So Nude, So Dead Read Free Page B

“Where are you, son?”
    “At a hotel. The Hotel— I—I can’t remember.” He cursed his muddled mind, cursed the drug.
    “Are you downtown?”
    “Yes. I think so. I don’t know.”
    “What’s the matter with you, for God’s sake!” His father sounded as if he were ready to cry. He had no right to do this to his father. Drugs would never have become a part of his life if Ray hadn’t—
    “I’ll be all right,” he told his father. “Can you meet me?”
    There was silence on the other end. Finally, his father’s voice came to him again. “I knew it would lead to this some day. I knew it, Ray. I should have had you put away. I should have called the cops in the very beginning. I should—”
    “Jesus Christ, am I going to get another sermon?” Ray flared. He bit his tongue quickly, lowered his voice. “I’m—I’m sorry, Dad. I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry. But I’m in trouble. Bad trouble.”
    “I understand,” his father said. “Where do you want me to meet you?”
    “There’s a place on The Street—Fifty-second Street—it’s called Conlee’s. Between Fifth and Sixth. You can’t miss it. Meet me there.”
    “What time?”
    “What time is it now?”
    “Twelve-thirty.”
    “Give me half an hour.”
    “All right.”
    “Dad? You’ll—you’ll bring some money? Ten bucks?”
    “Yes.”
    “Thanks. Thanks.”
    He replaced the receiver rapidly, looked once more at the dead Eileen Chalmers, her face white against its halo of hair. He shivered in a new muscular spasm, then opened the door and left the room quietly.
    * * *
    Half an hour is a long time to wait—especially when you’re overdue. He was overdue. Brother, was he overdue! His stomach seemed to be wrapped around his spine. He couldn’t keep his hands still, even though he’d jabbed them deep into his pockets. He kept shivering, and he looked at the people who passed, wondering if they knew he was an addict.
    How does a guy get this way, he asked himself?
    The other question followed immediately, the way it always did. How does a guy stop being this way?
    You just stop, they all told him. How many times had his father sung that same tune? Look, Ray, be sensible. This thing is all in your mind. Once you set your mind against it, you’ve got it licked. Sure, sure, they all knew.
    Ask an addict, though. Ask an addict how to get off the merry-go-round. See what he told you. All in the mind, sure. His father should be inside his stomach now. His father should see how much “mind” was involved. Where the hell was he? What was keeping him?
    The merry-go-round is an easy thing to hop onto. It goes slowly at first, so that you can walk around with it and jump on whenever you feel like it. Later, when it starts spinning crazily, you can’t jump off; you just can’t. You keep reaching for the gold ring, but you never quite get it.
    How had he started? On a job, he guessed. That was when he’d smoked his first joint. A pang of remorse whispered up into his throat, and he withdrew his hands from his pockets, watched them tremble violently.
    Had he once played the piano? It seemed impossible. They should cut a record of him now. It’d be the greatest thing ever heard.
    The first joint, a stick of marijuana, a harmless thing that made him feel just a little giddy, made him laugh a little too loudly. That was all. Nothing to it, really. No great kicks, nothing really.
    The second stick was a little different. He knew what to expect this time, and this time the smoke seemed to whirl into his mind, sweeping away all the cloudiness, all the cobwebs, and everything was crystal-clear, as glowing as a diamond, as sharp as the glistening edge of a dagger. He’d swung that second time, really swung, and he went on swinging for half the night, feeling so damned good. He was as sharp as a tack, and he knew so much. He could sit there smugly and watch the poor fools prancing around. He could sit there with a tight little smile on his lips, and a