'Just an old junky, boys, a harmless old shaking wreck of a junky.' That's the way I put it down. As I had hoped, Hauser looked away when I started probing for a vein. It's a wildly unpretty spectacle.
O'Brien was sitting on the arm of a chair smoking an Old Gold, looking out the window with that dreamy what I'll do when I get my pension look.
I hit a vein right away. A column of blood shot up into the syringe for an instant sharp and solid as a red cord. I pressed the plunger down with my thumb, feeling the junk pound through my veins to feed a million junk-hungry cells, to bring strength and alertness to every nerve and muscle. They were not watching me. I filled the syringe with alcohol.
Hauser was juggling his snub-nosed detective special, a Colt, and looking around the room. He could smell danger like an animal With his left hand he pushed the closet door open and glanced inside. My stomach contracted. I thought, 'If he looks in the suitcase now I'm done.' Hauser turned to me abruptly. 'You through yet?' he snarled. 'You'd better not try to shit us on Marty.' The words came out so ugly he surprised and shocked himself. I picked up the syringe full of alcohol, twisting the needle to make sure it was tight.
'Just two seconds,' I said.
I squirted a thin jet of alcohol, whipping it across his eyes with a sideways shake of the syringe. He let out a bellow of pain. I could see him pawing at his eyes with the left hand like he was tearing off an invisible bandage as I dropped to the floor on one knee, reaching for my suitcase. I pushed the suitcase open, and my left hand closed over the gun butt --I am righthanded but I shoot with my left hand. I felt the concussion of Hauser's shot before I heard it. His slug slammed into the wall behind me. Shooting from the floor, I snapped two quick shots into Hauser's belly where his vest had pulled up showing an inch of white shirt. He grunted in a way I could feel and doubled forward. Stiff with panic, O'Brien's hand was tearing at the gun in his shoulder holster. I clamped my other hand around my gun wrist to steady it for the long pull --this gun has the hammer fled off round so you can only use it double action --and shot him in the middle of his red forehead about two inches below the silver hairline. His hair had been grey the last time I saw him. That was about 15 years ago. My first arrest. His eyes went out. He fell off the chair onto his face. My hands were already reaching for what I needed, sweeping my notebooks into a briefcase with my works, junk, and a box of shells. I stuck the gun into my belt, and stepped out into the corridor putting on my coat. I could hear the desk clerk and the bell boy pounding up the stairs. I took the self-service elevator down, walked through the empty lobby into the street.
It was a beautiful Indian Summer day. I knew I didn't have much chance, but any chance is better than none, better than being a subject for experiments with ST (6) or whatever the initials are. I had to stock up on junk fast. Along with airports, R.R. stations and bus terminals, they would cover all junk areas and connections. I took a taxi to Washington Square, got out and walked along 4th Street till I spotted Nick on a corner. You can always find the pusher. Your need conjures him up like a ghost. 'Listen, Nick,' I said, 'I'm leaving town. I want to pick up a piece of H. Can you make it right now?'
We were walking along 4th Street. Nick's voice seemed to drift into my consciousness from no particular place. An eerie, disembodied voice. 'Yes, I think I can make it. I'll have to make a run uptown.'
'We can take a cab.'
'O.K., but I can't take you in to the guy, you understand.'
'I understand. Let's go.'
We were in the cab heading North. Nick was talking in his Bat, dead voice. 107
'Some funny stuff we're getting lately. It's not weak exactly.... I don't know.... It's different. Maybe they're putting some synthetic shit in it.... Dollies or something....'
'What!!!? Already?'
'Huh?... But this I'm taking you to now is O.K. In fact it's about the best deal around that I know of. . Stop here.'
'Please make it fast,' I said.
'It should be a matter of ten minutes unless he's out of stuff and has to make a run.... Better sit down over there and have a cup of coffee.... This is a hot neighborhood.' I sat down at a counter and ordered coffee, and pointed to a piece of Danish pastry under a plastic cover. I washed down the stale rubbery cake with coffee, praying that just this once, please God, let him make it now, and not come back to say the man is all out and has to make a run to East Orange or Greenpoint.
Well here he was back, standing behind me. I looked at him, afraid to ask. Funny, I thought, here I sit with perhaps one chance in a hundred to live out the next 24 hours --I had made up my mind not to surrender and spend the next three or four months in death's waiting room. And here I was worrying about a junk score. But I only had about five shots left, and without junk I would be immobilized.... Nick nodded his head.
'Don't give it to me here,' I said. 'Let's take a cab.' We took a cab and started downtown. I held out my hand and copped the package, then I slipped a fifty-dollar bill into Nick's palm. He glanced at it and showed his gums in a toothless smile: 'Thanks a lot.... This will put me in the clear...'
I sat back letting my mind work without pushing it. Push your mind too hard, and it will fuck up like an overloaded switchboard, or turn on you with sabotage. And I had no margin for error. Americans have a special horror of giving
