Pulp Ink Part 6

I back out of the room and leave her to the life of s.h.i.t she has coming.

Junkies are the worst kind of people to get money out of. First, because they never have any. Second, because they smell bad, shake a whole lot and can't remember s.h.i.t. Last, because they're unreliable and unpredictable. And did I mention they smell bad?

Even as an addict, Zed was a f.u.c.k up. He never had enough scratch to put together a decent habit. He'd get flush and have enough to get high on the cheap stuff ten dollar crack rocks usually but he never had enough to make it much more than about two weeks. Hardly enough time for his body to start needing it. So by the time he had to go cold turkey, it was more like a mild inconvenience than withdrawals.

He ended up walking through life as if he'd just gotten over the flu.

This much backstory I knew about the guy. The rest I was picking up slowly. Still, something in the intricacies of the chase was growing into a respect of sorts. Like I said, most of the guys don't even make it interesting. Zed, on the other hand, was drawing me in. I would have knocked off for the night after the visit to the ex, but there I was going on midnight and just getting a second wind.

And that wind blows me to his drug buddies.

If anyone knows where Zed's gone to lay low, it's his pals on the pipe. I'd been putting it off for the aforementioned unreliability and smell issues, but it was time. I drove Zed's four-door s.h.i.t-box to the place of a guy who turned up on the very short list of contacts we knew Zed had made. Hey, they loan you ten grand and you stop paying after one week, they're gonna do a little digging on you.

Pete looks more prep school than skid row, but once the demon rock gets a hold of you, all bets are off. At least he still has enough of the trust fund left to sc.r.a.pe together a one-bedroom apartment with an address. I'm not one for searching every dumpster downtown for anyone, no matter how much they owe.

I only have a second or two to size him up before he bolts. When I came to the door I could hear his feet pounding across the room to get to me and the look on his face when he opened it was a mix of starving soccer player lost in the Andes and kid on Christmas morning who finds nothing but a pine tree with diddly-squat underneath it. I was not the dealer he was waiting for.

I don't think my look screams "cop," but Pete must because he's running for the hills. Only gets as far as the fire escape, but still.

I catch him by the belt about halfway out of the window, legs still inside and skinny chest outside. Hauling him back in is no trouble at all but he bends at a funny angle and breaks the gla.s.s on the bottom two panes of the window with the back of his head. These windows must be original to the building because they are real gla.s.s, not safety gla.s.s or unbreakable anything. These things rain down.

Real quick Pete is gashed and slashed across the back of his neck, into his scalp and across his right cheek. He is already dripping blood by the time I get him standing. Head wounds usually bleed worse than they are. This is about as bad as it looks. Doesn't change the fact that I have questions for young Pete.

"You seen Zed lately?"

Pete keeps putting his hands to the various gushers he has spouting and checking his palms to see if the blood is real. I try not to touch him to avoid whatever strain of Hepat.i.tis A, B, C or maybe Z this dude is carrying.

"Zed's dead, man. Haven't you heard?"

"Yeah, I heard."

Pete isn't crying, screaming or otherwise freaking out. The pain from the cuts has been rerouted somehow through his addiction and the need for more rock far outweighs the need for st.i.tches or a hospital or antibiotics.

I watch the cotton of his long sleeve T absorb blood in a slow moving dye-job down his front. I can only imagine the back already soaked down to his tighty-whiteys.

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"Zed?"

"Yeah, Zed. That's who we're talking about here."

"Zed's dead, man."

"We've established that. Not the question I asked though. When did you see him last?"

"About a week ago. Maybe two. He'd tapped out the cash reserves, y'know? That's always when he closed up shop for a few weeks." Pete touches his cheek and his palm is coated by a fresh layer of paint. When he brings his hand away the split in the flesh gapes and oozes a new flow of red. The floor around him starts gathering drops like the first signs of rain.

"You didn't hear from him on the phone or anything?"

"No. Nothing, man." The twitching from when he first opened the door is back. "I gotta sit down."

The bed springs complain as he drops from standing to bounce three times on the bare mattress before coming to a stop. I see the crusted brown bulb of his pipe on the nightstand.

Behind us is a knock at the door. The man Pete has been waiting for.

His dizzy spell miraculously pa.s.ses and he moves quickly from the bed to the door. Sliding in like a roach through a crack in the wall comes another young-twenties dude decked out in the screaming obvious JUNKIE! ensemble.

I long for the days when addicts were cla.s.sy like William Burroughs and wore suits to get high.

The new dude rushes into the room so fast he doesn't notice the plane-wreck level blood spatter all over Pete. He clenches his fist tightly around something. I don't need any drug sniffing dogs to know what.

"Yo, yo, yo, I got the " He sees me. He sees the blood. He sees me again. The gun comes out.

A spray-painted black Sat.u.r.day Night Special from before Reagan got shot. If he'd blast Pete with that gun it might improve his chances.

I draw my piece a well-oiled .40 cal semi-auto with one hand while I slap his toy away with the other.

Something about the action makes it register to Pete that I might be a threat so he jumps into offense mode. I think it might be that now I'm making moves on the guy holding the dope.

Pete jumps on my back and I feel the wet slime of half-coagulated blood start to soak through my shirt. New Dude backpedals away from the two-headed beast that stomps toward him. Pete's screaming b.l.o.o.d.y face must be unrecognizable.

I spin my body in a quick twist that unhooks Pete from his tenuous grip. He flies forward and his blood-soaked body hits hard against the New Dude.

As New Dude falls backward his hand opens up and the tiny plastic-wrapped bundle of white rocks flips under the bed. The two bodies come down just short of those rusty springs, landing rough on the hardwood floor.

I swipe a hand across the back of my neck like a cotton picker in summertime and grimace at the smear of red that greases my palm. I lean down and wipe it on New Dude's shirt.

"You, New Dude, you seen Zed lately?"

"Zed?"

"Yes, Zed." f.u.c.king junkies and their focus issues. "And if you tell me he's dead, I shoot you."

"But, man, he he is dead."

I shoot his left foot. I'd made a promise. Can't let them get away with it. Addicts are like toddlers you give them an inch ...

New Dude is much less calm about the wound than Pete was about his gla.s.s injuries. He hunches over and grabs his foot with both hands and wails like he's been hit by a train or maybe won the lottery. It is high pitched and long. I almost shoot his other foot to try to shut him up.

Pete, meanwhile, has begun a spelunking expedition under the bed looking for the crack rocks that vanished under there. I let him explore while I grab New Dude by his shirt front and haul him half off the floor, shoving my gun up his nose as I do.

"You guys use the same dealer as Zed?"

New Dude nods.

"You gonna tell me where to find him or do I need to shoot you again?"

New Dude nods.

"Was that yes, you're gonna tell me or yes I need to shoot you?"

He nods more frantically.

"You're not making yourself clear." I thumb back the hammer.

"I'll " He chokes on the words, swallows hard. "I'll tell you."

"Good. After that you really ought to get him to a hospital," I say, nodding my head down at the protruding legs of Pete who continues his search. I'd say ten minutes before blood loss makes him higher than any rock ever could.

Only creature on this planet lower to the ground than an addict is a dealer. No two ways about it. Visiting this guy named QT stands for "on the Quiet Tip," although I dug up his name pretty f.u.c.kin' easy was not getting me hard.

The chase, however, ah the chase. It's why we fall in love with women, it's why we travel the world, went to the moon, cheat on our wives: always striving for that thing that is just out of reach.

Zed was reinvigorating my love of the job. When I met him I'd have to thank him. I was gonna feel bad as h.e.l.l breaking his fingers. Funny to say, I know, but the longer he stayed ahead of me the more likely I was to start cutting him breaks. Maybe I could even use a guy like this in my work. A guy who can get lost this deep in the woods is a guy with a marketable skill. Not sure how I'd use it, but he was good at it, that's for sure.

Then there was the pride issue. Not since my early twenties had anyone kept me out until two-thirty in the morning on the hunt. If they didn't turn up by midnight I had them by noon the next day. I always took a little pride in the fact that whenever they did walk into my spider web I was the one who was well-rested and they were always bloodshot and weak-kneed. Worst cases of bed-head I've ever seen were on guys who never went to sleep.

Some guys in my business will tell you to never get emotionally involved. I say leave that for the hit men. I work in a people business. When I'm bent over a guy and snapping his fifth finger in a row or pulling out the last on his bottom row of teeth, I'm seeing a very personal side of that man not many people get to experience. We have a connection. Most times if I leave a thumb unbroken or a big toe unbludgeoned by a hammer, the sorry saps are thanking me. Never mind I just shattered your other four toes into twelve tiny pieces each, the motherf.u.c.ker is thanking me for sparing him twenty percent toe function on his right foot. I let them hug me. I let them make promises they can't keep. I understand them and I honestly enjoy that I have that core of empathy and generosity inside me.

Too bad it sits under a layer of me that hasn't gotten nauseous in fifteen years when it goes as far as me snipping off a digit with garden shears. Even that time I got blood in my mouth. A good spit and I was back on the job.

Zed was almost on his way to earning a free pa.s.s though. Sneaky b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

But, if anyone has seen him in the last week, it's the one guy he can't live without. His Dr. Feelgood. Mr. QT.

I hear music through the door, but it's not like I think two-thirty is too late for a guy in his business. It's soft electronica, like beyond this door is a two-bedroom elevator in a hip office building. I expected cop-killer rap or maybe reggae.

I knock loud, like a cop, and wait. A black woman answers. Her afro is big and natural, her hips wide and welcoming, her top is bare. The skirt she wears wouldn't keep a kitten warm and I doubt it's doing any good on her p.u.s.s.y. Her eyes are glazed and pot smoke is still oozing out of her mouth and nose as she smiles at me. The music makes sense her playlist.

Right away I know QT is a f.u.c.king coward. Sending a woman to answer the door at two-thirty in the morning? She's just a canary in the coal mine for our local dealer man.

"QT in?"

"Sure is, sugar. You got an appointment?"

"No. I figured it was regular business hours though."

Two other women appear from either side of the door, one white, one Puerto Rican. Both topless. They're there to frisk me.

Clever tactic. Most guys would let these ladies find whatever they were holding just for the chance to have one of them graze a paw over their d.i.c.ks. For my meeting with QT I'd rather keep my gun though.

"No thank you ladies. I like the look, but that's not what I came here to buy."

The Rican speaks up. "What makes you think we're selling?"

I'll admit even I'm momentarily distracted by those latte-colored t.i.ts.

"You won't find a badge if that's what you're looking for. Anything else is non-negotiable and stays with me."

The Afro gal aims a finger at my chest with a sharp looking nail on the end painted a neon blue. "Then you ain't seeing QT. And that's not negotiable either."

She pokes my chest when she says, "that's." Oh how I hate to do it to women.

My hand is up and her finger is broken before she knows what happened. The nail comes off in my hand. Cheap manicure.

The white girl strikes a karate pose and I nearly laugh. I reach out and grab the back of her head (she ought to be used to that) and I pull her toward me, then duck to my left and run her face into the Puerto Rican. Their two noses collide and I've just made some downtown plastic surgeon very happy and busy. I should get a commission on the business coming his way.

Three topless girls writhing at my feet ought to be a h.e.l.l of a night out, but I feel s.h.i.tty about it. If someone comes at me I don't care if you've got hanging t.i.ts or a swinging d.i.c.k, but beating up a woman is never good etiquette.

I step over them and walk straight to the back bedroom where I find QT alone except for the gun on his lap.

"Two more guys in the room next door, y'know?" he says.

"Two crackheads in mid-smoke don't scare me much. I'm only here for a few questions anyway. Come to think of it, one of those boys next door wouldn't be Zed, would it?"

"Nope. Ain't seen him." His gun plays dead like a good little doggie. That one eye stays on me though, no matter where I go in the room. I peek into the bathroom, the closet, all slow-like and without any hint that I might pounce.

"When did you see him last?"

"About a week ago I guess. He comes and goes. You his brother or something? You could be related."

My bond with Zed grows deeper, it seems. Maybe we're just like each other. Maybe we are each other. Like he's just a figment of my imagination and I'm all dead and finding my way toward the light. That would be some Twilight Zone s.h.i.t.

"You know, I'm not so sure I'm inclined to believe you," I say. "You are a drug dealer and I am trying to get a hold of one of your customers."

"Zed don't keep me in gold chains and p.u.s.s.y. He barely pays for a pair of shoes. Too unreliable. You find him you can f.u.c.k him in the a.s.s for all I care."

"Not on my agenda, but I appreciate the permission." Another dead end. "You mind if I take a gander next door?"

"Be my guest. Try not to chase away the patrons."

"Thanks. You got a couple of girls out there might need to see a doctor."

"Then they best get walking."

Yeah. Real gentleman, this QT.

The room next door is hung thick with a fog of smoke. Two thin-as-rails black kids sit huddled together on the bed, shirts off, pa.s.sing the pipe between them. They don't notice me look in. I close the door before I get a contact high and wonder if I should call ahead and reserve a cold locker at the morgue for those boys.

Back by the front door White Girl has crawled her way to the couch and leaned her head back to slow down the bleeding from her nose. The Rican is still on the floor in a ball trying to wish it away. Afro girl has made it to the kitchen where she has her hand stuck in the ice maker inside the freezer. She seems much more sober than when she answered the door.