Shoot It Again

want my sixty bucks—now!” Her badly painted face was an angry mask.

     “Get me a saucer and stop the lip. I may give you a hundred times sixty dollars.”

     “A saucer? If you think you can con me into a freebee...”

     “Get it and shut your goddamn mouth!”

     While she did a hippy walk to the sink, took a saucer from the shelf above it, I dug down into the duffel bag, under the towel. Opening the plastic pillow case, I removed a pinch of heroin. Dropping the white powder on the white saucer she held out, I zipped the bag shut, punched the towel firmly on top of it. Lucille's big eyes traveled from the plate to my duffel bag. “Great God, that full of horse?”

     “Uncut stuff.”

     Taking a single grain on her red pinky nail, she shoved it up her nose and sniffed. For a number of long seconds nothing happened: then her face flushed, the inside of the nostril turned a raw red, Lucille sighed with complete happiness. Putting the plate on the table she grabbed my hand, held the two fingers I'd pinched the dope with under her nose—whole body shaking.

     When I yanked my fingers away, she gasped, “Strong... oooh strong! Tony, honey! Honey, I'll be so good to you... in a moment. Don't dare waste this!”

     She raced to the bathroom, returned with a shaving mirror, a razor blade, and two pill boxes. Sitting at the table with all the concentration of a dedicated scientist, she pulled a long white pill from one of the boxes, delicately shaved the pill with the razor blade—the tiny shavings falling on the mirror.

     “What's that?”

     “Quinine,” she mumbled.

     With the edge of the razor, Lucille took coarse white powder from the other box (milk sugar I later learned), added it to the quinine on the mirror. Lucille began chopping up the minute grains with the razor—added the pinch of dope to the mixture, carefully herding it off the saucer with her razor. Then putting her big nose on the plate—like a miniature vacuum cleaner—her chunky body trembling with each sniff. As she started chopping at the white mixture again, I asked, “Why the mirror bit?”

     “See every grain on a mirror—can't lose none. Tony, this will be a bomb, maybe two of 'em! But I'm going to wait, those sniffs charged me just fine.”

     Pulling wax paper from a roll in the kitchen, Lucille tilted the mirror so the fine powder fell on the paper, did the sniffing routine again with the white dust, and when she stopped trembling... folded the wax paper into a tiny 'deck,' which she hid in the bedroom. She quickly put the pill boxes, the razor, back in the bathroom, washed the mirror. Then standing in the bedroom doorway, Lucille blew a corny kiss my way, quickly dropped her robe.

     Fleshy, but well proportioned and strong, the nipples on the moon breasts a most delicate shade of rose-red. With a sickening yelp of real joy, she came across the room... heavy-footed... jumped on my lap, placed my free hand on her breast. There was a sharp, and interesting, odor of perfume and sweat about her.

     “Tony, I love your hair. Women would fight over a wave like yours.” She began unbuttoning my shirt. “Said I'll show you a whale of a time—always keep my word.”

     “Later.”

     “Why later? I see the sex heat in your eyes now.”

     “Really?” I asked, almost interested until I realized it was a whore's standard sales pitch. “First, let me tell you the deal I have for...”

     “We can talk later. As- the wiseman said, enjoy yourself —what else is there in life? Tony, I go for you—honest, I do.”

     “I bet.”

     “You're the greatest, carrying a lifetime supply of Cloud 9 around like it's so much sand.” Lucille opened my shirt more, put her hand on my belt. “Honey, have you trouble below, like a complex?”

     “What made you ask that?”

     “Tony, I'm no Miss America but I'm stacked. When I put it down for free, guys don't hesitate.”

     “You're very attractive, Lucille,” I said, squeezing her nipple and gently pushing her off my lap, “but let's stop playing it dumb: no woman's as beautiful as a bundle of quiet money.”

     “Okay, maybe you know what you're doing.” She picked up her robe, slipped it on. Lighting a cigarette she sat opposite me, blew a corny cloud of smoke my way. “What's your deal? How much horse you got in there—where did you cop it?”

     “Don't reach, honey—all that matters is I have it. A pound of pure stuff, get more whenever I want to. I need a buyer.”

     “You think I'm big enough to handle the deal?”

     “Talk sense, babe: I picked you because you look like an intelligent chick. Without asking any questions, I know you must get your stuff from a pusher —in turn, your pusher can reach somebody up the line big enough to buy all I can get. Naturally, this can't be shouted from the window. All I want you to do is—quietly put out a feeler, bring the right joker to me and you're in for ten per cent. Bring the wrong guy and you'll kick the habit—permanently!” I added, trying to put a growl in my voice. “We understand each other?”

     Lucille nodded, eyes over-bright.

     “Play it smart and you make five or ten grand. Cross me and you'll never live to be more than a few hours older!”

     She smiled. “Tony, you're not a goon, stop playing the hard guy. It isn't necessary—I'm for money. I can't do a thing until eight p.m. Let's go to bed.”

     “Why not start working on it now?”

     “Because whenever I want to make a buy, I call this guy at eight and set it up.” She stood up and stretched, showing me all her solid curves. “I'm hungry. How about some supper? I'm an all-around gal, shaking a mean frying pan.”

     “Okay. Any other... customers... come here?”

     “No. Told you this is my own place, only for all night Johns.”

     She had steaks and a salad in the refrigerator. While she broiled the meat, Lucille lectured on “organically grown” foods and the dangers of chemical preservatives. Using a blender, she made a weird, mushy drink of alfalfa and shelled sunflower seeds, yeast flakes, natural Lecithin granules, and raw carrots. I didn't ask how she jelled being a food nut with taking junk.

     She set up a bridge table, complete with neatly folded napkins and a spotless table cloth. It was kicks to watch her eat; Lucille attacked the food with fierce delight, holding the steak in her hands and tearing at it with her teeth—thoroughly enjoying the meal. The steak was rare and tender, the salad and the mush not bad at all. I helped her wash the dishes and then we sat around listening to the radio, while she lectured on the evils of TV —how it was ruining the reading habit. We made a most domestic scene.

     Lucille talked about herself, proudly mentioned she was a member of “two of the largest book clubs out—I'm well read, been through every best seller published in the last five years.” Then, rather pointedly, tried to pump me for information until I told her to cut it.

     A few minutes before eight she put on the same sweaty dress, brushed her black hair. From the front window I had an angle view of the corner drugstore. I told her, “Make your phone call at the drugstore across the street. But don't try anything cute—it won't work.”

     She came over and pressed against me. “Tony, how wrong can a guy be? I go for you.”

     I patted her hips. “Don't go too far.”

     The moment she left, I locked the door, raced to the window with a bad case of jitters. She walked leisurely across to the drugstore. Some teenage boys on a stoop whistled, made a few cracks, but Lucille didn't pay them the smallest attention. She was in the store for at least ten minutes and I had this strong hunch I ought to take off, was being trapped. When she finally came out, Lucille walked away from the house, out of sight! In a panic, I ran to the door, down to the street to see Lucille leaving a liquor shop, carrying a small paper bag. I raced back upstairs.

     I pretended to be reading one of her books when she came in. She put a pint of gin on the table, started to undress. “This gin distilled from organically grown juniper berries?” I asked.

     The dress over her face—she wiggled her naked hips at me.

     “What's cooking on our deal?”

     “My connection wasn't in. That's happened before. I left a message I had to see him first thing in the morning, to wait for my call...”

     “Morning? Why can't you see him sooner?”

     “He's busy. I'm not his only customer.” She stuck a very red tongue at me. “You wanted to spend the night with me.”

     I grabbed her wrist. “What you handing me? When you need a fix, I know damn well you don't wait all night!”

     “This guy ain't running a store! You buy in advance or you're in hell all night. Tony, tomorrow I'll see him for sure—he has contacts right to the top. Let go of my wrist, there's more exciting things on me to grab.”

     I dropped her hand. I had no other move, or any other place to sleep. This was as good a 'hideout' as any.

     Lucille returned to the crummy uniform—her dirty negligee—which easily removed any sex ideas I may have had. The unwashed robe reminded me of the great fear of sickness whores always gave me. Turning on the radio, she opened the gin, actually mixed it with a powder called Tiger's Milk. It didn't taste bad. I took one drink and let her finish the rest.

     She went off on some slop about the gin reminding her of a time ”... Before I was on junk. I was going with this simple character. One night we drove down to a wild and deserted beach way out on Long Island—near Bridgehampton. Spooky beach, but kind of grand having it all to ourselves, with the sound of waves, salt spray—the rest of the scene. We built a fire of driftwood, cooked corn and hot dogs, and I nipped on a bottle of this same brand gin while he stood in the water to his ass, surf-casted. He didn't catch any fish, and he was your kind of jerk—didn't make love to me. Yet I've remembered that night. Maybe one of the best