“Bob Ross?” I asked.
“Yes,” said the hostess. “Manny is a big supporter of public television.”
Good to hear it. I was worried he was just blowing my money on frivolous things.
I finished the coffee and was pretending to be interested in some modern sculpture that looked like a pile of polished aluminum dog shit, and eventually the hostess informed me that it was my time with Manny. Swarthy Guy escorted me out of the lounge and into an elevator.
“How about them Cubs?” I said.
“I prefer not to small talk.”
I sized him up, wondering if I could take him, deciding I could, and then we were on the third floor and he took me to a room that had a swarthier guy standing in front of a steel door.
“How about them Cubs?” I said.
“Hands on the wall, feet apart.”
I did as ordered, and he patted me down, taking my Hardballer and my roll of cash. He gave me the cash back, then opened the door.
The anticipation I felt wasn’t sexual, but it was close, and in many ways it was better. I went inside, tingling all over, feeling like I was about to win an award.
The room smelled like orange wood polish, and was an antique junkie’s wet dream. Every wall hanging, every window covering, every stick of furniture, every knick-knack, was old, rare, and costly.
Manny was a sharp-eyed African American with a bullfrog beard that looked like someone glued a 1970’s afro to his neck. He always dressed impeccably, had a pronounced limp, and walked with a cane. Today he wore a gray suit, black vest, a matching porkpie hat, and a bright purple tie fat enough to function as a bib. He was dotted with gold accoutrements; cuff links, tie tack, watch fob, earrings, and though his lower body was hidden behind a gigantic mahogany Empire desk, I would have bet his belt buckle was gold, too.
The only item on his desk was a polished, silver balance scale—the kind represented by the Libra astrological sign—and a box of gram weights.
My elevator escort slipped into the room behind me and closed the door.
He smiled at me, gold tooth winking. “Phineas. Always a pleasure.”
He stood, offering a hand with so many diamond rings he could be seen from space. I shook it, his grip firm and cold.
“You’re looking well, Manny.”
“You’re looking… tired.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“What can I interest you in today?”
Finally. Getting down to it.
“Cocaine,” I said.
If you’ve never bought drugs before, there are a few things you should know. First, never buy from a stranger. You can’t trust anyone, especially some asshole who’s on drugs. Second, always sample it before you buy it. Just because a dealer says it’s high grade shit, that doesn’t mean it is. Would he ever say “Yeah, I got the stuff, but it’s lousy?” Third, try not to buy when you’re desperate. Dealers can smell a jones a mile away, and will be inclined to not only charge you more, but may also try to take advantage of your needy state and rip you off. Finally, check out the dealer’s clothes. It’s a general rule that the better dressed a dealer is, the better drugs he deals. Some scumbag in mismatched shoes and a thrift shop coat hanging out on the corner at three in the morning is not going to sell you the best weed you ever smoked. Trust me.
Before Earl gnawed his way into my life, I’d done drugs recreationally. Psychedelics weren’t my thing; I wanted a dopamine dump, not a mind altering trip. I could handle opiates in pill form, but I drew the line at heroin. Injecting H was magical, almost like a whole body orgasm, but the crash wasn’t worth it. I spent the next day shaking and sweating with stomach cramps so bad they made Earl look tame by comparison. XTC and K were good party drugs, but they made me sloppy and lose my edge. Meth gave me too much of an edge; a few months ago I broke my hand while smoking meth because I got into a fight with my reflection in a gas station mirror. Not one of my shining moments.
The magic combination for me is coke and alcohol. Cocaine is a wonderful drug. It makes you feel… fearless. Unstoppable.
Alive.
Like you can grab the whole world in your hands and take a big bite out of it.
The crash isn’t nearly as bad as heroin, especially if you drink while doing the coke. Alcohol also takes the edge off of the nervousness. I tried crack once. It also gave me that fearless feeling coke does, but it didn’t last as long, and was impossible to dose correctly. If I’m snorting good stuff, I can maintain the high for hours without crashing.
“How much do you need?” Manny asked.
“What is an eight ball running?”
“Two hundred.”
The pain in my side became sharper, as if Earl was opening his hungry maw, preparing to gobble up the goodies I was going to buy.
“Purity?”
“Forty percent. Stepped on with lactose.”
I liked lactose. It tasted sweet. Some dealers cut their coke with aspirin, or baking soda, or worse, and that tended to become unpleasant during long snorting sessions.
Manny went into one of the many drawers in his desk and removed a large, plastic bin of white powder. Several kilos at least. I briefly considered the Seecamp in my boot heel. Cross my legs, grab the gun, shoot the guy behind me, take his weapon, kill Manny…
Other men fantasized about winning the lottery or getting the girl. I dreamt of ripping off a drug dealer.
Any decent human being should have been ashamed by that. But I’d lost my shame long before I’d lost my hair.
Manny took a little plastic spoon—the kind used for free samples at ice cream shops—and dipped it into the bin, handing me a bump of coke. I licked my fingertip, touched it to the mound, and rubbed it on my gums.
There was tingling, then numbing.
I held it to my nostril and snorted.
A bit of burn. A bit of sweetness.
“What do you think of my Palmer Hayden?” Manny gestured to the painting on the near wall. A black couple, dancing, their features exaggerated to racist stereotypes.
“Harlem renaissance?” I guessed.
Manny nodded. “Hayden often portrayed people of color as the white devils of the period did. An early kind of black empowerment. Taking your enemy’s bigotry and turning it into a source of pride. How others perceive you can either drag you down, or raise you up. Do you agree?”
I shrugged. “I don’t care how others perceive me.”
“We all care, Phineas. Some of us just hide it better than others.”
Whatever. I preferred the Bob Ross. Landscapes didn’t require you to ponder social philosophy.
Then it began. The rush. I could feel my eyes dilate as my vision sharpened to lasers. The rush poured through me, power and warmth and pleasure, and Earl stuffed his face and became invisible and it was a struggle not to smile.
“Good shit,” I said. “Give me four.”
Eight hundred bucks for half an ounce of coke. If I was careful, it would last me until the end of the week.
I didn’t plan on being careful.
Manny placed weights on one side of the scale, then carefully measured out twenty-eight grams of powder, then a little bit extra to tip the scale in my favor. I watched, forcing myself to be patient, forcing myself to sit still, as he carefully poured the powder into a bag. He set it on the desk. I counted out eight hundred dollar bills. We shook hands again, and I would have sworn his hand got warmer.
“Always a pleasure, Phineas.”
I stood, and paused, emboldened by the drugs. “Do you know Jimmy Mulrooni?”
Manny’s face was impossible to read. “Why do you ask?”
“His name came up.”
“In connection with what?”
I couldn’t tell if he was being careful, or evasive.
“With a job,” I said.
“You understand, Phineas, that discretion is essential in my line of work.”
“How about a discreet character reference? Off the record?”
“I can’t help you.”
“Because you don’t know him? Or because you do know him?”
There was a moment, a very brief moment, when my erudite drug dealing best buddy lost composure and flashed anger. But he recovered so fast I wasn’t sure if it was just the cocaine talking.
“Always a pleasure, Phineas,” he said in even tones.
“I appreciate your respect for discretion, Manny. I know I wouldn’t want you telling anyone about me.”
He smiled, but his eyes were dead. Like a shark’s.
I was escorted back to the main floor, wondering if I’d breached some sort of dealer/user code. Not that it mattered. Etiquette had about as much influence over me as shame, guilt, worry, and regret. And any second-guessing of my actions vanished once I was in the Bronco, doing another bump. I didn’t have a spoon or a coke nail, but the tip of my truck key could hold a perfect little mound.
Better living through chemistry and technology.
I headed for the Gold Coast, parked at the Water Tower Place garage on Chestnut, stuck my Hardballer and holster in the glove compartment, taped the door, and entered the swanky, overpriced shopping center. With the help of a queer Sales Supervisor I dropped seven bills at Macy’s, buying a suit, shirt, and tie that made me look like I worked at a bank.
Parking cost more per hour than some whores I knew, but I’d had another bump in the dressing room and fiduciary responsibility was the last thing on my mind.
I felt fucking awesome.
During the ride to Oldridge I cranked the tunes too loud, doing the white boy car dance, checking myself in the mirror every few minutes because seeing myself in a tie was damn strange, but also strangely gratifying.
I heard a siren behind me and checked my speed.
Ninety.
I slowed immediately, and an ambulance passed me by.
Keep your head on, Phin. The last thing you need is to get pulled over holding twelve grams of coke and two firearms.
I focused on driving sixty-five, which was damn near impossible with Three Dog Night jamming on the radio, and then had to set the cruise control and tucked my right foot under my left leg which seemed to work.
The back of my neck started to sweat. What I needed was a couple shots of tequila to take the edge off this cocaine buzz, but there weren’t any liquor stores lining the expressway.
Was that another siren? I eyeballed the speedometer.
Sixty-five. Cruise control working fine. I checked my rearview, and didn’t see any emergency vehicles.
You’re getting paranoid Phin. Relax.
I reclined my seat back, and noticed I was squeezing the steering wheel so hard my knuckles were white. I pried my fingers off and wiped the back of my neck. Thought I heard another siren. Didn’t. Hit the switch to slow down to sixty, just in case. Practiced deep breathing, using my stomach to fill and empty my lungs. I could hear my heart hammering in my ribcage, or maybe that was my imagination because the music was maxed out. Wiped my neck. Watched the road.
I was in Oldridge eighty minutes later.
Oldridge couldn’t be called a suburb, because it was too far away from Chicago, and too large. But calling it a city was a disservice to the word. Oldridge boasted a population of more than a hundred thousand, but that population probably wasn’t happy about it. Cheap housing, empty factories, streets that needed repair last decade. This was a town where poor people went to die.
Or to gamble.
I exited I-90, turned down the tunes, and opened the window, smelling the Fox River to the West. It smelled mucky. I wasn’t sure where I was headed, only that I was looking for a riverboat in Oldridge, so the river was a good bet. Happily, the town helped out eager tourists like me by posting CASINO signs wherever a sign could be hung. I meandered through town, passing tattoo parlors, bars, cheap barbershops (were they even still called barbershops?), thrift stores, and, for some reason, tax services. I passed seven places I could get my taxes done. Not that I paid taxes. I was never a good citizen to begin with, but cancer had a way of making you not give a shit about filing your annual 1040.
The sour river odor—algae and funk—cut my nostrils as I followed the nineteenth CASINO sign to the boat, a behemoth structure that looked like a hotel except for the big paddle on the back and the railing around the roof. I parked in an outdoor lot, did the drug-user’s head swivel to check for cops, and did one more bump off my keys. My right nostril liked it, so I did another in the left one. A quick adjustment of the tie and I was power-walking to the main building, then I was stopping and going back to the Bronco because I forgot to put tape across the door, then I was heading back to the building, entering the lobby.
It looked like a mall. Probably because it was a mall. Clothing shops and sandwich shops and jewelry shops and shoppy-shop shops, two full levels of them, ready to take even more money away from gamblers.
I considered paying twelve bucks for a coffee, but I was already so jacked I practically vibrated, so I bypassed that and other spending temptations and headed straight for the boat, pausing when I saw the security guards and some walkthrough gizmos that looked like metal detectors. I watched as a guy with an aluminum can went through.
No alarm.
And the people boarding after him didn’t put keys or purses through the X-ray conveyor, because there was no X-ray conveyor. I quickly deduced the gizmos weren’t metal detectors.
Emboldened by the realization that I could take my Seecamp without having to sneak it on board, I strolled up to the nearest security guard—a guy who looked like a strong wind could kick his ass—and decided to ask. Normally, drawing attention to myself wasn’t a wise move in my line of work. But I was feeling chatty and indestructible and so damn skippy that human interaction seemed like the right thing to do.
“Hey, Fred.” Nametag said the dude’s name was Fred. “What are these electronic turn-style thingies?”
“People counters.”
I snorted. Casino didn’t care if people were carrying weapons. They only cared how many gamblers came and went per hour so they could predict grosses.
“So, do I need a ticket to get on?”
“Riverboat hasn’t actually cruised the river in years, once the law said it didn’t have to.”
“I always wondered why Illinois only had casinos on water.”
I hadn’t always wondered that. But talking was so fun I felt like giggling.
“Two reasons,” Fred said. “Racetracks and Iowa.”
“Explain with all the detail you’d like, Fred.”
He gave me an odd look, but continued. “Horse racing in Illinois was big business back in the day. Big tax generator. Big profits. There was fear that opening casinos would kill that business, and a lot of people didn’t want that business killed. Then Iowa put riverboats on the Mississippi, and Illinois got scared that gamblers would be crossing the border to play. So they gave licenses for ten riverboats, but the rule was they had to cruise. That way there was no landlocked temptation for gamblers. That was the thought, anyway. After a while, nobody cared, so the law was changed and the boat stayed moored.”
“Fascinating,” I said, truthfully. But high as I was, I would have been fascinated watching trees grow. “So does the outfit still want to protect horseracing?”
Fred squinted. “Excuse me?”
“The outfit. The mob. The mafia. You saw Goodfellas, right? They run the gambling in Chicago. You’d think they want to branch out everywhere.”
“I don’t know nothing about that.”
“Who do you think pays your salary? Santa Claus?”
“I work for Queen Anne Riverboat Incorporated.”
“And that’s owned by… the Easter Bunny? The Tooth Fairy?”
Fred stared at me blankly. He was rapidly ceasing to be an engaging dialog partner.
“Is Jimmy Mulrooni on board?” I asked.
“Who?”
And with that, I’d lost all interest in Fred. I brushed past him,
walking through the automatic doors and boarding the Queen Anne.
It was like rubbing your face in a deadbeat’s ashtray.
The Smoke Free Illinois Act didn’t kick in until the first of next year, and the riverboat smelled like every gambler in the state was trying to suck in their last puffs before January 1st. There was an actual haze hanging a few inches above the ceiling, like a gray cloud ready to rain down emphysema.
As for the casino itself; it was a casino. Seen one, seen them all. I weaved through the throngs of middle-aged and elderly Midwesterners, overweight and dumpy in jeans and sweatpants and tee shirts and ball caps. Tuxedos and stiletto heels? Not one. But this wasn’t Monaco, or even Vegas. This was Oldridge. James Bond wasn’t playing baccarat. This was Ma and Pa Kettle joylessly feeding cash into slot machines.
With an emphasis on joyless. This was a dour crowd. I made my way into the heart of the beast, looking for a single smile, and didn’t see any. Even the craps table, which I remembered from Vegas as a spectator sport, looked like a favorite uncle’s funeral.
It was so depressing, I was losing my buzz.
I found a bathroom, locked myself in a stall, and took care of that with three more bumps.
Re-entering the gaming area, reinvigorated and optimistic, I considered my next move. Slot machines covered 90% of the casino floor, and for the first time I noticed they weren’t the old-fashioned one-armed bandits I used to know, the kind with the three mechanical spinning reels and the lever. Like Harry’s new phone, these had gone high tech. These machines had large monitors, like videogames, and people were playing by touching the screen. I did a quick tour of the floor, mentally noting the exits, and stopped to watch an elderly lady play video poker. She won a hand, and when she pressed the cash-out button, instead of getting a tray full of clanging coins, the machine printed a receipt and made an electronic clanging sound.
McGlade was right. Modern technology was truly incredible. If that smart phone concept caught on, it would only be a short while before people could lose their entire life savings while sitting on their sofas, fondling their touch screens.
Not that I’d live long enough to see that…
I spotted my fourth EXIT sign, and went through the steel door to check where it led.
Dead on My Feet Page 6
