hammer and let her go. Iâll drop anyone at five hundred feet. Donât care what you say. My brother has two 30-caliber machine guns stashed in Iowa.â
We got off the subway and began to walk on snow-covered sidewalks between tenements.
âThe guy owed me for a long time, see? I knew he had it but he wouldnât pay, so I waited for him when he finished work. I had a roll of nickels. No one can hang anything on you for carrying U.S. currency. Told me he was broke. I cracked his jaw and took my money off him. Two of his friends standing there, but they kept out of it. Iâdâve switched a blade on them.â
We were walking up tenement stairs. The stairs were made of worn black metal. We stopped in front of a narrow, metal-covered door, and Jack gave an elaborate knock inclining his head to the floor like a safecracker. The door was opened by a large, flabby, middle-aged queer, with tattooing on his forearms and even on the backs of his hands.
âThis is Joey,â Jack said, and Joey said, âHello there.â
Jack pulled a five-dollar bill from his pocket and gave it to Joey. âGet us a quart of Schenleyâs, will you, Joey?â
Joey put on an overcoat and went out.
In many tenement apartments the front door opens directly into the kitchen. This was such an apartment and we were in the kitchen.
After Joey went out I noticed another man who was standing there looking at me. Waves of hostility and suspicion flowed out from his large brown eyes like some sort of television broadcast. The effect was almost like a physical impact. The man was small and very thin, his neck loose in the collar of his shirt. His complexion was fading from brown to a mottled yellow, and pancake make-up had been heavily applied in an attempt to conceal a skin eruption. His mouth was drawn down at the corners in a grimace of petulant annoyance.
âWhoâs this?â he said. His name, I learned later, was Herman.
âFriend of mine. Heâs got some morphine he wants to get rid of.â
Herman shrugged and turned out his hands. âI donât think I want to bother, really.â
âOkay,â Jack said, âweâll sell it to someone else. Come on, Bill.â
We went into the front room. There was a small radio, a china Buddha with a votive candle in front of it, pieces of bric-a-brac. A man was lying on a studio couch. He sat up as we entered the room and said hello and smiled pleasantly, showing discolored, brownish teeth. It was a Southern voice with the accent of East Texas.
Jack said, âRoy, this is a friend of mine. He has some morphine he wants to sell.â
The man sat up straighter and swung his legs off the couch. His jaw fell slackly, giving his face a vacant look. The skin of his face was smooth and brown. The cheek-bones were high and he looked Oriental. His ears stuck out at right angles from his asymmetrical skull. The eyes were brown and they had a peculiar brilliance, as though points of light were shining behind them. The light in the room glinted on the points of light in his eyes like an opal.
âHow much do you have?â he asked me.
âSeventy-five half grain syrettes.â
âThe regular price is two dollars a grain,â he said, âbut syrettes go for a little less. People want tablets. Those syrettes have too much water and you have to squeeze the stuff out and cook it down.â He paused and his face went blank: âI could go about one-fifty a grain,â he said finally.
âI guess that will be okay,â I said.
He asked how we could make contact and I gave him my phone number.
Joey came back with the whisky and we all had a drink. Herman stuck his head in from the kitchen and said to Jack, âCould I talk to you for a minute?â
I could hear them arguing about something. Then Jack came back and Herman stayed in the kitchen. We all had a few drinks and Jack began telling a story.
âMy partner
Gene Wentz, B. Abell Jurus