Taste of Tenderloin (7 page)

He was strung out that day,
pretty bad, missing a fix the night before and not scoring that
morning, but keeping his jones at bay with codeine and Valium.
Finally, he sold a pair of boosted car stereos to a fence he knew
for twenty dollars and got enough tar for a short fix for both him
and Lisha. With all the codeine and Valium in his system, he quit
breathing right after shooting up. Lisha, scared shitless and shaky
herself, dumped him in front of emergency at San Francisco General
and sped off in her beat-up VW bug.

The next thing Richie knew,
he was staring up into a nurse’s face.

“
That’s right,” she said, a
mixed expression on her face—half relief, half disgust, “you
overdosed on heroin. We gave you a shot of Narcon, an opiate
blocker. You’re going to be okay, this time.”

“
Water?” he asked hoarsely,
realizing he was on a gurney in the hallway just outside the
emergency room.

Nearby, another guy was
stretched out, a hand on his bandaged head, moaning, “The
muthahfuckah kicked me.”

The nurse nodded and said,
“You stay put, I’ll be back in a second.”

As soon as she disappeared
through a nearby door, he got up and took off, hustling quickly out
of the hospital even though his legs were rubbery and he still felt
badly shaken.

Richie finished the
milkshake, mulling
it all over in his head,
trying to think clearly. It was hard.

He knew he should quit, but
at the farm? Man, that’d be almost like going to the slam. And all
that higher power jazz in the steps that Lisha was so stoked on.
Giving yourself up to God?

No way, man.

He could do it himself,
real soon. Maybe even tomorrow. Yeah, why not? Tomorrow, he’d
kick.

Absently, Richie flipped on
Lisha’s answering machine. He’d tried to hock it the week before,
but it was so old the Russian wouldn’t give him anything for it,
not even a five spot. But it still worked well enough for him to
hear the excitement in Rudy Sanchez’s voice:

“
Yo, Richie. Got to see
you, man—” There was a pause and Richie thought his friend was
restraining a giggle. “Got a deal, a big one this time. Call me at
the print shop or come by at four, when I get off. Do it, man, our
ship has finally come in. This is the big one!”

Richie grinned to himself.
Another scheme. He wondered what this one would be. He had no idea,
but he would be over at the print shop on Castro to cash in when
Sanchez got off.

There was another message
on the machine.

“
Richie, this is your
mother. Oh, Richie how could you do it again? You said the
methadone program was ninety percent successful. But Lisha has told
me the whole story…” She paused long enough that Richie was about
to turn the machine off, then he heard, “Son, this thing Lisha has
gone through can work. That farm’s a good place. She’s sure. I’m
sure. And I can get most of the money right now. Lisha says her
aunt will loan us the rest, until I can refinance the house. You’ve
got to go up there to that program. Please say yes, Richie. Call me
today. I love you, son.”

For a moment, Richie had a
twinge of shame.

He’d conned his mother out
of hundreds, maybe thousands, of dollars—
Just this month, Ma, to help with the rent
—until she’d found out what he and Lisha had really been doing
with the money. Even then she had paid for the methadone treatment.
But she’d gotten smart, making out the check for three hundred and
eighty to the clinic and giving it to them directly.

Okay, Mom,
he pledged silently,
tonight will be it
. He raised his
hand in a kind of sworn pledge gesture.

I’m going to kick.
Tomorrow
.

That was it.
Official.

He sighed, checking the
clock: 2:50.

Better get it together and
hustle over to Sanchez’s. He needed some bread before he could see
Mr. Doom for the last time.

“
Come in here a
minute
, Richie,” Rudy said, gesturing to
the bathroom at the back of the print shop, his dark eyes shiny
with excitement. “You ain’t going to believe this, man.”

Richie wiped his nose,
glanced back at the two employees and the waiting customers, then
followed his friend into the little restroom.

Rudy locked the door,
reached into his shirt, and brought out a brown paper bag. He
slipped his hand in and withdrew two bundles of money, each held
tightly with a thick rubber band. He thumbed through one roll of
bills. They were all twenties. “Take it, man, that one is
yours.”

Dumbfounded, Richie took
it, thumbing the bills himself.

“
Twenty-five in each
bundle,” Rudy announced. “Five hundred bucks, man. Go on, count
yours.”

Richie fingered the bundle,
counting the twenties. He glanced up at his friend. “There’s
twenty-five all right.”

“
And…?”

Richie shrugged. “And what?
There are twenty-five twenties here…five hundred dollars,
right?”

Rudy giggled. “It’s funny
money, man.”

“
Counterfeit?” Richie said,
taking a closer look at the top bill. He rubbed it between his
fingers. It looked okay, but maybe the green color was off
slightly, too dark, and the paper did feel funny, a little slicker
than a regular bill.

“
Yeah, pretty good, huh?”
Rudy said. His face lit up with a big smile. “I only paid fifty
bucks for each bundle.”

“
From who, man?”

Rudy’s expression sobered.
“You don’t need to know that, Richie. If you and I can move this
thousand, I can buy a
real
bundle. Ten grand!”

Richie looked down at the
bundle of twenties again. “Man, our ship did finally come
in.”

“
Yeah, but you got to
hustle, man,” Rudy said, stuffing his bundle into his pocket. “We
got to push each roll by eleven tomorrow morning. Here’s the way I
see it: we make small purchases, like a pack of cigarettes at a
liquor store, a sandwich at a 7-Eleven, you understand. Get as much
change as possible, maybe four hundred fifty or sixty for each
roll. Then I can buy the ten grand from my source at noon. You in,
man?”

“
Hey, I’m in!”

Richie stuffed the wad of
twenties into his pants pocket. The memory of the note from Lisha,
the phone call from his Mom, and his pledge were already forgotten.
This was going to work. No more getting sick, sweating his next
fix.

“
Okay, let’s get busy,”
Rudy said, unlocking the restroom door. “Meet you at your place
tomorrow morning at ten.”

Richie nodded and started
out the door.

Rudy grabbed his arm, his
face uncharacteristically screwed up with concern. “Don’t fuck me
up on this one, pal. Be at your place at eleven with the good
bills.”

“
Hey, man, I’ll be
there.”

After buying packs of
cigarettes
at two different convenience
stores four blocks apart, Richie realized that it would take some
time and hustling to get rid of all twenty-five bills this way.
He’d have to cover the whole frigging town. Standing in front of
the 7-Eleven, he lit a Winston and inhaled.

Nah, there was a better
way, faster. He could turn the remaining bogus four-sixty into even
more, make a little profit before seeing Rudy and giving him his
four-fifty. Richie grinned to himself.

Yeah!

The black minivan was
parked
almost in the same spot on Powell,
but there was a lot of foot traffic in Chinatown this early in the
evening. Richie waited nervously a block away, smoking and
watching, until the foot traffic finally thinned out.

He moved closer.

“
Say, homes, ‘sup?” said
Sandman, stepping out from the nearby alley just like the previous
night. He gestured for Richie to follow him back into the
darkness.

Richie followed, assuming
the position to be frisked. Sandman’s hand paused at Richie’s front
pants pocket and tapped the bundle of phony money.

“
Bread?”

Richie nodded, feeling a
little rush of adrenaline.

“
How much bidness y’all
wanna do, homes?”

“
Want to buy some
wholesale, be the bagman myself,” Richie answered, turning around
and pulling out the bundle of twenties.

“
That right?” Sandman said.
Even in the dim light, Richie could read the doubt on his face, but
the ex-fighter recovered quickly. “Ya’ll score a bank?”

Richie shook his
head.

“
How much ya
holding?”

“
Four hundred
sixty.”

“’
Kay. Let me check the
man,” Sandman said. “Y’all stay put.” The big man went over to the
minivan and unlocked the side door. He disappeared inside while
Richie smoked in the alley. After a minute or so, Sandman emerged
from the vehicle and nodded at Richie.

“
Y’all in luck, homes,” he
said, beckoning with one hand. “Mr. Doom says send ya in.” He slid
the door open. “Be cool.”

Now that he was close to
making a big deal, Richie’s chest tightened and his mouth went
dry.

Again, the inside of the
van felt like an ice cavern, and Mr. Doom was dressed the same as
the night before, all in black. He nodded as Richie sat down on the
floor of the vehicle. “Mis-ter ah-Brien. Sandman, he say you want
to do real business?”

“
Yeah, I want to buy some
wholesale.”

For the first time since
they’d met, Mr. Doom smiled slightly. “Mis-ter ah-Brien, then you
be competitor?”

“
Not with you, Mr. Doom,”
Richie said a little too loudly. He was beginning to sweat. “I’ll
probably work down on Sixteenth, you know, competing with the guys
on the street.”

“
That very
dangerous.”

Richie forced a smile. “I
know, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

The lack of expression
returned to Mr. Doom’s face. “How much you expect to buy?” he
asked, nodding at Richie’s bundle.

“
Ten grams?” Richie
answered hoarsely, his tongue almost sticking to the roof of his
mouth.

Mr. Doom shook his head
sadly. “Maybe seven better.”

“
Okay,” Richie agreed,
handing over the roll of bogus twenties, the sweat beginning to
roll down his sides under his shirt and windbreaker. He knew this
was the
moment. If Mr. Doom even suspected
the money was fake, he’d call Sandman, who would probably haul him
into the alley and waste him right there.

To his surprise, Mr. Doom
didn’t even count the money. He just stuffed it, still banded, into
the cache in the upholstered wall of the van. In his hand, he held
a large clear bag full of smaller cellophane baggies. “Seven gram,”
he declared, handing Richie the heroin.

Richie reached out, his
hand trembling slightly.

But Mr. Doom didn’t let go
of the dope. “Partnership built on trust. I trust you?” he asked,
the ice in his voice matching the chilling temperature inside the
minivan.

Richie nodded
vigorously.

The little man released the
bag and leaned forward, extending his right hand. “Mis-ter
ah-Brien, we partners.”

Richie accepted the cold
shake, staring into the strange eyes and finally recognizing the
shape of the pupils.

Jesus, they were
tombstones
. And it wasn’t
the light. He swallowed hard, then struggled up into a stooped
posture, ready to go.

Mr. Doom grabbed the sleeve
of Richie’s windbreaker and held him in place with a surprising
amount of strength from a person so small. Richie turned back to
face him. “Partner cheat, partner gone,” Mr. Doom whispered in his
creepy burr, the message very clear.

The night is the
same
, with all the dark tones, but
something about the alley is different. You pause at the mouth,
your senses hyper-alert.

It is the smell, of
course.

The cloying sweet smell of
death hangs heavy in the darkness, almost a tangible thing; you
have the feeling that you can almost reach out and touch it, this
smell. Still, you force yourself to move forward, one step after
another, compelled by some inner need…or something in the alley
drawing you to it, like the magnetism between the flute and the
cobra. The smell filling your nostrils is so strong that you stop
and almost retch.

At that moment you hear
something deep in the blackness of the alley, a sound so short in
duration you are unable to describe or recall it. It frightens you,
nevertheless. Your chest is tight, your limbs stiff. It is only
with maximum effort that you are able to force your legs to move.
But you do move forward, cautiously, down the middle of the alley,
peering into the darkness, the odor forgotten. Again you sense the
presence of someone watching you, the feeling making your skin
prickle. You turn, half expecting to see the giant at the mouth of
the alley. No, nothing. Someone is waiting ahead. Someone who makes
the strange, frightening noise.