She seemed vaguely frightened but obviously did not know what to do next. There was nobody to call on for help.
Shank took out the knife. He sprang the blade, and the girl’s eyes widened. He moved the blade until it was about an inch away from her stomach.
“Law doesn’t carry blades,” he said. “But you go right on thinking I’m law, and you go right on giving me a hard time. Then I’ll have to prove to you I’m not law. You know how I’ll do it?”
Her mouth made an O.
“I’ll cut your tits off,” he said gently. “Wouldn’t you rather call Basil?”
She nodded. She started for the phone.
“First the coffee. Cream and sugar.”
She poured the coffee. Then she found the phone and dropped a dime into it and dialed. He sat at the counter and sipped coffee, pleased.
“He’s on his way,” she told him.
Shank nodded. He waited. Less than five minutes later the man called Basil stepped into the diner. He was a small man, five-and-a-half feet short, small-boned, bald. He had nervous eyes. He was well-dressed and over- dressed, as many small men are. His hat was black and short-brimmed, his topcoat an expensive tweed. His Italian loafers were highly shined.
“You wanted to see me?” Basil’s voice was low.
Shank nodded. “Can we go somewhere?”
“First let me know who you are.”
“You can call me Shank.”
“I never made that handle.”
“You do now. You used to know somebody named Mau-Mau. So did I.”
“Ancient history,” Basil said.
“That’s the point. You also know a guy named Billy-Billy and a girl named Joyce. So do I.”
“Billy-Billy’s a fine fellow,” Basil said thoughtfully. “He and Joyce make a good couple.”
“Billy-Billy’s gay as a jay,” Shank said. “Joyce is a hustler for somebody uptown. Do I pass?”
“You pass,” Basil said, amused. “Follow me.”
They walked along 39th Street to Tenth Avenue, turned up Tenth to 40th, then down 40th to a crumbling brownstone. A sign announced the building had been condemned. Large white Xs adorned the windows.
They entered the building and climbed three flights. Basil put a key into a lock, turned it. They walked into an empty room where, obviously, no one lived. But here Basil kept his goods. The place was known as a drop—a place for the storage, exchange, sale and delivery of junk.
“What do you want?” Basil asked.
“Pot.”
Basil shrugged. “I hardly carry it,” he said. “No profit. I’m surprised you bother. You swing with Billy-Billy and Joyce, you ought to have something better going for you. Pot is small-time. Very small. Not tall at all.”
“I get along.”
“You could get along better.”
“And sell hard stuff?”
Basil nodded.
“I don’t like hard stuff,” Shank said. “They bust you for hard stuff and they lay it on you. Hard. Jails sort of drag me. I don’t like them.”
“You go to the same jails for pot,” Basil said. “The law doesn’t know the difference. Look at the Mau-Mau. Three times was the charm for him. And he never sold a grain of powder.”
“Maybe.”
“You could handle both,” Basil said. “Pot for the teaheads, horse for the live ones. More money in it.”
“I’ve got a steady clientele.”
“With heroin, customers look for you. A captive audience. No hustling, no worry. If you just want pot you can look for another connection. To tell you the truth, I just carry it as a service. I wouldn’t sell it alone. But I’ll sell it along with the other. And I can make a nice price.”
Shank thought about it. There was one big point in Basil’s favor. The law saw no difference between marijuana and heroin. The law was stupid. And you might as well hang for a sheep as a lamb.
“How nice a price?”
“You sell for five cents a cap. I let you have it for two. A profit of three. Tax-free, baby.”
A nice price, Shank judged, and he said, “I’ve got fifty dollars. Name me a list of goods.”
“Fifty?” Basil considered. “Twenty caps,” he said. “And two ounces of gauge. I lose money on the gauge that way. But you’re new. It’s a favor.”
Two ounces was not enough, Shank thought quickly. Not with the party the next night.
“Fifteen caps and three ounces,” he said. Basil frowned. “Baby,” he said. “Baby, how much money do you want me to lose?”
“I need three ounces.”
They talked about it. And finally Basil agreed. “But you’ll learn,” he said. “You’ll drop the pot after a while. One of your customers gets picked up and he’ll tip them to you without thinking. He won’t be a junkie. He won’t need to protect you. And there you are, lover. Busted because you sell pot. That doesn’t happen when you sell junk. They don’t do a pigeon routine. They don’t dare. They don’t want to be cut off cold. They don’t want to risk a hot shot. You know from a hot shot?”
Shank knew. But Basil explained anyway.
“I saw it happen,” he said. “A long-tailed rat. Turned in his pusher to cop a plea. He tried to connect with somebody else, somebody who knew the score. He got his. He got a cap of strychnine. Heated it on his spoon and sent it home and died with the needle in his arm. Ugly, baby.”
They ironed out the deal. Basil gave Shank three envelopes, each having an ounce of marijuana. Then he handed Shank another envelope containing fifteen capsules of heroin. Shank counted out ten five-dollar bills.
“A pleasure,” the little man said. He put away the money and smiled. “You know where I hang. The afternoon’s the best time. Find me at leisure. Keep my name a secret. Don’t talk in your sleep. And don’t become your own customer. I won’t sell to you once you become a user yourself. Smoke all the pot you want. Start riding the horse and I cut you off clean. I don’t sell to junkies. I’ve got a code of ethics. No morals. But loads of ethics.”
Shank left first. He walked away from the condemned brownstone and headed east. He walked two blocks, then jumped in a cab and gave the driver his address.
He kept peering out the back window. There was no tail and he was very glad. He felt hotter than a stove and the heroin was burning a hole-and-a-half in his pocket. He did not feel at all safe until the heroin and the pot were stashed away in the apartment. Both Anita and Joe were elsewhere when he arrived, which relieved Shank because he sensed it a good idea they remain unaware of the presence of heroin.
Chapter 7
Party time.
Judy Obershain had money. Her father, a well-to-do Boston businessman, sent her a healthy check once a month to keep Judy out of Boston. He loved his daughter—reservedly, but sincerely—and he knew well enough it would be better all across the board if he and Judy saw each other as little as possible. So the small, gaminish girl used her monthly manna to inhabit an apartment in the West Village and to experience all the kicks available, with the exception, oddly, of the act of losing her virginity. Long ago, when Judy’s mother had been among the living, that good woman had explained again and again to Judy how terrible it would be to cease being a virgin. Judy’s mother, a frigid witch if there ever had been one, had succeeded admirably. Judy, as promiscuous and perverted a girl as one could hope to find anywhere, had remained a virgin.
Now Judy’s four-room apartment was being devoted to a party. The party was moving nicely. Several gallons
