“You ready, Massine?” Ray drew back his fist again.
“I only saw her on the band, that’s all. I only saw—”
The fist cut him short again. It was hard and bunched like a solid iron ball. It rattled into Massine’s teeth and Ray felt the skin rip back off his knuckles. Massine’s mouth was a pomegranate now, pulpy and red.
Ray pulled back his fist.
“All right, all right!” Massine shrieked. “I saw her. Damn you, I saw her.”
“Every day?”
“Every day, yes, every day.”
“Why?”
Massine didn’t answer. He leaned against the fist bunched in his undershirt, his breath ragged and uneven.
“Why?”
Ray shouted.
“She—she—was an addict.”
“I know that.” He tightened his fist in the undershirt. He was sweating, and he didn’t like this. There was an insistent pounding in his head. His mouth was dry. “Come on, come on. Talk, Massine.”
“I was getting her the stuff.” Massine let out a tortured sigh. “Heroin. I was supplying her.”
Ray’s mind flicked to the sixteen ounces of heroin Eileen had shown him. His brows pulled together, and his mouth hardened.
“You’re lying again, Massine. I’m going to break every tooth in your mouth unless—”
“I’m not lying,” Massine screamed. He lowered his voice. “I’m not lying. Why would I lie? She was a junkie. I got the stuff for her. That’s the truth. Why should I lie?”
“How much stuff? How much each day?”
“An eighth, a quarter. It varied.”
Ray unleashed his right fist again. Massine’s head shook with the blow, and his eyes were pleading and surprised.
“That’s the truth! Holy God, it’s the truth.”
“Eileen Chalmers had sixteen ounces of pure heroin with her when she was killed,” Ray said.
“No!” Massine’s eyes were wide. Shock registered on his face.
“I saw it,” Ray said. “Sixteen goddam ounces. What would she need a punk like you for?”
“Sixteen—ounces?” Massine shook his head. “No, no—” He seemed to be trying to digest the fact. “That’s impossible.”
“I saw it.”
“Sixteen ounces? Pure?”
“I said sixteen ounces. Stop stalling, Massine.”
“I don’t know, I don’t know. She must have just got it. So help me, I sold her heroin every day.”
“You want another fistful, Massine?”
“I swear! Jesus, I swear. On my mother, I swear. I supplied her.”
Ray shoved Massine backward, pulled his hand from the undershirt. “All right,” he said. He began pacing the room.
It was with him again—all the longing, all the mounting desire. It tore at his mind and his body, threatened to shake his nerves loose from his skin, gouged at his stomach. And he’d thought it had left him. That was a laugh, all right. That was the biggest laugh today. It was still here, big as life, scratching away at his back. Goddamned monkey!
Massine was leaning against the table, a fresh cigarette in his mouth.
“Getting you, eh, hophead?” he asked.
There was something familiar in the voice, the subtle urging perhaps, the superior tone, the well-known inflection of the man who held the key. Ray turned swiftly, his eyes narrowed. The sweat stood out on his brow in round, shining globules.
“Massine,” he said softly, his voice a hiss. Massine didn’t answer. He backed against the table as Ray advanced slowly.
“You supplied Eileen.”
“Look, I already told you—”
“You’re going to supply me.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” His voice was still low. It went on in an even tone, persuasively menacing. “You’re going to get me all the horse I need.”
“You’re crazy. The cops are checking ever pusher in the city. You think I’m gonna stick out my neck for a lousy—”
“Yes,” Ray said. “I think so.”
“Well, you’re crazy. You think I want to spend the next five years in jail?”
“I don’t care where you spend the next five years.”
“Well, I do. You’re the hottest thing in the city, pal. The cops find out I’m feeding you and—”
“But you’re going to do it.”
“No!” Massine screamed. He stubbed out his cigarette. “No!”
“I’d hate like hell to bust your nose, Massine. I’d hate like hell to do that.”
“You can’t hurt me no more, Stone. You just—”
“You know my name.” He wasn’t really surprised, but it meant that Kramer had probably told the cops about the hair dye already. Fine, just fine.
“Everybody knows your name, Stone. That’s why I ain’t going to risk my hide getting you no—”
“Shut up!” Ray snapped. He walked up close to Massine. “I need the stuff, Massine. I need it so damn bad that I’m liable to rip off your arms if I don’t get it. You understand? That’s how bad I need it. You going to get it for me, or do I start ripping? Make up your mind fast, Massine.”
Massine gulped audibly, his eyes glued to Ray’s face. “Sure, Stone. Sure, I’ll get some stuff for you.”
Ray felt a sweet pain shoot through his body. He was going to get fixed. Soon, soon. He was going to get a shot.
“Now,” he said quickly.
“Take it easy, Stone, take it easy.” Ray recognized the oily tones of the pusher again, and he clenched his fists. Massine said hastily, “I got to go out and get the stuff.”
“Where?”
“A connection.”
“How long?”
“About five hours.”
“That’s too long,” Ray snapped.
“I told you, Stone, they got the city covered like a corpse. I can’t just run out and get the stuff. It’s going to take a little time.”
“Two hours,” Ray said. “No more.” He reconsidered quickly. “Make it an hour.”
“Have a heart, Stone. How can I—”
“All right, an hour and a half. No more, understand?”
Massine nodded halfheartedly. “Okay. Christ, you must think I’m a magician.”
“I don’t care what you are. Bring back a quarter-ounce in an hour and a half.”
“A quarter! Stone, that’s impossible.”
“An eighth, then.”
“I’ll try.”
“You’ll get it, Massine. If you don’t, I’ll be waiting here to break your arms. You’ll get it.”
Massine nodded dully. “You better take a walk meanwhile.”
“Why?”
“I just don’t want any cops to catch you here, that’s all.”
Ray bunched his fists, took a step that brought him within three inches of Massine. “You planning a cross, Massine?”
“Hell, no. Why should I—”
“I’m just making sure. Remember this, Massine. If I get picked up in the next hour and a half, I’m going to tell the cops you’re my pusher.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I’ll tell them you’ve been supplying me for the past fifty years. How does that sound, Massine?”
“Hell, Stone—”
“And I’ll tell you something else. If you’re not back here in an hour and a half, I’m going to call the cops and tell them all about you, anyway.”
Massine tried to assume the pose of a hurt little boy. “You can trust me, Stone,” he said.
“I know.” Ray smiled. “You’ve got almost as much to lose as I have.” He looked at Massine’s wrist. “What time is it?”
“Five to seven.”
“I’ll be back at eight-thirty.”
“Okay.”
Ray started for the door. He paused with his hand on the knob, then turned, smiling.
“You’d better have the stuff, Massine.”
“I’ll have it.”
“Eight-thirty.”
“Sure, sure.”
Ray wet his lips. An hour and a half. Ninety minutes. Ninety minutes to heaven. The thought was delicious.
Quickly, he closed the door behind him.
Chapter Seven
Dusk touched the sky, streaking it with lavenders, reds, oranges as the sun dipped below the horizon. The neon flickers leaped into life, shouting their wares to Broadway. And the people began to come out of their holes, pleasure seekers, curious, indifferent, interested, bored. Men in shirt sleeves, and girls in light cotton dresses. Sailors in tight whites and tilted hats, popcorn vendors, floozies, be-boppers with beards and berets, a blind man with a dog and an accordion, and a drunken woman with sagging stockings and hennaed hair lying in the doorway of a photographer’s shop.
Ray walked, and his eyes were bright with anticipation. One hour and thirty minutes. He wet his lips. He could almost feel the needle sinking into his arm, see the veins bulging eagerly. And then the warm spread, the sudden
sock!
and then everything would be all right. He’d be straight again.
He sighed deeply, breathing in the warm night air, feeling the breeze fresh against his face. It was spring, all right.
“Some people need so much, Ray. All I need is springtime, and dusk, and you.”
The words rushed back involuntarily, leaping up from some shadowed corner of his mind. He could almost hear her voice, almost see the breathless way her lips had parted when she spoke the words. She had squeezed his hand tightly, and her eyes had met his for an instant. There had been honesty in those eyes, open and frank. And love. They had reached across to each other with their eyes, and their eyes alone had said everything there was to say, said it for all time.
He shook his head violently, trying to clear it of the memory. Times, had changed, things were different. There was no place for Jeannie anymore. It was over, finished.
But the memory persisted, and he couldn’t remove it by shaking his head. The blue eyes were still there, and the auburn hair, soft and silky under his fingers. His mind raced back over the years—was it really years?—remembering settings, half-forgotten snatches of melodies, Jeannie in an evening gown, Jeannie in a bathing suit, Jeannie in paint-streaked dungarees, Jeannie in bed. He passed a hand over his eyes. It was no good. No good at all.
But when had he met her? His mind skirted the years. Back to a girl in a white piqué dress, with hair like living flame, and tanned legs, and blue eyes that gave a radiant look to her oval face.
She stood by the bandstand, leaning against the rail, her breasts pressed against her folded arms. They were playing “Stardust,” he remembered, and the muted trumpets had pushed their lilting melody out onto the night air, there in the small park, with the dancers milling around on the concrete, and the stars wheeling overhead like a million diamonds on black velvet.
He had glanced up, seen her there, seen the look in her eyes. And later, when the set ended, he’d walked over, offered her a cigarette. Her voice was young, but it came from deep within her, as if speaking were a vital part of her, the way everything about her seemed to be.
They’d talked a little, and when the dance broke up she was waiting for him.
“I don’t usually do this,” she’d said. She glanced at him hurriedly, anxious for a sign that he believed her.
“I know. I can tell.”
They’d walked through the park, the moon sifting its pale light down through the interlaced branches of the trees, and he’d joked about how nice it was to be a piano player, no instrument to carry, and she said it would have been simply awful if he played the double bass.
And then they had passed a dark spot beneath the trees, and his hand had tightened on hers, and he felt the responding warmth. She was against him then, her young body trembling, the smell of her hair in his nostrils, fresh with the fragrance of soap. His lips touched her cheek, and it was incredibly smooth and soft. And all at once her lips were on his.
It had been a tender kiss. Their lips clung for a moment, moist against each other. She let out her breath swiftly, and her fingers tightened on his arm. Wildly she lifted her head, tossing her hair back. Her lips parted, and he drew her to him.
Somehow, in a city of ten million, quite by accident, they’d found each other.
He would always remember that first kiss. He’d kissed many girls since, but it would never be the same.
He gulped hard, shaking his head again. Maybe he should go back to her. Now, tonight. Maybe he should get his shot, and then…
No. No, that was just it. The shot. No, it was better this way. Forget Jeannie. Forget her.
He kept walking, a strange excitement pulsing through his body. Part of it, he knew, was anticipation. He always felt this way when a shot was coming. But another part was something else, something that had been stirred by his thoughts of Jeannie. It burned in the pit of his stomach, and he began to couple it with the shot, began thinking of it in terms of the shot, and how he’d feel after the shot. He wanted Jeannie. Christ, he wanted her. He’d always want her. Well, pal, you can’t have her, his mind reminded him, so just forget it.
Quite automatically, his thoughts flew to Babs. If not Jeannie, why not Babs? Not the same, but why not? He looked for a clock somewhere. What the hell time was it anyway?
He was surprised to discover that it was only seven-forty-five. God, forty-five minutes to go. But after that… He smiled. He’d call Babs, tell her he’d see her later tonight. Later, after he’d been fixed. I’m taking you up on that raincheck, he would say. I’ll be over a little later.
He started looking for a drugstore, pleased that he had pushed Jeannie out of his mind, yet still feeling a little guilty about the ease with which he’d accomplished it. Well, what the hell, he told himself, she’s not right for me. But she was right for him, that was the trouble. She was the only right thing for him, the only thing that…
Oh stop it, Stone, he commanded himself. You’re turning my stomach.
He dialed Babs’s apartment, waiting, rehearsing what he’d say as the phone rang persistently. He let it ring a while, then gave up, feeling disappointed but a little relieved, too. He hadn’t really let Jeannie down, after all. Perhaps it was all for the best. Besides, why the hell would he need a woman once he’d had a shot? What time was it?
He stepped out of the booth, looked at the big clock over the drug counter. Seven-fifty. God, but time could creep when you were waiting for something!
Well, what now? Where to now? Forty minutes to kill. How to kill them?
He thought of the dead Eileen with alarming suddenness. He hadn’t forgotten her, surely? Hadn’t forgotten the police? Hadn’t forgotten that he’d been tagged? Forty minutes to a shot. Could he see someone in forty minutes, perhaps get a little more information?