Tweak

  “Sort of.”

  “He just ripped me off.”

  “Oh.”

  “Gack went to go find him—maybe. I don’t know. You mind if I shoot some heroin here?”

  “No, no—whatever you need. That sucks, man. How much he get?”

  I tell him.

  “Fuck. I’m Ali, by the way.”

  “Nic.”

  He lies back as though trying to sleep against the wall again. I pump all the heroin into my vein. It maybe takes the edge off waiting. I focus on the ceiling fading in and out. Thirty minutes go by.

  “All right,” I say. “Ali, man, I’m leaving. This is bullshit.”

  “Yeah,” he says, opening his eyes out of a half sleep. “You gotta be more careful, man.”

  I pack my bag up, sling it over my shoulder, and start outta there. Ali shakes my hand. I feel heat in my eyes—a stinging like maybe I’ll cry. The hallway swells and shifts around me. The ripped-out feeling of my insides is overwhelming. But then Gack is calling out to me, just outside the gated stairway.

  “Gack, man, fuck.”

  “Nic, I am so sorry.”

  “You weren’t in on that?”

  “No way, man. I fucking swear. Look, here’s the deal—Joe took off. I just went home and my dad thinks he’d been there. He stole our computer—my dad is freaking out. He’s skipped out now, man. No one knows where he is.”

  “When did he take the computer?”

  “Just now, man; he had a key to our room.”

  “Gack, this is so not cool.”

  “I know, man. But look—I was talking to my dad. We’re gonna figure this out. He gave me his phone. Already we got someone waitin’ to buy a sack. We’ve gotta break that rock up and slang that shit. We’ll make your money back quick.”

  “And?”

  “And whatever extra we make we’re gonna give to my dad, cool?”

  “I don’t know, man. Maybe I should just cut my losses.”

  “No way. This is gonna work out.”

  I light a cigarette and I don’t offer one to Gack. We’re still leaning against the white peeling walls of Ali’s building.

  “Gack, man, honestly, I’m not sure I can trust you anymore.”

  He’s quiet a minute. “Yeah, I understand. I do. But you gotta believe me, that had nothing to do with me. I’ve known Joe since I was a kid. I’m telling you, man, he had a key to our place. We all trusted him and he fucked over a lot of people tonight. Everyone’s lookin’ for him. He’s got nowhere to run. I bet we find him before morning—no joke.”

  “And you had no idea he was gonna rip me off?”

  He’s quiet again. “Look, at a certain point I, uh, sensed…something.” He jams his hands in his pockets. “But what was I supposed to say? You just kept going along with everything. You’re so open and nice—people are gonna tear you apart. They can sense it here, man. They feed on it. You gotta lot to learn if this is gonna work out.”

  Now it’s my turn to be quiet awhile. “You’re right,” I say.

  “Yeah, man, you gotta stay humble and you gotta watch me, man—you gotta pay attention. Watch what I do—how I act. I keep my mouth shut, man, and I never reveal more than I have to. Like if I have a pack of cigarettes, I never pull out the whole pack. I take out one cigarette and I keep it real discreet. If someone asks, I say I bummed it—even if I don’t mind givin’ ’em one. You never wanna let on that you have more than anyone else—you got it?”

  I nod. Gack actually puts his hand on my shoulder. “Come on, man, let’s move.”

  We do.

  The first stop we make is at some cheap apartment complex south of Market. The streetlights are burned out and we turn down a back alley into almost total darkness.

  There’s a hooded figure leaning against the side of a corrugated metal garage door. The deep charcoal orange glow of a cigarette, smoked down to the butt, illuminates his scarred face.

  “Excuse me, uh, could you guys spare any change?” he asks as we walk past.

  “Bullet?” says Gack.

  “Fuck, Gack, Nic, what’s up?”

  “Dude.”

  Bullet gets up off the ground and chucks the smoking filter out into the narrow street. He smells bad, like he hasn’t changed his clothes in a week. His eyes are lined and creased—heavy, gray. We ask him what he’s doing out here and he admits he was just trying to find a place to sleep.

  “I’m so tired, man. You guys have any ups for me?”

  I wanna say yes and give him speed and everything he wants, but I just shake my head.

  “We gotta sell what we got.”

  Gack tells him the story of Joe ripping us off. Bullet doesn’t seem that surprised, really.

  “Well, you think I could sleep in your car?” he asks me. “I swear, I won’t fuck with anything. I’ll lock myself in, man.”

  I agree, but I won’t give him my keys. Instead, I walk back where I parked and let him in. He lies down in the back and grabs one of my sweaters and is immediately asleep. The smell of him fills my car.

  “It’s pretty weird us running into him,” I say to Gack, walking back toward the apartment.

  “It’s not weird,” he says. “That’s how it all works, or haven’t you figured that out yet?”

  I think maybe he’s right.

  Gack calls up on his dad’s phone and a couple minutes later a man comes down and opens the door. We’ve already broken off what’s supposed to be a gram but is obviously way smaller, and put it in the plastic wrapper from my pack of cigarettes. The guy is supposed to give us eighty bucks for it. He looks like he hasn’t been outside in years. He has doughy, pale skin and bones protruding from his face. His dark hair is falling out, and he has a red alcoholic nose. His stomach is horribly swollen and he looks almost pregnant. His voice comes out curt and demanding—high-pitched, whiny. We all introduce each other, but I don’t remember his name. He leads us through the shabby lobby—walls covered with rusted-out mailboxes—into a loud, clunking, dented elevator.

  The doors open and we step inside. The space is cramped and I can smell something like baby powder on the man’s pasty skin. He runs a meaty hand through his stringy hair, then reaches out and stops the elevator somewhere between the second and third floor. A light hums sickeningly overhead. Sweat collects on his forehead and runs down along his ears. My breath catches, waiting for something.

  “What’s up, man?” asks Gack.

  “Let’s see it,” the man says.

  Gack pulls out the sack, holding it tightly in his hand.

  “Looks small,” says the man.

  “Whatever, this is fat.”

  The man stares at Gack. Gack looks right into the man’s milky green eyes. The man looks away. He hands Gack a wad of cash.

  “Take it, Nic.”

  I do—stuffing it in my pocket.

  Gack passes the sack over and the man turns the elevator back on. It lurches up, bucks, and we struggle our way to the fourth floor.

  “Good night, boys,” the man says.

  He walks out into the hallway and we take the elevator down. We’re almost out the front door when I finally take the money out and count it.

  “Gack, man, he’s twenty short.”

  “What?”

  I show him the three twenty-dollar bills.

  “Fuck.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Just, uh, hold on a second.”

  He dials the guy’s number. There’s no answer. I squat down and rock on the balls of my feet—holding my knees to my chest.

  “Go get Bullet,” he says. “Give him a shot, okay? I’ll wait here and try and get my dad on the phone.”

  I walk out into the night, hiking up the collar of my jacket against the damp that’s settled in over everything. The blood in my ears is loud, loud, loud and my hands shake. I think about Bullet’s big bowie knife and the fat man, smelling of fine powder.

  I tap on the window and Bullet starts up.

  “What’s g
oing on?”

  “Hey, unlock the door.”

  I slide into the front seat and immediately start making up two shots. I put some more heroin in both our rigs, explaining the situation to Bullet. He hoots loudly.

  “All right, man, bring it on. We’re gonna fuck that guy up.”

  I swallow something down in my throat.

  “You packin’ anything?” he asks me.

  I laugh. “Bullet, come on, man, I’ve never even hit anyone before.”

  He can’t figure that one out.

  We shoot up and light cigarettes and get ready.

  He hands me a screwdriver from his back pocket.

  “Hold this,” he says. “But if you have to swing it, use the handle side first, got it? We don’t wanna actually kill this guy.”

  I don’t think all the heroin in the world could make my stomach stop cramping up on me, but I do manage to lead Bullet back to the man’s apartment complex. Gack is still talking on the phone to his dad, but he hangs up when we knock on the door and lets us in. The three of us pace the lobby, talking. Bullet’s voice has dropped, like, three octaves since doing that H.

  “So my dad says it was probably a mistake.”

  “Does your dad know which apartment is his?” I ask.

  Gack shakes his head.

  Bullet thinks for sure the guy was trying to rip us off. He goes on about all the shit he’s gonna do to him. Gack and I both pretty much ignore this for now. We decide to go up to the fourth floor and check it out. Maybe we’ll hear something. Meanwhile, Gack keeps dialing the man’s number. There’s never any answer.

  The elevator carries us along slowly. We step out onto the dark splattered carpet and speak quietly to one another. There are potted plants lining the hallway. The numbers are nailed unevenly into the flimsy apartment doors—401, 402, 403. We listen at each one. None of us are really breathing at all. Everything is quiet.

  I’m the one who hears the pounding first. It’s faint and rhythmic—coming from the last apartment next to the window and fire escape.

  “Over there.”

  A moan escapes the keyhole. Bullet pulls out the knife.

  We all just listen.

  Another moan and then the fat man’s voice comes through—saying something like, “Hold still, hold still.” He’s repeating it over and over.

  Gack nods and Bullet pounds on the door with his fist. The whole world is turned silent a moment. I back up and Gack puts a hand on my shoulder. He whispers in my ear, “It’s all right.”

  Then the fat man’s voice is right at the door.

  “What is it?”

  “Yo, it’s Gack, Mike’s son.”

  “What do you want?”

  The door opens ever so slightly and all at once Bullet kicks the thing as hard as he can.

  The fat man falls back on the floor. He’s wearing white underwear and nothing else. His skin hangs down all over the place. When he falls his head whips back, smashing against the hard polished wood floor. He says, “Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ.”

  He keeps on saying it.

  We all step in and I close the door behind us. I look away from the man crumpled on the floor.

  “You shorted us twenty,” says Gack. “It’s eighty for a gram, last I checked.”

  “I gave you eighty, I swear.”

  “Nic?”

  I take out the three twenty-dollar bills. Bullet grabs them from me—balling them up, throwing them at the man.

  “Count it.”

  The man writhes around like a giant slug.

  “I’m sorry. I swear, it was an accident. I’ll get the money.”

  “Damn right,” says Bullet.

  Then suddenly, we hear something coming from the back room. It’s like a grunting sound.

  “What the fuck is that?”

  Bullet has the knife all poised and everything and before I know what I’m doing, I have the screwdriver out and I’m clutching it tightly. We walk through the apartment, toward the back bedroom. Bullet pushes open the door just as the man on the floor yells, “Don’t.”

  Inside there is a very hairy man tied so that he is stretched naked and facedown across the width of the bed. He is blindfolded and gagged. He seems to be choking a little or something, ’cause he makes this weird noise in his throat. Bullet says, “Awww, fuck” and then laughs and laughs.

  “You have no right to treat people this way,” the fat man says, walking with his head down into the small, immaculate kitchen. His pants are slung over a high-backed chair. He reaches his hand into the front pocket, pulling out a crumpled twenty and throwing it on the floor with the others. Gack gathers it up. He kind of nods at us and we all get the hell out of there.

  I hear the man cursing behind us and I feel like I need to wash my hands.

  Gack calls his dad from the cell phone once we’re outside. Our next hookup is just three blocks away. His dad tells him that as far as everyone can figure, Joe is gonna be leaving on a Greyhound from the bus station sometime in the morning. We decide to stake the place out after we make some more deliveries. Actually, it’s Bullet who seems the most enthusiastic about the whole idea. His loyalty is sweet, in a very not sweet sort of way. Anyway, he’s going on and on about the best plan of attack, or whatever, when I start thinking about my ATM card.

  The fog is so thick we can’t even see the streetlights overhead, except for a dull, obscured glow. For some reason I can’t get this image of Joe standing over me at the liquor store out of my head. He was staring at me—watching for what? My ATM code, of course.

  “Oh shit,” I say. “Yo, Gack, let me see that phone.”

  I pull out my card and dial the number on the back of it—hoping, hoping, hoping that I’m not too late. After what seems like forever, I get some guy on the line. He sounds fairly apathetic to my frantic pleas to put a hold on my account.

  “Sir,” he keeps saying, “even if your card was stolen, no one can access your account without your PIN number.”

  “Yeah, but I think this guy saw me enter my code.”

  “When was this?”

  “I don’t know, a couple hours ago. Just, uh, look, you gotta cancel that card, okay?”

  “Yes, of course, sir.”

  I tear my card in half and throw it in a trash can. I think about retribution, maybe. I think about all the times I’d stolen my parents’ credit cards. I think about the girl at my school whose Chevron card I used for about a month before they finally discovered it was missing. When I went to college in Massachusetts, I would wander the dorm halls, looking for open doors—dashing in quickly and stealing whatever money or cigarettes I found lying around. There was a pool and a gym there where I’d go through the lockers every couple of days. I never got very much cash, but it was enough to keep a steady supply of heroin in my arm.

  I stole from girlfriends.

  I stole from my grandparents.

  I stole from aunts, uncles, friends.

  I stole and justified it and stole more.

  I feel sick being on the other side of it. I feel unsafe, violated, out of control. It’s like the time in Amsterdam when I got beat up by an African guy at three in the morning. Even strung out and on the street, I had a feeling that I was protected somehow from the bad shit that went down—like it just couldn’t happen to me. Walking through the twisted cobblestone streets of Holland, stoned out on Ecstasy and mushrooms, I was so surprised that the guy actually hit me. And for what? He’d asked me a question and I hadn’t responded—that was it. It happened so fast—so abruptly.

  An innocence I’d clung to was lost in that instant. Tonight with Joe, I have the same feeling. It is a dirty world and a dirty life. Everyone’s out to fuck you over. Any illusions I have are dashed quickly to pieces. I feel just, you know, defeated.

  But Gack doesn’t see it that way. “This is just what we need,” he says. “Motivation.”

  We walk quickly, making our deliveries. At a certain point we find out about some really c
heap crystal a guy’s selling farther south of Market. It’s not great, but we buy a whole bunch of it and start slanging that instead. Already we’ve made almost two hundred dollars back. It feels so effortless. Mostly I just follow Gack—don’t say much, just watch.

  If dealing is this easy and profitable, I can’t really see having any problems. There’s no way I’m gonna fall into the life I had before—eating out of trash cans, hustling money from guys at gay bars, hanging out on the corner of Castro and 18th, where guys circle the block in fancy sports cars. It hurt so bad the first few times. I thought maybe I’d throw up—just praying for it to be over, for him to finish. They’d take me back to their apartments—or houses up near Twin Peaks. And, of course, there were the rough ones—the ones into violence, leather, different harnesses and things. You just try to shut it all out—getting as loaded as possible. But I’m determined not to do that again. There’s a nausea that sweeps through me just thinking about it. Dealing has to work out for me. It has to. It took a miracle to get me outta that situation. I can’t count on something like that happening again.

  See, after I ended up stealing that money from my little brother and I got kicked out of the house, I didn’t know what to do. I went to my friend Akira’s apartment near the Presidio. He agreed to let me stay with him for a while. I had a little bit of money left over and I kept shooting meth and heroin, looking for work around the city. I finally got hired at a coffee shop near the Castro. I told the manager, a very clean-cut-looking, gym-toned gay guy in his late thirties, that I had been kicked out of my house by my tyrannical father after he discovered that I was sleeping with boys. The manager took pity on me and let me work for him, but it was only a couple shifts a week. My habit was growing and I needed money bad. Akira lived in a basement apartment beneath his mom’s place. His mom had always hated me. At the time, you know, I didn’t understand it. I thought she was just cruel and uptight. Now, of course, I can see that she was scared of me and worried about my influence on her son.

  Anyway, I snuck upstairs one day while she was at work and found a checkbook hidden in her bedside table. I wrote a hundred dollars out to myself and cashed it at one of those check-cashing places in the Fillmore. I immediately spent the money on drugs, but the check place had called Akira’s mom and she figured out that I had taken the money. Akira was upset and told me I had to leave. Our friendship was really never the same after that and I felt just so terrible about what I’d done.