By this time, however, your evil habit is consuming a bit more of your lunch money than it properly should, and you and your friends decide to start buying in quantity. This makes for cheaper dope and, quite often, for better dope, because you’re getting a solid chunk of a brick, and not a lid bag half full of oregano. So you find a big dealer and buy stuff for your friends, and they love you for being so wise in the ways of the street and so kind to their pockets and throats.
Which continues until you finally realize, one day, that you don’t have to pay for any of your smoking dope if you buy in quantity with your friends and then sell a few ounces at street prices to anybody who’s interested. And probably by this time your parents have seen a picture of you in the papers with long hair, hanging out of the occupied administration building, and they have told you to come home to Flat Top Community College or be damned—which is to say, you have been cut off.
So that’s the way it begins, with a few lids to friends to keep the bookstore off your back, or the landlord or the used-car salesman or whoever else has it in for you at the time, and from there it grows like a weed. And soon enough you’re dealing quite a bit of dope and you aren’t seeing many friends, since you’re either buying or selling or smoking with buyers or sellers, and you spend a lot of time hustling and being far out and saying, “Oh, wow! Hey man, did you dig that?” And it goes on that way for as long as you can stand it—forever, if you can stand it that long. But the chances are good that the game will grow either too bold or too old, and the routines too sadly and forlornly familiar, and you will retire from street life and go back to where you came from. Which is where you are.
11
I CALLED MUSTY’S NUMBER IN Oakland and some guy who seemed to know said I should come over, that everything was cool. I was supposed to ring the buzzer under Carol Moss. I said fine and went over.
Driving over in the car, I felt better and better. It was a beautiful spring night and the windows were down; I could hear the sounds of the street and the people. The driving was mechanical and I began to drift into the fantasy, the current fantasy you might call it, but strong just the same. At first it was just faces: faces in my mind, faces of the people blurring as I drove past them, and then I saw the crowd fanned out before me like a huge faceless corpse, dead but alive, jumping and jiving as I tuned up for the next number, and I was telling the engineers to make sure all the recording equipment was in order, because I didn’t want to have to do it more than once. If I had things my way I was going to do the damn thing once and then get out from under the glaring heat of those spots, out into the night and away. They yelled back that everything was cool and I nodded to Willie. He thumped up the bass and started it rolling, drifting and flowing, echoing hollow from the P.A. speakers in the back of the stadium. And then the drums chopped in, stomping and humping, with the light clang of the cymbals on top of it, and then we were into it, the crowd knew that it was what they’d been waiting for all night and they moaned, an insane screaming moan of pleasure, screaming, We love it, it’s yours, it’s yours, we love it, we love it. And then the harp flew in and we were going, man, we were going and this was all they were going to get, but before we went they were going to get it. Just then the cords broke in front of the stage and there were cops all over the place, tripping and falling over the equipment and themselves and the chicks clawing and grasping and then it was gone, done and gone, and the MC was yelling “The New Administration,” and the crowd was chanting for more, more, but we were down and under and out of the lights … The lights, Jesus, I’d just run a red light and some poor bastard back there was screaming at me. I checked the rear-view mirror nervously, but there was no heat. Pure luck. I took a deep breath and there were no more faces. I finished the drive and parked across from the address I had been given.
It was an old, two-story house with big bay windows. There was a chopped Harley leaning against the side of the house, back behind the cars so you couldn’t see it easily from the road; it must be Musty’s. I smiled in the darkness. Connection at last.
I pressed the buzzer and a funky little blonde showed up, wearing a bathrobe that was much too big for her and an irritated expression. She sized me up with a cold eye, like one of those people at fairs who guess how much you weigh. “You’re the guy from the Coast,” she said. “In the back.”
I stepped into the hallway, which smelled old and dark. “Are you Carol Moss?” I said. “I’m—”
“In the back,” she said, walking away.
The hall led me back toward the only light in the place, past the stairs leading up to the second floor, past an empty living room and a foul-smelling can. I came out into the light and saw three dudes sitting around a small kitchen table. There was a nappy-looking spade in a white linen suit, a guy with long curly hair and a droopy moustache, and a little guy with glasses and a nervous look. They all glanced up when I came in, but went right on talking.
“Last night,” said the little guy with tiny pupils and glasses, “last night was heaven. It was just heaven! I didn’t think twice about it all day, just went in when I felt it coming and bingo! dropped it clean as a whistle.”
“Was it tapered at the end, like a fine cigar?” the spade asked.
“No,” the little guy said. He got a suspicious look. “Why do you ask?”
“You should make sure it’s tapered,” he said. “So your ass won’t slam shut.” He laughed at that, and the dude with the moustache laughed too. The little guy looked annoyed.
“No,” he said, “it wasn’t tapered. No, it wasn’t.” He began to smile at the recollection. “As a matter of fact, perfectly round and hard, and what a relief! What pleasure! I mean it was just−−”
“Heaven,” Moustache said. “You told us once before.” Moustache seemed a little bored with the conversation. He looked up at me. “You Harkness?”
“Yeah.”
“Have a seat,” he said. “You’re just in time to hear Lou tell us all about his intestines. This is Lou,” he said, pointing to the little guy, “and Clarence. I’m Musty.”
I nodded, they nodded, and I sat down. Lou looked spiteful. There was only a bare bulb overhead, and the walls were painted black, giving the place a séance atmosphere. The walls were covered with posters: Peter Fonda on a hog, with a sign saying OURS IS THE ADDICTED SOCIETY; Jimi Hendrix scratching his belly; Bill Miller for Berkeley City Council. They didn’t have the one of Frank Zappa on the can, I thought. But then, they did have Lou.
Lou sensed a lull in the conversation and was off again, full speed ahead. “You know,” he said, “today’s been just awful. I mean, really awful. That bust on Holly Street’s left me tighter than a miser. I’ve tried three times since dinner …” he held his hands out wide, as if to show they were clean “… and nothing. Nothing!”
“You need a systems analysis,” Clarence said, and laughed.
Lou was wide-eyed serious. “You think so? Does that help?”
“Cut the shit, Lou,” said Musty. He turned to me. “Good trip?”
“Little dull so far,” I said, lighting a cigarette. Nobody laughed.
“You miss the bust?” I shrugged. Obviously, I had missed the goddamn bust. “Sorry that happened,” Musty said. But, like John, he didn’t seem very concerned. “How’s John?”
“Fine, he’s fine.”
“Well,” Musty said, “we got your stuff here. It’s not quite Michoacán, but it’s nice. Very smooth.” He pointed over beside the stove, where there were a lot of bricks wrapped in foil. “Very nice gold,” he said. “John’ll really dig it.”
Then we talked about the bust for a while. Clarence asked me how the heat was in Boston.
“About usual,” I said. “They don’t hassle the colleges much. Mostly they try to hit you when you’re away from the nest. Airports, stuff like that.”
“I think …” Lou began.
“That sucks,” Musty said, “that airport thing. You want these bricks now?”
“
I think …” Lou said, a grin beginning.
“No,” I said. “Cat I’m staying with doesn’t want any dope at his place. He’s got a paranoid friend.”
“I think it’s coming!” Lou yelled, jumping up from the table and running down the hall to the can.
“You got a place to stay?” Musty asked.
“Yeah, for tonight at least. I might be around later in the week, though. Could you put me up here?”
“No problem. There’s a room upstairs that’s empty, Jack’s room. You can use that. And the place’ll be cool because I’m going to get these bricks out of here for a while. When are you leaving?”
“Goddammit, where’s the toilet paper?” came a muffled voice from the can.
“Monday,” I said.
“Okay. We’ll have the dope for you before you go.”
Carol Moss walked into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of milk, and walked out without saying a word.
“What’s hassling her?”
“Me,” Musty said, laughing. “She’s ripped at me because I spend more time with my machine than I do with her. You see my hog out there when you came up to the house?” I nodded. “Fine machine. That’s a fine fucking machine. I keep telling her that if she had seventy-four cubic inches I’d spend more time riding her, but she doesn’t think that’s so funny.”
“No sense of humor, huh?” I said. They didn’t think that was so funny either.
“You could say that,” Musty said.
“I gotta split,” Clarence said, standing up, “before Lou comes back to tell us how it was.” He nodded to Musty and said to me, “Catch you later, man,” and was gone.
Lou returned, looking ecstatic. “Boy you shoulda seen—”
“You want to taste it?” asked Musty, nodding over at the bricks.
“Sure,” I said.
“Listen,” Lou said, sitting down with us. “Listen, guys, yesterday was nothing compared to the one I just dropped.”
Musty suddenly turned on Lou. “Why don’t you just forget about your bowels for a while?”
Lou looked hurt. “What’s the matter with you? Just ’cause you almost got your ass busted today doesn’t mean I have to—”
“Just shut up,” Musty said. “I don’t feel like hearing about it any more, and I’m sure Harkness here doesn’t either.”
Lou looked over at me, defensively. “You don’t like hearing about it?” he demanded. I shrugged.
“Look, Lou,” said Musty, suddenly smiling. “Why don’t you go for a nice long walk. The air’d do you good, you’ve told me that it does you good a million times.”
Lou looked sour. Finally he said, “Okay, I’ll go. But I’m not walking. Give me the keys to your wheels.”
Musty laughed. “Haven’t got the wheels here,” he said. “Too hot. I left them in the garage down by the Holly Street place. And I’m sure as hell not giving you my bike, if that’s what you’re thinking about. Nobody drives my bike. Except me.” There was a silence, while Lou looked glum and Musty laughed some more. Then he said, “What about you?” I realized he was talking to me. “How about it, Harkness? Did you drive over?”
“Yeah,” I said, trying to sound noncommittal. I wasn’t too big on giving the car to some dude I didn’t know from a hole in the ground.
“Well,” Musty went on, “Lou here is cool. Aren’t you, Lou?” Lou nodded. I was thinking just then that I’d hang around for a while and taste the dope, so what the hell. “Come back soon,” I said, pulling out the keys. “And just don’t bust it up, okay? It’s not my car.” We all laughed and Lou hustled out the door.
“He’s a weird little dude,” I said, but Musty was already over in the corner, opening one of the bricks. He removed the tin foil first, then the paper wrapping. On the paper was a peace sign and the words BERKELEY 890. I wondered what it meant and then realized it must be the gram weight—not a bad one at that. A righteous brick, eight hundred ninety grams. Below that was a large, stenciled M. Musty saw me looking at it and laughed.
“My trademark,” he said. “I wanted to get one of those hand-press stampers, so I could punch it right into the brick. But, shit, you know what they want for those things?”
“No,” I said, thinking that Musty was pretty cocky. Or else pretty fucking good.
“Like a thousand bucks, man. I looked into it.”
It was cocky, but it wasn’t unheard of, trademarking your own dope. A lot of dudes had done it, most notably Augustus Stanley Owsley III, who’d helped put acid in the dictionary. He used to stamp a little owl right into his tabs; it was like the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval. It meant that the acid was pure, with a good base and a uniform three-hundred-five-mic dose. It also meant another two bucks a tab on the street.
Musty pulled a hunk off one of the bricks, and began rolling some joints. While he rolled he talked about the dope supply, the way things were getting tight. “It’s the same all over the country,” he said. “Christ. Used to be a year-round business, now it’s getting seasonal. It’s only April now, and the squeeze is on already. Everybody’s cracking down.”
“Cracking down?” I said. “Dealers, or what?”
“Well, dealers, yeah, but mainly it’s the full-scale crackdowns that hurt. Like the American government leans on the Mexicans, and the Mexes, dumb fuckers, start burning crops. And then the border guards start getting honest and the FBI decides to do nothing but hassle big runners—and things get tight.”
“Shit,” I said. “The FBI? Haven’t they got better things to do?”
“Never have before,” Musty said. “Old J. Edgar and the boys have been mowing down straw men for years—communists, dope fiends, hidden persuaders, anything they can think of. Anything that sounds tough but can’t fight back. They’re smart, man. If they didn’t keep everybody hopped up about the red menace and the international dope conspiracy, then they’d have to really get down to work and do something. Like go after the mob—and the mob’s a tough cookie, man. The mob’d bust J. Edgar’s balls.” He sighed, finished one joint, licked it, set it aside, and started on another. “Listen,” he said, “you know why the mob doesn’t deal dope—and why the only people who get busted by the FBI are punk pushers like me? You know why? Because the mob doesn’t want anything to do with grass. They’re not interested. Grass is small-time, and it’s too bulky to move without a lot of hassle. But mainly they’re not interested because there’s no real money in it. Like a dude can smoke dope his whole life, and if the supply gets cut off it won’t hassle him to stop smoking. Or if somebody’s fucking the market and the price goes up, he can stop smoking. Or if the stuff he’s getting is cut with milk sugar or oregano or whatever, he can stop smoking, and wait till something better comes along. ’Cause your basic teahead isn’t hooked, dig, he hasn’t got a monkey on his back. He’s blowing his weed ’cause he digs it, period. If things get too hot, or too expensive—zap! No dope market.” I nodded. Big deal. But Musty was getting into it.
“Now you figure this,” he said. “The mob doesn’t go for dope at all, see, because they’re a business organization, out to make money. They’re interested in shit that gives you a habit, creates a real market. A market that stays to buy whether the shit is only ten percent potency, or whether the price jumps five-hundred percent after the first week of supply. A market that stays no matter what, a market of guys who’ll do anything they have to do to keep getting their daily fix. But the FBI isn’t working on that market, see. They’re out busting dope fiend creeps like me who turn innocent teeners on to a stick of mary jane every now and then.”
“Far out,” I said. There was nothing else to say. I had heard it all before. Anybody who was into dealing had heard it all before.
“Goddamn right it’s far out,” Musty said. “It’s also a drag to talk about.” He paused and I hoped he was through, but he suddenly picked up again. “And I’ll tell you what else is a drag,” he said. “A real bummer this is, too. You got any idea how many people are blowing dope the
se days?” I shrugged. “A hell of a lot, man,” he said. “A hell of a lot. Ten or twenty million, if you read Life magazine. Five percent of this country, bare minimum. You have any idea how much dope all those people consume?” I shook my head. He shook his head back. “A hell of a lot, man,” he said again. “And I’ll tell you what happens. The heat, see, the heat figure they gotta stop all these people from blowing dope, ’cause otherwise they’re going to have a country full of drug addicts on their hands, right? Right. Okay, so they crack down on the dope supply, they make it hard as hell for a normal Joe to get his hands on some normal smoking dope. And they figure that’s good, see, they’re doing their job and preventing everybody from getting addicted. Right?” He laughed bitterly. “But then look what happens. There’s not enough dope around, so the shitbird dealers start burning the scene down. And they don’t have any more good weed than the next man, so they sell shit—any kind of shit—and they cut it with something to give it a kick. And the people who know what weed’s all about, see, they’re not getting burned, ’cause they know better. But the people who don’t know better, they get screwed.”
He threw his hands up, then rapped the table once more. He was getting pretty excited. “Like these dudes who try to sell you a lid and say, ‘Drink it as tea’—all that means is that they’re pushing some ragweed cut with meth, and you aren’t going to buy their crummy lid, right? Right. You know that, and I know that. But some high school punk isn’t gonna know that, and he’s gonna go home and fix himself up some tea, and if he does it often enough he’s gonna have a speed habit. Too much, huh? This country has a potential drug nightmare on its hands, and the pigs are busting their balls to keep it going. All the time telling the straight mommies and daddies what a good job they’re doing, keeping dope out of the kiddies’ hands, when actually they’re responsible for hooking more little ignorant brats on more kinds of shit than you can even think of. It’s too much.”
He sighed, and seemed to run out of steam. He sat back in his chair, shaking his head, then seemed to remember the joints he had rolled. He lit one and took a drag, then handed it to me. “Comes on nice,” he said. “Just wait.”
Dealing or The Berkeley-to-Boston Forty-Brick Lost-Bag Blues Page 4
