The Howard Marks Book of Dope Stories

by Howard Marks

  Only a few days before, Joey had told her that he had drugs and switchblades stashed in various places around the eastside so they wouldn’t be on him but would be retrievable in case of need. She had taken it as flamboyance but realized now that this roof must have been one of those places because—

  ‘Put it down!’ shouted the cop.

  ‘Not until you throw the dope off the roof. Get rid of your fucking “evidence”.’

  She cursed her monkey as he chirped, ‘Wow! If it falls I’ll get it!’

  ‘Too late, asshole,’ said the cop. ‘Now you’re really up for assault.’ He paused for effect. ‘Of a police officer.’

  Joey was hurricane-eye calm. Each word was measured and she felt a tingle at the back of her neck. ‘I don’t give a fuck. At least I am assaulting you and you are a police officer.’ Even more softly he added, ‘Throw it over. Ditch that bullshit evidence. Now.’

  Both figures were near the edge and she could see them clear against the sky. Joey whipped out of the eye and into the fury of the storm. ‘Throw it over!’ he screamed. ‘Throw it over or I’ll kill you!’

  ‘I’ll throw you over first, you fuck!’

  ‘Then we both go.’

  She lunged at their shadows as Joey made for cop and cop-gun at once. The knife, the gun, the man and the cop spiraled on the edge. She arced to a white-hot chant as her medulla vagina quaked and howled and wind tore into the chamber that could never be hymened again.

  Tears welled up and blurred her vision. In that second of blindness her hearing was more acute. It seemed someone until then invisible had taken a step behind her. She turned and saw. He hadn’t even screamed.

  Joey lay on the ground, face up and unscathed, eyes open.

  Looking at the sky. A crime.

  She bent over him but heard the words, ‘I’m dead.’

  His knife was in his hand. Before she noticed having reached for it, his knife was in her own. She flattened herself against the building whose roof had hidden the weapon that was now hers. And she waited, knowing he would come.

  It seemed like an hour before he did. Bent slightly at the ass, he walked toward the body, slow, eyes pinioned to her friend. Silent, she stood behind him. Two good yards, a long way to leap. In order for her to do it, he would have to be distracted. Her mind conjured a pigeon shitting a bullseye from on high. But that wouldn’t work because the bastard wouldn’t feel it. He hadn’t even taken off his cap.

  The cop was looking into Joey’s eyes. His back radiated fear but he seemed certain he was alone. She could see that Joey’s eyes bore twin tunnels through the sky. Toward something. What? Unable to resist, the cop’s head made a slow tilt skyward. She felt the warmth of flower-blood at the nape of her neck.

  The knife slipped through the blue cloth and deep into the cop’s back. She had often heard that it takes a lot to kill with a knife, so she turned him round and face to face, in a rush of mad need to perfect the act, had him see her while she saw him. Yes, we live on after, she thought, and ‘He lives’ was what she said and then slit his throat.

  She dropped him fast for the blood was spurting rapidly, ageyser to fill a mighty needle.

  For a moment all was still and then it broke. Though city silence met the death of Joey, sirens rose to greet the cop’s demise.

  They’ll find me. That she knew. Fast and hard.

  It came to her, then. With nowhere to run, she could only stay here. Right here. Until they took her on a stretcher, herself the victim of a crime.

  Her friend would be indicted post-mortem for her wound. But that didn’t matter. Judges’ opinions were of no consequence. Such things had not even practical import, unless you were alive. So it was a little joke between friends. A last laugh.

  She thought of the fertile wound at the nape of her neck but knew that the blood that poured from that gash was only visible to the naked eye and so they wouldn’t see it. She had to penetrate herself again, in the language that they knew.

  The knife was dripping with the dead cop’s blood. The thought flashed that she wanted to wipe it off, for that blood contained the most contagious disease of all. But there was no time. Anyhow, she knew she had the antibodies to fight off the blue plague.

  She rolled up her sleeve. Now that she wasn’t running, she had time, lots of it, to do things right. She took care and blessed the echo of each move.

  Sleeves above her elbow, she examined her arm. Incredibly thin, it wasn’t bad as arms go, etched with years of work toward the perfect design. Better I disguise all this anyway, she thought soberly. Her other arm would pass, for it confessed much less.

  The blade was still red. She hoped it was sharp. By habit, she pulled her sleeve tight around the upper arm and tilted the blade so it caught the pale street light.

  A smooth cut along the guidelines, at first it didn’t hurt much. So she took her time. But then a locomotive rode her tracks. Her limb cried out and she knew she had to act fast before her body forbade passage.

  A long cool rip hit the finish line. Straight and clean, she had left no flap to hold on to.

  She backed up against the building and realized what was happening. She was bleeding. A lot. And she recognized the feeling.

  Nodding. On the most illegal of drugs. She balanced her head against the building and let her eyes close over the sky.

  Sirens rose, fell, rose again in the darkness of her blazing arm as her body throbbed a calliope of pain. A song sung for a marriage of will between woman and knife.

  And from her new canal flowed an afterbirth of silence. Conceived at knife-injection, it was deeper than ten thousand times before. Rather than adding to the reservoir, this time the dam had burst. She was watering the sidewalks of the cul-de-sac and her fountain would rebirth the bog. Marsh vines would claim her friend and her self, and strange crabs with lanterns in their eyes would devour the remains of the officer of the law. Hard workers, these creatures would transform him in their bellies. As crustacean shit he’d be free and food again for fertile animals.

  In her lidded vision, all returned.

  A lido smile wrapped round her finger. Pink fingers of a black man ran through her hair. And she walked, walked, walked with her fifth column in the dream.

  1997. From an unpublished collection of short stories entitled

  Mobiles

  William Novak

  I Get Paid for Paranoia

  EVERY TIME I meet a customer, I give him this sheet:

  House Policies

  It is hoped that these terms will be acceptable to you, and that we will develop an association of mutual trust and respect. I regard our business transaction as high-energy exchanges and look forward to enjoying a long-lasting relationship from which we will both benefit. I see myself as a person of integrity and aim to operate honestly and fairly.

  Business is by appointment only. Call anytime to set up an appointment. If I’m out you will get my answering machine that will tell you when I expect to return, and will take any message you’d like to leave.

  Do not discuss business on the telephone. Make an appointment and we will discuss it in person.

  Do not give my name or phone number to anyone without an okay from me beforehand. The protocol that must be followed for introductions is as follows: Only after I feel that a stable rapport has been established between you and me will I be open to meeting your friend(s). Then I will want to talk to you about how you met them, etc., before you make the introduction.

  If people are waiting for you outside, be sure they are parked or hanging out in a place where they cannot see which house you enter.

  Never point out this house or anyone you meet here to anyone, ever, no matter how tempted you may be.

  Don’t write anyone’s name or phone number on this piece of paper.

  Come alone unless special arrangements have been made in advance for you to bring someone with you.

  Transactions are on a cash-only basis. However, food stamps or barter may be used as a me
dium of exchange if arranged in advance.

  You may reserve any item to be held for you for twenty-four hours.

  Returns are generally discouraged. If you have any doubts, try before you buy. If you are buying for someone else and they don’t like what you have selected for them, this is for you and them to resolve. In this kind of transaction you should plan in advance on taking responsibility as your friend’s supplier.

  The following items are not presently, and will never be, sold here: coke, speed, tranquilizers, Quaaludes, opium, barbiturates, smack, or any addicting substance – nor will any introductions be arranged involving these items.

  All this is necessary. Nobody thinks he’ll get busted, just like women think they won’t get pregnant, that it only happens to other people. Well, it’s a fact of life. They do come, and they do put you in handcuffs, and they do take you off to jail.

  High Culture, 1980

  Lanre Fehintola

  Drugs Bust

  THE FIRST THING the cops wanted to know when they burst into my house was where I’d hidden the charlie. There were six of them, four guys and two women; the women taking turns to play at good-cop/bad-cop and the guys being regular Drug Squad officers. It was a classic set-up, something like a synchronised-swimming team and almost as boring.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I said with my arms outstretched, innocent-like. ‘I live here, not Charlie.’

  They laughed at that one, they thought it was funny. But the boss, let’s call him ‘Smith’ (though that’s not his real name), was not amused. Tall, thin, cropped grey hair, very pallid, he worked extra hard to distinguish himself from the others, to assert the fact that he was in charge and everything was under his control. He kept laying that on me over and over again just in case I misunderstood him the first time, like it was seriously important that I should know. I guess he wanted to show just how hip he was, that he was truly down with the scene and knew that I had ounces of the stuff stashed somewhere around the house.

  He asked me again: ‘Where’s the charlie?’

  This time laying emphasis on the cocaine angle. He was talking drugs.

  ‘What?’

  He said he wanted to give me the opportunity of coming clean before he gave orders to begin the search. I played it cool. I didn’t lose my head or anything, just answered that he and his gang of burglars had arrived with the intention of searching my house anyway, so they may as well get on with it. ‘And I still don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. You won’t find any drugs in this house!’ Then, to show my indignation, I sat down and made myself comfortable. I guessed I was gonna be in for a long afternoon.

  I don’t think he liked that very much, it kind of undermined his authority; the other cops were smirking behind his back, anyway. I should’ve been trembling, I suppose; scared shitless that any minute now he was gonna find me out and I’d be for the hole. Instead I thought it was quite funny. My nonreaction to his illustrious self must’ve gone completely against everything they’d taught him at detective school. It was hilarious.

  While his men were rummaging through the room and turning things over, he’d be standing to one side, or in a corner, just staring at me, trying to figure out the look on my face, trying to read my thoughts. And if I blinked or rubbed my eyes in any particular way he’d suddenly leap on to something in my line of vision, pick it up, then scrutinise my face again. Of course I’d simply look somewhere else, blink, rub my eyes, and he’d be off again, leaping, inspecting and scrutinising, until he got bored and changed tactics.

  Then he squatted down directly in front of me, almost nose to nose, eyeball to eyeball, drilling a hole through my skull and trying to unfold my brain. I couldn’t see what the others were up to with him in my face like that, so I shifted my weight to my left-hand side and peered around him. And that damn-fool-cop, interpreting any movements as shifty, dived on to whatever it was he thought I was trying not to look at.

  He really was convinced I had cocaine in the house and thought he had me sussed. Every now and again he’d pick up a shoebox or a container or something, rattle it then ask me what it contained before checking it out for himself. He was so ridiculous I just couldn’t be bothered with any more of his questions, they were so fuckin’ mechanical and textbook-like. So I ignored him and focused my attention on the she-cop searching beneath the sofa. She was young and pretty, a slim athletic type, and had to reach far beneath the cushions to do the job right. So I’ve got my eyes glued to her thighs waiting for a revelation of stocking tops and perhaps an inch or so of panties.

  At least that was a better prospect than the dickhead in the corner leaping around like an idiot in distress, trying to psyche me out.

  I wondered to myself, why do ambitious young women like her waste themselves in the police force? I mean, she must’ve really believed in the job once, thought that her contribution would make a difference. I was interested and wanted to find out more, but before I could put the question to her the front door flew open and Yasmin waltzed in. She was halfway through an apology for being late then froze mid-sentence when she realised the scene she’d just walked into. Then she began to cry. I should’ve known better. I should never have allowed myself to be taken in by those tears, but I did. And like a fool I even tried to cover up for her, claiming that she had nothing to do with anything and had only called round to see my girlfriend.

  Then suddenly it was like ‘Go! Go! Go!’ Two cops jumped on her like they were SAS and frogmarched her upstairs. At that moment another one of them came out of the kitchen holding up a plastic container of fluffy white powder and, ‘Smith’, with his épée gleaming, moved it at me, but then discovered it was only yam flower – Nigerian soul food! After a while Yasmin was dragged downstairs again, minus her Vodaphone, and with her clothes all disarrayed, and was taken off to the police station.

  Something was wrong; I didn’t know what exactly and there was nothing much I could do about it anyway, but I knew there was something wrong. Then, as if on cue, the other she-cop came down from the bathroom with a big grin on her face, branching £1,200 cash in one hand, and a bag of prime sinsemilla in the other. ‘Smith’ was ecstatic and almost orgasmed right there in front of us all. Okay, so he hadn’t discovered any cocaine but he had got a bag of excellent ganja, and as far as he was concerned, a bust was a bust.

  From: Charlie Says . . . don’t get high on your own supply: an urban memoir, 2000

  Bez

  Freaky Dancin’

  AS THEY ENTERED the house, I could hear the panic risin’ in his voice as he tried desperately to deny the crime they suspected he’d done – a gold chain an’ a sovereign had been snatched from a girl’s neck the night before. Why is it always at the end of some trip, when the strychnine is settin’ in, an’ yer skin doesn’t quite seem to fit properly, that some blatherin’ bastard tries to tangle yer up in his problems?

  This blatherin’ bastard was askin’ me to vouch for his good character. I’d had Mary fuckin’ Quant on my case all night my eyes were still rollin’ an’ I was wearin’ stupid trousers; the last thing I needed was to try an’ look sincere in my opinion of his honesty. I made my excuses, grabbed my bags an’ got the hell out of there as fast as I could without seemin’ too shady myself. I grabbed the girl on the way, so as not to leave any debris lyin’ around that I might have to go back for later.

  Once out in the fresh air, the panic of the scene I’d just left began to subside; a quiet sense of relief oiled my stiff limbs an’ a buoyancy came back into my step. I was thankin’ God that I’d managed to escape from a potentially dangerous acquaintance without apparent incident an’ was just about to vocalise this point when – swoosh – the CID pulled up alongside an’ called me over. I handed my bags to the girl, tellin’ her to take them home to my new flat, where I would meet her later. I walked over to the car an’ in an instant they were upon me, grabbin’ my arms an’ leadin’ me round to the boot. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I wasn’t
about to be goin’ anywhere, now was I? After all, I was an innocent man, or so I thought! With smug, shiny, fat smirkin’ faces they opened the boot in a dramatic fashion as if they’d discovered I was a secret arms dealer or somethin’. There wavin’ back at me were four puny seedlin’s, the result of a stoned experiment that I’d abandoned, forgotten in the back of the kitchen. The seeds I’d thrown in the pot weren’t even from a quality smoke. I was gutted; to be pulled for somethin’ so stupidly small, somethin’ that grows naturally in abundance all over the world, somethin’ that I hadn’t even intended to cultivate. Fuckin’ weeds, why do they grow so easily?

  To add insult to injury, the kid I’d been stayin’ with was sat in the back of the car squealin’ like a stuck pig about how he was prepared to take any rap but not for drugs. I couldn’t believe it, all I wanted was a quiet life in the seclusion of my new pad an’ now I was bein’ hailed as the Percy fuckin’ Thrower of cannabis land – I hate gardenin’, I hate tendin’ plants; why hadn’t they shrivelled up an’ withered with neglect like any other plant I ever owned?

  Freaky Dancin’, 1989

  T. Coraghessan Boyle

  Budding Prospects

  LET ME TELL you about attrition. About dwindling expectations, human error, Mother Nature on the counteroffensive. Let me tell you about days without end, about the oppression of mid-afternoon, about booze and dope, horseshoes, cards, paperbacks read and reread till their covers fall to pieces, let me tell you about boredom and the loss of faith.

  First off, Vogelsang was right. There were only a thousand plants on the ground. Or to be more precise, 957. I know: I counted them. It was the first thing I thought of when I woke the day following my sojourn in the town jail. Early on, we’d planted better than one thousand seedlings, and then Dowst had managed to sprout and plant some six or seven hundred more – at least. Or so he’d said. We were aware that we’d fallen short of our original estimate, but we had no idea by how much. Five percent? Ten? Fifteen? It wasn’t our concern. We were the workers, the muscle, the yeomen, and Dowst and Vogelsang were the managers. The number of plants in the ground and the condition of those plants was their business; ours was to dig holes, string and mend fences, repair the irrigation system, and see that each plant got its two and a half gallons of H2O per day. And so we’d never counted the plants. Never felt a need to. There were so many, after all, forests of them, their odor rank and sweet and overpowering, that we simply let ourselves get caught up in the fantasy of it, the wish that fulfills itself: of course we had two thousand plants.