Authors: Duane Swierczynski
“That your girlfriend?” Courtney asks. “If so, I think she’s pissed. You should tell her nothing’s going on with us. It’s okay.”
Drew assures her she’s not and Courtney hears the implication in his voice:
And you’re not either.
Well, duh. Courtney and Drew messed around over the summer, two adult exiles from the kids’ table, but for Drew it was all about the proximity and the convenience. One-stop pill shopping with benefits—an occasional break from her nowhere job at the Wyoming Valley Mall and whatever other guys she was fucking around with. Drew’s mom of course saw big romance in all this, believing that Courtney might just be the bait to lure her son back to the valley for good. Mrs. Pike was always complaining about all the kids fleeing town, which was kind of like complaining about all of the woodland creatures fleeing a forest fire, but whatever. Meanwhile, Courtney’s mom was visibly pained every time Drew’s mom brought it up. Perhaps because earlier in the summer Drew had to deal with the clumsy, drunken—what did the oldsters call it? passes?—of Courtney’s mom while copping her Oxys.
“She’s just one of your customers, then?”
“Who?”
“The girl on the phone. Sarie.” She draws out the name in a slightly mocking way:
sare-eeeee.
“No.”
“Totally your girlfriend,” she says, teasing out the word and smirking.
“No,” Drew tells her. “She’s just a sweet girl doing me a huge favor.”
Okay, Mom, much better tonight.
Khyber Pass—South Second Street, Old City. I flash my bulletproof ID at a fat guy in a Sturgis Motorcycle Rally T-shirt perched on a creaky metal stool and head straight for the only open seat at the bar, where I order a Yuengling. I’m carded again, then served. I take a sip and wait. I don’t go looking for parties. I wait for the parties to find me.
Lo and behold, they do.
I’m approached, like, six times in the span of an hour. Some dude in a shaggy haircut says he lives nearby, a bunch of his pals are going to play some Xbox, do I want to come along and play. I ask what he has back at his place. He looks at me.
—Uh … an Xbox?
—No, I’m good.
There’s more of this, and I won’t bore you with details, but mostly it’s guys trying to get my number or ask me to do shots or go somewhere else. When drug talk does come up, I take D.’s advice and take it easy, let them do most of the talking, then I start bragging about this amazing weed I used to get all of the time. The past tense of that remark makes them curious. “Used to?” What happened to it? Because no matter what you’re smoking, you’re always on the lookout for something better.
D. told me the secret was not to flat-out lie. You have to mix up some of your real life in there to make it all convincing. This turns out to be excellent advice and surprisingly easy to follow.
I tell them the mini-story I practiced in my head: My boyfriend was a small-time dealer with an awesome supply, but then I caught him cheating on me and I dumped his sorry ass. Which I regret, because now it’s hard to find shit as good as the shit he had. “I should have just let him keep banging that skank.” (I had to practice saying that line without giggling.) What made it easier was imagining D. as the fictional dealer boyfriend and Tammy as the wayward skank. Totally unfair to Tammy, I know, but it put a face in my head, which was key to selling the story. Hey, it’s her fault for not texting me back.
Nine times out of ten this story led to commiseration, but no real leads. But the tenth time …
—So who was this great connection?
—My dick ex-boyfriend.
—Seriously? Why’s he a dick?
—Because one day I called him and I can fucking hear her in the background, giggling. He denies the whole thing, but it’s not like I’ve gone deaf, you know? Anyway, I tell him to fuck off. And then he tells me to fuck off. Which means I’m cut off.
—That really sucks. It was pretty good, huh?
—You have no idea.
—Well …
—Well what?
—Heh. You’re not a narc, are you? I mean, you have to tell me if you’re a narc or something, don’t you? By law?
I look at him, dead serious.
—You’re under arrest.
—Heh-heh.
—No, I’m serious. Up against the wall, punk. Don’t make me call for backup!
—Heh-heh-heh, that’s funny. You’re really funny.
—I’m, like, BFFs with the narcotics squad.
—Hey, what’s your name?
So we go on from there, until the guy reveals that, yeah, he has this amazing source for pills, screw your boyfriend, we should be partners. I tell him this all sounds aces, what do we do now? Where do we go? He scribbles on a napkin, folds it, puts it in my hand, tells me to meet here tomorrow morning at 9:00 a.m. and not to shower or eat anything after midnight.
I’ll explain more tomorrow.
Well, Mom, what sounded so good last night feels a little crazy in the cold light of day. This morning I’m going to do possibly one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done: sit on a freezing bench in North Philly waiting for a stranger I met in a bar.
If this is my last entry, know that I was probably killed by said stranger.
No, I don’t know his name, other than “Bobby Ryall.” He showed me his student ID, but, you know, these things can be faked.
If this goes well, by Friday night I should be off the hook. Bobby’s lead is promising. Especially after the article I read over the weekend. Then again, by Friday night I could be
dead
. Problem solved, either way.
Bobby Ryall’s
dead
sure she’s not gonna show.
When she
does
show, Bobby’s sure she’ll refuse to let him into her car.
And when she
does
let him into her car, he starts to wonder if he’s maybe picked up the wrong girl. Maybe she’s one of those Latino grifter types, and she’s going to pull a knife or a gun or even a can of Mace, pointing it right at his eyes, demanding all his money. (She
is
taller than him.) And when she finds out he really doesn’t have much in the way of money, she’ll probably unload the full can right in his face, push him out of the car, then laugh all the way back to the barrio.
So when she
doesn’t
do any of that and asks where they’re headed, Bobby relaxes a little bit.
Bobby Ryall’s been working up his nerve to pull this scam for a few weeks now, ever since he heard about the clinic over in University City. Sounded too good to be true (which meant it usually was). But his own connections had dried up—okay, not so much dried up as gotten seriously fucking expensive. And he didn’t want to have to start going to the hood and shit. So when he heard all he needed was a young girl in her twenties, preferably in a brown shade, Bobby decided to give it a try. Only problem: He didn’t know any young ladies of color. Just wasn’t his thing, you know.
But this girl last night—Bobby was still stunned. She was pretty and all, but definitely Mex-looking. When Bobby nodded and said “hey,” he expected her to open her mouth and sound like Rosie Perez or something. But no! She was quiet-spoken, with no traceable accent. Brain in her head, too, with clever banter and shit. Could this be the one? And then she talked about “partying” and he knew, yes, this was the one.
She even had her own car! Much better than taking the subway and the El over there.
Question now: Will she go through with it, or freak out when she realizes what Bobby Ryall has in mind?
Bobby directs me through some really sketchy-looking neighborhoods. He told me not to dress too neatly, not to shower, and not to eat anything after midnight. Does this mean we’re headed to a crack house?
This would be bad for a number of reasons, not least of all: a) it’s a crack house and b) Wildey doesn’t want a crack house. He can find plenty of those. He probably lives next door to one.
But Bobby promised me a “connection,” foolproof, safe as can be.
When the directions bring me toward Center City, with the giant City Hall tower coming at us, I feel a little better. When we turn right and start heading out to West Philly, not so much.
—Where are we going?
—Okay, listen …
—I’m listening.
—There’s this doctor over near Drexel University. You know Drexel?
—I know Drexel. Who’s this doctor? Is he a professor?
—No, a doctor for ladies. You know, female stuff. But he’s not a perv or anything. He’s like a grandpa. A great-grandpa, in fact. I saw this picture online. He just likes to help underprivileged girls and stuff.
—Help them with what?
—Oxys and shit. We’re going to go in there, you’re going to ask to see the doctor. I’ll slip the receptionist a little something, and the doctor will look at you and hook you up with a prescription. He does this all the time. You go to a CVS or whatever and we’re all set.
—Wait, wait. Look at me? What do you mean?
But I know exactly what he means. Suddenly this is worse than a crack house.
—No way.
—Look, I heard he hardly checks anybody. He’s old, it’s a formality.
I pull over, right on JFK Boulevard. We’re on that part of the road that stretches over the Schuylkill River. In front of us looms Thirtieth Street Station, where Danny Glover once killed that guy in that movie with the Amish kid. Not the best omen.
—I’m sorry, I’m not going to do that.
—What’s the big deal?
—Let’s go to some drug dealer and have him look at your genitals.
—If that’s all it took, I would. Believe me. Look, it’s not like that. Girls who go there love the guy. He’s apparently some local hero, a women’s rights activist and shit. You can look him up.
—A real hero, huh.
—Just tell him you’re sore and he’ll hook you up. No hassles. We split the prescription. I’ll even front the fee. And when you see it’s not creepy, you can come back every couple of weeks. We can keep this going for as long as we want.
Not if I have my good friend Ben Wildey bust this hero’s ass after I make a buy. But I don’t tell him that.
Bobby’s spiel, though, makes me wonder what I’m doing. Is this guy truly some women’s rights hero? And I’m going to narc on him and send him to prison? In place of D., who’s probably upstate right now doing a gynecological exam of his own?
—Come on. Just try it. If he tries anything strange, I’ll be right outside in the waiting room. But he’s not going to try anything strange.
—Okay.
CI #137: You around this a.m.?
WILDEY: What you got Honors Girl?
CI #137: Can you get out to Drexel University real quick?
WILDEY: Tell me where
CI #137: Hang on
I hate waiting rooms.
Everybody does, I know that. But especially after what happened to you last year. Waiting rooms are merely places where you spend hours staring at the walls, waiting for them to tell you how bad things are going to get. And it’s always worse than you thought.
This one is even worse. Yeah, it looks like an inner-city women’s clinic. Lots of strollers, crying kids. But also a lot of young girls who have that casual junkie look about them. I try not to be judgmental, but seriously. They’re not as bad as the people I saw near the Tracks, but they’re clearly on their way there, or somewhere like it.
I take the forms from the unsmiling receptionist, a mannish-looking woman with the largest glasses I’ve ever seen perched on a human face. Fuck, forms. Forgot about that part. I’m going to have to put my real name and address and such on them. If Wildey does raid this place, hopefully he can pull this and destroy it. I don’t want my pediatrician (yeah, Mom, I’m still seeing Dr. Dovaz) wondering why I was prescribed OxyContin in some dumpy clinic.
There aren’t two seats together, so Bobby sits across the room from me, smiling like a kid. Jesus.
I watch other “boyfriends” wait for their “girlfriends.” Ordinarily I wouldn’t think anything of it, but now that I’m here with my “boyfriend” it’s all suspicious. There’s even one boyfriend waiting for at least four different “girlfriends” to be ushered back into the doctor’s office. I wonder if D. would wait with me here, if I had a real appointment.
From time to time Wildey texts me on the burner and I tell him to hang on. He’s impatient. I should have waited to text him. Because this is taking forever. I’m missing three classes as it is—the first classes I’ve ever missed. In my life. I keep telling myself it’ll be worth it because soon it’ll be over.
At long last, I’m called back.
The receptionist, Letitia, tells me to go to Room 3 and undress. I don’t look back at Bobby for fear that he’s going to give me a thumbs-up or something.
—Wait, honey.
Letitia points at my bag.
—You can’t bring that back there.
—Why not? It’s just books.
—Leave it out here.
—But I want to keep it with me.
—You want me to cancel your appointment? Leave it with your boyfriend.
Before I know it, Bobby’s up and holding out his hand. Shit. Wasn’t anticipating this. I reach inside my bag and thumb the power button on the burner to turn it off. Last thing I need is Bobby here intercepting a grouchy text from Wildey. Bobby smiles at me.
—Don’t worry, honey. I’ve got it.
So it’s “honey” now. Never mind that this is some drug seeker I picked up in a fucking bar. I tell myself that it’ll be okay. He wants the Oxys more than the contents of my bag.
—Okay. Thanks.
—It’s all good.
I go back to Room 3 but do not undress. If the doctor forces the issue and I get this creepy rapey vibe, I’ll bolt, I swear. But surprisingly, when the thin wooden door creaks open, I see that Dr. Roosevelt Hill is pretty much just as advertised. He’s a gray-haired old white guy, timid smile on his face. I have no memories of any of my grandparents, of course. But if I did, they might look like this guy.
—Hi, sweetie. Can you get undressed for me?
—Why? My back just hurts.
—Well, I need to take a look at you nonetheless.
—Can’t you just look at my back?
Dr. Hill puts his cold hand on my forearm.
—You want me to help you, don’t you?
So I have to go through with this. It’s either this, or leave and admit defeat to Wildey. I’d have to call a lawyer and watch my entire future float away and disappear. What’s a little nakedness? The doctor excuses himself, and when he knocks a few minutes later, my clothes are folded neatly on a chair and I’m wearing a flimsy fabric gown that’s way too short. I assume the position and try to tune out reality as he does the usual explorations.
—Do you think you’re pregnant?
—Uh … no? My back just hurts.
—Mmmm-hmmmm.
Is it me, or does his touch … linger? Why isn’t there a nurse here? Whenever I’ve had an exam like this before, in a legit doctor’s place, there was always a nurse in the room. They should ask if I want a nurse in the room. He didn’t even ask!
—My back really hurts.
—Hmmm. You should try Motrin.
—I have, Dr. Hill. But it doesn’t even touch it.
He stares off into the distance, shaking his head. I’m losing him. I didn’t come all this way and get naked and felt up by an old dude just to walk away with nothing. His hand is still on me.
—Well, then.
To my surprise, Dr. Hill rolls away then goes to a desk in the corner and begins to scribble.
—Take this to Letitia. And don’t forget to pay her in cash.