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THE
COCAINE
CHRONICLES
EDITED BY GARY PHILLIPS & JERVEY TERVALON
For all our brothers and sisters who now only get high on life
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Introduction
PART I: TOUCHED BY DEATH
Ten Keys LEE CHILD
The Crack Cocaine Diet LAURA LIPPMAN
White Irish KEN BRUEN
Beneficent Diversions from the Crackdkins Diet DONNELL ALEXANDER
PART II: FIENDING
Poinciana SUSAN STRAIGHT
The Screenwriter JAMES BROWN
Twilight of the Stooges JERRY STAHL
Chemistry ROBERT WARD
PART III: THE CORRUPTION
Shame KERRY E. WEST
Viki, Flash, and the Pied-Piper of Shoebies DEBORAH VANKIN
Golden Pacific NINA REVOYR
Sentimental Value MANUEL RAMOS
Just Surviving Another Day DETRICE JONES
PART IV: GANGSTERS & MONSTERS
A.K.A. Moises Rockafella EMORY HOLMES II
Camaro Blue BILL MOODY
Serving Monster JERVEY TERVALON
Disco Zombies GARY PHILLIPS
Cocaine made me feel like a new man. And he wanted some too.
—Richard Pryor
I went right home and I went to bed
I stuck that lovin’ .44 beneath my head
Got up next mornin’ and I grabbed that gun
Took a shot of cocaine and away I run.
—Johnny Cash
But consider! … Count the cost! Your brain may, as you say,
be roused and excited, but it is a pathological and morbid process
which involves increased tissue-change and may at least leave a
permanent weakness. You know, too, what a black reaction comes
upon you. Surely the game is hardly worth the candle. Why
should you, for a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great
powers with which you have been endowed? Remember that I
speak not only as one comrade to another but as a medical man to
one for whose constitution he is to some extent answerable.
—Dr. John Watson to his friend Sherlock Holmes
in Sign of the Four by Arthur Conan Doyle
introduction
by gary phillips & jervey tervalon
So, Jervey, how about it? Did you ever partake?
No, G, I’ve never smoked cocaine, never hit the pipe, didn’t tempt me in the least, because I had been inoculated against it with a healthy dose of junior high school ass-kicking. I assumed the pusherman would just as soon poison me as get me high. It never occurred to me that it would be a way to live, but it’s always fascinated me, how folks fall into it, plunge headlong into the depths of human tragedy through the pursuit of the pipe. I’ve written about murderous crack addicts, about dope fiends, the true zombies of the streets because.
If you lived through the ’80s anywhere near an urban core, you’d have to be stone-cold stupid not to notice them. And you’d have to be dull-witted not to know that these drug zombies were fictionally interesting and shouldn’t be consigned to the lower rungs of pulp fiction or ghetto literature. Certainly cocaine has had a long-lasting appeal in popular culture, from Cab Calloway’s “Minnie the Moocher” to Public Enemy’s “Night of the Living Baseheads.” But it’s not just about popular appeal, it’s also about an inclusive literary landscape.
What about you, G?
For me, blow serves as two clear demarcations in my life. The first was the summer of ’73, when I was home from my first year of college at San Francisco State. That summer there were sartorial ripples in the ghetto culture caused by the film Superfly. That flick laid down some serious iconographic shit in the brains of my friends from high school like crack would grip fools in the years to come. Cats were stylin’ in long quilted coats, wide-brim hats, and flared slacks. Everybody was sporting ornamental coke spoons around their necks when they hit the club, trying to keep their balance in those silly-ass platform shoes while rapping to a fox in fake leather thigh-high boots and a velvet mini.
I didn’t sport a coat like the anti-hero drug dealer Priest in Superfly, with a style and attitude that would influence other movies and TV shows like Starsky and Hutch and Baretta—Antonio Fargas as Huggie Bear in the former, and Michael D. Roberts as Rooster in the latter. But I do remember going to a hat store on Manchester and purchasing a gray gangster brim and wearing that bad boy to parties, driving my dad’s yellow ’65 Galaxie 500 with the black Landau top and blasting Curtis Mayfield’s too-cold Superfly sounds and Isaac Hayes’s “Theme from Shaft” on the 8-track. There was a lot of weed at those parties but I don’t recall much blow—though there was a lot of talk about somebody knew a dude who knows a dude and we can get some—but sure as hell, if there was some getting, nobody offered me any that summer. This was before crack became synonymous with the inner city, and powder the suburbs.
Drugs are class-driven like everything else, and stories about crack cocaine aren’t for the mainstream readers of fiction; not the polite subject for drug literature or its crasser little brother, heroin fiction. Lithium is cool, antidepressants are too, but don’t mention crack or freebase … those low-class drugs for self-medication.
Which brings me to the second incursion of coke into my life, Jervey. This was a few years later when I met this older woman—I mean, she was in her thirties and I was in my twenties—and we started going around together. She introduced me to the wonders of the toot. Now, given my wife might be reading this, or my teenage kids, I shall eschew graphic reportage of intimate encounters enhanced by the ’caine. But as Hendrix would say, I did, indeed, kiss the sky.
As to how this book came about, we’d been invited to the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books to participate on a panel commemorating the tenth anniversary of the Los Angeles riots of 1992.
Jervey had edited Geography of Rage, a collection of essays about the civil unrest published in 2002, and Gary had a piece in it.
Later we talked about how weird it was that with all the anthologies, from the erotic to the criminal, we hadn’t come across any inspired by cocaine, the scourge of our times. We both thought it would be a good idea, but good ideas get lost with bad ones.
So we met a few weeks after the panel, kicked the idea around some more, and came up with an outline, but didn’t get too far beyond that. We went our separate ways assuming it wouldn’t get done.
Then along came Akashic Books publisher Johnny Temple, who, fresh from the success of Brooklyn Noir, an ambitious collection of crime-fiction stories, asked us about the cocaine idea months after we’d mentioned it to him in passing. Soon the concept was cranking, and not long after we began inviting submissions, excellent stories started blowing in.
The stories we ultimately selected for this collection reflect what interests us as observers of the human condition in its various physical and psychological permutations. The four sections of the book are used as a rough breakdown of the effects cocaine has on the participants in a given story, no matter what side of the tracks it occurs on—though some relate tales of those who actually cross those tracks in their hunt for the flake, the rock … or in their attempt to escape its grip.
Here are some samples:
Detrice Jones’s powerful vignette of a young girl living with addicted parents who spend their days trying to gank their daughter’s lunch money; Nationa
l Book Award–nominee Susan Straight’s hard-ass story of an aging crackwhore; Jerry Stahl’s absurd, ribald portrayal of a debased coke fiend; and Bill Moody’s low notes about the nature of caring and waste. There’s also Bob Ward’s tale of love gone strange, Nina Revoyr’s harrowing piece revealing how things do not always go better with coke, and Laura Lippman’s hilariously twisted slice of the underbelly.
These are some of the scary charms found in The Cocaine Chronicles. We hope you find value in them.
Every contributor to this anthology stepped up and delivered. We are very grateful to each of them for coming through on relatively short notice and relatively minimal pay. They were truly inspired by the subject matter.
For as the late, great superfreak Rick James once said, “Cocaine, it’s a hell of a drug!”
JERVEY TERVALON & GARY PHILLIPS
ten keys
by lee child
Mostly shit happens, but sometimes things fall in your lap, not often, but enough times to drop a rock on despair. But you can’t start in with thoughts of redemption. That would be inappropriate. Such events are not about you. Things fall in your lap not because you’re good, but because other people are bad. And stupid.
This guy walked into a bar—which sounds like the start of a joke, which was what it was, really, in every way. The bar was a no-name dive with a peeled-paint door and no sign outside. As such, it was familiar to me and the guy and people like us. I was already inside, at a table I had used before. I saw the guy come in. I knew him in the sense that I had seen him around a few times and therefore he knew me, too, because as long as we assume a certain amount of reciprocity in the universe, he had seen me around the exact same number of times. I see him, he sees me. We weren’t friends. I didn’t know his name. Which I wouldn’t expect to. A guy like that, any name he gives you is sure to be bullshit. And certainly any name I would have given him would have been bullshit. So what were we to each other? Vague acquaintances, I guess. Both close enough and distant enough that given the trouble he was in, I was the sort of guy he was ready to talk to. Like two Americans trapped in a foreign airport. You assume an intimacy that isn’t really there, and it makes it easier to spill your guts. You say things you wouldn’t say in normal circumstances. This guy certainly did. He sat down at my table and started in on a whole long story. Not immediately, of course. I had to prompt him.
I asked, “You okay?”
He didn’t reply. I didn’t press. It was like starting a car that had been parked for a month. You don’t just hammer the key. You give it time to settle, so you don’t flood the carburetor or whatever cars have now. You’re patient. In my line of work, patience is a big virtue.
I asked, “You want a drink?”
“Heineken,” the guy said.
Right away I knew he was distracted. A guy like that, you offer him a drink, he should ask for something expensive and amber in a squat glass. Not a beer. He wasn’t thinking. He wasn’t calculating. But I was.
An old girl in a short skirt brought two bottles of beer, one for him and one for me. He picked his up and took a long pull and set it back down, and I saw him feel the first complex shift of our new social dynamic. I had bought him a drink, so he owed me conversation. He had accepted charity, so he owed himself a chance to re-up his status. I saw him rehearse his opening statement, which was going to tell me what a hell of a big player he was.
“It never gets any easier,” he said.
He was a white guy, thin, maybe thirty-five years old, a little squinty, the product of too many generations of inbred hard-scrabble hill people, his DNA baked down to nothing more than the essential components, arms, legs, eyes, mouth. He was an atom, adequate, but entirely interchangeable with ten thousand just like him.
“Tell me about it,” I said, ruefully, like I understood his struggle.
“A man takes a chance,” he said. “Tries to get ahead. Sometimes it works, sometimes it don’t.”
I said nothing.
“I started out muling,” he said. “Way back. You know that?”
I nodded. No surprise. We were four miles from I-95, and everyone started out muling, hauling keys of coke up from Miami or Jax, all the way north to New York and Boston. Anyone with a plausible face and an inconspicuous automobile started out muling, a single key in the trunk the first time, then two, then five, then ten. Trust was earned and success was rewarded, especially if you could make the length of the New Jersey Turnpike unmolested. The Jersey State Troopers were the big bottleneck back then.
“Clean and clear every time,” the guy said. “No trouble, ever.”
“So you moved up,” I said.
“Selling,” he said.
I nodded again. It was the logical next step. He would have been told to take his plausible face and his inconspicuous automobile deep into certain destination neighborhoods and meet with certain local distributors directly. The chain would have become one link shorter. Fewer hands on the product, fewer hands on the cash, more speed, more velocity, a better vector, less uncertainty.
“Who for?” I asked.
“The Martinez brothers.”
“I’m impressed,” I said, and he brightened a little.
“I got to where I was dealing ten keys pure at a time,” he said.
My beer was getting warm, but I drank a little anyway. I knew what was coming next.
“I was hauling the coke north and the money south,” he said.
I said nothing.
“You ever seen that much cash?” he asked. “I mean, really seen it?”
“No,” I said.
“You can barely even lift it. You could get a hernia, a box like that.”
I said nothing.
“I was doing two trips a week,” he said. “I was never off the road. I wore grooves in the pavement. And there were dozens of us.”
“Altogether a lot of cash,” I said, because he needed me to open the door to the next revelation. He needed me to understand. He needed my permission to proceed.
“Like a river,” he said.
I said nothing.
“Well, hell,” he said. “There was so much it meant nothing to them. How could it? They were drowning in it.”
“A man takes a chance,” I said.
The guy didn’t reply. Not at first. I held up two fingers to the old girl in the short skirt and watched her put two new bottles of Heineken on a cork tray.
“I took some of it,” the guy said.
The old girl gave us our new bottles and took our old ones away. I said four imports to myself, so I could check my tab at the end of the night. Everyone’s a rip-off artist now.
“How much of it did you take?” I asked the guy.
“Well, all of it. All of what they get for ten keys.”
“And how much was that?”
“A million bucks. In cash.”
“Okay,” I said, enthusiastically, deferentially, like, Wow, you’re the man.
“And I kept the product, too,” he said.
I just stared at him.
“From Boston,” he said. “Dudes up there are paranoid. They keep the cash and the coke in separate places. And the city’s all dug up. The way the roads are laid out now it’s easier to get paid first and deliver second. They trusted me to do that, after a time.”
“But this time you picked up the cash and disappeared before you delivered the product.”
He nodded.
“Sweet,” I said.
“I told the Martinez boys I got robbed.”
“Did they believe you?”
“Maybe not,” he said.
“Problem,” I said.
“But I don’t see why,” he said. “Not really. Like, how much cash have you got in your pocket, right now?”
“Two hundred and change,” I said. “I was just at the ATM.”
“So how would you feel if you dropped a penny and it rolled down the storm drain? A single lousy cent?”
“I wouldn’t really give a shit
,” I said.
“Exactly. This is like a guy with two hundred in his pocket who loses a penny under the sofa cushion. How uptight is anyone going to be?”
“With these guys, it’s not about the money,” I said.
“I know,” he said.
We went quiet and drank our beers. Mine felt gassy against my teeth. I don’t know how his felt to him. He probably wasn’t tasting it at all.
“They’ve got this other guy,” he said. “Dude called Octavian. He’s their investigator. And their enforcer. He’s going to come for me.”
“People get robbed,” I said. “Shit happens.”
“Octavian is supposed to be real scary. I’ve heard bad things.”
“You were robbed. What can he do?”
“He can make sure I’m telling the truth, is what he can do. I’ve heard he has a way of asking questions that makes you want to answer.”
“You stand firm, he can’t get blood out of a rock.”
“They showed me a guy in a wheelchair. Story was that Octavian had him walking on his knees up and down a gravel patch for a week. Walking on the beach, he calls it. The pain is supposed to be terrible. And the guy got gangrene afterward, lost his legs.”
“Who is this Octavian guy?”
“I’ve never seen him.”
“Is he another Colombian?”
“I don’t know.”
“Didn’t the guy in the wheelchair say?”
“He had no tongue. Story is Octavian cut it out.”
“You need a plan,” I said.
“He could walk in here right now. And I wouldn’t know.”
“So you need a plan fast.”
“I could go to L.A.”
“Could you?”
“Not really,” the guy said. “Octavian would find me. I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder the whole rest of my life.”
The Cocaine Chronicles Page 1
