The floor was covered with dirt and ancient leaves. In the comers some worthless items had been haphazardly stored. But the thing which demanded attention was the man lying, face down, in the litter. He was clothed ui an old pair of jeans and a shirt which he had half torn off his body. If he was even aware that the door had been opened, he gave no visible sign. His body was steadily rolhng back and forth, interrupted only when he kicked his legs violently as though some unseen creature was trying to seize them iu its jaws. His hands were across his face, protecting it in part from the debris in which it was all but buried. As he ceaselessly rolled and twitched, he kept up a constant, chilling series of subdued cries and moans. As Virgil watched he turned over and began to roll on his back, revealing the mask of sweat that covered his face. His eyes were alternately wide open and squeezed tight shut, as though they too shared the agony that racked his body. His rolling, twisting movements never ceased as his body fought to find some nonexistent position which would offer it a modicum of relief.
"You know what dat is?"
"I know," Tibbs answered. "Cold turkey. Man, he needs stuff awful bad." 98
"Yeah,'* the man who had brought him answered. "I know. He's my frien', and I ain't got nothin' to give him. So he's got to take it, Hke mebbe you too by tomarra'. So ifn I ain't got none for him, what for you?" Then he fell silent and watched his friend, aware of his unanswerable argument.
"Mebbe a doctor?" Virgil suggested.
His guide shook his head. "He can't take another bust The Feds, they doin' it to him 'cause they grabbed all the stuff." The seeming injustice of that caused him to tighten his thick lips and for a moment his fists clenched.
"If'n I had some junk, I'd give it to him," Tibbs said.
The lanky youth shut the door, consigning the man inside to his fate. "He ain't the only one. All over town. You know what a panic is?"
"No junk."
"Yeah, no junk. Well, man, we got us a panic. There ain't nothin', so you're shit outa luck. Unless you want to try the new stuff; that might help ya."
Virgil rolled his eyes wonderingly. "What dat?" he asked.
They emerged back onto the street once more. "I dunno, it's sumthin'. Ya might get hot-shotted; ya gotta take a chance."
Tibbs grabbed him as though in mild desperation. "I wan* it," he said, "I wan' it bad! Where kin I get it?"
The youth shook his head. "You gotta find the Chinamen," he answered. "They got it."
"An' what's it called? I gotta know that!"
The young man shook himself loose. "Jus* ask for jade dust," he answered.
CHAPTER 11
On the way back to the car Virgil was strangely silent; his hands were thrust into the pockets of his disreputable jacket and he walked with his head down, deep in his own thoughts. After an interval Bob asked, "Can we help him?"
"Not really," Tibbs answered. "He's having it damn tough, but unless he has a bad heart condition or something like that, he's in no danger. What treatment facilities there are will be overloaded already: it's not as though we were denying him something."
"And, of course, if we do pass the word we*U both be dead on the street for months to come."
"Years, probably," VirgU said. "We can't afford it. That's the main consideration, of course." He stopped and looked as far as he could in both directions. "The panic's on, no doubt about that. That means that there are, or will be, hundreds more like him hidden away somewhere to go through their agonies, and more who are still on their feet out trying to make a buy somewhere. They'll put up the last thing they own for any kind of a bag at all."
"I know," Bob agreed. "I had one a few weeks back- heroin addiction in an eleven-year-old girl. A boy gave it to her-^he was fifteen."
Virgil reached the car and unlocked it. "The hell of this damn business is that the public has no idea what goes on and wouldn't believe it if they were told. Let's go home."
He climbed in and seated himself behind the wheel. Bob noted how his lips were pressed together and understood- as he had many times in the past. He got in without comment and was glad when the vehicle began to move. The area was fearfully depressing to him and the image of the man fighting pain on the floor of the dirty garage would not get out of his mind.
Two blocks farther on Virgil stopped for a light While 100
they waited for it to change Bob noticed two men talking together in a darkened doorway; the one who was facing toward the street was shaking his head; then he held his hands out expressively to show nothing. The light came green and they moved forward once more. The car accelerated up to the legal speed; then Virgil began to apply the brake. Bob looked back quickly and saw the red lights on the patrol car that was behind them. That meant another two or three minutes shot to hell. Normally he was not impatient, but the neighborhood was beginning to get him down and he wanted to get it behind him and out of his sight if not his mind.
Obediently Tibbs pulled over and stopped. The cruiser drew up behind him and both of the uniformed men it contained got out, fitting on their caps as they did so. Bob knew exactly what to expect and he was not disappointed — one of them came up to talk to Tibbs while the other came up on the right and opened the car door. "Would you get out please, sir," he said, and motioned with a flashlight he held in his hand.
Bob drew breath, but then for the moment decided to hold his peace. This was Virgil's party and he was willing to let his partner call the signals. Just to make things interesting he deliberately swayed a little when he got to his feet and managed to look properly confused. The officer spoke to him again. "Will you step over here, please, sir." Just before he moved out of hearing range he caught Virgil's heavily accented speech, "Ah ain't done nuthin' mister, what-cha wan' me for?"
Since that was the way it was to go. Bob gladly played along. As he walked he managed almost to trip himself and then stood waiting. Promptly the ofiBcer pulled a card out of his pocket and began to read. "I am about to give you a sobriety test, but before I do so I will inform you of your rights. Do you understand me?"
When he required it Bob could produce a Japanese accent in any one of several expert variations. He nodded his head a Uttle uncertainly and then said, "Speak most slowly, please."
In response the uniformed man read from the card, pronouncing each word as carefully as he was able. As a result he overpronounced and Bob was, behind his wooden face, duly amused. But not a vestige of it appeared externally. Then Bob was asked to stand with his feet together, to hold out his arms horizontally, and then to touch the tip of his nose with his right forefinger. It took him some seconds of
apparent motor difficulty to get into the required position; after that he brought his right arm in and tapped his nose with careful precision.
Next he walked down a crack in the sidewalk on request, fumbling his way into position and then performing with maddening correctness for the specified distance.
The officer led him back to the car. There his partner was carefully interviewing Tibbs and had read him his rights as well. "I want to ask your cooperation." he was explaining. "I would like to have your permission to look through your car."
"Ain't nuthin' wTong with ma cah," Virgil responded, and then visibly brushed imaginary perspiration from his forehead.
"Tm sure there isn't, but may I look at it am^way?"
"lf n yah sure, what-cha wan' to look at it fo'?"
"Let's just say that Fm curious."