“I get along.”
“You could get along better.”
“And sell hard stuff?”
Basil nodded.
“I don’t like hard stuff,” Shank said. “They bust you for hard stuff and they lay it on you. Hard. Jails sort of drag me. I don’t like them.”
“You go to the same jails for pot,” Basil said. “The law doesn’t know the difference. Look at the Mau-Mau. Three times was the charm for him. And he never sold a grain of powder.”
“Maybe.”
“You could handle both,” Basil said. “Pot for the teaheads, horse for the live ones. More money in it.”
“I’ve got a steady clientele.”
“With heroin, customers look for you. A captive audience. No hustling, no worry. If you just want pot you can look for another connection. To tell you the truth, I just carry it as a service. I wouldn’t sell it alone. But I’ll sell it along with the other. And I can make a nice price.”
Shank thought about it. There was one big point in Basil’s favor. The law saw no difference between marijuana and heroin. The law was stupid. And you might as well hang for a sheep as a lamb.
“How nice a price?”
“You sell for five cents a cap. I let you have it for two. A profit of three. Tax-free, baby.”
A nice price, Shank judged, and he said, “I’ve got fifty dollars. Name me a list of goods.”
“Fifty?” Basil considered. “Twenty caps,” he said. “And two ounces of gauge. I lose money on the gauge that way. But you’re new. It’s a favor.”
Two ounces was not enough, Shank thought quickly. Not with the party the next night.
“Fifteen caps and three ounces,” he said. Basil frowned. “Baby,” he said. “Baby, how much money do you want me to lose?”
“I need three ounces.”
They talked about it. And finally Basil agreed. “But you’ll learn,” he said. “You’ll drop the pot after a while. One of your customers gets picked up and he’ll tip them to you without thinking. He won’t be a junkie. He won’t need to protect you. And there you are, lover. Busted because you sell pot. That doesn’t happen when you sell junk. They don’t do a pigeon routine. They don’t dare. They don’t want to be cut off cold. They don’t want to risk a hot shot. You know from a hot shot?”
Shank knew. But Basil explained anyway.
“I saw it happen,” he said. “A long-tailed rat. Turned in his pusher to cop a plea. He tried to connect with somebody else, somebody who knew the score. He got his. He got a cap of strychnine. Heated it on his spoon and sent it home and died with the needle in his arm. Ugly, baby.”
They ironed out the deal. Basil gave Shank three envelopes, each having an ounce of marijuana. Then he handed Shank another envelope containing fifteen capsules of heroin. Shank counted out ten five-dollar bills.
“A pleasure,” the little man said. He put away the money and smiled. “You know where I hang. The afternoon’s the best time. Find me at leisure. Keep my name a secret. Don’t talk in your sleep. And don’t become your own customer. I won’t sell to you once you become a user yourself. Smoke all the pot you want. Start riding the horse and I cut you off clean. I don’t sell to junkies. I’ve got a code of ethics. No morals. But loads of ethics.”
Shank left first. He walked away from the condemned brownstone and headed east. He walked two blocks, then jumped in a cab and gave the driver his address.
He kept peering out the back window. There was no tail and he was very glad. He felt hotter than a stove and the heroin was burning a hole-and-a-half in his pocket. He did not feel at all safe until the heroin and the pot were stashed away in the apartment. Both Anita and Joe were elsewhere when he arrived, which relieved Shank because he sensed it a good idea they remain unaware of the presence of heroin.
Chapter 7
Party time.
Judy Obershain had money. Her father, a well-to-do Boston businessman, sent her a healthy check once a month to keep Judy out of Boston. He loved his daughter—reservedly, but sincerely—and he knew well enough it would be better all across the board if he and Judy saw each other as little as possible. So the small, gaminish girl used her monthly manna to inhabit an apartment in the West Village and to experience all the kicks available, with the exception, oddly, of the act of losing her virginity. Long ago, when Judy’s mother had been among the living, that good woman had explained again and again to Judy how terrible it would be to cease being a virgin. Judy’s mother, a frigid witch if there ever had been one, had succeeded admirably. Judy, as promiscuous and perverted a girl as one could hope to find anywhere, had remained a virgin.
Now Judy’s four-room apartment was being devoted to a party. The party was moving nicely. Several gallons of sour red wine were being passed from person to person, and the twenty or so people present were busy getting as high as they could. Judy was happy. The marijuana, purchased from Shank at a cost of a hundred dollars, would soon be brought out and consumed. And from there on the party would become a real blast.
Nothing could have pleased Judy more. She liked a party that moved.
She was sitting on the couch now. Next to her a boy and girl were busy with a gallon of wine; periodically, the boy’s hand would fondle her breast. Judy was pleased. The sexier a party became, the better it was.
Judy closed her eyes, remembering one magnificent party where everybody had gone shriekingly high on mescalin. That particular blast had been an orgy that would have delighted Nero. It had certainly delighted Judy. At one superb point she and another girl had delighted a particular boy—and the effect had been exhilarating.
Thinking about that began to warm Judy. Here we go again, she thought. Life is just a bowl of cherries. And I am one of them.
A boy passed. He had a full beard, long hair, rather wild eyes. His name was Nick Long and his prowess was legendary, and Judy was intent either on proving or disproving it.
She caught at his arm. “Sit down,” she said. “I’m lonesome.”
Nick looked at her, considered, sat down.
“You and I,” she said, “really ought to get acquainted. You’ve got to pay attention to the hostess. It’s the first rule of genteel party-going.”
“If we were in a room all by ourselves,” he said, “then I could really pay attention to you.”
“Yeah?”
“Uh-huh. You look nice, baby. I could ball with you and enjoy it. We could both enjoy it.”
“You’re hot stuff, huh?”
“The best.”
She grinned like a monkey. “There are ground rules,” she said. “Rules of the house.”
“I’ve heard.”
“The word is rather widespread,” she admitted. “The rules suit you?”
“They might,” he said. “I hear you’re a woman of the world.”
“Then let’s go.”
They got up and she tucked her arm in his. Nobody paid any particular attention to them as they left the party and found a bedroom temporarily unoccupied.
When Judy and Nick returned to the party the wine had all but been consumed, which meant only it was time to break out the pot. Judy had already rolled it that afternoon and she brought out the cigarettes with glee, the party-goers shared unanimously with the exception of Anita Carbone. Pot continued to repel Anita; she disliked the party, too, for that matter. She wanted to go home.
But Anita said nothing about her wish. She knew Joe wouldn’t like it at all. As a matter of fact, Joe had lately become increasingly critical of her. Nothing she did seemed to please him. She could not be sure of what might be wrong. Sometimes he apparently thought she was too square, while at other times he told her she was trying too hard to be hip, and still other times…