"Show it again," he'd say.
"Again?"
He'd give me an Italian-type lift of the chin.
Then Marco became a problem. Objects vanished as he passed them—a Balinese mask, an ampoule of distilled water, a used needle. He pestered my customers. He borrowed cigarettes and beedies, hustled hits of this and that, and asked people to buy him soda.
I tried talking to him. "Marco, did you take that syringe?"
"What syringe?"
"Come on, I know you have it." I hated to sound picky, but I was reaching the end of my charitableness. "It's forty rupees if you're going to keep it—and listen, I'd rather you didn't hustle everybody like that. A little hustle is okay, but you asked every single person here for some of their stash. They're getting annoyed. You’ll ruin my business if customers stop coining because of you."
He made apologetic promises, but his eyes still searched the room for objects to steal.
I decided I could no longer let him in the house. The next time he came to the door, I didn't open it. I made him go to a back window instead. "I'm sorry. I can't let you in anymore," I told him. "I don't trust you. If you want to buy something, it has to be through the window."
I thought I'd never see him again, but he still came every day. How horrible. The only window that was the right height and not fully exposed to passers-by was a back one in the kitchen. Beneath it lay the garbage lump where the maid deposited things that couldn't he burned. It faced the Goan toilets and rested over the septic tank. Marco stood there in the trash to buy his drugs from between metal window bars. I felt a brute. I had trouble meeting his eyes as I handed him packets through the bars. He had trouble meeting me.
And then came Maria. Maria turned out to be even worse than Marco. What was happening to the Goa Freaks?
The couple Maria and Stefano, both Italian, had a little girl, four years old. Stefano wasn't a customer of mine, only Maria. Maria had been to the Saloona a few times for smack and coke, but the first time I paid attention to her was when she arrived towing a semi straight backpacker. Here was a real hustler, I thought.
"Ciao, Cleo," she said, as if we were best buddies. "Meet my friend here. What is your name again? He wants to buy coke." When the guy wasn't looking, she made a face and winked at me as co conspirator. "How much money do you have?" she asked him, keeping a grip on his arm while he dog in his pockets.
"Uh, you said I could score a quarter . . ."
She took the money from his hand and helped him count. "You have plenty. You can buy me a gram. I need some for later."
Not long after he bought her the gram, Maria had him out the door with a wave, a tolerant smile, and a see-you-later. Smooth.
I'd seen my share of compulsive coke fixers, but nobody equalled Maria, despite her useless veins. Like many women, she had difficulty getting into one. Men's veins were more prominent and visible. Sometimes Maria tried unsuccessfully for twenty minutes, practically in tears and totally obsessed with plunging the now-disgusting liquid into her arm.
"Maria!" I'd say, spotting the glop in her syringe. "You can't fix that! Yuk! The blood in there coagulated fifteen minutes ago."
Her concentration wouldn't waver. With drops of sweat dangling from her bangs she'd continue prodding.
"It's STUCK!" she'd wail eventually in the most pitiful tone imaginable. "The needle's clogged!"
"Well, of course. Look at that stuff. It's turned to jello."
Not allowing it to go to waste, she'd remove the needle and squirt the disgusting goo into her mouth before starting over.
All of Goa knew about Maria. Having run out of money long ago, she hustled from everyone. She was very pretty, very cute, and very good at what she did. Since I made bhongs and lines for the people around me, she made herself my best friend. She was terrific—emptied ashtrays, fetched sodas, collected money, opened the door for Bach when he barked. Charming and funny, Maria told stories that made people laugh, enchanting the masses with her Italian accent and her big brown eyes. She brought me many customers, people I'd never seen before, picked up from who-knew-which beach. It was amazing the way she finagled strangers into buying her drugs.
As the season progressed, the hippies, backpackers, and tourists began to leave, and the Goa Freaks who still had money began to run low. Soon I noticed that the profits at day's end did not match the amount of packets supposedly sold. Maria was stealing my drugs!
One day I caught her—Maria with her grubby hand in my metal box. "Ah, Cleo, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. . . "
Furiously, I grabbed her by the hair, threw her out the door, and kicked her down the steps. She landed in a shrieking heap at the bottom. I slammed the door.
She stopped coming alter that, but I could tell when she sent someone to buy drugs for her. Whenever I found an unknown, straightish, backpacker-type on my doorstep, I knew Maria wasn't far away. Sometimes I'd see her hiding behind the well, waiting.
As the season progressed I had fewer and fewer customers, and the customers had less and less money. In April I learned the most important lesson of the drug retail business—NEVER GIVE CREDIT!!! Too bad it took me so long to figure that out.
Maria owed me money, but she was one of many. I had a discouraging list of people indebted to me. Since I never gave credit without holding something as collateral, I possessed a staggering amount of bric-a-brac. By the end of April, I had eight watches, five rings, four passports, three gold chains, two tape players, two silver bracelets, one silver belt, a silver candlestick holder, a radio, a pair of almost-new cowboy boots, a gold locket, an ivory elephant, a shapeless piece of jade, a piece of amber with a insect frozen within, a Swiss army knife, pictures of loved ones . . . None of this junk, though, served as currency when it came to resupplying my store.
Uh-oh—I was in trouble.
And I'd never paid Lino the rent money for the year. Though I'd earned a fortune that season in profits. I'd consumed a fortune in drugs and given away another fortune's worth. Now, as I lost customers to the approaching monsoon, I felt the weight of the credit I'd given. I tacked up notices saying NO CREDIT. Alas, too late. I could only afford smaller and smaller quantities. Soon Rachid stopped his man from delivering to my door. Because I could afford only a few grams at a time, I sometimes had to traipse to Mapusa twice a day. Soon the Saloona didn't work anymore.
Lack of capital caused the major problems. I needed more cash on hand to purchase stock from Rachid's man in Mapusa. How could I get it? I had to recall the money owed me. But how? Some people had already left for the monsoon. Those who still came could barely afford what they were buying, and if I pressed them too hard, I might lose the few customers I had left.
Maria. That traitor! She owed twenty-six hundred rupees. If I could recover that, I'd be in bester condition.
I went to Stefano, her boyfriend and father of her child, to demand payment of Maria's bill. Poor Stefano. I was hardly the only one with whom Maria had this conflict. Half the beach had approached him with the same complaint.
So, no help there. My cash problem worsened. Paradise Pharmacy, my most reliable buyer, also lost customers to the monsoon. They stopped their weekly order. What to do now? I had no choice-I had to sell some of the baubles I was holding as security on debts. What did those people think I was, anyway? Credit Lyonnais? I spread the word that the last opportunity for people to reclaim their property had arrived. Come now and get this junk of yours or you'll never see it again. Only one person took me up on it and reclaimed his passport. I waited one more week, then went to Mapusa in a taxi full of merchandise.
Oh, god—look at this. I must look like a burglar, standing in the market place clutching eight watches. Ridiculous. But there was nothing else to do. I chose a spot where I could partially hide behind stalks of sugarcane. On one side of me sat an Indian woman with a stack of papaya; on the other an Indian woman with bananas.