"I've been sick. I have to stop taking these drugs. Maybe next week. I'll stop next week. Can you leave me a stash for tomorrow?"
"Sure. Have you been to a doctor?"
"I checked into the Breach Candy hospital but left to score coke and . . . you know how it is. I never went back." He stood unsteadily and snorted. He wavered and seemed about to fall over. "I better he down," he said, supporting himself against the wall as he returned to bed. "You can move those things and sit," he added, pointing to a chair.
"No, that's okay. I can't stay long. I'm taking the Goa boat in the morning."
In the taxi to my hotel, the thought hit Neal's going to the. He can't five long like that. He'd Bone way past a temporary bout of Coke Amuck. Why hadn't I recognized that before? This was a more serious Coke Amuck—like Gigi's, who'd died shortly after her marriage to Marco. A Coke Amuck that wouldn't wear off in a few hours. A Coke Amuck that went on and on, until the person burned out completely. Instead of resenting Neal for hampering my scam, I should have worried over my friend's deterioration.
I had to get Neal to a hospital. But how to keep him in a hospital long enough to get him well? As soon as the urge for coke hit him, he'd bolt like a mosquito in a typhoon. What could I do?
I formed a plan. I knew if you were in jail and sick, you were transferred to a hospital and kept under guard. It would be impossible to leave under the eye of a twenty-four-hour police watch. If I could have Neal arrested, I could see to it that he be put under a doctor's care.
In a flash of inspiration, I knew whom to ask for assistance — Inspector Navelcar! He would know police officers in Bombay and could have Neal both arrested and hospitalized. I'd go to Goa to arrange the plan with Inspector Navelcar and then return to Bombay to make sure Neal was being treated. A little baksheesh to the hospital and Neal would be pampered like a maharaja. India was convenient that way. This seemed the only way to save my friend's life.
Problem—the police needed a reason to arrest Neal. I should return to Neal's room and hide some dope—then I could tell Inspector Navelcar where to find it. Good idea. I should return right now. I should tell the driver to turn round and go back to Neal's hotel.
But I didn't do it then, either.
When I checked out of the President Hotel, the deck clerk was surprised to see Bach.
Back at Anjuna Beach, I opened my dope den. I called it Anjuna Drugoona Saloona and tacked handwritten advertisements throughout the beach.
ANJUNA DRUGOONA SALOONA: Two-Story House Near Apolon's Chai Shop
It went well. Better than well. Within a week I was dealing four or five grams of smack every day, along with four or five grams of Rachid's I sold the coke in smaller and smaller quantities, until lines for ten rupees each. People sat around all day buying one line at a time. The profit grew as the quantities shrunk. I imagined myself a tycoon.
For publicity I held a raffle. With each packet I made I included a Raffle ticket said Anjuna Drugoona Saloona and had a number. The drawing take place at the end of December, with a Genuine. American Dildo Vibrator as first prize, a Champion Frisbee as second, and a brown stash bottle with attached spoon as third. It took me forever to write all slips of paper.
People came and went every hour of the day or night. Around 10 A.M., when the last person had left and I'd think I could finally sleep—BAM, BAM? somebody would be pounding on the door. Someone was always running out of something. Always. If I didn't answer one door, they'd hammer on another. I had four doors, and they'd pound on each one in turn, relentlessly, until I opened up.
I did go to inspector Navelcar.
"Please," told him, "my friend is sick. If he doesn't get medical care, and you have him arrested, and then have him locked in a hospital? He wouldn’t go otherwise, and he's dying, really. Please? You must know people in Bombay."
Inspector Navelcar shook his head Indian style. "Yes, I have associates there. What do we arrest him for? There must be a charge."
I should have gone hack to the hotel and planted something. I knew I should have gone back. "Drugs. There are always drugs in his room," I told him.
"It would be better if we knew for certain."
"There's always something, I promise. Please?"
I said he'd talk to his colleague and see what he could do.
I left the station thinking I'd have to come back in a week to check his progress and maybe beg him more.
But I never made it back. My dope den became a giant enterprise. It wasn't merely a place to buy drugs; it was a place to do drugs. I kept the upstairs as an apartment, while the downstairs served as my dope den, the Saloona. The largo living room held thirty people comfortably. More sat at the table in the dining room. Then there'd be some in the front room and some in the kitchen. There'd even be two or three people congregating in the bathroom. People were everywhere, always. In every room, on every mattress, everywhere I turned, there were people, blared from the stereo; it was a nonstop party.
Some people came just to hang out. Like Tish. She was pregnant. "You're not doing any drugs? At all?" I asked in astonishment. "Nope," Tish answered. "Well, almost never. I'm holding off till the birth."
The baby's father, Junky Robert, who was sitting next to her, didn't have to make this sacrifice; he careened sideways till his head rested on Georgette’s shoulder.
"Eh!" said Georgette, shrugging him off and awake. "Ça ne va pas comme ça, dis donc. Robert, give him a break, man."
Old friends came to socialize. Graham dropped by with his son, who ran around the room with Bach.
Many customers were new faces to me. Since I'd stopped attending beach parties, I knew few of the recent additions to the Goa scene. Now I met them all.
KNOCK, KNOCK came the sound on my door (my latest Bindi Bazaar doorbell had rusted in the monsoon, like its predecessors), and there stood another new person. Are you Cleo? Yes, hello, c'mon in. KNOCK, KNOCK. Hi, a friend of Jerry Schmaltz . . . Come in. KNOCK, KNOCK. Is this the place? Welcome, make yourself at homo. KNOCK, KNOCK. Would somebody open the door, Please?
I wanted to make a dope den unlike any other. I wanted to create something to go down in history. I wanted a place people would remember in old age went to this den once, back in the 1970s, you wouldn't believe it . . . To this end I promised my customers exact weights. Each purchase came guaranteed that if a quantity was less than it should be. I'd give back twice what was missing. If a gram was tenth of a gram short, the buyer would get back a fifth. I also had stacks of games for people to play: Monopoly, backgammon, Parcheesi. . . The red Buddha bhong I'd bought in Toronto was a great attraction. My customers delighted in smoking dope from the Buddha's belly. Often I threw Movie Nights and showed my films. For these occasions I hung fliers at Joe Banana's and Gregory's restaurant.
MOVIE NIGHT THURSDAY
ANJUNA DRUGOONA SALOONA
But if anyone asked. I'd also show the movies on request.
The den became a hangout. Along with the nightly host of new faces, the Saloona had its regulars. People met there before going out for the night, or before a flea market or a beach party or breakfast. People came to meet other people. Plans were made there. Gossip heard. Romances begun. Once there was a theatre group from California that, coked-out during one night, decided to perform for the beach. For a month they came every night, holding creative conferences around my ten-rupee coke packages. I lent them wigs and props, and the final production was hell nearby.
I did HAVE to dose the place a few hours a day. I was exhausted. I ran all night bong, endlessly fetching ten-rupee packets of coke or half grams of smack or some tobacco. This one wanted an orange soda, and someone over there was hunting for the backgammon set. Will someone please get the door? You wanted the mirror, right? There should be one right around here. I have five of them. Do you have another bhong? No, sorry. But there are a few here. Why don't you use Sasha's over there? Can you play another tape? I'm sick of this one. Choose what you like from tapes on the shelf. Hey, Graham, would you mind getting the door again? we need another line of coke here. No, make that two. No, three. Me too. Two more over there. Hey, Cleo, over here. Cleo, where's the mirror? Cleo, we need more tobacco. Cleo, the door!