I surfaced, it was gone. I would never ask Janet about it. Could only hope she was the culprit . . .
ELSE ?
Third, fourth day, weak as a kitten, I showered, put on fresh clothes. I felt more fragile than a whisper. My mind locked on whiskey, I headed for a cafe on Prospect Hill. Ordered scrambled eggs, toast and tea. The table swam before my eyes and sweat cruised my body. If I could get some nourishment. . .
Months before, on my previous case, I’d been deep intocoke. Ran out and panicked. Cathy, in her punk days, knew all the drug players. I’d leaned heavily on our friendship and gotten the name of a dealer. It bruised our relationship, but coke recognises no loyalties.
I’d gone to meet “Stewart” and scored. He was far from the stereotype. Lived in a neat house near the college, and if he resembled anyone, it was a banker. What kept him successful, un-nicked and unknown was a low profile.
I pushed the breakfast away, couldn’t eat. The waitress asked,
“Was there something wrong?”
Was there ever, but not with the food. I even put the tea aside, said,
“No . . . I’m not feeling well.”
She gave me a motherly smile, said,
“ ’Twill be that stomach bug, the whole town’s got it.”
I walked to the canal, alternating hot and cold, praying Stewart was home. Knocked on the door, waited a minute, then he opened, said,
“Yes?”
“Stewart, I dunno if you remember me?”
The sharp eyes opened, then,
“Cathy’s friend . . . don’t tell me . . . it’s John Taylor.”
“Jack.”
You have to ask, do you want drug dealers to remember your name? He said,
“Come in.”
The house was spotless, like a showplace. Stewart was wearing pressed chinos, a white shirt, loosely knotted tie. He offered me a seat, asked,
“Tea, coffee, pharmaceuticals?”
“You wouldn’t have a cigarette?”
That old craving suddenly surfaced. He gave a measured laugh, said,
“The corner shop would be the place. I don’t allow smoking in the house.”
Sure enough, on the wall was a decal with
SMOKE FREE ZONE
I said,
“You’re kidding.”
“Foul habit.”
“Stewart, you’re a drug dealer . . . come on.”
He raised a finger, said,
“I’m a businessman. I never indulge.”
“Pretty flexible set of morals you got there, pal.”
He spread his palms, said,
“Works for me. But I don’t think you dropped by for a debate on ethics, did you?”
“No, you’re right. I need some major tranquillizers. I’m really hurting.”
He tilted his head, like a doctor, asked,
“What have you been using . . . or abusing? I’m never quite sure of the terminology.”
“I am. Abusing is when you’re fucked.”
“Aptly put. I shall remember the distinction. Excuse me.”
He went upstairs. I looked round. If there’d been a drinks cabinet, I’d have
abused
it. When he returned, he was carrying a briefcase, asked,
“How much are you planning to spend?”
“As much as it takes.”
Big smile, everything to do with money and no relation tohumour. He laid a series of small plastic bottles on the table, said,
“You’ll notice red, blue, yellow and black caps.”
“Accessorised?”
Gave me a vexed look, said,
“You’d do well to pay attention.”
“I’ll try.”
“Red are powerful painkillers, the yellow are mega tranks, blue are Quaaludes and black . . .”
He gave a deep sigh of admiration, continued,
“Are black beauties!”
I asked,
“Could I have some water?”
“Now?”
“No, next Tuesday . . . come on.”
When he went to fetch it, I flipped the lid off the red, dry swallowed two. He returned with the water, and I gulped it down, the tremor in my hand like a flag. He said,
“For what it’s worth, I advise extreme caution with all of these.”
“Like a government health warning.”
He took out a tiny calculator, did the sums, presented the screen to me. I said,
“Jesus, I’d need the major tranquillizers.”
I laid out a mini-hill of bills and he
ELSE ?
Third, fourth day, weak as a kitten, I showered, put on fresh clothes. I felt more fragile than a whisper. My mind locked on whiskey, I headed for a cafe on Prospect Hill. Ordered scrambled eggs, toast and tea. The table swam before my eyes and sweat cruised my body. If I could get some nourishment. . .
Months before, on my previous case, I’d been deep intocoke. Ran out and panicked. Cathy, in her punk days, knew all the drug players. I’d leaned heavily on our friendship and gotten the name of a dealer. It bruised our relationship, but coke recognises no loyalties.
I’d gone to meet “Stewart” and scored. He was far from the stereotype. Lived in a neat house near the college, and if he resembled anyone, it was a banker. What kept him successful, un-nicked and unknown was a low profile.
I pushed the breakfast away, couldn’t eat. The waitress asked,
“Was there something wrong?”
Was there ever, but not with the food. I even put the tea aside, said,
“No . . . I’m not feeling well.”
She gave me a motherly smile, said,
“ ’Twill be that stomach bug, the whole town’s got it.”
I walked to the canal, alternating hot and cold, praying Stewart was home. Knocked on the door, waited a minute, then he opened, said,
“Yes?”
“Stewart, I dunno if you remember me?”
The sharp eyes opened, then,
“Cathy’s friend . . . don’t tell me . . . it’s John Taylor.”
“Jack.”
You have to ask, do you want drug dealers to remember your name? He said,
“Come in.”
The house was spotless, like a showplace. Stewart was wearing pressed chinos, a white shirt, loosely knotted tie. He offered me a seat, asked,
“Tea, coffee, pharmaceuticals?”
“You wouldn’t have a cigarette?”
That old craving suddenly surfaced. He gave a measured laugh, said,
“The corner shop would be the place. I don’t allow smoking in the house.”
Sure enough, on the wall was a decal with
SMOKE FREE ZONE
I said,
“You’re kidding.”
“Foul habit.”
“Stewart, you’re a drug dealer . . . come on.”
He raised a finger, said,
“I’m a businessman. I never indulge.”
“Pretty flexible set of morals you got there, pal.”
He spread his palms, said,
“Works for me. But I don’t think you dropped by for a debate on ethics, did you?”
“No, you’re right. I need some major tranquillizers. I’m really hurting.”
He tilted his head, like a doctor, asked,
“What have you been using . . . or abusing? I’m never quite sure of the terminology.”
“I am. Abusing is when you’re fucked.”
“Aptly put. I shall remember the distinction. Excuse me.”
He went upstairs. I looked round. If there’d been a drinks cabinet, I’d have
abused
it. When he returned, he was carrying a briefcase, asked,
“How much are you planning to spend?”
“As much as it takes.”
Big smile, everything to do with money and no relation tohumour. He laid a series of small plastic bottles on the table, said,
“You’ll notice red, blue, yellow and black caps.”
“Accessorised?”
Gave me a vexed look, said,
“You’d do well to pay attention.”
“I’ll try.”
“Red are powerful painkillers, the yellow are mega tranks, blue are Quaaludes and black . . .”
He gave a deep sigh of admiration, continued,
“Are black beauties!”
I asked,
“Could I have some water?”
“Now?”
“No, next Tuesday . . . come on.”
When he went to fetch it, I flipped the lid off the red, dry swallowed two. He returned with the water, and I gulped it down, the tremor in my hand like a flag. He said,
“For what it’s worth, I advise extreme caution with all of these.”
“Like a government health warning.”
He took out a tiny calculator, did the sums, presented the screen to me. I said,
“Jesus, I’d need the major tranquillizers.”
I laid out a mini-hill of bills and he
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