Heroin Chronicles

by Jerry Stahl

  Even the past has long split the scene, nothing is remotely recognizable, and all is brutally clean. Near silent as well, with the exception of far-off construction sites to the north and south. To all appearances virtually every structure has been carved out, shaved, scrubbed free of any former identity, and converted to serve some new and strictly functional purpose, or no purpose at all.

  As Dos approaches 11th Street between A and B to find the entire block of former tenements razed, and an ad hoc shanty town in its place, he gets his first fleeting view of what might possibly be children and females. He takes a tentative step onto 11th Street. Chinese army tents, some semipermanent-looking, hard-plastic structures. The lingering smell of cooking animal meat, causing his mouth to immediately fill with saliva. He reminds himself, suddenly ashamed and slightly nauseous, of his principles regarding matters dietary.

  The hood of old is gone, figures Dos. Which suggests he bring this swing down memory lane to a close. Operate in the now. The surface of the city he once knew is forever altered, and Dos Mac has to accept this fact, move forward accordingly. Or perish.

  By the time Dos reaches what was at one time known as Union Square, he has to admit that he had no idea that Chinatown had exploded so comprehensively.

  All Chinese.

  With the exception of a small but intense Ukrainian/Eastern European enclave Dos stumbled through as he moved west, at about Second Avenue and 9th Street. Vehicles and buildings with Cyrillic lettering could still be observed. The old buildings less molested than further east. Knots of white dudes tracked his passage, chattering rapidly amongst themselves, hair cut close, veins protruding. No women, no women at all. Bemuscled goons with tattooed necks and hands displayed shoulder-holstered Glocks over their wifebeaters and polo shirts. Another trio of thugs, leaning out of a small truck, wanted to be very sure Dos clocked their hypermodern automatic rifles. All of which radiated some Aryan Nation shit for Dos, who put his head down and scurried on … As much as his mission calls for improvisation, he wasn’t about to start up a conversation with these killers, despite the fact that they appeared rather likely to be in possession of narcotics. And all the more likely to start taking shots at him just out of boredom, or to audition their fancy weaponry.

  Otherwise? The Chinese, goddamn, those fuckers have the lock on like every little thing.

  Those Eastern European yahoos were way far from welcoming, but it was the first and only time on the journey thus far that anyone appeared to actually notice him. To see him, to see him and let be known he has been seen.

  Hunkered down at the intersection of 15th Street and Union Square East, Dos sees it. In this new paradigm, there is no space for a drug like heroin. Oh, he can dig it. Any substance that might render the user vulnerable is less than useless. Allow your attention to flag here, you’re extending an invitation to be looted, hollowed out, and stripped for parts like an abandoned car.

  No, manic clarity is called for, and not the chemically induced kind of clarity … Watching an industrial crane lift crates off the back of a semi in the middle of the former park, flanked by gasmasked gunmen in Port Authority uniforms.

  This is meth-amp territory, if anything. Good for physical labor. But a substance which, at least in Dos Mac’s estimation, is the narcotic equivalent of a panic attack.

  Dos seeks to escape this colorless nightmare, if only for a matter of hours. Not gonna hassle anybody. This is all he’s looking to get done. Merely a short hiatus in the daily grind. Tomorrow morning? He’ll be back at his desk, primed to do God’s work, hankerings sated and silenced.

  “That’s it, man,” he whispers, itching at his beard. “That’s all I’m doing, taking time out. To look after me.”

  Well shit: his goal is certainly not to make himself all the more viciously present in the manner of the coked and methed up.

  Look left, right, and sideways. Downtown is a fucking bust.

  No. Dos will have to continue north. North is where the major Reconstructions sites are, and that’s where dealers will orbit should there be any.

  Friendless, there’s no one, figures Dos. I need a gun.

  The thought takes him from behind, and comes complete with a plan. The thought stops him cold.

  A hospital. Why had he not thought of this from the jump?

  Get a gun, get to a hospital, jack the staff for whatever’s on hand in the opiate family. Do it fast and easy, nobody need get hurt. Forget digging up a bag; that format would seem to be extinct.

  Get a gun. Tougher than it might seem, given the prevalence of guns. Helpless as he is, Dos will have to ask somebody nice, who in turn will have to give him a weapon of his own free will. It won’t be the Chinese, or the Ukrainians.

  Unbidden, the Jones pontificates: That which kills you only makes you s—

  “Shut the fuck up,” says Dos out loud. “Trying to think.”

  No. If I want to get a gun with only a moderate amount of risk, only one man springs to mind. And a serious wild card of a motherfucker at that.

  The Librarian. Damn. I gotta see the Librarian.

  * * *

  Approached from the west, past the gigantic flame pits of Bryant Park, the New York Public Library remains almost eerily intact.

  Mac makes his way around the corner of 42nd Street and pauses within sight of the famous twin marble lions. He is exhausted. At this point he’s so far north, there’s no way he’ll make it back downtown without running out of oxygen. He’s not positive if this will make any difference, but it’s a huge risk.

  Nobody around. Pauses to listen … Beyond the general hubbub of the fires and the clanging due east, which Dos assumes to be construction at Grand Central, the streets are barren.

  Up the exterior stairs, his oxygen tank lighter and lighter, bouncing along behind him … he tries the main doors, finds them open. Dos steps inside and takes a moment, his weak peepers calibrating to the gloom.

  The Librarian, he didn’t want to think about how he knew this cat. Sure, he wasn’t a bad guy, but damn. Goes without saying, this is not a dude you want to sneak up on unannounced.

  On the other hand, Dos would hate to wake the man up. That could be an even darker scenario.

  The lesser of two. Mac clears his throat.

  “Librarian!” he calls, voice cracked and arid. Bounces off the vaulted ceiling. “Librarian! Dos Mac here! I’m unarmed, brother, I come in peace!” Trying to keep his tone light. You never know how the Librarian will come at you.

  Dos gets no response.

  There’s two conflicting knots in his intestines; one is related to fear, and one is all junk-lust. It’s the latter that pushes him upward.

  Nothing ventured, drones the Jones, and Dos shuts it down. Jesus, what bullshit.

  Calls: “Coming upstairs!”

  Tough to see much on the stairwell, so Dos takes it slow and easy. Hefts the near-empty tank so as to make less noise. His flip flops feeling insubstantial and wrong against the cold stone.

  One flight, and Dos takes a moment. Out of shape, breathing ragged. What the fuck does he think he’s doing? I mean, honestly? Despite his military credentials, he is an engineer, a technician, a brain. The brother at the party who faded into the background, the dude who spoke too quiet or too loud, his movements subtly wrong, nervous, the kid who could never bust anything smooth. The guy you didn’t notice till he, inevitably, knocked something over. Dos always liked to say he was a lover, not a fighter, but he wasn’t much of either really.

  Abort, reckons the Mac. Fuck this. Takes a step backward, reversing himself down the stairs. Cut your losses, son. Feels vastly relieved, having made this decision.

  Crack.

  A flip-flopped foot has found some kind of shell, crushing it under his weight. Not like the Librarian, thinks Dos idly, to leave garbage lying around … the Librarian, who to put it mildly is a bit of a neat freak …

  Wham, and Dos’s head hits a stair, as his legs are cut out from under him. The cart and tank go tumbl
ing, and he finds himself facedown in a frighteningly professional choke-hold.

  Smells: latex, baby powder … alco-gel. No doubt.

  “Hey, Librarian,” he manages, panic percolating, hold it together now … “It’s Dos, brother, it’s Dos Mac here …”

  Overhead lights come on with a deep clunk, and Dos is released. He sucks open air, his mouthpiece knocked aside, and is grateful for it. Pushes himself up to a sitting position.

  The Librarian hangs over Dos, blocking the light like a shadow puppet. Sharp angles, that signature hat.

  “Well I’ll be goddamned.”

  It’s a rusty sound, that voice, dried syrup, tinted with cigarettes and filtered by the surgical face mask the Librarian wears.

  “Mister. Dos. Mac,” he says, separating the words.

  “That’s me, son,” answers Dos, hoping he sounds calmer than he feels.

  Librarian saying, “Gotta ask you first. Have you been in contact with any livestock, any individual who might possibly be carrying a communicable disease, shit along those lines?”

  Dos shakes his head negative.

  The Librarian extends a rubber-gloved hand. “Okay then. My second question then: what’s a downtown nigger like yourself doing up here in the nosebleed section?”

  Dos accepts the man’s paw, and is hauled to his feet.

  Mask dangling from its chinstrap, the Librarian is frowning at the spine of a blue hardbound volume. He taps it and looks up at the stack in front of him, which is a couple of feet higher than the top of his hat, leaning crazy. Says, “You’re not for real.” Says, “Thought Dos Mac, the gentleman, is all about peace …”

  Dos raises a shoulder, thinking this was most def a mistake. The Librarian could be working for anybody and everybody. He had thought the man was strictly on muscle jobs for the city, but he could very easily be doing the odd Chinese gig, in which case … but this was paranoia.

  Librarian saying, “Intelligent motherfucker like you? I don’t need to point out—huh, do I?—that the mere presence of a firearm in the home exponentially increases the chances of …” He falters, distracted by some tiny aspect of the book’s binding. He shakes his head rapidly, pops a pill of some kind. As he turns to Dos, he is shifting his mask back into place over his mouth and nose. “I’m not putting a judgment thing on you, man. No sir. Everybody gotta look out for their own …”

  Dos ducks his head, murmuring his agreement.

  “I mean, shit,” continues the Librarian, stripping off his gloves and producing a four-ounce bottle of hand sanitizer. “I don’t even wanna know what you need it for. Just, let’s leave it there.” Squirt. Rubs his hands vigorously, grabs a new pair of gloves.

  Feeling the compulsion to give him something, Dos is aware of himself saying, “… Folks know I got computers, com units, and whatnot down at my place, word is I better watch my back should people get ideas …” Thinking, if this man can’t smell a bullshitter …

  The Librarian, adjusting his glove, lifts a hand and sets an index finger against his masked lips.

  “Yo. Hush, Mac, I got you. I don’t wanna know about it and that’s my word. Wanna just plant this seed, though, an alternative approach, check it. Rather than bringing some heavy gun energy into your castle. I talk to the DA, we set up a man or two down at your joint, discretion for sure … ’Scuse me, is that a no?”

  Dos has been shaking his afro. Says, “Don’t want to put you all out. Just, just the loaner, and I’m straight.”

  The Librarian scans him. Curious. His eyes glaze a touch, and snap to a point just over Dos’s left shoulder.

  Spooked, Dos throws a glance behind him. Books, space, darkness. Returns his attention to the Librarian, who is in fugue mode.

  “Crop sprayer.”

  Dos swallows. “Don’t follow, my man …”

  “We used to do it like that in the sandbox. You know about that? Helicopter, nerve gas, just blanket spots, neighborhoods. You could do it with drones. Insurgents hiding out, yeah, you get them but this, this shit kills everything, so you get … you get everybody else too. Regardless …”

  Dos knows about this practice but doesn’t see the relevance. “What’s that got to do with—”

  “Chinese, Russians, Saudis, all doing it to each other on the island. Knock out the competition and all that. Say to themselves, damn, it’d be nice to have that Brooklyn Bridge contract those other folks got and all, something sweet, meaty. Chrysler Building, whatever. Do a flyover, spray ’em, then before their crew can get more live bodies in there, you take the site. That’s the realness. You haven’t seen this?”

  The Librarian seems to want to have a conversation about this subject, Dos is thinking it’s fucked up to be talking to somebody when you can’t see their mouth. He can only say, “I don’t get out much, man. Doesn’t surprise me, I’ve just never seen it, I don’t go anywhere. Keep my head down.”

  The Librarian is nodding, looking at him. Out of nowhere he drops an explosive laugh, loud in this huge space even through the surgical mask, which morphs into a dry coughing fit.

  “Head down, yeah,” says the man, recovering. “Well, brother, that can only be a good thing. All I’m trying to say is, watch for low-flying helicopters, and you spot one? Run. See, the way I figure it … and mind you, I try to stick with this plan myself … if you don’t appear aligned with one crew or the other, you’re less likely to get targeted. Word to the worldly wise. You dig?”

  Dos is nodding.

  “Yeah,” the Librarian is looking around like he’s misplaced something, “yeah, just keep your head down like you’re doing, you’ll be all right, baby. For all I know? You and me are the last … educated black men on this island. I need you around, Mac, need somebody I can talk to. So, hey, if you tell me you got people trying to creep up on you, you want to be able to defend yourself in your own home, I hear you and am happy to be of service … You know what’s a motherfucking shame and a travesty is the fact that a man has to …”

  He disappears behind a pile of books, into the semidarkness. Continues talking quietly but Mac can’t make out specifics.

  This motherfucker, thinks Dos, this motherfucker is insane. I can make a break for the exit, should this go south. Throw my bag at him and move. In fact …

  Dos takes two steps toward the doorway and the Librarian is in front of him, mask down again. Smiling crookedly. Eyes black, with greenish shards, whites bloodshot. He points his chin at a gun, flat on both gloved palms. Shrugs.

  “This here,” he says with a chuckle, placing one hand over the pistol, “is a CZ-99 semiauto. Fifteen-round mag. Not so different than what y’all must’ve been issued. Point and shoot. Easy like that.”

  Hands Dos the gun, butt first.

  “I appreciate this, I really do, man,” says Dos. The weapon has been gaffer taped, light but solid; Dos thinking, I really do hate guns. I jockeyed a desk, I sat it out, there’s a reason why I walked the path I did. Even so. Unzips his bag and places the pistol, gingerly, inside.

  “This is a loan; heard me, you’ll get it back.”

  Waving this away, Librarian says, “Hell, I borrowed it myself. And I reckon the previous owner ain’t exactly gonna miss it, nah mean?” Winks at Dos, then snaps his be-gloved fingers. “Reminds me.” He digs in a jacket pocket and fishes out a laminated card. “You’re gonna want one of these, kid.”

  It’s one of those city-issued jobs, featuring only a barcode and the words, JUSTICE DEPARTMENT, PROPERTY OF THE STATE OF NEW YORK.

  Seen these before. Carried by protected scavengers/freelancers, like the Librarian here. Who says now: “Take it. For real.”

  Dos is pretty positive he’s already had his DNA replicated, somewhat standard government stuff, etc., etc. Hell. If he looked hard enough he’d find a clone of himself swanning around. So he’s not about to get all precious about his genetic code; otherwise he wouldn’t handle such an object.

  Plus, he’s anxious to bounce. So as it is, he accepts the card, sliding
it into his sweat jacket pocket. “Thanks, brother. Again, I owe you large.”

  The Librarian bats this sentiment out of the air.

  Silence descends on them like a saturated blanket. Dos nods and makes to move for the stairs—

  The Librarian intercepts him, wagging his skull, still wearing that shattered smile, snatches Dos’s upper arm, hands like talons, a dead man’s hands, thinks Dos.

  “Snipers,” whispers the Librarian. “Snipers everywhere, Mac. What’s more …”

  Comes closer, Dos smells sweat, cigarettes, stomach acid, and a faint undercurrent of urine. We all probably smell something like that, he reckons, weird I can’t smell myself.

  The Librarian speaks, quieter still, out of the side of his mouth: “Don’t know about cameras but this bitch is bugged. Can’t speak freely. Walk directly out the front and do it quick fast. I’ll straighten it all out with the boss, though, not to worry. Jah bless, Mac, you’re my brother.”

  Dos gets a stinging slap on the shoulder, probably meant to be friendly, but he’s already turning, and without a backward glance he speed walks out of there, dragging his tank and cart. His bag feeling far heavier already.

  Parked under a nonworking streetlight on the northwest corner of First Avenue and 33rd Street, Dos Mac is lightheaded, his chest tight. His balls ache, his mouth is dry. The Jones has him. His oxygen tank, dead weight, lies abandoned somewhere near Herald Square.

  His choice of the former NYU Medical Center is based on the fact that he knew where it was—next to what very little remains of an older hospital, once called Bellevue, which has apparently been entirely demolished. Good fucking riddance, mulls Dos, who’d had the misfortune of being consigned to that institution years and years ago now, in the meaningless past.

  Gets lucky in the sense that NYU is still up and running. No question, a private military-industrial joint now. Point of fact: the spot is jumping, here in the pumpkin dusk, UN, army, NYPD, unmarked vehicles coming and going. Dos even spots an old-school ambulance, lights on, no siren. Stenciling on its side reads, CORNELL/NEW YORK HO. Everything’s worn, mismatched.