Portland Noir

He pulls out the works and then heads back to the kitchen with the spoon to get some water-just leaving the kilo there on the freakin’ coffee table like it’s nothing.

“What the hell is going on here?” I ask the bitch.

“I need you to promise me something,” she leans in and whispers so the EMT can’t hear in the other room. “When Esteban gets here, tell him this was all the paramedic’s idea, okay?”

“Why the fuck do you have a fucking kilo of chiva in your house?”

The EMT comes back before she can answer and starts loading up the spoon straight from the kilo.

“What are you? A gram a day?”

“Gram and a half.”

He taps a tiny bit more in.

“Hey, you’re going a bit light there,” I point out.

“Trust me, this shit is pure.”

“It’s black tar. How pure can it be?”

“Pure.”

He cooks it over my lighter, then barely lets it cool before skipping the cotton ball and loading it straight into one of the horse syringes from his box.

“Jesus Christ, this is a fucking stash house, isn’t it?” I ask them both.

Instead of answering, the EMT sticks the needle into a little side branch of my IV line and pushes the heroin directly into my jugular.

The shit hits me like a fucking Amtrak.

I’m not sure how long I nod, but when I come back, the pain is just a dull ache.

The EMT is gone and the blond bitch is on the phone with her back to me talking to someone in Spanish again. I spot the EMT’s horse syringe on the carpet about a foot from me. With her attention focused on the phone call, I try to see if I can reach it. Everything below the waist is dead and my arms feel like boiled spaghetti, but now that the pain is gone, I’m able to shift my upper body just enough. I grab the syringe, hide it behind me, and shift back to where I was. It’s not much of a weapon, but if the bitch tries pressing on my stomach again, at least I can stab her.

Outside I hear a car pull into the driveway and multiple doors slam. The bitch flips her phone shut.

I don’t know what I expected Esteban to look like, but the light-skinned Mexican guy who walks into the living room strikes me more as a male model for one of those multicultural Benetton ads than a drug kingpin. The fucking guy is wearing a neon orange button-down with a baby-blue tennis sweater tied around his neck. If it wasn’t for the white pit bull at his side and the keloid scar across his neck, he could pass as fuck-ing Eurotrash.

“What happened here, Connie?” His accent isn’t very strong, but it’s true Mex, not Chicano.

“Esteban, he broke in… and I shot… and I shot him.”

“It’s okay. Give me the gun. I’ll get rid of it.”

She hands him the Ruger.

Without saying another word, Esteban walks over and steps on my lower abdomen. Even with the heroin, it hurts like a motherfucker. I can’t imagine what the pain would be like if I were straight.

He watches my reaction.

“You’re high, aren’t you?”

I try not to look at him.

“That’s okay, man. I’ve got some Narcan back at the other house. A little of that and you’ll feel it plenty.”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s funny, you know. That’s just what the mayate said.”

He yells something in Spanish down the hall, and two other Mex guys drag Voodoo Mike in. He’s out cold with his hands zip-tied behind his back and a duct tape gag covering his mouth. His face is so fucked up it looks like somebody put a Rasta wig on a blob of hamburger meat. They drop him right on top of my legs, so that his head is faceup in my lap.

“Your friend here doesn’t listen good.” Esteban shakes his head. He says something in Spanish, and the shorter of the two Mex guys comes over. Shortie actually giggles as he bends down and pinches Mike’s nose closed.

Mike comes to fighting for air, and his eyes practically pop out of his head. If it wasn’t for the hamburger face, he’d look like a fucking cartoon. Esteban waves Shortie off, and Mike’s eyes finally retreat back into their sockets as he starts snorting in air again.

All three of them laugh, and then crack up completely when the phone in Mike’s front pocket begins playing some crappy Mariah Carey ringtone at full volume.

“Aren’t you going to answer your phone, mayate?” Esteban asks.

Mike continues snorting, either ignoring the question or just oblivious.

“Maybe there’s something wrong with his ear? No?” Este-ban’s brow furrows in mock concern.

“El lapiz.” He snaps his fingers and Shortie hands him a pencil. Squatting down next to Mike, he grabs hold of his dreadlocks with one hand and whispers in his right ear. “Can you hear me now, mayate?”

Esteban gives me a wink, and then jams the pencil hard into Mike’s ear.

The blond bitch lets out a scream and Mike starts writhing as Esteban digs around with the pencil. Shortie giggles, but the other Mex has to look away.

“Hey, Connie,” Esteban calls out, “I can’t find anything. You try.”

“Esteban… I… Please.”

“Come on.” He digs in farther and Mike starts to go into convulsions. “It’s fun.”

“No. Please. I… I can’t.”

“Okay,” Esteban sighs, and pulls the pencil out.

Mike stops convulsing. His eyes stay open, but the right one goes all wonky and looks off to the side.

Esteban stands back up and then seems to notice the kilo for the first time.

“Connie? Why is there an open brick on the coffee table?” He starts to twirl the pencil in his hand.

“That’s not on me, Esteban! That paramedic you sent said-”

“What did I tell you about opening the product?”

“It wasn’t me! Ask him!” She points to me.

“Him?” Esteban laughs. “You mean, the pendejo you shot in the stomach?”

“Tell him!” Connie begs me. Her blue eyes are wide and she’s starting to go pale.

I don’t say anything. All I can think about is the phone in Mike’s pocket.

“Please! Just tell him it was the paramedic!” Her voice breaks into a squeal.

“Calmate, mujer.” Esteban smiles, still twirling the pencil. “I think our amigo here just needs a little motivation.”

Mike’s phone makes a whooshing noise to indicate that whoever called left a voice mail, but Esteban ignores it and steps on my abdomen again.

“You don’t want to help the poor guera over here?” he asks.

“Fuck you.”

“You know I’m going to kill you, no?” He presses down harder.

I try to speak, but can’t.

“Just tell me who opened the brick.” He takes his foot off, and gives a squeeze of the IV bag to bring me back around. “If you do that, I’ll let you load a few grams into that syringe you’re hiding behind your back, and you go off to junkie heaven…” He reaches over with the pencil and tickles my ear. “Or, if you want, we can always play a little more of Hide the Pencil.”

“Esteban…” Connie tries to intervene.

“Shhhh.” Esteban waves her off and speaks to me. “What do you think? Do you want to die the easy way or like the fucking mayate?”

Connie’s given up and is just staring at me.

Shortie and the other Mex guy are staring at me too.

Esteban is smiling.