucks—now!” Her badly painted face was an angry mask.

“Get me a saucer and stop the lip. I may give you a hundred times sixty dollars.”

“A saucer? If you think you can con me into a freebee...”

“Get it and shut your goddamn mouth!”

While she did a hippy walk to the sink, took a saucer from the shelf above it, I dug down into the duffel bag, under the towel. Opening the plastic pillow case, I removed a pinch of heroin. Dropping the white powder on the white saucer she held out, I zipped the bag shut, punched the towel firmly on top of it. Lucille's big eyes traveled from the plate to my duffel bag. “Great God, that full of horse?”

“Uncut stuff.”

Taking a single grain on her red pinky nail, she shoved it up her nose and sniffed. For a number of long seconds nothing happened: then her face flushed, the inside of the nostril turned a raw red, Lucille sighed with complete happiness. Putting the plate on the table she grabbed my hand, held the two fingers I'd pinched the dope with under her nose—whole body shaking.

When I yanked my fingers away, she gasped, “Strong... oooh strong! Tony, honey! Honey, I'll be so good to you... in a moment. Don't dare waste this!”

She raced to the bathroom, returned with a shaving mirror, a razor blade, and two pill boxes. Sitting at the table with all the concentration of a dedicated scientist, she pulled a long white pill from one of the boxes, delicately shaved the pill with the razor blade—the tiny shavings falling on the mirror.

“What's that?”

“Quinine,” she mumbled.

With the edge of the razor, Lucille took coarse white powder from the other box (milk sugar I later learned), added it to the quinine on the mirror. Lucille began chopping up the minute grains with the razor—added the pinch of dope to the mixture, carefully herding it off the saucer with her razor. Then putting her big nose on the plate—like a miniature vacuum cleaner—her chunky body trembling with each sniff. As she started chopping at the white mixture again, I asked, “Why the mirror bit?”

“See every grain on a mirror—can't lose none. Tony, this will be a bomb, maybe two of 'em! But I'm going to wait, those sniffs charged me just fine.”

Pulling wax paper from a roll in the kitchen, Lucille tilted the mirror so the fine powder fell on the paper, did the sniffing routine again with the white dust, and when she stopped trembling... folded the wax paper into a tiny 'deck,' which she hid in the bedroom. She quickly put the pill boxes, the razor, back in the bathroom, washed the mirror. Then standing in the bedroom doorway, Lucille blew a corny kiss my way, quickly dropped her robe.

Fleshy, but well proportioned and strong, the nipples on the moon breasts a most delicate shade of rose-red. With a sickening yelp of real joy, she came across the room... heavy-footed... jumped on my lap, placed my free hand on her breast. There was a sharp, and interesting, odor of perfume and sweat about her.

“Tony, I love your hair. Women would fight over a wave like yours.” She began unbuttoning my shirt. “Said I'll show you a whale of a time—always keep my word.”

“Later.”

“Why later? I see the sex heat in your eyes now.”

“Really?” I asked, almost interested until I realized it was a whore's standard sales pitch. “First, let me tell you the deal I have for...”

“We can talk later. As- the wiseman said, enjoy yourself—what else is there in life? Tony, I go for you—honest, I do.”

“I bet.”

“You're the greatest, carrying a lifetime supply of Cloud 9 around like it's so much sand.” Lucille opened my shirt more, put her hand on my belt. “Honey, have you trouble below, like a complex?”

“What made you ask that?”

“Tony, I'm no Miss America but I'm stacked. When I put it down for free, guys don't hesitate.”

“You're very attractive, Lucille,” I said, squeezing her nipple and gently pushing her off my lap, “but let's stop playing it dumb: no woman's as beautiful as a bundle of quiet money.”

“Okay, maybe you know what you're doing.” She picked up her robe, slipped it on. Lighting a cigarette she sat opposite me, blew a corny cloud of smoke my way. “What's your deal? How much horse you got in there—where did you cop it?”

“Don't reach, honey—all that matters is I have it. A pound of pure stuff, get more whenever I want to. I need a buyer.”

“You think I'm big enough to handle the deal?”

“Talk sense, babe: I picked you because you look like an intelligent chick. Without asking any questions, I know you must get your stuff from a pusher —in turn, your pusher can reach somebody up the line big enough to buy all I can get. Naturally, this can't be shouted from the window. All I want you to do is—quietly put out a feeler, bring the right joker to me and you're in for ten per cent. Bring the wrong guy and you'll kick the habit—permanently!” I added, trying to put a growl in my voice. “We understand each other?”

Lucille nodded, eyes over-bright.

“Play it smart and you make five or ten grand. Cross me and you'll never live to be more than a few hours older!”

She smiled. “Tony, you're not a goon, stop playing the hard guy. It isn't necessary—I'm for money. I can't do a thing until eight p.m. Let's go to bed.”

“Why not start working on it now?”

“Because whenever I want to make a buy, I call this guy at eight and set it up.” She stood up and stretched, showing me all her solid curves. “I'm hungry. How about some supper? I'm an all-around gal, shaking a mean frying pan.”

“Okay. Any other... customers... come here?”

“No. Told you this is my own place, only for all night Johns.”

She had steaks and a salad in the refrigerator. While she broiled the meat, Lucille lectured on “organically grown” foods and the dangers of chemical preservatives. Using a blender, she made a weird, mushy drink of alfalfa and shelled sunflower seeds, yeast flakes, natural Lecithin granules, and raw carrots. I didn't ask how she jelled being a food nut with taking junk.

She set up a bridge table, complete with neatly folded napkins and a spotless table cloth. It was kicks to watch her eat; Lucille attacked the food with fierce delight, holding the steak in her hands and tearing at it with her teeth—thoroughly enjoying the meal. The steak was rare and tender, the salad and the mush not bad at all. I helped her wash the dishes and then we sat around listening to the radio, while she lectured on the evils of TV —how it was ruining the reading habit. We made a most domestic scene.

Lucille talked about herself, proudly mentioned she was a member of “two of the largest book clubs out—I'm well read, been through every best seller published in the last five years.” Then, rather pointedly, tried to pump me for information until I told her to cut it.

A few minutes before eight she put on the same sweaty dress, brushed her black hair. From the front window I had an angle view of the corner drugstore. I told her, “Make your phone call at the drugstore across the street. But don't try anything cute—it won't work.”

She came over and pressed against me. “Tony, how wrong can a guy be? I go for you.”

I patted her hips. “Don't go too far.”

The moment she left, I locked the door, raced to the window with a bad case of jitters. She walked leisurely across to the drugstore. Some teenage boys on a stoop whistled, made a few cracks, but Lucille didn't pay them the smallest attention. She was in the store for at least ten minutes and I had this strong hunch I ought to take off, was being trapped. When she finally came out, Lucille walked away from the house, out of sight! In a panic, I ran to the door, down to the street to see Lucille leaving a liquor shop, carrying a small paper bag. I raced back upstairs.

I pretended to be reading one of her books when she came in. She put a pint of gin on the table, started to undress. “This gin distilled from organically grown juniper berries?” I asked.

The dress over her face—she wiggled her naked hips at me.

“What's cooking on our deal?”

“My connection wasn't in. That's happened before. I left a message I had to see him first thing in the morning, to wait for my call...”

“Morning? Why can't you see him sooner?”

“He's busy. I'm not his only customer.” She stuck a very red tongue at me. “You wanted to spend the night with me.”

I grabbed her wrist. “What you handing me? When you need a fix, I know damn well you don't wait all night!”

“This guy ain't running a store! You buy in advance or you're in hell all night. Tony, tomorrow I'll see him for sure—he has contacts right to the top. Let go of my wrist, there's more exciting things on me to grab.”

I dropped her hand. I had no other move, or any other place to sleep. This was as good a 'hideout' as any.

Lucille returned to the crummy uniform—her dirty negligee—which easily removed any sex ideas I may have had. The unwashed robe reminded me of the great fear of sickness whores always gave me. Turning on the radio, she opened the gin, actually mixed it with a powder called Tiger's Milk. It didn't taste bad. I took one drink and let her finish the rest.

She went off on some slop about the gin reminding her of a time ”... Before I was on junk. I was going with this simple character. One night we drove down to a wild and deserted beach way out on Long Island—near Bridgehampton. Spooky beach, but kind of grand having it all to ourselves, with the sound of waves, salt spray—the rest of the scene. We built a fire of driftwood, cooked corn and hot dogs, and I nipped on a bottle of this same brand gin while he stood in the water to his ass, surf-casted. He didn't catch any fish, and he was your kind of jerk—didn't make love to me. Yet I've remembered that night. Maybe one of the best nights I ever had.”

“Stop talking about 'love' like a cliche machine.”

After a couple of drinks she started to read her latest book-of-the-month, day, or week. But she was becoming jumpy. Going into the bathroom— for some reason she left the door open. I watched her tie a rubber garter tightly over her left arm, heat up a 'cap' of heroin in a spoon with a match, slide the hypo needle into her arm, and finally— calmly squirt some blood down the sink, expertly clean the needle.

She did it in such an off-hand manner, it seemed the height of crude obscenity. I wished to heaven she'd at least shut the door... that I wasn't mixed up in this horrible mess... I stopped kidding myself: I could have gone to the police and didn't, so I was in—perhaps over my fat head—but in it.

Coming out of the bathroom Lucille stretched, dropped the negligee once more, rubbed her powerful breasts as she announced, “I feel so good I'm going to sleep. You can sit up all night, if you like, playing Little Lord Fauntleroy for...”

I slapped her mouth. Backing away, narrow eyes hot with anger, she said, “Don't ever lay a hand on me, Tony!”

I slapped her again, held her arms. “I won't, if you watch your big mouth. I'm offering you a good deal, don't need any cracks.”

She suddenly relaxed against me. “Okay, guess you're right.”

Turning abruptly, she went to the bathroom and washed her face, then fixed her bed, slipped in between the sheets and started reading again. Minus the make-up there really was a sort of harsh beauty to her face, the perfect eye-brows. I stood in the bedroom doorway for a moment. Looking up she asked coyly, “Like what you see?”

“Yeah. Your face is truly... beautiful.”

“Tony, you're a strange one.”

Making sure the front door was locked, I placed a chair under the knob, then went to the can and washed—drying myself with toilet paper. Lucille was sleeping when I came out. Undressing to my shorts, I tied the string of the duffel bag firmly around my right wrist, stretched out on the bed beside her—on top of the sheet—the bag and my hand resting on the floor. I was bushed.

Reaching up, I turned off the bed light. Lucille suddenly rubbed my chest, softly, “You've some tan, Tony, must really love the beach. Where do you go—Coney, Reis Park, Jones Beach?”

“Cote D'Azure,” I wanted to say, but merely patted her hand, told her to sleep. Within minutes she was snoring—a low, even and not entirely unpleasant sound. Without expecting to, I had a fairly good night's sleep myself, waking every few hours to lift the duffel bag tied to my right hand, listen to Lucille snore... then sink into a sound sleep.

I awoke at seven a.m. and took a fast shower. Afraid to use any of her towels, I dried myself with Arlene's hotel towel, stuffed it back into the duffel bag. When I came out Lucille was sitting up in bed, stretching, yawning—the sheet off, as if proving she slept in the raw. I wanted to sketch the chunky figure, was amazed she looked so rested—it had been at least ten hours since her last fix. “Any breakfast around?”

“In a moment, sir—Sir Wavy Hair.” She dashed to the can and ran a bath. A dozen minutes later she came out, in the same underthings she'd worn yesterday. “When do you make that phone call?”

“Too early now—after we eat,” she said, starting the coffee, putting a slew of sliced fruits and wheat germ in the blender, some sort of hard-tack crackers in the toaster.

The radio said it was going to be another muggy day. I eagerly ate the dizzy food, but wasn't able to match the savage delight with which Lucille tore into her breakfast. I helped her wash the few dishes, then she started to make-up her face, laying the stuff on with a heavy hand. When I asked why she used so much make-up, she astonished me by saying, “I find it very comforting. I read where a head doc said make-up gives one a sense of security —a mask to hide behind.” An educated, (outright) whore was novelty for me.

I saw her, from the window, cross to the drugstore, the same feeling of trapped panic welling up inside me. Sketching always calms my nerves and still watching the street, I ransacked the table drawer—looking for a pencil—my guts ready to burst with the tension.

I found a box of chalk and turning the frying pan over, tried roughing in the street scene below on the blackened pan bottom. The lines ended up a series of messy smudges—so much nothing—but I felt better. When I saw Lucille returning, the hippy walk, I ran water over the pan, left it in the sink.

She dropped the morning paper and a pack of butts on the table. “Hot out, already. My connection's coming right over.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I had a chance of making a good buy on a big white car, wanted him to look at the motor. Have to be careful over the phone—but he understood.”

“When he comes, I'll do the talking.”

“Of course. It's your stuff, Tony.” Lighting a cigarette, she began straightening up the bed.

I glanced at the newspaper. It was on the fifth page, a short item about:

POLICE SEEKING FOOTBALL PLAYER-ARTIST

Clayton Biner, a one-time professional footfall player who became an abstract painter, was being sought today by the police for questioning in the hotel room slaying of hoodlum Al Foster yesterday. The police refused to say what connection Mr. Biner had with the shooting, except that they thought Biner might have been a tenant of the hotel. Mr. Biner does not have any criminal record.

Al Foster, a known criminal, was killed in the room of one Stanley Collins, who registered at the hotel a few hours before the shooting, and who has not been seen since...

Lucille asked, “Curly, what you sweating about?”

“The humidity,” I told her, turning to the sports pages, then casually dropping the paper on the table. My guts were in a tight knot. How had the police learned my real name so damn fast? Goodbye to Syd and her Australian land, the last chance for...

“Tony, are you in a trance? Didn't you hear what I said?”

“What?”

Lucille grinned, the heavy lips truly inviting. “I was saying, if we get this settled, we both might go to the beach today. I haven't been swimming in years. Guess I could rent a suit. I like Jones Beach.”

“Good.” I was listening to steps in the hallway outside; steps of a man who walked carefully. My insides tightened harder at the sound of two mild knocks. Lucille made no move, and a split second later a key opened the door.

A young fellow—about thirty—stood there. He wasn't tall, perhaps on the trim side, wearing a neatly pressed but cheap linen suit, open grey sport shirt, crewcut dark hair. His face was sharp and mean, neither ugly nor unhandsome, eyes shrewd with a wiseguy expression. The face was so much pure rascal, it was attractive. He was very sure of himself, even the way he moved into the room, gently shut and locked the door, expressed confidence. The feeling of dread increased within me.

“This the pigeon, Lu?” His voice was a practiced toughness.

“Yes, the fellow I told you about, Gus.” Lucille sounded very nervous. “Tony, this is Gus.'

We nodded at each other and he grinned at me, licked his skinny lips, while his eyes raced to the duffel bag in my right hand. Sitting on the table, swinging his cheap Italian-styled shoes, Gus said, “Okay, big boy, let's see what you're peddling.”

She said, “It's pure, a real banger, Gus! I already scored.”

“I know you did, a free night for a free take-off, stupid tomato!” He suddenly smiled at me—Gus had the whitest teeth, was obviously quite proud of them. “Let's see how much you have, Tony, then we talk.”

“One pound of uncut heroin,” I said, suddenly getting the scene in focus—this was her pimp. I had a hopeless feeling of wasting time. “I want five grand for it. Since you don't look like you can raise five bucks, bring me somebody who flashes the long green and I'll show my wares.” I glanced at Lucille. “Thought you were going to get me your pusher? I don't need a pimp for...”

“Business manager,” Gus cut in, voice harder.

“Gus is my connection, gets my white stuff,” Lucille began.

“Shut your face, Lu! Big boy, let us all get straight: you're dealing with me. Lu's mine, so talk with me.”

“Gus, I think the whole bag is full of horse!” Lucille said.

“Too much chatter,” Gus said, flashing his choppers in a smile at me. “Tony, the bag.” He held out a slim hand.

I tried to grin coldly. “First let me see the sight of welcome green.”

“Sure.” He pulled a snub-nosed pistol out of his pocket. “How's the color of this? Lu told me you're a great talker, but don't try to outtalk a .321 Open the bag!”

I knew I'd been had, and I didn't give a goddamn. It was all such a helpless mess—me broke and carting around three million dollars without the slightest idea of how to cash it in. For a split second—perhaps it was a hangover from my months of dejection in Europe—I felt it would be best to let this pushing punk kill me. Of course, I wouldn't stand still for a beating or... Resigned, I tossed the bag on the table, mumbled, “Easy Gus, don't let that rod get too good to you. A gun shoots both ways.”

With his left hand, Gus pulled out the damp towel, then looked positively stupid on seeing the plastic case full of heroin... eyes actually strained to leave his skull as he zipped the pillow case open, put a fingertip full of the white powder on his tongue. Screwing up his thin face, he gasped, “Jeez, it is uncut!”

Lucille came over to gaze into the bag with all the respect of a person peeping at the Future. Gus pushed her away and the same anger swept her crude face as when I'd slapped her.

While he was busy with her, I reached for the bag, stepped next to the window. Gus spun around, pointed the gun at me. “Put the bag back! At the races I'm a lousy hunch player, but now... I've won me the biggest daily double with a hunch! Heard a rumor of a large shipment got screwed-up yesterday... here I have it! Put the bag on the table before you get hurt.”

“Stop waving that silly gun like it's a magic wand,” I said, wondering why I bothered—but the hope of three million, or even fifty grand dies slowly. “Told you a gun works both ways: if you knock me off—and you'll have to kill me to get this —then you'll have a murder rap hanging over your thick head... be the best heeled creep ever to sit in the chair.”

“I'm warning you, Tony, to...!”

“Oh, shut up. Keep the tough act and I'll toss the stuff out the window into the...”

“God, don't do that!” Lucille gasped.

I actually laughed at her. “I don't need you two small-timers. Let's say I... eh... stumbled across this junk-pot. If I can't sell it, all I do is hand it over to the police and I'm in the clear. But suppose we give it one more try, stop acting like angry bulldogs, talk a little sense? As the worn phrase goes, there's enough here for all of us. I need a path to the top men, to sell this at a fair price. I offered Lucille 10%. Since you're in now, I'll make you the same offer. I know this is worth about $70,000. Bring me anybody able to buy it, and you each get a 10% slice.”

Gus seemed to be listening intently as I talked; now he slipped me his practiced smile, said, “Fatty, you are a talker! Act like you're on the stuff yourself, although Lu says you ain't a weed-head. So, you're offering me a deal?'

“Yes, if you can produce the right buyer.”

“Fatty, you're forgetting—I'm aiming the Chairman Of The Board at you, the gun makes the final decision! But I'm willing to talk—a little. You ain't tossing that out the window, or blowing any whistle: I got you figured—you're this artist-football character the cops are looking for in the Al Foster gunning. Sure, you're the courier who brought the junk in. Run to the cops and they'll slap twenty years on you, if they don't rap you for the killing! Remember the airline hostess who claimed she didn't know she was bringing in H—thought it was powdered perfume: she got twenty years because she wouldn't say—or didn't know—who was behind the business. It was in all the papers. If you want twenty years, you're dumber than you look. Also I came here prepared, big boy.”

“For what?” I asked, resting the bag on the window sill.

“When Lu first phoned me last night, I thought she was high. But this morning, after she phoned again, I give them a feeler, and man were they all ears! What I mean is, I'm not playing a lone hand in a deal this big. Yeah, you must be the guy Foster was to meet. Well, courier, your job is finished, you ain't necessary no more! If they agree, and you don't cause me no trouble, I may give you a couple grand. I said, may! Man, you ought to be happy you're alive—you'd be with Foster if they'd seen you yesterday.”

I gulped as I said, “If you take over the courier job, you'll be dead on delivery, too.”

“Don't worry about little Gus, fatty. I'll make the sale but not like a dummy. Now don't go for stupid, make me hurt you—give me the bag! I'll see you get a few grand, even take care of you the way you want.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You're the biggest one I ever seen, but faggots come in all sizes. Ever take it into your head to make money?” Gus cackled with horrible laughter.

“You and me will have a swishing good time—I treat all my gals good. The bag!”

Gus stepped toward me, cocky grin on his stupid face, so sure of himself the gun was pointing toward the floor...

In college they had the football squad try out for track. For a couple of weeks I was a hammer thrower. Now, I was so blind-angry at his daring to call me a swish, I said, “Here's the bag!” Swinging the sixteen-pound bag by the string hard as I could, pivoting all my weight behind it....

... Gus walked into the arc, the duffel bag striking the side of his ratty face. His entire head seemed to fold over at an unreal angle, then he collapsed into a crumpling heap at my feet. Picking up the .32 with my left hand, I smashed it down into his pale face again and again.

Lucille grabbed my arm. “Tony! You're hitting a dead man! You broke his neck! Tony, you and I...”

With the bag still in my right hand, I punched her thick chin: she went sprawling on the floor, blood gushing from the nice lips. “If we get this settled... we both might go to the beach today...'“ I panted, trying to mimic her warm voice. “Whore! Lying bitch, setting me up from the jump!”

The words echoed in the room, seemed to strike my face—wake me up. Lucille was out cold: I was talking to an unconscious woman and a corpse. Shoving the towel back into the duffel bag, I ran out of the room, thundering down the wooden steps and onto the street... got the full impact of what I'd done. Painting bum, dope courier, wanted by the cops...

Now I was a murderer.