Heroin Chronicles Read Free

head against the cool plaster.
    They’d pooled their money. Eighty bucks. Two balloons of dope, and the rest for rock. Enough to take the edge off the day. The door at the top of the stairs opened and a small, skinny Latino kid—no more than twelve or thirteen years old—emerged with a nervous-looking man in a business suit, who hurried down the stairs. The kid peered down the line, then took the punk girls’ money. They followed him up the stairs and through the door. Joe and Tania took a few steps forward; she felt her guts churning in anticipation. It was really going to happen. Standing in the pissy stairwell, Joe seemed more solid, healthier, somehow more real than before. Now that he was in his natural element, it seemed to Tania that he had taken on an extra dimension. That craggy face could almost be taken for handsome, in a damaged kind of way. The minutes dragged by. The door opened, and the punks scurried down the stairs, chipmunk-faced, the drugs stashed in their cheeks. The kid now approached Joe, who handed him the bills and they followed him up.
    â€œWhatchoo need?”
    â€œCuarenta negro, cuarenta blanco.”
    â€œSí.”
    â€œIt’s good stuff?”
    â€œWhat good ? Is always good, jou know that.”
    â€œThe same stuff as yesterday?”
    â€œYeah, man.” They were at the door now. “Why jou askit this?”
    Joe nodded faintly in the Russian’s direction. “Guy down there said the chiva was malo. Said he didn’t even get high from the stuff you sold him this morning.”
    The kid looked visibly agitated, and muttered under his breath in Spanish. “He crazy. Mess up in the head. Always ask for credit. Get mad when we say no, jou know? Makit trouble .”
    â€œSo it’s the same as last time?”
    â€œSí. Is the same.”
    â€œA’right. Cool.”
    The kid opened the door. The room beyond was a huge, desolate loft space. The only furnishings were a TV with an Xbox attached, a leather couch, and a coffee table. The windows were covered with black sheets. A bald man-mountain wearing a Lakers top sat with his back to them, engrossed in a game of Grand Theft Auto , a gun casually poking out of the waistband of his shorts. Two other guys, dressed in chinos and button-down check shirts, on the couch. One bald with a wispy mustache. The other with long, straggly hair and a goatee. On the table was a shoebox full of money. Next to it two handguns, a weighing scale, and a copy of Trump: How to Get Rich . The guy with the goatee was expertly wrapping preweighed lumps of tar heroin in wax paper, stuffing them into tiny black balloons, and tying them off. The young kid handed the money to the mustache. He counted it and put it into the shoebox without a word. They talked among themselves in Spanish without looking at Joe and Tania as they handed the kid the drugs. The kid passed the stuff to Joe, and he popped it in his mouth.
    The kid led them back to the door, pulled back the deadbolt, turned a handle, and wrenched it open. There was a sudden rush of activity. It took Tania a moment to realize what was happening. The Russian, snot still streaming down his nose, had barged in and grabbed the kid by the shirt, pressing a pistol against his head.
    â€œGetouttathefuckingway!” he screamed.
    Joe grabbed Tania and dragged her to the side. They huddled for safety against a wall while the Russian marched the kid back into the room and started barking orders.
    â€œEverybody up! This is a fucking robbery! On your feet. You, fatso! Toss over the gun or I blow his head off. No bullshit!”
    The big guy stopped playing the Xbox, and slowly reached around and pulled the gun out of his waistband. Without turning around he gently placed it on the ground, sliding it across the floor a little. Then he rotated on his ass to face the Russian. The other two were sitting there with looks of outraged disbelief on their faces.
    â€œKick