Inspector Navelcar shook his head Indian style. 'Yes, I have associates there. What do we arrest him for? There must be a charge.'
I should have gone hack to the hotel and planted something. I knew I should have gone back. 'Drugs. There are always drugs in his room,' I told him.
'It would be better if we knew for certain.'
'There's always something, I promise. Please?'
I said he'd talk to his colleague and see what he could do.
I left the station thinking I'd have to come back in a week to check his progress and maybe beg him more.
But I never made it back. My dope den became a giant enterprise. It wasn't merely a place to buy drugs; it was a place to do drugs. I kept the upstairs as an apartment, while the downstairs served as my dope den, the Saloona. The largo living room held thirty people comfortably. More sat at the table in the dining room. Then there'd be some in the front room and some in the kitchen. There'd even be two or three people congregating in the bathroom. People were everywhere, always. In every room, on every mattress, everywhere I turned, there were people, blared from the stereo; it was a nonstop party.
Some people came just to hang out. Like Tish. She was pregnant. 'You're not doing any drugs? At all?' I asked in astonishment. 'Nope,' Tish answered. 'Well, almost never. I'm holding off till the birth.'
The baby's father, Junky Robert, who was sitting next to her, didn't have to make this sacrifice; he careened sideways till his head rested on Georgette’s shoulder.
'Eh!' said Georgette, shrugging him off and awake. '
Old friends came to socialize. Graham dropped by with his son, who ran around the room with Bach.
Many customers were new faces to me. Since I'd stopped attending beach parties, I knew few of the recent additions to the Goa scene. Now I met them all.
KNOCK, KNOCK came the sound on my door (my latest Bindi Bazaar doorbell had rusted in the monsoon, like its predecessors), and there stood another new person. Are you Cleo? Yes, hello, c'mon in. KNOCK, KNOCK. Hi, a friend of Jerry Schmaltz . . . Come in. KNOCK, KNOCK. Is this the place? Welcome, make yourself at homo. KNOCK, KNOCK. Would somebody open the door, Please?
I wanted to make a dope den unlike any other. I wanted to create something to go down in history. I wanted a place people would remember in old age went to this den once, back in the 1970s, you wouldn't believe it . . . To this end I promised my customers exact weights. Each purchase came guaranteed that if a quantity was less than it should be. I'd give back twice what was missing. If a gram was tenth of a gram short, the buyer would get back a fifth. I also had stacks of games for people to play: Monopoly, backgammon, Parcheesi. . . The red Buddha bhong I'd bought in Toronto was a great attraction. My customers delighted in smoking dope from the Buddha's belly. Often I threw Movie Nights and showed my films. For these occasions I hung fliers at Joe Banana's and Gregory's restaurant.
MOVIE NIGHT THURSDAY
ANJUNA DRUGOONA SALOONA
But if anyone asked. I'd also show the movies on request.
The den became a hangout. Along with the nightly host of new faces, the Saloona had its regulars. People met there before going out for the night, or before a flea market or a beach party or breakfast. People came to meet other people. Plans were made there. Gossip heard. Romances begun. Once there was a theatre group from California that, coked-out during one night, decided to perform for the beach. For a month they came every night, holding creative conferences around my ten-rupee coke packages. I lent them wigs and props, and the final production was hell nearby.
I did HAVE to dose the place a few hours a day. I was exhausted. I ran all night bong, endlessly fetching ten-rupee packets of coke or half grams of smack or some tobacco. This one wanted an orange soda, and someone over there was hunting for the backgammon set. Will someone please get the door? You wanted the mirror, right? There should be one right around here. I have five of them. Do you have another bhong? No, sorry. But there are a few here. Why don't you use Sasha's over there? Can you play another tape? I'm sick of this one. Choose what you like from tapes on the shelf. Hey, Graham, would you mind getting the door again? we need another line of coke here. No, make that two. No, three. Me too. Two more over there. Hey, Cleo, over here. Cleo, where's the mirror? Cleo, we need more tobacco. Cleo, the door!
In the morning, after the asthmatic rooster next door had wheezed, and when only two or three people remained in the den, I'd announce it was closing time and scoot them out. Oh, and don't forget your friend in the corner. Who, him? He's not with us. He's been sleeping there for hours. Well, do you think you could take him with you anyway? What's that lump on the platform? Another sleeper? Would you give him a shake for me. And I think there's one more on the waterbed.
Finally, alone and in peace, I'd hang notes on the doors saying I HAVE TO SLEEP and DO NOT DISTURB!
But it never failed—a crisis always occurred. Someone was out of something. BAM, BAM, BAM. C'mon, Cleo! It's an emergency! Open up! I'm out of coke! Or there'd be a group that ran out of parties and wanted to start its own. Or there'd be someone who couldn't sleep and just wanted to talk. BAM, BAM, BAM. C'mon, Cleo, we know you're in there.
At first Rachid stationed a man in Mapusa, and I'd go every morning for a supply of coke. By this time I was selling a couple dozen grams a day. I told Rachid I couldn't keep making those trips into town, though, because I lost customers while I was away. There'd be a crowd waiting for me when I returned. So Rachid had a man deliver a daily supply to my door.
Then my dope ran out, and I had to sell Rachid's dope along with his coke. I didn't only deal in coke and dope, though. I sold whatever had a market. When someone needed kilos of hash, I arranged it with Rachid and earned three hundred dollars. One time, someone left me blotter acid to sell. I even had a stock of opium, though I kept the Opium pipe hidden in the blowtorched safe. I had yet to find someone who managed to smoke the Opium rather than spatter it on the carpet and the linoleum. I matched people for scams and deals and ideas. The running around—hustling, mediating, and fetching—seemed never to end.
December came and went. I had someone pick the winning raffle numbers, and since the winners weren't there, I hung signs at Joe Banana's, the Three Sisters' restaurant, Gregory's restaurant, and the Monkey
ANJUNA DRUGOONA SALOONA RAFFLE WINNERS
First Prize, the Genuine American Dildo Vibrator: #008961
Second Prize, the Champion Frisbee: #002187
Third Prize, stash bottle: #003658
I barely noticed the passing of Christmas or New Year's and never had the opportunity to visit anybody.
I did hear news, though. People told me what went on and asked me for gossip in return. Whatever happened to Serge? Don't know. He hasn't shown up this season. Neither have Dayid and Ashley. I heard they're in Australia. Ashley wants to keep Dayid away from the smack. I think he's driving a cab. NO! Really? Did you hear about Michael and Fatima and the motorcycle? In Bali, right? The roads there are atrocious. And where's Mental? Jail. Busted last monsoon in the States. Oh, yeah? Hey, Cleo, we need another quarter over here. And isn't that startling about Bombay Brian. Hey, Cleo, ten-rupees of coke.
On top of stories recounted directly, news inundated me as I moved through the crowd exchanging paper packets for money. . . . Petra in the hospital. What about Petra? She had a car accident. Her legs were crushed. Didn't she inherit a fortune? Where did that mirror go? Hey, Sasha! Where've you been? Bombay. Just got back this minute. Neal died last night. Who has the Buddha bhong? Do you have another razor blade? Here's the mirror— who wanted it? Did you hear Neal died in Bombay? I heard. Here, have a bhong. May I have another orange soda, please?
Tears flooded my eyes as I handed out drugs, found mirrors and bhongs, served sodas and fresh razor
