brewing.
This Janssen kid - look, I can’t knock long hair, I wore mine long when it wasn’t fashionable. And I can’t knock pot for the same reason. But nobody I know ever had a good thing to say for heroin. Certainly not Joe Hennessy, who did two weeks in the hospital last year after he surprised the Janssen kid scooping junk-money out of his safe at four in the morning. Old Man Janssen paid Hennessy back every dime and disowned the kid, and he’d been in and out of sight ever since. Word was he was still using the stuff, but the cops never seemed to catch him holding. They sure did try, though. I wondered what the hell he was doing in Callahan’s Place.
I should know better by now. He placed a tattered bill on the bar, took the shot of bourbon which Callahan handed him silently, and walked to the chalk line. He was quivering with repressed tension, and his boots squeaked on the sawdust. The place quieted down some, and his toast - “To smack!” - rang out clear and crisp. Then he downed the shot amid an expanding silence and flung his glass so hard you could hear his shoulder crack just before the glass shattered on unyielding brick.
Having created silence, he broke it. With a sob. Even as he let it out he glared around to see what our reactions were.
Callahan’s was immediate, an “Amen!” that sounded like an echo of the-smashing glass. The kid made a face like he was somehow satisfied in spite of himself, and looked at the rest of us. His gaze rested on Doc Webster, and the Doc drifted over and gently began rolling up the kid’s sleeves. The boy made no effort to help or hinder him. When they were both rolled to the shoulder - phosporescent purple I think they were - he silently held out his arms, palm-up.
They were absolutely unmarked. Skinny as hell and white as a piece of paper, but unmarked. The kid was clean.
Everyone waited in silence, giving the kid their respectful attention. It was a new feeling to him, and he didn’t quite know how to handle it. Finally he said, “I heard about this place,” just a little too truculently.
“Then you must of needed to,” Callahan told him quietly, and the kid nodded slowly.
“I hear you get some answers in, from time to time,” he half-asked.
“Now and again,” Callahan admitted. “Some o’ the damndest questions, too. What’s it like, for instance?”
“You mean smack?”
“I don’t mean bourbon.”
The kid’s eyes got a funny, far-away look, and he almost smiled. “It’s ...” He paused, considering. “It’s like ... being dead.”
“Whooee!” came a voice from across the room. “That’s a powerful good feeling indeed.” I looked and saw it was Chuck Samms talking, and watched to see how the kid would take it.
He thought Chuck was being sarcastic and snapped back, “Well, what the hell do you know about it anyway?” Chuck smiled. A lot of people ask him that question, in a different tone of voice.
“Me?” he said, enjoying himself hugely. “Why, I’ve been dead is all.”
“S’truth,” Callahan confirmed as the kid’s jaw dropped. “Chuck there was legally dead for five minutes before the Doc got his pacemaker going again. The crumb died owing me money, and I never had the heart to dun his widow.”
“Sure was a nice feeling, too,” Chuck said around a yawn. “More peaceful than nap-time in a monastery. If it wasn’t so pleasant I wouldn’t be near so damned scared of it.” There was an edge to his voice as he finished, but it disappeared as he added softly, “What the hell would you want to be dead for?”
The Janssen kid couldn’t meet his eyes, and when he spoke his voice cracked. “Like you said, pop, peace. A little peace of mind, a little quiet. Nobody yammering at you all the time. I mean, if you’re dead there’s always the chance somebody’ll mourn, right? Make friends with the worms, dig their side of it, maybe a little
This Janssen kid - look, I can’t knock long hair, I wore mine long when it wasn’t fashionable. And I can’t knock pot for the same reason. But nobody I know ever had a good thing to say for heroin. Certainly not Joe Hennessy, who did two weeks in the hospital last year after he surprised the Janssen kid scooping junk-money out of his safe at four in the morning. Old Man Janssen paid Hennessy back every dime and disowned the kid, and he’d been in and out of sight ever since. Word was he was still using the stuff, but the cops never seemed to catch him holding. They sure did try, though. I wondered what the hell he was doing in Callahan’s Place.
I should know better by now. He placed a tattered bill on the bar, took the shot of bourbon which Callahan handed him silently, and walked to the chalk line. He was quivering with repressed tension, and his boots squeaked on the sawdust. The place quieted down some, and his toast - “To smack!” - rang out clear and crisp. Then he downed the shot amid an expanding silence and flung his glass so hard you could hear his shoulder crack just before the glass shattered on unyielding brick.
Having created silence, he broke it. With a sob. Even as he let it out he glared around to see what our reactions were.
Callahan’s was immediate, an “Amen!” that sounded like an echo of the-smashing glass. The kid made a face like he was somehow satisfied in spite of himself, and looked at the rest of us. His gaze rested on Doc Webster, and the Doc drifted over and gently began rolling up the kid’s sleeves. The boy made no effort to help or hinder him. When they were both rolled to the shoulder - phosporescent purple I think they were - he silently held out his arms, palm-up.
They were absolutely unmarked. Skinny as hell and white as a piece of paper, but unmarked. The kid was clean.
Everyone waited in silence, giving the kid their respectful attention. It was a new feeling to him, and he didn’t quite know how to handle it. Finally he said, “I heard about this place,” just a little too truculently.
“Then you must of needed to,” Callahan told him quietly, and the kid nodded slowly.
“I hear you get some answers in, from time to time,” he half-asked.
“Now and again,” Callahan admitted. “Some o’ the damndest questions, too. What’s it like, for instance?”
“You mean smack?”
“I don’t mean bourbon.”
The kid’s eyes got a funny, far-away look, and he almost smiled. “It’s ...” He paused, considering. “It’s like ... being dead.”
“Whooee!” came a voice from across the room. “That’s a powerful good feeling indeed.” I looked and saw it was Chuck Samms talking, and watched to see how the kid would take it.
He thought Chuck was being sarcastic and snapped back, “Well, what the hell do you know about it anyway?” Chuck smiled. A lot of people ask him that question, in a different tone of voice.
“Me?” he said, enjoying himself hugely. “Why, I’ve been dead is all.”
“S’truth,” Callahan confirmed as the kid’s jaw dropped. “Chuck there was legally dead for five minutes before the Doc got his pacemaker going again. The crumb died owing me money, and I never had the heart to dun his widow.”
“Sure was a nice feeling, too,” Chuck said around a yawn. “More peaceful than nap-time in a monastery. If it wasn’t so pleasant I wouldn’t be near so damned scared of it.” There was an edge to his voice as he finished, but it disappeared as he added softly, “What the hell would you want to be dead for?”
The Janssen kid couldn’t meet his eyes, and when he spoke his voice cracked. “Like you said, pop, peace. A little peace of mind, a little quiet. Nobody yammering at you all the time. I mean, if you’re dead there’s always the chance somebody’ll mourn, right? Make friends with the worms, dig their side of it, maybe a little
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