“Push over and give me some of the blanket.”
“If Colin comes out here-”
“I just want to sleep.”
“Does he know that?”
Another sigh from Allie. “He’s not alone.”
“He came home alone.”
“So?”
“Oh.”
“Bright guy.”
Neal gave it a shot. “You like living like this?”
“Yes. Now you want to shut up and let me get some sleep?”
Dear Dad, having a wonderful time. Wish you were here. By the way, tonight I’m sleeping with Allie Chase.
He woke up hurting. His nose felt like someone had driven a fist into it, and the rest of his body ached with righteous indignation. He was hangover thirsty and went into the bathroom to get some water.
Allie was sitting on the stool, her knees tucked up under her chin. She bent over with poignant grace, the needle poised over the small vein between her toes. She was concentrating hard, and noticed Neal only after she gently squeezed the plunger. She looked up at him as the heroin hit her. A small pop, but there it was.
“Well,” Neal said, “they do say that breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”
“Don’t tell Colin.”
“It’s none of my business.”
“That’s right.”
“He doesn’t know you shoot up?”
“What happened to none of your business?”
“That shit’s bad for you.”
“But so good to me.”
She got up, carefully put the gear back into her bag, and walked past him into the sitting room, where she lay back down on the floor and stared at the ceiling.
He followed her in and lay down beside her. “How long have you been using a wake-up?”
“My, aren’t we hip? A couple of weeks. I don’t know.”
“Expensive habit.”
“I pay for it.”
“I bet you do.” “I’m not an addict.” “I didn’t say you were an addict.”
She rolled over on her side, away from him. “He knows I shoot up. He doesn’t know how much.” She drifted off.
Neal propped his feet up on the balcony railing and gently leaned his chair back. The last of the afternoon sun felt good on his face. He had showered and shaved, borrowed a clean T-shirt from Colin, and was now sipping a cup of bitter Nescafe, on his way to feeling at least remotely human. Allie was safely tucked in and sound asleep. Crisp and Vanessa had gone out in search of food, and Neal and Colin had settled onto the balcony.
Colin was dressed for leisure. He was shirtless and wore denim jeans and biker boots. Reflective sunglasses shielded his eyes from the harsh glare of day.
“Sunday’s a hassle, so I leave it alone,” he was saying. “Too many citizens on the street and the coppers don’t want to see you there. Sunday night’s all right, though.”
“I should get going,” Neal said, yawning.
“What for?”
“The job.”
Colin stretched like a cat. “Talk about the fox in the friggin’ ’en coop.”
“I don’t screw around with it.”
“Pity.”
“Do you rip off your customers?”
“Never.”
They sat quietly for a while. Neal thought about what he was up to, then tried not to think about it. Made him feel like shit.
“So are you a heavy dealer, Colin?”
“Not ’eavy enough. Bit of hash, bit of coke…”
“Heroin?”
“No. Wouldn’t harf mind, but the nicker, lad, the nicker…” He rubbed his thumb over his fingertips, the universal sign language for cash. “Takes a ’eap of the filthy lucre to get into smack in any serious way.”
“And the ladies?”
“Wha’ is this? The BBC?”
“Just making conversation.”
“I have a few lady friends who’d rather get paid for it. I take a finder’s fee.”
Yeah, I get a finder’s fee, too, Neal thought. So to speak.
Colin set his head back to catch the rays better. “I was a little bugger during the ’ole ’ippie thing. Love and peace an’ all ‘at shit. The bloody Beatles and their wog guru. Fucking sitars…”
“You got that right.”
“This punk thing. It says the world is shit. Get pissed, get stoned, get your rocks off. All there is.”
These are a few of my favorite things.
“We just got back from a ’oliday in France,” Colin said. “Got pissed, got stoned, got our rocks off in a different place.”
You did? You did? It didn’t take long for it to sink in. You working-class heroes were on some beach in France while I was sweating my balls off on the Main Drag looking for you!
“Colin, you aspire to the middle class.”
“I aspire to a ’eap of filthy lucre.”
“Yeah?”
“Not ‘arf.”
“Maybe I know where you could get it.”
There followed what could be called a significant silence.
“Where’s ‘at?”
Neal set the chair back on the floor, put his cup on the railing, and stood up. He stretched and yawned. “We’ll talk.”
He patted Colin on the head and walked out.
Always leave ’em wanting more, he thought.
20
The next morning, Neal was in a doctor’s office, wincing bravely, fighting back the pain.
“Did that hurt?” Dr. Ferguson asked him. He bent Neal’s leg back again.
“A little,” Neal answered, lifting his head up from the examining table.
“You have a nasty strain here, I believe. You can get dressed.”
Neal slowly brought himself into a sitting position and struggled back into his shirt. “Thanks for seeing me at such short notice.”
Ferguson didn’t look up from his prescription pad. “Any friend of Simon’s, as the saying goes…”
Ferguson tended toward chubby, and seemed quite content with it. He had an owlish face and a full head of brown hair. He lived in the same St. John’s Wood house that held his office. Not that he needed to. He had considerable private income in addition to his practice. He confessed a public passion for cricket, a private passion for his wife, and a secret passion for first-edition books, hence the Simon Keyes connection. Neal had found his number in Simon’s address book.
“I feel really silly, falling down the stairs,” Neal said.
“Yes, well, those stairs of Simon’s…” Ferguson answered. He handed Neal the scrip. “This will help you sleep. Also ease what we physicians like to call discomfort.”
“I just can’t find a comfortable position.”
“‘As the actress said to the bishop.’ Yes, back injuries are inconvenient that way. Next time, you really should consider hurting your ankle. Simon tells me you’re interested in books.”
Neal tossed in another small wince as he lowered himself from the table. “You talked with him?”
“I was motoring up north and popped in at the cottage unannounced. He was quite gracious about it. He tells me you’re a Smollett scholar.”
“Hardly a scholar.”
“And you’re here looking at his collection.”
Thank you, Simon, Neal thought.
“It’s incredible.”
“Does he still have the Pickle?”
Neal gave him his best Mona Lisa, inscrutable smile.
“I see that he does,” Ferguson said. “Right. Try to stay off your feet. Lie flat, no sitting. If it’s still giving you trouble in a week, come back and we’ll have another look.”
“Thanks again.”
“Don’t thank me. Just filch his Pickle and bring it over in the dark of night.”
Ferguson chuckled at his joke.
Neal chuckled. Then he winced. Then he chuckled again.
There was still a good hour or so before the shops would open, so Neal treated himself to a long walk through Regent’s Park. He went down Park Road through Hanover Gate and found a footpath that took him across the lake past the boat house. By the time he reached the south gate of the zoo, his shirt was soaked but he felt good sweating the weekend’s poisons out of his system.