blades. No, I can't think about Neal. I might start screaming and run into the ocean. I can't think about Neal now.
The Anjuna Drugoona Saloona was a great success, continually packed with customers, friends with their own stashes, and people hoping for a free turn-on. Canadian Jacques came now and then, but I never sat long with him before being called on a powder errand. The whole beach popped in to visit, socialize, and check out the scene. Norwegian Monica male an appearance. Did I tell you Greek Robert hung himself in jail? No! 'Too bad, he was so cute. Blind George dropped by. Even Alehandro sallied in with his followers. John, my Applecroc, also stopped by occasionally to say hello. Did you hear about Neal? Yes, but I can't think about it, Applecroc. That bitch Eve, man. We collected money for the funeral, and she shot up every rupee! All the money went up her arm in coke and dope. Finally Bila from Dipti's had to pay for the funeral. And do you believe it, man. Eve never showed up! She borrowed money from Bombay Brian, saying she needed to feed the kid, and then went to Sukalatchi Street to score coke. Never even showed up for the funeral, do you believe that? I can't think about it, Applecroc. Oh, Cleo, can we have another ten-rupee packet here? And I think someone's at the door.
The running around exhausted me. There never seemed to be enough time for everything I had to do. Weighing out quantities and folding them in marked packages took at least three or four hours a day, depending on the number of interruptions. I did the packing first thing in the afternoon, when I woke up. It was rare indeed, however, that I'd be allowed to wake from natural causes. Inevitably I'd awaken to frantic poundings on the door, so I wouldn't be able to start the daily weighing chore until I had taken care of whoever-it-was—granting, of course, that no one else showed up in the meantime. Help! This is too much for one person to handle. On Rachid's next trip to Goa, I rushed to his room at the Fort Aguada Hotel to ask for an assistant.
'Rachid, help! I need an assistant. My Saloona is too much for one person to handle alone.'
'Darling, what happened to your friend Neal?'
'I can't think about Neal. Will you send me an assistant?'
He sent me a tall, thin Indian man. At first I thought my problem was solved. Rachid's coke and smack came in grams, and it was Indian Man's primary job each morning to weigh ten half grams and twelve quarters of smack, plus twenty halves and twenty-four quarters and fifty lines of coke. It took him twice as bong as it used to take inc. Someone would come for a quarter and he'd still be weighing halves. Oh, dear this would never do.
Indian Man didn't work out at all. The biggest problem was his inability to measure exact weights.
'Please!' I said to him. 'My customers trust me. If you can't make the packets exact, then make them overweight, okay? Underweight is unethical!'
Impossible. I guess in Rachid's employ, he was only capable of producing underweight quantities. For the first time people complained that their packets were short, and I reimbursed them with double the missing amount. Indian Man could not comprehend such scruples. I tried reasoning with Rachid.
'PLEASE tell him to weigh exact quantities. He's ruining my reputation. Pin having to pay back double what he leaves out.'
'Double? You are not doing that, are you, darling? Sharp cookie like you?'
It was beyond Rachid's comprehension too.
On top of that, Indian Man made my customers paranoid. They cringed at the presence of the straight- looking Indian, so neatly dressed. He reminded them of the police.
'But he works for Rachid!' I tried to reassure everybody. 'He's more gangster than policeman.'
'I know. But he still makes me nervous,' would be the response. And Bach hated him. So Indian Man had to go.
I'm so tired. Exhausted. Where's my coke? I need another line.
It's remarkable how much coke and dope one can consume when the supply is unlimited. I shrunk to skinniness again. How long had it been since my last period? Two years? I did manage alternate daily injections of vitamin B complex and calcium, though; and because it was so smooth, I drank glasses of the Electrolyte mixture. I did TRY to eat, but coke had so constricted my throat that solid food didn't want to go down. The only substance I could tolerate was Gregory's creamy mousse, with which he competed against The Three Sisters' chocolate pudding. Oo, the mousse felt wonderful as it slid coolly and soothingly down. Since I couldn't leave the Saloona, I sent a motorcycle driver to Gregory's restaurant every day. Unfortunately Gregory had instituted a policy of not serving his much-desired desserts without a main course. So, to acquire the two or three mousses, I had to order two or three main courses. That was okay—Bach loved Gregory's prawns in wine sauce.
Bach lived the good life in Anjuna Beach. The animal hospital in Bombay had cured him of his ills, and he thrived on the two or three servings a day of prawns in wine sauce or sirloin buffalo steak. The maid and her family called him Fatso. Bach had a routine. He'd wake up while it was still dark and nudge me until I let him out. Then he'd be gone for hours, running with his gang of strays. Around 11 A.M. he'd bark at the door. Since this was when I'd be desperately trying to sleep. I'd ignore him as long as I could, but eventually I'd drag myself to the door and let him in for his drink of water. After that he'd rest peacefully beside me until the first wake-me-up customer came pounding at the door, at which time he'd go out again. For the rest of the day he'd be within calling distance, and whenever he wanted to come in, he'd bark once and I'd obediently open the door.
During February my dope den changed—people switched from snorting lines and smoking bhongs to shooting up. Apparently many Goa Freaks were now into fixing. Some fixed only coke, but others, doe to a shortage of funds, fixed dope in order to do less and make it last longer.
The end of the season was the time when personal stashes and monetary funds ran low. The people fixing smack simply bought it and left. Those fixing coke bought it and stayed. They stayed for hours and hours and HOURS.
Moving with the trend, I added a new line of products to my inventory. I sold needles for five rupees and syringes for forty. I also rented syringes, carefully boiling them between rentals. An ampoule of distilled water cost five rupees. I stockpiled vitamin B ampoules, which I tried to push instead of the water.
'Why don't you dilute your drugs with this vitamin B complex instead of water?' I'd say. 'It costs a few rupees more, but it's GOOD for you. Look how skinny you are. I bet your body is craving a little B. It'll give you a nice rush too.'
'Won't it mess up the coke rush?'
'Not at all. It adds to it, I promise. You won't believe the head this gives you! And it'll make you healthy at the same time.'
'Nah, just give me the water.'
I was surprised by how many people turned down the vitamin B. When I promoted it seriously, some agreed to try it but acted as if they were doing me a big favour. They rarely asked for it again.
'Well, then, how about a nice shot of calcium?' I'd offer next. 'This is intramuscular and doesn't give you a head, but it will restore the calcium that coke depletes from your body. I give you the shot myself. How 'bout it?'
Needless to say, the health supplies were not my most popular items.
One day I noticed that people who fixed their drugs created a different atmosphere than those who smoked or sniffed. While smokers and sniffers were more social and interactive, fixers were more introverted. They were preoccupied with their sets of paraphernalia, their arms, their rushes. If a smoker or sniffer was wandering about when one of the fixers peaked, it caused a startled jump. So—eager to please my clientele—I separated them and provided a special area for fixers. For this I had to use the second floor. I set up blue and green velvet mattresses around a blue and green rug to create a haven in the bedroom. The three windows encircling the northern extension of the room let in the breeze from the sea; that first rush of coke could sure bring on a heavy sweat.
I provided everything. I distributed cut-up strips of satin for tying arms. I bent every kitchen spoon I owned into the shape convenient for mixing coke with water, and I laid out metal bottle openers for breaking the glass tops of distilled-water ampoules. Scattered among the Kashmiri tables were champagne glasses filled with water for cleaning syringes. In the centre of the space I placed a pot with a sign saying SQUIRT HERE. This was to prevent people from squirting bloody water into ashtrays. There's nothing uglier than cigarette mucus swimming in ashes and blond.
Paradise Pharmacy in Mapusa became my best customer. The pharmacy was notorious for selling morphine, Mandrax, Valium, and whatever. When I went there soliciting cocaine, the owner jumped at the opportunity. Apparently he was deluged with requests for it. On my weekly trips to Mapusa to deliver him a dozen
