Heroin Chronicles

by Jerry Stahl

  Until now, I’d done just fine topping off my daily doses of tar with Wild Turkey 101 served over ice or Bombay Sapphire martinis, both generally backed by freebase cocaine, a stash of which I always kept hidden above a ceiling tile in my office. Today, however, was different. When I ordered a very dry martini and the starch-shirted, whey-faced waiter brought it to our table, I gagged at the poisonous bloom of raw alcohol on my tongue. Eve, her mouth still smeared with butter and oil, and who initially declined my offer of a cocktail, said, “Give me that!” before downing the glass in one gulp. Well, it was supposed to be a thank-you lunch for doing her shoot for far below her day rate … as long as she was assured of being the cover girl.

  “May I bring something else, sir?” whispered the waiter.

  “Uh, yeah. Can you have the bartender make me a double piña colada? But make sure that he puts it in a regular tumbler and leaves off the fruit salad and paper umbrella,” I said with a lot of shame. It’s not a very masculine drink.

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “I’ll have another martini,” chimed Eve, then added with cartoonish lasciviousness, “and make it diiiirrrty this time.”

  She hadn’t bothered to wipe her mouth and continued to help herself to my plate of spaghetti with her bare hand and it was driving me to distraction. When the waiter came back with our drinks, I gulped the frothy kiddie-cocktail so fast it gave me a headache. I registered that pineapple and coconut completely masked the taste of the rum. I also noted that my morning dose was wearing off and I’d better do something quick to maintain my equilibrium. I excused myself and made my way into the single-occupancy restroom.

  Once the door was securely locked and I was alone in that tomb of green marble, black porcelain, and mirrored walls, I fished around in the pocket of my jacket and came up with a carefully folded square of tinfoil, a brass Zippo lighter, and an antique pill box that held a little black blob of tar heroin the size of three match heads. I unfolded the foil and creased it into a V and put the dope on it before I melted it just enough to make sure it stuck to the shiny surface. I took the straw that I had surreptitiously slipped from my piña colada and put it between my teeth. I held the foil under my chin with one hand and, with the other, I struck the Zippo to bring the flame under the foil. I heard a comforting hiss as the dope liquefied and burst into a cloud of smoke that boiled up the crease. I sucked through the straw. This ballet, from the time I locked the door, took about a minute. I held in the acrid smoke as long as I could and then exhaled, pleased to see that almost nothing escaped my lungs.

  I ditched the foil down the toilet, tossed the straw into the wastebasket, and dropped the lighter and pill box back into my pocket. I could already feel the wave of narcotic euphoria like some sea-spawned tidal welling spread from my testicles to points north. I checked the restroom to make sure I left it like I found it. Satisfied, I turned the knob and hit the floor as an unexpected rush of nausea bubbled up. I turned in the opposite direction of our table and exited the restaurant into the afternoon sunshine that burnished the pristine Beverly Hills sidewalk. My stomach churned and before I could react, a long, arcing fountain of slightly used piña colada erupted from me and splattered wetly into the gutter in full view of passing traffic. I took out my pocket square and dabbed delicately at the corner of my mouth and dully noted that, if it doesn’t stay in too long, a piña colada tastes exactly the same coming up as it does going down.

  Embarrassed, I reentered the restaurant’s bar and made my way to the table, and hoped none of the diners had seen my sidewalk display. I stopped, surprised, before I reached my spot. Sitting in my chair, swathed in oversized plaid, was a homunculus the color of wrought iron. I recognized him right off as a washed-up former child actor with the improbable name of Lemuel Washington DiHarris who had once starred in a popular sitcom about the misadventures of a disadvantaged, pint-sized black child who had come to live under the care of a wealthy, white, industrialist playboy. For reasons that escaped me, the show had acquired a kitschy, nostalgic cult following in the years after its cancellation. I always thought it was paternalistic and racist, but I never watched it much. Maybe I had missed something. I did know that Lemuel’s signature catch phrase, which had entered the popular lexicon, grated on me like words seldom did. And as I reached the table, he flashed a gold-toothed grin at me and said it in a thick urban patois: “You don’ wan’ know ’bout dat!” He laughed while pointing at me.

  I hated to admit it, but he was right. I didn’t want to know about it. I had no idea who was hustling who at this point, but he and Eve were getting awfully friendly with each other. Lemuel stayed in my chair but graciously invited me to join them. “Pull up a seat, homie,” he said.

  Eve chirped, “He’s a RAPPER!” I had read somewhere that he aspired to revive his career through thug-rap and it amused me to think that this young man, who had been a child TV star and, before that, a pint-sized pitchman for a number of national products in TV commercials, could convince anyone that he was a hard-ass criminal fresh off the streets. But the proof was right in front of me. It was obvious Eve thought she had traded up from me, and there was no sense in sticking around. There would be no pink candy floss for dessert.

  I leaned in close to her and said, “Baby, I need to see a man about a duck.” It was a euphemism I used when going to cop dope at Johnny Gato’s, since he lived on a small ranch overrun by poultry, a pig or two, and several goats. Most people just took it as a goodbye. I breathed in her whore aroma: too much perfume, gin, stale tobacco, Juicy Fruit gum, and, underneath it all, a musky, feminine funk. It made me even more pissed off at the sawed-off little runt who was twisting a gold pinky ring on his finger. I straightened up and said, “You guys enjoy yourselves. Order what you want! It’s all taken care of.”

  “You all right, homeboy!” said Lemuel.

  I nodded and made my way to the front of the restaurant where I tipped the day-shift manager fifty dollars of my own money. I was a good customer and was in there at least twice a week. I always tipped him and the staff well and made sure to introduce him to the girls I brought in. He appreciated it. “Look, man, that guy sitting at my table said he’d pay the tab today, so I’m out of here,” I said, pointing at Lemuel.

  “I used to watch him on TV when he was a kid,” replied the manager, a chubby middle-aged guy in browline specs and a floral-print tie who was not beyond being impressed with whatever celebrities, great or small, entered his domain. “He was funny. What was that thing he used to say?”

  “You don’ wan’ know ’bout dat!” I said, certain that Lemuel didn’t want to know that he just got stuck with the check.

  I didn’t see this as shady or underhanded. A good junkie can always justify his actions. This was revenge, and it felt good.

  I walked past the valet stand and navigated through several blocks of side streets to get to my truck. Beverly Hills parking could be pricey, but if you knew where to look, and didn’t mind a little walk, you could always get a few hours for free. There were never parking concerns at Johnny Gato’s, and I set my wheels east and made the afternoon drive in less than an hour, a good time for a Friday.

  * * *

  Johnny Gato’s place wasn’t much to look at from the dirt access road that led up to it. A small stucco house, built before World War II, garishly painted raspberry and turquoise with a sagging porch and lots of shade trees, it nested down in a spot between the freeway and the San Gabriel River. In the front yard, two of Johnny’s kids, Junior and Angel, had hoisted and secured a bicycle frame from the limb of a live oak tree. They had chopped and lengthened the frame with steel tubing and were preparing to spray-paint it and mint another one of their two-wheeled low-rider creations. It was certain that these two preteen criminals, in their tube-socks, cutoff khakis, and starched white T-shirts with a vertical crease that cut as sharp and vicious as a Saturday-night straight-razor fight, had stolen the frame.

  “Ese! Your truck looks like shit, eh!” Junior laughe
d.

  “We’ll wash it for ten dollars!” said Angel.

  “How about I give you guys twenty and you do a good job?”

  The boys were fine with that. I crossed the yard and asked, “Just go on in?”

  “You always say that, dude. Yes. You don’t need to knock. They’re in the back,” admonished Junior.

  I stepped across the rickety flooring of the porch and pushed open a steel-mesh door that squealed out in protest. In the cool darkness of the immaculately kept front room, two old folks, Doña Flor and Don Frank, were watching the Spanish-language news. A woman newscaster was dressed a lot like Eve and was rattling off something in machine-gunfire Spanish.

  “Buenas tardes,” I offered.

  Don Frank pointed at the TV and said, “Can you believe those clothes?”

  “It’s a crazy world,” I replied.

  “They’re out back,” said Doña Flor.

  I continued through to the kitchen, which was as surgically clean as everything else in this tiny house, and saw that Johnny Gato’s wife Rose, a big old gal, was working at an ancient stove. A big pot of pinto beans simmered over one burner, and in another, a red stew bubbled. The tight little space smelled of garlic, chilis, and the fresh, citrus tang of cilantro.

  “Hey! How you doing?” smiled Rose. “We got birria! One of our goats! You gotta have some.”

  I had learned a long time ago to never pass up anything Rose offered. Her skill as a housekeeper was surpassed only by her ability as a cook. She moved quickly and filled a bowl with the spicy goat stew, on top of which she stacked some warm corn tortillas and placed a few slices of lime on top of those. I was hungry. I’d only managed a few bites of spaghetti back in Beverly Hills before Eve started slopping her hands into it.

  Johnny Gato’s head popped in from the door that led to the backyard and field. “Amigo! Bring that stuff with you and eat out here,” he invited. He was six feet and 350 pounds of intimidation. His last name wasn’t Gato, obviously, but we all called him that because of his resemblance to a fat, mean-eyed cat. Like his kids, he wore the cholo uniform of cutoff khakis, sneakers, and starched T-shirt. His arms were covered with tattoos, acquired in various correctional facilities, that depicted variations of La Adelita, the sombrero-wearing, pistol-packing female warrior icon of the Mexican Revolution. It was a look that worked for him.

  “Did you give him any of the peppers?” he asked his wife, who shot him a concerned look.

  “No, no,” he said, “I’ve seen this loco eat. He’s more hardcore than the kids.” Rose plopped a few small green chilis into the stew and I followed Johnny out back.

  Underneath the spreading branches of a gnarled and ancient plum tree that was giving up the last of its summer bounty sat a shiftless crew playing dominoes in the late-afternoon sun. By complicated bloodlines and affiliations, we had all known each other since junior high school here in the San Gabriel Valley. Shuffling the tiles was Backyard Bob, who ran a pot-selling enterprise out of his mom’s backyard and who rarely left home. Waiting for their bones were the Sorendahl brothers—Tumblin’ Dan and Little Gigantor. They were sturdy brawlers and good guys to have on your side if trouble broke out, even if they were usually the cause of it. Tumblin’ Dan had been laying low lately. He had earned his nickname from a series of run-ins with the law, each more serious than the last. His downward plunge had been put on hold by a recent embrace of the New Testament, but the boredom of not running wild weighed heavily on him. We all expected a spectacular fuck-up from him any day now.

  His younger brother, Little Gigantor, was short, squat, and as powerfully constructed as the space-age Japanese cartoon robot that inspired his name. He was capable of amazing feats of strength and sudden violence. I had been with him on a liquor run one night when we bumped into a spindly little cholo we knew from high school named Manny Saldana. Manny was dusted and wearing a bandanna so low on his brow he needed to tilt his head back to see. He noticed us and wanted a cigarette. “Got a frajo, ese?” he asked, and shifted his melon back even further. Quick as a rattlesnake strike, Little Gigantor grabbed him by the collar and belt, spun like an Olympic hammer-thrower, and tossed Manny right through the plate glass window of the liquor store.

  “What the fuck did you do that for?” I shouted.

  “Did you see the way that punk was looking at me? Nobody challenges me.”

  “Dude, he didn’t challenge you. He was just trying to see from under that stupid rag of his. We need to get the fuck out of here!”

  “Aw, don’t be such a pussy, doper. I’m getting a twelve-pack first,” he said, and calmly walked into the store, bought his beer, and threatened the owner not to call the cops. It must have worked because we made it back without seeing any flashing red and blue lights.

  “None of you boys eating?” I asked as I sat down at the redwood picnic table that served as headquarters for this crew.

  “We were until Johnny made us try those goddamn chilis,” said Tumblin’ Dan.

  “You guys are a bunch of jotos,” assessed Johnny.

  I wrapped some birria in a tortilla and dunked it into the red broth. That first bite allowed some grease to coat my tongue—my theory was that it would provide a cushion for the chili. Then I grabbed one slender green stem from the stew, shook it dry, and bit in. Nothing.

  “See? That’s how you eat a chili!” said Johnny, who slapped me on the back. But as he did, I could feel a warmth build quickly to a fire. I took another bite of birria. That’s the trick. A little bit of grease will cut through and dissipate the effects of even the hottest chili. Of course, you still have to deal with the intestinal aftermath, but you’ll be able to amaze and impress your friends.

  Little Gigantor passed me a sweating bottle of Lucky lager from a cooler while Backyard Bob finished spit-sealing a huge, guppy-shaped hand-rolled joint spiced with freebase cocaine. “Coca-puffs,” he cautioned as he took the first hit and passed it on. I declined because I’d be driving home with contraband. Why open the door for a screw-up? I’d never seen the inside of a jail cell and I didn’t want to start now.

  Johnny Gato sat down next to me and asked, “So, what do you need?”

  I pushed away the bowl of birria and told him, “Two grams of the tar and an eight ball of base.”

  “Two-fifty,” he said. Same price as always. “Jorge will take care of it. He’s back with the goats. Just go tell him.”

  This always made me uncomfortable. Jorge was the youngest of Johnny’s kids. A fifth-grader. And unlike his two wayward brothers, he was a kid who had a love for reading, science, and school. Of the three boys, I was laying odds on Jorge to be the one who lived long enough to see his twenty-first birthday.

  I shuffled across the dust and patchy crabgrass of the backyard and through a chain-link fence that opened onto about two acres of dirt and gravel divided by pens made of galvanized pipe. A couple of hogs wallowed in mud inside one of them. In the other, several small goats were mobbing a little black-haired kid in overalls who scattered feed on the ground.

  “Hey, Jorge!” I called.

  He knew why I was there. “What do you need?”

  “Two and a ball,” I told him.

  “Just a minute,” he said, and heaved the sack of feed outside the pen where it landed near my feet. The goats followed it and stared expectantly at me with their rectangular, demonic pupils.

  “Can I feed ’em?” I called after him.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  I took a handful of pelleted feed from the sack and held it through the rails of the pen as the goats jostled for their share. Jorge had gone off to a rusty steel shed and was in there for about five minutes. When he came out, he was followed by a small flock of quacking white ducks. He handed me a neatly wrapped package. I looked inside; the goods were there. I didn’t check closely. I had done business with this family for so long, there was no need. It was always a square deal. The ducks flowed around his feet and concentrated on bullying one of their own that had
a malformed foot. It was twisted inward, but its owner didn’t seem to be in any pain.

  “What’s with these ducks?” I asked.

  “They don’t like that one because he’s different with the bad foot,” was Jorge’s explanation.

  “So what do you do?” I wanted to know.

  “We’ll cook him, probably,” was his deadpan reply. “You ever had duck?”

  “Yeah. Not a big fan.”

  “Hey, you got a garden, right?”

  “I do. A small one,” I answered.

  “Why don’t you take him home with you? They make good pets … and they eat snails,” he tossed in, trying to sweeten the deal.

  Normally, I wouldn’t have acted so impulsively, but Jorge was a good kid and I felt guilty about my part in exposing him to the darker side of adult behavior, so I said, “Tell your dad to get me a box.”

  Jorge grabbed the duck which sat calmly in his arms as he stroked him, and we walked back to the yard. “He says he’ll take the duck, but he needs a box.”