He mixed himself a whiskey and soda and drank it slowly, mapping his plans for the remainder of the evening and the night. He left the bottle out and set a fresh glass beside it to await his partner's arrival. Bob was not much of a drinking man, but tonight liquor on the breath was almost a necesity. Or if not that, at least very much in character. He felt better after the highball and made himself another; he was just finishing it when the doorbell rang.
Bob Nakamura presented a different picture. There were few Japanese-Americans who ever appeared disreputable, but many of them earned a living from the soil and dressed accordingly. The transformation in Bob's case even included grime under his fingernails and a faint odor of perspiration which clung to his garments. "What's on the program?" he asked.
"The narcotics beat, but we're not out to make buys. I { want to know what's going on. If we have to buy, we do, i but we're not after the pushers. Actually I don't think that I there's too much junk around."
"I've heard too that it's tight. Anything else?" "Yes." Virgil motioned toward the makings of a highball. "Help yourself. This is to go no farther, but there may be a new drug out on the street. Something particularly dangerous. Even worse than horse."
Nakamura looked up, bottle in hand. "Worse than heroin?"
Tibbs nodded. "A synthetic, leave it at that. Just don't take any; don't even sniff it if we run across some."
Bob looked at him. "Virg, do you realize what you're saying?"
"Yes, I do. There's strong evidence that it's connected with the case I'm on."
"Is it addictive?"
*'Extremely so."
Nakamura dropped into a chair. "Good Lord."
Virgil lifted his own glass. "Now you know what we're up against."
Bob thought for a few moments. "Does LAPD know?"
"I presume so-the Bureau will have put them in the picture."
"Was your Mr. Wang peddling this stuff?"
"That's one of the things I'm trying to find out. When you're ready, we'll start."
"Two minutes, I need this drink now. I brought a car, incidentally, in case you need one in character. I picked it up from the dealer lot; it's a nine-year-old Chevy, but it runs better than it looks."
"Good." Tibbs picked up the phone again and called the night-watch supervisor at police headquarters. "This is Virgil," he reported. "Bob Nakamura and I are going into town. Would you advise the LAPD that we're coming into their jurisdiction? We expect to be on the street most of the night. We're going to 1212 South Alvarado, after that to the Central Market area and then South Central."
"Will do. Do you expect to need any help?'*
"If we do, we'U ask for it."
"Do that. I'll pass the word to room 321-it is narcotics you're on, isn't it?"
"Right." Virgil hung up.
"By the way," Bob asked, "why are we together?"
"We're in love," Tibbs answered.
"I always did think that you were kind of cute.'*
Virgil aimed a mock kick at him and then set down his glass. Together they left the apartment, climbed into the ancient car that Bob had borrowed, and headed toward the freeway.
After passing the four-level intersection Bob continued to head south on the Harbor Freeway until he reached Olympic. 92
There he turned off and headed west, past the headquarters of the All-America Karate Federation which Virgil knew so weU, and on to Alvarado where he turned south.
The California state facility for paroled narcotics offenders had once been a motel; it still looked so like one that hardly a night went by without someone driving in looking for accommodations. What had been the guest rooms were now occupied by men, three or more to a unit, who were free to accept employment during the daytime and who paid a minimum price for their beds and food. Many of them had long histories of addiction; several had been through the agonies of withdrawal many times. What there was to be known about the narcotics scene was hkely to be known there.
When Tibbs and Nakamura arrived they were expected; one of the parole officers was waiting for them. "What can I do for you, gentlemen?" he asked. He knew who they were and the appearance they made had no effect on him.
"I'm on a murder investigation," Virgil told him. "It has a narcotics angle, but we're not out to burn anyone for that, not this trip anyway. I need information."
"Billy Lester might be able to help you."
"How do you want to work it?" Bob asked.
"Go on into the office, I'll send for him."
Some five minutes later Billy Lester appeared. He proved to be a tall, rangy Negro, well past fifty and sporting a trimmed beard which had a suggestion about it of a Spanish cavaher. He came in and seated himself, completely at his ease. "Boss man tells me you kinda want to know what's goin' on," he said.
"That's right," Tibbs acknowledged. "We're not out for the pushers or the junkies this time round. It's something bigger."
"You after the importer hisself?'*
Bob Nakamura shook his head. "Murder," he said. Lester understood perfectly; explanations ended at that point.
"What you want?" he asked.
Tibbs walked over to the soda machine, fed in coins, and extracted three drinks. He passed them around and then took a long pull of orange before he answered. "We'd like to know how things are."
Lester crossed his feet. "Man, they ain't good. You ain't heard?"
"No, tell us," Virgil invited.
"Well, all of a sudden the junk-it's gone. Just a little bit
left. When it's used up, if no more comes in, then the panic's on. You know what that means-no junk anywhere. That's when the junkies start hitting the drugstores, looking for doctors' cars, and go for paper. Some of 'em are pretty cute when it comes to faking symptoms so's they can get a prescription. But if they make it, it's only one fix. A lot of 'em will hit the hospitals if it gets really bad; put in for the cure. Anything but cold turkey: man, that's hell!" ^
"Maybe you haven't heard," Bob said. "There was a big bust late this afternoon-about six. Down toward Watts. They got more than five kilos, in bulk."
Lester looked startled. "Man, that's bad news! I'm off the stuff myself, but that was probably the last stock in town. It's gonna be bad, real bad," He shook his head.
"Billy," Virgil said, '*you heard, didn't you, that four junkies were DOA in two days?"
"Sure, I heard. Some say they got hot-shotted-^the stuff was too good and they went out right there."
"In one case that was probably it," Tibbs told him. "The other three were different."
Lester finished his drink and set the bottle down. Then he leaned forward and spoke more softly. "I know what you mean, the word's out It was the new stuff, wasn't it?" Virgil nodded. "I think so."
"I told 'em," Billy continued, "but that's the trouble with junkies-let something new come along and some of 'em's gonna try it just to be sure they ain't missin' nothin'."
"Like fruit salad," Tibbs suggested.
"Yeah, that's it, mix up all the pills in a bowl and then everybody take two or three just to see what you get. Some awful funny things come out of that. But the new stuff, man I don't want none of that."
"Whaf s the word?" Bob asked.
Lester didn't hesitate to answer. "If you get it right, man, you fly-higher than anything else that's ever been. I know a couple guys who tried it. They're just living till they can get some more again."
"Think it's going to catch on?" Virgil asked. Lester stared at him. "What do you think, man-course it is! Some junkies, they don't care what happens so long as they get that big lift. And with the new stuff there really in the sky. I ain't never had none, but they say it's like the first time all over again, only bigger and better."