Dealing, or the Berkeley-to-Boston Forty-brick-Lost-bag Blues

Synopsis: I'm Peter Harkness, and all of this started one day when I flew into San Francisco on temporary, very unofficial leave from classes at Harvard. In my hand, I had a special aluminum-lined, double-locked suitcase; in my sports coat, I had a bulge caused by $2500 worth of 20s; in my head, I had the Berkeley address of a man named Musty, one of the biggest and most efficient marijuana dealers on the Coast. My job was fairly simple: I would give Musty the bank notes; Musty would give me ten bricks of dope. I would soak them in Coca-Cola to kill the pot smell, wrap them in foil, pack them neatly in my suitcase and fly back to Boston. I would then hand the suitcase to John in Cambridge. Simple, except that the scenario didn't play the way it was written.

A few minutes after I arrived at 339 Holly Street, a whole squad of cops and narcs appeared, with every intention of a bust at Musty's. One of the cops began to take a special interest in my presence and only by the grace of much luck did I get out of there.

I finally made connections with Musty in Oakland. He'd avoided the bust and he had the bricks for me. When he invited me to smoke a little of his stuff, and Lou, a friend of his, borrowed my rented car, I stayed on. I stayed on so long I got fairly stoned and very weary. Musty sent me to an empty upstairs bedroom for the night.

Only it wasn't empty, it had a girl named Sukie in it and she was there because it seemed that her dog was having puppies in her own room. So we smoked some of her dope and we talked, and eventually things began to go very well. And would have gone a lot better if there hadn't been a sudden knock on the door, followed by the entrance of three guys in pin-stripe suits, looking like walk-ons for Robert Stack and dangling their wallet badges.

They searched the room, but, miraculously, they didn't find any lids. I couldn't figure why they were so sure of themselves. I finally got the story when I was booked. Musty's friend, Lou, had been stopped by a traffic cop. There had been a lid of Lou's dope under the seat. When he was pulled in, Lou got very helpful and gave them my name and Musty's address. So now they had busted me. It was just a freak accident, the kind of idiot thing that could happen to anybody. Yet, I was in trouble now.

The next day, they took me up to an interrogation room and one of the cops—the small, tough one—did most of the questioning. He tried hard to shake me, but it was soon plain that it was a pretty thin hustle. They knew I was connected with Musty, but they didn't know how or why. The lid they found in the rented car was all they had to go on and, finally, they had to give up. Just before it was over, the small cop gave me a quick knee in the groin and walked out. Afterward, one of the others told me who that cat was—Lieutenant Murphy, a narc from Boston, out there on another case. Murphy was a household word in Cambridge—a tough, fast, imaginative cop. He was also a screaming sadist and a crook.

Sukie was waiting for me when I got out. I was with her all that day and she was with me the next day at my hearing—where the charges were dropped and I went free. In fact, when she drove me to the airport, I began to feel pretty unhappy about leaving her. I told her that I'd see her soon, after exams, but I didn't know how or where. Then I got on the plane for Boston, carrying the bricks in my suitcase.

In Cambridge, I delivered them to John Thayer Hartnup III of Eliot House and Cohasset, Massachusetts, a dealer who was in this game because he liked power, not because he needed the bread.

During the next few weeks, among routine worries—an economics exam, which I failed; the coming Scarab Club Garden Party, dubbed the Piggy Club picnic, which I seemed fated to attend; a rather unpleasant interview with my tutor—I tried to figure out how to get enough money for a plane ticket to San Francisco. John had vetoed the idea of using Sukie to bring in any dope. But, suddenly and surprisingly, he changed his mind. He wanted her to make a run the coming Saturday. I called her. Would she? Of course she would; she wanted to see me more than anything.

The only hang-up was that I couldn't meet her at the airport. We couldn't afford to be seen together. So, while Sukie was coming in with the bricks, I was going to be at the Piggy Club picnic.

On Saturday, about one o'clock in the afternoon, I was shaken awake by Annie Butler, who reminded me, with some insistence, that I was supposed to escort her to the Piggy picnic. She won, and I ended up by shaving, getting dressed and going.

The garden party was held on a huge, rolling lawn, fenced in from the street and sheltered from its noise and plebeian curiosity by thick bushes. It was a scene full of good cheer. The lawn was dotted with colorful tables loaded with food and booze; there was also an army of polite, discreet, red-jacketed caterers. It made me want to blow my lunch. I got very drunk and a number of the members got very red in the face, and that's how it went.

When I got back to John's room, I was still a bit smashed, but I didn't mind and I didn't figure that Sukie would. I kicked the door open, put my hands in my pockets and walked in.

"Well, hi there," I said.

"Well, hi there," John said. "Bought the Lotus this morning. Magnificent machine. Got a pretty good trade-in on the Ferrari, too. Better than I thought."

"Swell," I said, looking around.

No Sukie.

"I also got a place for the chick to stay," John said. "Sharon's old place. She's moved out, you know, and the rent's paid for another two weeks and the furniture's still there, so——"

"Fine," I said, still looking.

"Don't thank me or anything, Peter, old boy," John said. I looked over at him and realized that he was hugely pleased with himself for having lined up the place.

"Yeah, thanks, man, thanks. But where is she?"

"Here," John said, sprawling back on the couch and suddenly intensely interested in the new Rolling Stone.

"In Cambridge?"

"No, in Boston. She called from the airport. Christ, that reminds me. What'd you give her our number for? You know I don't like——"

"Why did she call?"

John shrugged. "Some hang-up. They lost her bag."

"What bag?" I said, but it wasn't a question. I just wanted to know what I was already afraid I knew.

"One of the bags with the grass." John sighed. He seemed to be taking it well. I couldn't believe he was just sitting there, telling me she'd lost the dope and sighing. I slumped down into the nearest chair. "One of the bags with the——" he said again.

"Sweet Jesus, how could she lose that? It was under the goddamn seat——"

"No," said John. "She checked it."

"She what?"

"Checked it. It was a forty-brick run. You know as well as I do that if you're carrying forty bricks, you're gonna have to check one of the bags."

"You didn't tell me it was going to be that big a——"

"You didn't ask," John said, slipping back into his magazine. He was again suddenly fascinated by the magazine, the bastard. From behind it, he said, "Anyway, she'll be OK. She said they just lost it somewhere in transit."

"In transit, my ass," I said. "What did you tell her to do?"

"I told her to go back and get it."

I had to sit quiet for a minute to think that one out, it was so unbelievable. And then I found that I couldn't think, that I was so pissed that I couldn't do anything but shout at John and tell him what I thought about sending the chick back. He just sat and stared at me and said nothing and finally I realized that I was wasting precious time. Bag or no bag, if I could get to Sukie before they did—"Where're the keys to the Lotus?"

"Give me back the Rolling Stone," John said. I'd ripped it out of his hands without knowing what I was doing and as I handed it back, he gave me the keys. "Don't run it over four thousand revs," he yelled after me as I hustled out the door. "It's just had a valve job."

All the way out to the airport, I ground the gears and ran it over 4500 revs. Fucking John, he'd really screwed me this time, screwed me so bad that I couldn't believe it was happening—that he'd just let it happen. The dude had a loose bolt somewhere, especially when it came to chicks. Or other people. Or other people's chicks. I mean, what the hell was the cat thinking of, sending Sukie back for the bag? Because he knew about running dope and he knew about "lost" bags at the airport. This wasn't the first time we'd ever lost a bag. The first time had cost John a pretty penny, to buy Jeffrey off, and we'd all learned from the experience. Ever since then, we'd had strict rules for runs, especially runs that involved bags in the hold. First, no matching sets of luggage. Second, no name tags. Third, no real names used on tickets, so that nothing could be traced from the baggage check on a busted bag. Fourth, the specially designed, double-locked and lined bags, (continued on page 214)Dealing(continued from page 146) which made it impossible for the heat to open the bags without irreparably breaking them and so disqualifying any potential evidence on the grounds of illegal search and seizure.

Those were the first four rules and the fifth was never go back for a lost bag. Because it just meant trouble and time in court and a hell of a lot of money. We never went back for a lost bag, because these days, the heat didn't always have to open a bag to find the dope. The narcs were into all kinds of things now: dogs trained to growl at the smell of dope, even dope soaked in Coca-Cola and wrapped in aluminum; and Odoranalyzers, weird little machines, with a sort of gun attachment, that sniffed the air and lit up when they smelled dope.

And so anything that we put into the hold was a strictly calculated risk and not something to be toyed with. Because the heat had their little hustle: When they'd catch a bag full of weed, they'd hold it, announce that it was lost and then bust whoever showed up to claim it. Not a very original hustle—and anybody who's carrying always knows that if they say your bag is lost, split. Split fast and never go back. But Sukie'd never run any dope before and so she'd called John and asked him what to do. And John——

Fucking John.

I hot-assed it through Callahan Tunnel, paid my toll and blasted up the ramp toward the airport—only to come to a dead halt 20 yards up the road. Airport traffic. Newsboys sauntered in and out among the rows of cars with maddening assurance that nobody was going anywhere. Hawking the Boston papers, the most provincial newspapers in America ("Saugus man dies in New York nuclearholocaust") and the crookedest (look at page ten for the small item, "Ten officials indicted in $44,000.000 Swindle"), as befits the town. I sat in the car and swore and lit a cigarette and got paranoid. My head was completely spaced. I couldn't even remember if Sukie'd come in on United or TWA. Most of all, I couldn't figure out what John had been trying to do when he'd sent her back. Because if anyone knew how much it'd cost to buy her out of a 40-brick rap, he did. American justice is extraordinarily expensive: The bribe must always measure up to the crime. Forty bricks were going to set John back quite a way, if anything happened to Sukie.

If anything happened to Sukie....

I had visions of arriving just as they were slapping the cuffs on her, of a fleeting glance of her face over the shoulder, looking at me sadly, the way she had that night they had dragged me away. She was showing no reproach and some-how that made it worse. And then, suddenly, she was at the end of a long hallway, it was somewhere in Berkeley, but I knew that the hallway would look the same no matter where it was, fluorescent lights leering, and she had on a gray sack dress and two matrons were taking her, still cuffed. down a flight of stairs. I watched helplessly and saw again the sad, reproachless face over the shoulder.

Then the line started moving and I began thinking about lawyers and bail bondsmen and where in the world I was going to scrape up the bread. I drifted out of my lane and some swine in a Cadillac honked and skinned my front fender in a burping burst of exhaust. Fuck you, fella. I was down the ramp and at the airport and parked in a cab zone before I knew it. A cop shouted at me that I'd have to move, but I just ran inside, past the people and the porters and the heat that seemed to be everywhere, wondering why I'd never noticed how many heat hung around the place.

I knew where the Lost bag rooms were and I decided to try United first. I sprinted down a long corridor, turned a corner and found the office. There was nobody there. TWA's depot was just a little farther on, so I decided to check it out, then, if nothing was happening there, return to United. But the seemingly endless construction that was always going on at Logan had transformed TWA's Lost bag office into a coffee shop, so I stopped a porter and asked him where it had gone.

"I just flew in on TWA and they've lost one of my bags," I said. "Where do I find it?"

"TWA's baggage over there," he shrugged, pointing around a corner. I ran over and stopped in front of a door that said, Miscellaneous, "Authorized Personnel Only." The door was open but partially blocked by a low table and inside there were racks and racks of bags, bags of all kinds, bags everywhere.

And standing knee-deep in this ocean of bags was Sukie. On each side of her was a man in a raincoat. One of them was putting on the cuffs and before I could turn away and get out of there, I saw the tight, familiar, ugly neck, heard the rough, humorless voice of one of the pigs, and I knew that Murphy had busted another freak.

I was back out in the Lotus and on my way back lo Cambridge before I really thought about what I was doing. And even when I did start thinking, it was only about one thing: John and the shit I was going to knock out of him. I hadn't been able to understand, on the way to Logan, why he'd sent Sukie back; but now I didn't care. He was alone when I found him in his room and he didn't even look up when I came in. He was tearing the place apart. The radio was on, giving the weather report. John was pulling out dresser drawers, removing the bricks that were taped to the back.

I just stared at him.

"Well," he said, "let's get it on."

"Get what on, half-ass?"

John stopped and looked at me. "You're alone, right? So the chick's busted, right? I just got word. So let's get it on and get this place cleaned up, so we can get out of here."

I froze. "You bastard. This wouldn't have happened if you didn't send——"

"This wouldn't have happened, Peter, if your chick hadn't already given the pigs her name, her Oakland address and your Cambridge telephone number before she thought to call me up and ask what she should do about her 'lost bag.' So I told her to go back. What the hell, why not? It didn't make any difference at that point."

"She gave them my phone number?"

"Yeah," John said. "That's a smart little pussy you've got. She really set us up, you with your record—your recent record—and me holding."

"She didn't know...."

"And you didn't tell her, did you? That's why she didn't know. You didn't tell her the first goddamn thing about it."

"I didn't know she'd have to check a bag——"

"The fuck you didn't. You sent Musty a check for ten thousand. That's forty bricks. You just overlooked it, you were in such a ball-crushing rush——"

"Now, listen, brother, you talk like that, you're gonna have to pay some dues. I sent the check, yes, but I didn't know——"

"Help me clean this place out," John said in a voice that was final. He was throwing the bricks into the center of the floor.

I still couldn't get very excited about John's problems. "Listen, man, you don't seem to be digging what's happened to the chick. She's in jail, for Chrissake, and——"

"And we won't be any good to her," John said, taking out the jars and bottles from the medicine cabinet, "if we're in there with her. Now, come on."

We cleaned the place out. All together, we found 16 bricks of good smoking dope, 100 caps of synthetic mescaline, 550 caps of psilocybin, 13 peyote buttons in cellophane, four ounces of hash and some Thorazine.

John got one of his friends to drive it out packed in a couple of suitcases to John's uncle's house in Lexington for a week.

When that was done, we both had a big belt of his Scotch. The room was disordered; John kicked some clothes off the couch and sat down. "If Murphy busted her, you'd better do what I'm doing," he said. "Take off for a day or two, at least stay away from your room. It's not going to be too cool for a while."

I didn't give a shit how cool it was, I had other things on my mind. "Look," I said, "we've got to get her out of jail as fast as we can. She won't know what to say and she'll fuck herself up in a matter of hours without some advice. If we can't get her out and talk to her before the arraignment on Monday, she won't know enough to plead guilty."

"Yeah," said John. He was digging it. He was digging the fact that if that went down, we'd never be able to buy her off, no matter what lawyer we eventually got for her. And she'd take the full rap for the bust, probably even do some time.

I waited for John to say something, to figure something out. There was a very long pause and then he just said, "Yeah," again.

"Yeah, what?"

John looked pained, really pained, for the first time since I'd walked in the door. "Peter," he said. "The pigs have overvalued the bust, as usual. They've announced that they picked up fifteen thousand dollars' worth of dope. So that means it'll cost us at least three thousand to get her oft. Plus her bail, which, as you have noted, is essential. Now, I don't know if her bail's been set yet, but you can bet your ass it'll be at least ten thousand. So that's another grand we need right there——"

"So?"

"So this is Saturday," John said.

"What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

"The stock market's closed."

"Now, wait a minute. Are you trying to tell me you're broke? You?"

"I'm saying I won't have a nickel until Monday." John paused, then added, "After nine o'clock."

I couldn't believe he'd said that. I couldn't believe any of the things that had gone down that afternoon, but that was the end. Finally, I said, "Far out." Nothing more.

John nodded. "It is far out. It's a drag, too, but it's what's happening. I'll do everything I can. But I can't do anything till Monday."

"Far out," I said again. Then, almost as an afterthought, "You son of a bitch."

"Peter," John said slowly, "it's all I can do. It's all I can do." He got up and put on his jacket. On the way out, he paused and said: "If you want me for anything, I'll be at Sandra's."

Then the door closed and I was alone.

The first thing I did was pour myself three fingers of John's J&B, then I put on some blues and sat down to try and get my head together. Which was easier said than done. I was flashing on all the ridiculous little twists and turns the trip had taken in the course of a few hours. Sukie busted. Murphy on our backs again. John broke—that was what really blew my mind, that John could be broke. It was too much. Finally, I realized that I wasn't getting anywhere—that I had to get ripping or I'd drown. But I just sat there, immobilized.

I started over to grab another hit of J&B, paused and sat back down. It was up to me now, as it had always been. I simply hadn't wanted to look it in the face. If Sukie was still in jail at the arraignment, she'd be up the river; and even if I got her out before then, there was still a chance that she'd go up unless I got her a lawyer as well. I had to do something.

So I dialed a lawyer's office and demanded to speak to someone—anyone. But I only got a half-witted chick on answering service who informed me that it was Saturday and everyone was home. Would I please call back Monday? How about home phones, I wanted to know. Well, that depended. Was I a client already? Or was I simply seeking information? No, she was sorry, if I wasn't already a client, she wasn't permitted to give me any home phone numbers. Lawyers had to sleep, just like everyone else. The office would be open on Monday at nine. Click.

Thank you, bitch. What next? I called up the bail bondsmen I could find in the book and they, to be sure, had not gone home—they did a thriving business on Saturday night, that much was obvious. But no, they wouldn't accept a stereo as collateral on a $10,000 bond, it wouldn't be worth it to them and, anyway, they'd been getting too many stolen goods for collateral lately. They were taking only large items they could be sure of, like cars, these days. Click.

I poured myself another Scotch, got thoroughly sloshed and turned on the television to catch the evening news. As it came on, Herbie showed up; he was on his way to dinner and was looking for company. I said I wasn't hungry but offered him a drink and he sat down to watch the news with me.

After the usual Berlin crisis, Central American coup, Middle East retaliation, domestic upheaval, they came to the local news and to Susan Blake, a 19-year-old resident of Oakland, California, arrested today at Logan Airport on a charge of possession of marijuana. Her suitcases were found to contain 40 pounds of marijuana. She will be arraigned Monday. Elsewhere in the city....

"Far out," Herbie said.

"Yeah," I said.

He laughed. "Well," he said, nodding to the TV, "you don't have to take it personally, just because somebody gets busted."

I looked over at him. "Herbie," I said, "that's my chick."

There was a long pause while Herbie thought that one over and I thought that one over, in my drunken, hazy stupor. Herbie said again: "Far out."

I didn't say anything.

"What're you going to do?"

I shook my head. "I've got to get bail for her. I've got to get her out of there."

"That means money," Herbie said.

"Yeah." I got up, a little unsteadily, and went into the bedroom to get some cigarettes. When I came out, Herbie was still there, staring at me with a quizzical little look on his face.

"How are you going to do it?"

I shrugged. "Your bet's as good as mine."

Herbie laughed. "In other words," he said, "you don't have any idea."

I didn't laugh. Herbie was right.

• • •

I spent a lot of the night staring out through the cold, streaky splatterings of rain on the window at the dark courtyard. I was wrecked but I was still trying to think of something to do for Sukie. Finally, I went to see if Herbie was still up and about and I found him wide-eyed and stoned out of his mind but ready to rip.

"I thought you'd show," he said as I came into the room. "Want to get some breakfast?"

I was surprised. "It's that late?"

"Yeah." He checked his watch. "Seven-thirty." He stepped out the door and came back in, holding the morning paper. "Your old lady ought to get a big write-up." he said. "Big splash." He sighed. "Wish I could help." he said, "but...."

I nodded. There was nothing he could do. There was, obviously, nothing any of us could do. "A forty-brick bust," I said. "That's a hell of a big bust."

"She got anything going for her?" Herbie said.

"No prior offenses, no record." I said. "That's something."

He nodded. "College student?"

"No."

"Too bad. Work history? Can she prove she doesn't do this for a living?"

"She hasn't worked at some job for three years, if that's what you mean."

"Psychiatric history?"

"Nothing." I said. That was the last resort, as far as defense went, but for young defendants it often helped.

Herbie sighed again and shook his head. Then he looked up suddenly. "How many bricks did you say?"

"What?"

"How many bricks was she busted for holding?"

"Forty." I said.

"Forty kilos?"

"That's what I said."

"That's odd," Herbie said. As I'd been talking, he'd been leafing through the paper. "Because it says here ... wait a minute ... dadadadedah ... umm.... Here. It says, 'Susan Blake, busted for forty pounds, which makes up twenty kilos.' "

"Well, they made a mistake," I said. "Fucking newspapers can't even get the facts on a goddamn local bust down right. Anyway," I shrugged, "it was forty keys."

Herbie stared at the paper some more. "No," he said.

"No, what?"

"No, they did not make a mistake. The sentence is internally consistent. Forty pounds would be just under twenty kilograms. That's accurate."

"Yeah, well, she had forty keys, forty bricks——"

"What did they say on the news last night?"

I shrugged. "I don't remember."

"Well," Herbie said, "it's important, because if it's only twenty keys, her bail might be lower."

"Far out," I said and felt momentarily encouraged. Until I began to think of some other things that I had never thought of. Things I should have considered right off, especially with Murphy involved.

"Herbie," I said, "this is far out. This is very far out." Herbie looked interested. "Dig it: I know that there were forty keys in that shipment. Sukie was holding down two suitcases, twenty keys to a suitcase. Total value ten thousand dollars. I mailed the check to Musty myself."

"That is far out," Herbie said. "The boys in blue seem to have gotten pretty arrogant." He smiled and buried his nose in the newspaper. " 'Cause it says here one suitcase, and that means that.... Where do you think it's being dumped?"

"Roxbury." I said, "or Somerville. That's a beginning, anyway."

"OK," Herbie said, getting off on the whole idea of fucking up the pigs. "Now we need a car and binoculars. I have both. Also, we have to stop off at the drugstore——"

"What?"

"I'll meet you in the courtyard in ten minutes," Herbie said on his way out the door.

• • •

An hour later, we found ourselves in Herbie's VW, parked down the block from District Four station house. It was still raining lightly, and on a Sunday morning, this part of town—in South Boston—was quiet. Herbie gave me the binoculars. "Here," he said. "You're the one who knows what Murphy looks like."

I took the binoculars and tried to look through them. Herbie had focused them for his own eyes and they were completely blurred for me. While I changed the focus, Herbie took off his glasses and wiped them on his tie. "You know," he said conversationally, "police salaries are too low in Boston. Ten big cities have higher pay scales."

"That right?" I said. I was now focused on the front steps.

"Yes," Herbie said. "That's what's behind it all. That and the mail."

"The mail?" I repeated, still looking through the binoculars. A man came out of the station, talking to a cop in uniform. The man wasn't Murphy.

"Yes," Herbie said. "Cops get mail just like everybody else. About ninety people get murdered in Boston every year. But the mail doesn't say stop the murders. The mail says get those nasty kids with their nasty drugs."

"Oh," I said.

Another man came out of the station. He wasn't Murphy, either. I sighed.

"Better relax," Herbie said, lighting a joint and passing it to me. "It could be a long time. You know, you can't really blame them."

"Who?"

"Whom. The police," Herbie said. "Dope is money, you know. Why not make a little extra?"

"Yeah," I said. And I added: "I hope Murphy's broke."

"That probably isn't the motivating factor," Herbie said. He said it in a cryptic, dry way and I suddenly flashed on what Herbie was doing here, weak, nearsighted, brilliant little Herbie, who was still working up to his first big date at the age of 17. Herbie was here because it was a manipulation trip, action at a distance, control from afar, guess and second guess, with cops-and-robbers overtones. He was playing it hot and heavy and loving every minute of it. "I'm going to look at the gun," he said and leaned into the back seat to get it.

One hour passed, then two, then three. I began to get depressed. It seemed things like this were always coming down on me, waiting things, dependent things, things where I wasn't in control and had to bide my time, see what developed. It happened to everybody, of course, but that didn't make it any better. Waiting to get out of high school so you could get away from Main Street. Waiting to get your degree so you could go out and wait for a job. Waiting for the bank loan. Waiting for the kid to grow up. Waiting for the draft to blow down your neck. Waiting for the record to end—the same dismal, crummy record that plays the same dismal, crummy song over and over, the song that goes, When does it end and who is it that's won and will I die, too, before it's begun?

Three and a half hours later, the VW seemed very cramped, the air very stale. Herbie said he'd go across the street to a sub shop and get a couple of subs while I stayed with the binoculars. He asked me what I wanted and I said a meatball sandwich. He came back with it for me and it was terrible, a true crap-ball concoction, to be washed down by an artificially flavored, artificially colored beverage of some sort. I frowned when I bit into it and he asked me if it was what I had wanted. It wasn't, of course. I thought about how I could never seem to get what I wanted. Nobody in America could, for that matter, unless, of course, you happened to want something that you could purchase, in which case you had an immense variety of guaranteed satisfactions. But even that had been going on too long. Too many people had been getting all the new cars and the new tubes and the new refrigerators that they'd wanted for so long. And now they wanted something else. But they didn't know what.

Four more hours passed. Then another half hour.

Suddenly, stepping out into the afternoon light, rubbing the bald spot on the back of his head, was the pig. "Herbie," I said, "that's him."

Herbie put down the paper. "What's six letters meaning determination?"

"Herbie, that's him. Murphy."

"Where?"

I pointed to Murphy, walking alone down the steps with a small briefcase in one hand. "There."

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Herbie said. "Let's get going."

I started the engine and put the VW in gear.

Murphy drove a green sedan. It was dusty and needed to be washed and it had the usual narc plates. Murphy climbed in and carefully put on a large pair of highway-patrol-type shades and then started off.

I followed the car through the Boston traffic. As we went, I said: "Herbie, there's one problem."

"There are no problems," Herbie said flatly.

"Yes," I said, "there's one: What if he's already unloaded the stuff? What if he unloaded it last night?"

"That's not a problem," Herbie said. "That's a factor we've taken into account."

"We have?"

"Yes. It's been perfectly clear from the start that if he has already unloaded the dope or if he's not the one who's doing it, then we are wasting our time."

"Oh," I said.

Murphy finally pulled up at a bus stop, parked and got out. I pulled over beside a hydrant a few houses back. We watched Murphy go into a church.

"I don't like it," Herbie said.

"Why?" I said.

"He's taking that briefcase with him," Herbie said, getting out of the car. I started to follow him. "No," he said, "not you. He'd recognize you."

So I got back into the car and waited while Herbie scurried up to the church and disappeared inside. Several minutes passed. I turned on the radio, but all I could get was Connie Francis singing Who's Sorry Now? and some damned symphony. I turned the radio off and smoked a cigarette. Several more minutes passed. I turned the radio back on. This time, I found a talk show, with Tony Curtis. They asked Tony whether he thought he was successful and Tony said it depended on how you defined it. He defined success as doing better than your best friend. And he said he was successful on that basis. He didn't name the best friend.

Then Murphy came out of the church, still carrying the briefcase. Herbie was nowhere to be seen. Murphy got into his car, threw the briefcase into the back seat, started the engine and waited. I watched him, wondering where Herbie was and why Murphy was waiting.

At that moment, Herbie came out of the church, moving very fast. I glanced over at Murphy. Murphy was looking at Herbie. Christ, I thought, it's all over. Herbie jumped into the car. "All set," he said. "Why's he waiting?"

"Don't know," I said. But then I saw him lean forward, take out the dashboard lighter and light a cigarette between his lips. I sighed. "There's your answer. Just getting a nic hit."

At that moment, Murphy took off. He patched out, leaving a blue cloud of exhaust and the smell of rubber, and streaked down the street.

"Shit," I said, slamming the car into gear and following him.

"I wonder what he has under that hood," Herbie said thoughtfully.

Murphy was now moving very fast, heading toward the expressway. He went up the ramp and I followed him, running a red light to make it. "What was he doing in the church?" I said.

"Praying," Herbie said.

Murphy screamed forward into the traffic on the expressway. It seemed I never drove in Boston these days except in bad traffic. Murphy wove among the lanes of traffic, clearly trying to lose us.

The VW didn't have enough power to touch the green sedan, which moved steadily away from us. For a while, Herbie was able to keep track of him with the binoculars, while I took some bad chances, slipping in and out among the cars. But finally, near Milton, we came over a rise in the expressway and looked down over the far slope and he was gone.

Herbie kept on scanning the road ahead. Then he put down the binoculars. "Get off at the next exit," he said. "We've lost him."

• • •

The town of Milton was established in 1662, according to the welcome sign; and from the looks of that sign and the looks of the houses, it had kept a tight asshole ever since. It would be hard to build a community that looked more prim. It was all very neat and clean and historical and nauseating. Herbie directed me through it. He didn't seem discouraged, but I was discouraged as hell.

"What are we doing here?" I said.

"Playing the odds," Herbie said. "You have your money?"

I nodded.

"How much?"

"Thirty-six dollars."

"That should be enough," Herbie said, "if we can get enough change. We're going to have a problem."

"Change?"

"Dimes," Herbie said. He directed me to a large, modern drugstore. We walked to the back, past the counters of Nytol, E-Z Doz, Sleptite, Rouse, Bufferin, Anacin, Contac and all the other pills. Behind the druggist's counter, there were giant bottles of pills, the tranks, bennies and sleepers for which you needed a prescription. We went straight to the back, where there were three telephone booths, with the phone books hanging from a wall rack.

"OK." Herbie said. "We assume, because we have to, that he's going home. And home is south of Boston, since he was on the Southeast Expressway. And probably within an hour of commuting. OK. We know his last name is Murphy. What's his first name?"

I tried to remember. And for the life of me, I couldn't think of that familiar given name. "It's gone," I said, "but it will come back. His rank is lieutenant, anyway."

"Good," Herbie said, opening the directory. "Go get your change."

And then we began. We each took one column of Murphys. I took the left column, beginning with Murphy, Albert. Herbie took the right column, beginning with Murphy, Roland J. And we called. All of my calls were the same.

"Hello?"

"Hello," I would say, "is Lieutenant Murphy there?"

"Who?"

For the first few, I would mumble some excuse or say, "Wrong number." Later, I got so that when I heard "Who?," I just hung up. Alongside me, in the next booth, Herbie was doing the same thing. I heard the clink each time he put in another dime.

Finally, around the 15th time:

"Hello?"

"Hello, is Lieutenant Murphy there?"

"Not at the moment."

I sighed and smiled. At last. "When do you expect him back?"

"Not until late tonight. He's on weekend maneuvers at Fort Devens. Who's calling, please?"

"Sorry," I said, "wrong number."

I finally got to the long stretch of John Murphys. I missed on John A., John B., John C. and so on down the long line. Finally, I came to John L.

"Hello, is Lieutenant Murphy there?"

"No, but I expect him any minute. Who's calling?"

"Uh, this is Captain Fry."

"Captain Fry?" She obviously didn't know any Captain Fry.

"Yes. I'm down at the District Four station house now. I wanted to see your husband. I guess I just missed him."

"Yes," she said, "you must have. Can I have him call you back?"

"No, thanks," I said. "I'll call back later on."

"What did you say your name was again?" she asked.

"Nice to talk to you, Mrs. Murphy," I said and hung up.

I had my finger on the line.

Murphy, John L., 43 Crescent Drive, Ackley.

• • •

Forty-three Crescent Drive in Ackley was not in a run-down neighborhood, but it wasn't spiffy, either. The house was small. There was a faded-red 1956 Ford sedan in the driveway and Murphy's narc special, the green one, parked in the street out front.

Down the street, some kids were playing stickball. The Murphy house was quiet. As the evening grew darker, a small boy of five or six came out and rode his bicycle around the house, down the driveway and into the street. As we watched, he joined the stickball game.

We were parked a couple of houses up, in what Herbie called our inconspicuous car, a canary-yellow Corvair with one front head lamp knocked out. It was all we had been able to get at the E-Z Car Rental for $15, but at least, as he kept saying, it wasn't the VW.

About half an hour passed. It was now nearly dark. Pretty soon, Murphy came out, his suit coat off, his tie loosened. In one hand he held his dinner napkin. He came out into the street and looked up and down, then whistled once, shrilly.

He waited, looking up and down. He whistled again.

And then his son came back, pedaling furiously, and I thought to myself that poor, scared kid, with an old man like that. And the kid streaked up the driveway, jumped off his bike and ran up to his father, who bent over and scooped him up and hugged him while the kid beamed, and they both went inside.

"Well, he can't be all bad," Herbie said.

"Sure he can," I said.

We waited another hour. I got to thinking about the writer who said you are what you pretend to be. I'd thought about that and decided it was wrong, that you became what you were least afraid of becoming, and that was a much more dangerous thing, because it was much more basic and much more subtle. You are what you are least afraid of becoming.

I had some good times with that theory. It led me to believe that no one could even imagine what it was that he really wanted, unless he first lost the fear of his own imagination. And he couldn't begin to do that without an opportunity. I mean, you can't expect the president of Dow Chemical to suddenly go out and join the peace marchers. He simply hasn't got time to think about such things. He's the president, for Chrissake—all he wants to know is if the marches are hurting the sale of plastic wrap. And, in the same light, you can't expect Huey Newton to join the police force next chance he gets, because it's not exactly his trip.

So I devised a little scheme whereby everyone in the country, for one day out of each month, had to assume the role of the person or persons whose station and intellect he feared most. It was quite delightful, figuring out what everyone's role would be. J. Edgar Hoover spent the day stoned in a commune in Arizona. Spiro Agnew had to hawk copies of Muhammad Speaks in front of Grand Central Station. Radical student politicos took over the police departments of the nation. Lester Maddox shined shoes in Watts. Walter Hickel dropped acid in the Grand Canyon. Julius Hoffman served Panther breakfasts to school children in S. F. And Richard Nixon was allowed to do anything in the world that lie wanted to do, as long as he did it right.

"Oh-oh," Herbie said.

I sat up straighter in the seat. It was quite dark now; the street and the neighborhood were completely silent. Murphy was coming out of his house. He had his suit coat back on but no briefcase. And no other baggage.

I frowned as I watched. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know," Herbie said.

Murphy got into the red car, backed out and headed down the road.

We followed him.

He went north on an expressway and turned off at the Roxbury exit. That was a little bit of a surprise, but not much. Roxbury was as good a place as any.

While I drove, I said to Herbie: "You got the sack?"

"Yeah."

"And the piece?"

"Yeah. All set."

Murphy turned onto Massachusetts Avenue, still going north. He drove past the hospital, then turned right on Columbus Avenue.

"Maybe he's getting a little action," Herbie said and giggled again. But Murphy drove up Columbus. He went straight past the hookers without even slowing down.

We kept right after Murphy. He went up five blocks and turned right again, onto a side street, where he parked. We parked and watched as he got out of his car, walked around to the back, opened the trunk and removed a large suitcase.

"Far out," I said to myself.

Herbie started to get out of the car to follow Murphy, but I pushed him back. "My turn," I said. I got out and followed him down the street a short distance, then watched as he climbed the steps of one of the old brownstones. He kicked aside some broken glass, which clinked down the steps to the sidewalk. I paused a moment, then followed him up, my shoes making a crunching sound on the glass.

At the first level. I paused once again. I could hear Murphy going up the steps. I opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Then, cautiously, I looked up the stair well. I saw his hand grip the banister as he went up to the third floor. Then his hand disappeared and he paused and I saw him leaning back against the railing. A knock, then the door opened and he moved out of sight.

I waited there a moment, then took off, back to the car.

"You find it?" Herbie said.

"Yeah. Third floor on the right."

Silence. I smoked and tried to get my hands under control. In the back of my head was the thought that this might work after all, that we might pull it off. I hadn't really believed that all day. I didn't expect we'd get this far and, in some senses, I had hoped we wouldn't. Because from now on, the trip was for real.

Murphy came out of the brownstone about ten minutes later. He was empty-handed and he whistled The Caissons Go Rolling Along as he got into his car.

We waited a few minutes after he'd driven off and then Herbie said: "Ready?"

We got out of the car and walked toward the brownstone.

It is wrong to say we were nervous. We were terrified. We stood in the first-floor hallway of the brownstone, smelling the combination of old cabbage, urine, dust and mildew that hung in the air. As we started up the stairs, Herbie gave me the gun. "Just remember," he said. "Watch your fingers."

"Is it loaded?" I said. It felt light for a piece.

"Yeah," said Herbie. "Just watch your fingers. If they see——"

"OK, OK."

We came to the third-floor landing and walked around to the door. Herbie moved forward and I stayed behind him, keeping the gun out of sight as we had agreed. Staring at the door, I had a vision of a six-foot, six, 240-pound spade standing behind it, just waiting to grind up a couple of college punks.

Herbie knocked, looked back at me and smiled. He was enjoying himself, in his own nervous little way. He didn't know any better, I thought.

He knocked and waited. Nothing happened. Right at that point, I was ready to forget the whole thing and leave, but Herbie knocked again, louder. Then we heard soft footsteps inside. They didn't sound like the footsteps of anybody big; I began to feel better.

A voice said: "Who is it?"

Herbie glanced back at me, uncertain what to say.

"Who's there?" said the voice.

"Murphy," I growled. As soon as I said it, I knew it was stupid. Murphy wouldn't use his real name with a Roxbury front.

Behind the door, the front paused. "Who?"

There was nothing to do now but barge ahead. "Murphy," I said, in a louder voice. "I'm twenty bucks short."

We heard the chain rattling. Then the door opened and a pimply white creature nosed into view and said: "Listen, you counted it right in front——"

He broke off, staring at us. He started to slam the door, but Herbie got his foot in. "One moment," Herbie said. "We wish to make you a business proposition."

I pushed Herbie from behind and there was a creaking and then the soft crunch of rotten wood breaking as the chain lock lipped out of the door. We stepped into the room and the cat jumped back and stared at us.

"B-business," he said, "I-I'ma not innarested."

The last word came out in a tumble and as I looked at him, I saw why. He was thin and pale and his pupils were tiny. Arms covered with tracks. Speed freak. Probably paranoid as hell to begin with, I thought, without a couple of dudes barging into his room and pulling a piece on him. Then I realized that the way we were standing, he wouldn't be able to see the piece, and I moved aside from Herbie enough so that he could dig it. He crumpled onto the floor and babbled as Herbie said: "Hear us out. We have no intention of doing you any bodily harm." He paused to look around the room. "You seem quite capable of taking care of that yourself." At this, the guy only babbled some more, the words flowing out in an unintelligible staccato as he groveled on the floor. "Please sit down," Herbie said, giggling, and the guy pulled himself over to the single mattress in the room and collapsed. The room was definitely a speed freak's home sweet home. The walls were peeling and a couple of posters hung over the places that were peeling the worst. The floor was littered with empty soda cans and candy wrappers, and right next to the mattress were a set of works and an old spoon in a glass of water. Ho-hum. A couple of bags of what looked like hydrochloride. And Murphy's suitcase.

By this time, the cat was speaking in longer sentences.

"Listen," he said, "I don't got no money, honest I don't——"

And Herbie motioned him to be silent. "We don't want your money," he said. "We have an offer to make."

The guy jumped up and I waved the gun at him. "Don't mess with me," I said, doing my best to sound lethal. "I'm getting nervous with this piece." He sat down again and Herbie went over and started fooling with the telephone. It was my rap.

"OK," I said, "here's the deal. We're willing to give you two hundred and fifty dollars, a good fucking price, for each one of those bricks Murphy laid on you."

"Bu-but," he said, and looked up at the piece.

"Murphy," I said, "the cat who was just in here. We'll give you two hundred and fifty dollars for each one of his bricks. Think about it. You could be out of town before they even knew you'd gone wrong on them. And you wouldn't have to shoot that shit anymore"—waving the gun in the direction of the hydrochloride. "Get it? You'd be a rich man. Nothing but pure Meth, pure coke, anything you wanted. Pure. No more street shit for you, brother."

He looked, or, rather, squinted at me with a new respect. I had touched his frame of reference. The word Meth, the very idea of pure Meth, filled his mind and a soft glow spread over his face. An involuntary "Wow!" seeped out of him.

"OK," I said, "now you got the picture. And all you gotta do for that bread is produce those bricks." The words broke his reverie.

"Lissen, fe-fe-fellas, I'd like to he-help ya, bu-but I can't tell you what I don't know, da-dig? I don't have an-nothing. Da-dig? I'm a dra-drop, dra-drop, I'm a drop-off man. They give me the ra-room and I pay out the bread. I never seen a bra-brick for two years now, da-dig? The cats come in here and I pa-pay 'em what I got." He stopped and looked at the piece. "Honest."

"Listen, Speedy." I said, "we haven't got the time, da-dig?" Herbie laughed. "Now, who pays for this room and who gets the dope and who sets up with guys like Murphy?"

"Mm-Ma-Murphy?" he said, or, rather, tried to say.

"The punk who was just in here, the pig you paid off. Who sets you up with him?"

"Th-tha-that guy's a pa-pig?" said Speedy, incredulous.

"Herbie," I said, "he's gonna need a little work." Herbie nodded. He was enjoying the whole thing tremendously.

"You got the silencer, just in case?" he said and I smiled grimly.

"Nah-no! Fellas, ha-ha, honest!" He sounded like he had hay fever. "I'll tell yahs what I know. A sp-spade dude-dude I met on the street seh-seh-sets me up, honest. Tha-that's all."

"Herbie," I said, cold as ice. "Check the mattress." Herbie went over to the mattress as I motioned Speedy off with a wave of the piece.

"Hey," he said, "ha-who do you think you are?"

"Unless you wanna find out, you better shut up," I said. Herbie lifted the mattress and there, lo and behold, were our bricks. "Pull 'em out!" I said to Herbie.

"Ha-hey!" said Speedy, suddenly realizing what was going on. "You ca-can't take those. The ma-man's coming by tonight for th-those!"

"Well, then, we'd better be on our way," I said. "Herbie, put the dope in the sack and let's leave this punk to his works." Spoken in the best tough-guy, out-of-the-corner-of-the-mouth tones I could muster. Speedy was not impressed.

"Ha-hey! What about my br-bread?"

"Shut up, punk," I said; but just as Herbie had turned his back on him, the freak had lunged for the sack of dope and they were both down on the floor.

"Up," I shouted. "Get up unless you wanna eat some lead," and he stood up, leaving Herbie rolling around on the floor, laughing.

"Too much," Herbie said. "Eat some lead. Too much."

Speedy looked at Herbie, then back at me, and stepped forward with a lead-be-damned gleam in his eyes. "Pa-punk, heh?" he gurgled. "Punk, punk, alla ta-time punk, heh? Whozza pa-pa-unk?"

He was only about a yard away from me and I was thinking we had to get out of there fast. "Stay back," I said. "Rack!"

But he kept on coming and finally. I felt myself getting excited and desperate at the same time, and a strange feeling was welling up inside me, power, a power feeling his fate in my hands and all of a sudden, I knew that his fate was in my hands and I felt the rush of it, I'm going to do it, I rushed, I'm going to do it, and I pulled the trigger, thinking simultaneously, Oh, my God, I've done it. Oh, my God, what have I done, I've done it——

And just then, a fine stream of water arced out of the gun, hitting Speedy in the knees.

He was so freaked he didn't understand for a minute, but then he knew what had happened and jumped at me. Herbie was on the floor again, laughing, and I knew that I was going to have to put Speedy away for a while to get us out of there in one piece. Fortunately, speed freaks are not noted for their muscle tone. A quick right to the temple brought him to the floor and then I dropped down on him, knees first, and caught him in the crotch. Another right and a left to the jaw and he was gone. It'd look better that way, I thought, when the man showed up. I pulled Herbie up from the floor and we ran.

We were almost to the second floor when the first gunshot echoed through the hallway and the banister nearby splintered. We dropped to the floor, ducking back into the shadows.

"Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit," Herbie said. He was too scared to say anything else.

I looked up toward the third floor. A cloud of pale-blue smoke hung in the air. I started to move downward again and there was another gunshot. This time, I saw the flame spurt from the rifle. Speedy was up there, all right. But his shot was wide—he couldn't hit anything in his condition.

"Come on," I said, "he can't hit anything."

"The hell he can't." Herbie said, crouched down behind the splintered banister.

All around us, the apartment building was beginning to wake up. We heard people moving and talking in their rooms. No doors opened, though; everybody was afraid to look out. On the other hand, they'd certainly be phoning the heat.

"Come on, Herbie!"

For a moment, he stayed curled up, paralyzed, and then he sprang forward. We sprinted downstairs. There were two more shots. And then, just as we were going out the door, a final shot and Herbie shouted, "I'm hit, I'm hit!" He stumbled and fell through the front door and lay on the steps.

I was already halfway down the steps when I heard him cry out. I ran back up, knowing that Speedy would now be racing from the stair well to the outside window. I grabbed the sack full of dope that Herbie had dropped and helped him to his feet. He was wincing with pain.

"Got me ... in the shoulder ... bad," Herbie said. I put my arm around his waist and got him down the steps and off to the car. There was one more shot as we drove off into the night.

The nearest place was Sandra's apartment. It took us about ten minutes to get there, ten very bad minutes with Herbie trying to be manful about things bin not succeeding very well. He kept talking about how he could feel the blood running down his back. I wanted to take him to a doctor, but he said no, no doctors, no—and anyway, we couldn't go to a doctor with a car full of dope, so I drove to Sandra's. I got him up the steps to the apartment. John wasn't there; no one answered the buzzer. I reached up above the door, found the key and unlocked the door.

John and Sandra wouldn't dig Herbie's blood all over the apartment, but that was just too bad for now. I threw the sack of dope inside, then helped Herbie down the hallway to the bedroom. He was groaning softly and was covered with sweat.

"Easy, now, easy," I said, helping him down onto the bed. "Let's get your jacket off." He moaned as I removed it, his face contorted; with the jacket off, I got him onto his stomach and pulled out his shirt, which I then tore straight up the back to see how bad the wound was.

And stopped.

For a flash, I was puzzled, and then I began to get pissed. Fucking Herbie. "Where does it hurt, man?"

"Oh ... oh ... in the middle ... right shoulder ... around the scap ... scapula."

"Yes." I said. "I see." What I saw was a smooth, slightly flabby, white expanse of unbroken skin. "Doesn't look too bad though. Here, you better see for yourself. Go look in the mirror."

"OK," Herbie said, doing the heavy number. With a wince, he said: "Give me a hand up, Pete, buddy."

"Sure." I whipped him off the bed with one hand and watched in silence as he staggered to his feet and walked into the bathroom. The bathroom light went on and there was a long silence.

Finally, quietly, came an awed voice: "Far out."

There then followed another long silence, in which I lit a cigarette, smoked it and tried to keep from going in and plugging the little bastard myself. Alter a while, I heard him say: "Most perplexing." And then, finally, he came back into the bedroom.

"I know what you're thinking," Herbie said. He was being very dignified and composed. "And I apologize for being an alarmist." And then he walked out of the room.

"Hey, where're you going?" I went out into the hallway after him and found him returning with the sack of dope. He walked toward the kitchen and, as he passed me, he said: "I think we'd better count the bricks, don't you?"

He had made a fast recovery and I told him so. He didn't say anything in response. Out in the kitchen, he began to count the bricks while I raided Sandra's refrigerator. Sandra is a candy freak. Every kind of American, Italian, Spanish, Swiss, Indonesian, Japanese candy is found in her refrigerator. While I was looking, I said: "How many bricks?"

"What?" Preoccupied voice.

"How many bricks?"

"C'mere and dig this, Peter."

I turned around to look. He was holding the sack in front of him. At first, I saw nothing. Then, to demonstrate, he stuck his finger into the neat little hole.

"Interesting?" he said. He then picked up one of the bricks and cut it open with a knife before I could protest. There was a piece of dull gray metal embedded in the brick.

I went over and plucked it out. "Far out." I said.

"The sack was over my right shoulder," Herbie said.

"Far out," I said again.

"I believe you owe me an apology," Herbie said.

And then I began to laugh. "I owe you more than that," I said. "I owe you the biggest smoke of your life." I got a piece of newspaper and tore it into quarters and pulled off a chunk of brick and began to roll it into a joint.

As Herbie watched, he said with a small smile: "All in all, it was pretty exciting, wasn't it?"

• • •

An hour later, we were still in the kitchen, drafting the statement. We were both very stoned and very happy. I was writing and Herbie was dictating. I said: "How about. Please release her tomorrow morning'?"

"No," Herbie said. "Make it strong. 'I want her released tomorrow morning'—and then put in the D.A. and the Globe and all that."

I nodded and made the changes.

"Is that it?" Herbie said.

"That's it," I said and picked up the phone to call. The first three times I dialed, I got the siren whine of a nonexistent number. Finally, the fourth time, it began to ring. I was very, very stoned.

A woman's voice: "Hello?"

I said, "Lieutenant Murphy, please. This is Captain Fry of the narcotics division."

"Just a minute, Captain."

A long silence at the other end of the phone, presumably while Murphy tried to figure out who the hell Captain Fry was—or who would be calling saying he was Captain Fry. Or what Captain Fry would want at this time of night, if, indeed, there really were a Captain Fry, whom he had never heard of.... God, I was zonked.

Finally: "Murphy here."

I jumped at the sound of his voice, the familiarity of it. For a moment, I flashed back to Alameda County and the interrogation room, the knee in the chops, the whole riff. Then I got hold of myself. "Yes," I said. "This is a mutual acquaintance of—a mutual acquaintance. I thought you would appreciate knowing that I have acquired twelve kilograms of marijuana that have an interesting set of fingerprints on them."

"Who is this?"

"The kilograms are wrapped in papers with a peace symbol and 'Berkeley 890' on them, which allows their California origin to be quite reliably established. The fingerprints," I continued, "are yours and Susan Blake's. That is an interesting combination. It is easy to explain how that combination of fingerprints got there. But I wonder, is it possible to explain how they came into my hands?"

"Who's calling?" Murphy said, his voice tense.

"I think that a lot of people would be curious enough to be interested in my explanation," I said. "I have one very curious acquaintance in the district attorney's office and another at The Boston Globe."

There was a long, taut silence. Murphy was thinking it over. And he was going to play it our way, I knew. He had no choice. He'd have to drop charges on Sukie.

"What do you want?" he said, finally.

"I want the girl released and all charges dropped."

There was a long, slow sigh at the other end. The bastard obviously wasn't used to having other people play as rough as he did. Finally, he cleared his throat.

"Now, you listen to me, punk, and listen good. You can't touch me, you can't even rile me. You go near the D.A.'s office with those bricks and I'll see to it personally that you get busted. Now. As far as I'm concerned, you can go right ahead and do anything you want. I'm going back to bed."

Click!

Herbie had been sitting across the table from me. He must have seen my face fall. "What happened?" he said.

I couldn't believe it. I was shaking my head, absolutely not believing it. "He didn't go for it." I said.

I was suddenly ghastly sober, the kind of sober where the room lights seem brighter and the shadows sharper and everything is a little bit uglier. I got up and poured myself a Scotch—some of John's Chivas, this time, the hell with him. I felt it slosh down in my stomach over the Perugina chocolate and I thought about Speedy shooting at us and I began to feel sick. I spent a few hours standing there, leaning against the wall, trying to decide whether I would make it or not, and finally decided I wouldn't. I jumped for the sink.

"Flawless," Herbie said.

I turned and looked back at him. The world was green. "Thanks," I said.

"I meant the plan," Herbie said, ignoring me as I wiped my mouth with a towel. He ticked the points off on his fingers. "Murphy is fronting bricks. His prints are on them. We recover the fronted bricks. We threaten to expose him unless he releases the girl. He releases the girl. We expose him anyway. A flawless plan."

"It didn't work," I said again. "You can't bust pigs, no matter how fucked up they are."

Herbie nodded in a puzzled way. "He must have protection," he said. "That's the only answer."

I laughed and, as I did, the green world shifted back to glaring white. "Uh-uh," I said. "He doesn't give a crap, that's all. He knows that a couple of punk kids are trying to rip him off and he doesn't mind a bit. He knows they can't touch him. The day when freaks bust wrong pigs is the day that——"

"I find that difficult to believe," Herbie said, sounding for all the world like my old man.

"Yeah, well, that's what's happening." I was beginning to see what it meant, from Murphy's viewpoint, to be hassled by a couple of kids. And I began to see just how little power we had. Nobody ever had power unless someone gave it to him. Murphy wasn't giving us an inch.

"Maybe he doesn't think we can do it," Herbie said.

"Maybe we can't," I said. It had all been an enormous bluff. We didn't know anybody on the newspapers or at the D.A.'s office. We didn't know anybody, period.

John chose that happy moment to walk in with Sandra. She ran for the John and he came into the kitchen, sniffing the air. "Jesus, it stinks in here." He walked over to the sink, took a look and shook his head. "Harkness, you never could——"

"And you couldn't, either," I said. "Go get bent, or get lost, or preferably both."

John paused to savor the atmosphere. "What've you dudes been up to"

"The impossible," Herbie said.

Then John saw the bricks on the kitchen table. His spirits rose. "My, my, what have we here?"

Nobody said anything.

"Fine stuff," he said, crumbling a bit between his fingers. "Almost as good as——" He stopped, looked at another brick, at the stamp on the wrapper. "Where'd you pick this up?"

He looked over at me. I didn't say anything. So he looked over at Herbie. "Three guesses," Herbie said. John just stood there, totally out of it, and then Sandra walked in and began clucking about the smell. I was feeling a little sick again. John saw the bottle of Chivas out and began bitching about my drinking his stuff again. All I could think of was the way we couldn't touch Murphy. It didn't seem possible that he was untouchable. It wasn't possible. It couldn't be possible.

"Herbie," I said, "we can do it."

"How's that?" Herbie sounded bored.

"We could arrange a trade."

"No!" He sat suddenly upright. "That ruins everything. The whole point of the plan——"

"I know," I said. "But the flawless plan didn't work. We already know that. The only thing we can do is trade."

"You mean," Herbie said, his mouth turning down in distaste, "give him the bricks?"

"Give who the bricks?" John said sharply. He had suddenly forgotten all about the Scotch.

"Yes," I said. "Give them to him."

"That's nowhere," Herbie said. "That's greasing the wheels, playing right into the system. Greasing Murphy's wheels."

"What's going on?" John demanded. He seemed almost frightened, not to know what was going on. A power trip that he wasn't part of. Frightening.

"We'd be playing right into it, anyway," I said, "if we tried to buy her off on Monday."

"It's not the same," Herbie said. "You got to believe in justice sometime. You got to believe that if this stuff went to the papers and the district attorney——"

"No," I said. I didn't believe it. And for some reason, I remembered a conversation I'd once had with my father about Boston justice. I was telling him how Superspade got busted and then thought he bought off, only to be arrested by Murphy. He refused to believe the story. I tried to make him believe it—believe that everyone in Boston, from the mayor to the garbage collectors, was crooked.

"But think what that means, or would mean, if it were true," my father had said.

I had never thought about it. Not really. But I was thinking now.

"It won't work," Herbie said. "Even if he agrees, he'll take the bricks and keep the chick anyway."

"Maybe not," I said.

"Maybe not," Herbie mimicked sarcastically. "You going to trust him?"

"Will somebody please tell me what the hell is going on here?" John said, almost shouting.

But by that time, I was checking through Sandra's silverware, plucking at the tines of her forks, trying to find one that sounded good. And when I did, I picked up the phone and dialed.

"You're crazy," Herbie said with a frown.

"Who're you calling?" John said. His voice had a slight whine now, a very atypical voice for John. I began to see him differently.

This time, a male voice answered the phone directly. An irritable male: "Hello."

"Lieutenant Murphy?" I said. I looked over at Herbie and John. John was beginning to get the picture. His mouth was open.

"Yeah."

"Is this Lieutenant Murphy?" I said again.

"Yeah."

"I'm calling with a business proposition and——"

"Not interested. Goodbye——"

"Wait," I said. I had a flash of desperation. And the bastard waited. I could hear him breathing at the other end. "I've got twelve bricks here," I said. "They were ... borrowed from a gentleman in Boston. As you know, their market value is in the neighborhood of three thousand dollars. I'd like you to have them."

"What for?" He was growling, but he was interested.

"All we want is the girl," I said. "Drop charges and release her. We'll get the twelve bricks to you."

"That's not good enough, sonny," Murphy said. "Goodbye."

By now, though, I knew he wasn't going to hang up. "As a demonstration of faith," I said, "we will arrange for you to receive four bricks tonight. You'll get the rest on her release."

"Six bricks," Murphy said.

"Six bricks?" I said. "That seems an awful lot."

"Six bricks," Murphy said, "and not one less."

"You're not being very reasonable, Lieutenant Murphy," I said. "But if you want six bricks, then"—and here I plucked the tines of the fork—"six it will be."

"What was that?" Murphy said.

"Are we agreed on six bricks?" I said. And I plucked the tines once more. It didn't make a very realistic sound, but then, it didn't have to.

"What was that noise?"

"We'll call you in an hour," I said, "to tell you where you can collect the bricks. Is that satisfactory?"

"What was that noise?" But he knew damned well what the noise was, or thought he knew.

"We want you to be honest," I said. "That's just our way of keeping things up front. We'll talk to you in an hour."

And I hung up.

Herbie was staring at me. "Far out," he said.

John said: "What was the fork stuff?"

"Brilliant," Herbie said, "brilliant. We can drop the bricks at the Museum of Science and——"

"What was the fork?" John said.

I plucked it again and listened to the brief twink it made. "Our tape recorder," I said and began to laugh.

"Murphy's forked himself," Herbie laughed. I was laughing so hard there were tears in my eyes.

Only John wasn't laughing. He was frowning and staring at the bricks. Then he frowned and stared at us. And finally, he said: "He'll still rip you off."

"Who?" I said. "Murphy? After we taped him?"

"Yeah," John said. He didn't explain. He just sat back and watched us as we stopped laughing slowly, the laughs turning into coughs and then silence.

"What do you mean?" Herbie said.

"I mean." John said, "that Murphy is going to sit back and ask himself what kind of taping device makes a beeping noise. And he's going to decide that only a commercial device does—like they use for telephone interviews on the news radios and stuff. And he's going to decide that a bunch of snot-nosed kids don't have a commercial device, that they have a kitchen fork and are trying to rip him off."

I shook my head. "He's not that smart."

I looked over at Herbie for confirmation. Herbie was staring at his feet.

John said: "Murphy'll take your six bricks, keep the girl and figure out a way to bust you later on."

"No way," I said and laughed. But John wasn't laughing and Herbie wasn't laughing. And I began thinking about Murphy and the interrogation room in the Alameda County Jail, and I began to think that maybe they were right on. Murphy was a pig—the pig.

I stood up. "All right," I said. "The only way is to arrange a trade."

John shook his head. "Who do you think you're messing with, man?"

But by now I was thinking very fast and seeing things clearly. Seeing how it could be done. I picked up the phone again.

• • •

There is no building in Boston quite like South Station. It'll be torn down soon for some new structure, but in the meantime, it is unique, giant, cavernous, dirty and deserted. Especially at three o'clock in the morning. The faint smell of piss hung over everything—the dirty walls, the cracked wooden benches, the handful of sailors and derelicts who were sitting around.

I arrived by taxi and walked in the west entrance. It had once been pretty fashionable, the west entrance, with a broad metal canopy leading up to six swinging doors to the inside. Just back of the doors were rows of telephone booths. I paused at one to take down the number. Then I went back outside. There was a taxi rank lined up at the curb, the drivers sitting back in their cars, smoking cigarettes. I went to the first cab and said to the driver, "I want you to do me a favor."

"Sure," he said. "You and the President."

I held out a ten spot. He looked appeased. "What's the story?"

"In half an hour," I said, "a man will get into your taxi and say he is a police officer. Ask to see his identification. If he produces it, drive him to the Newton tolls. This should cover everything." I wagged the ten-dollar bill.

"That right?" the driver said.

"This is police business," I said gravely.

"It don't sound——"

"OK," I said and started down the line toward the second taxi.

"Just a minute!"

I went back and looked at my driver. His name, I could read on the seat-plate identification card, was Joseph V. Murphy. Naturally.

"Just a minute," he said. "The Newton tolls?"

"Yeah."

"Fifteen bucks and I'll take him. That covers my waiting time. I might get a customer, you know."

I looked around the deserted station entrance. What the hell. "OK," I said. "Fifteen." I gave him the money and made a production out of writing down his name and license number. He saw me do it.

"What's this all about?" he said.

"Undercover," I said. "Narcotics division."

The cabby looked at me. Then he looked at the $15. Then he nodded and I went back inside.

The first part was completed. I rechecked the telephone number in the booth. I sat in the booth and looked out. From where I sat, I could see through to the street and to the warehouses beyond. There were dozens of windows, all dark, in the buildings across the street. Perfect.

Whistling now, I went into the innards of the station. A train was pulling up on one of the far tracks; I heard the metallic screech of brakes and the hiss of steam. Otherwise, it was silent. A half-dozen sailors sat laughing drunkenly on one of the benches near the center of the room. I went over and sat down next to them, placing my nondescript suitcase (an old one of Sandra's, wiped of prints) at my feet. The sailors ignored me. After a moment, I leaned over toward the nearest one and said, "I got to take a leak. Watch my bag?"

"Yeah, sure," the sailor said and kept on talking with his friends. I wandered off.

Fifteen minutes to go. I kept glancing at my watch. I looked back at the sailors, wondering if they'd decide to take off with the bag or open it. But they weren't paying any attention. I went over to the train schedules, pretended to read them and then wandered over to a far corner of the station, where there were more telephone booths. I sat down in one of them. I could barely see the booths near the entrance; they were perhaps 100 yards away and down a slight incline.

I sat and waited.

I kept thinking of things that could go wrong. A million things could go wrong. For instance, he could flood the place with narcs—but that would mean he'd have to split the take, or else he'd have to play it straight. Too much bread in it for that to happen. Unless Murphy was going to be honest. A dreary thought. I waited.

At 3:30, I looked over at the west entrance. Nobody there. Five more minutes passed and still no one arrived. I was beginning to worry. And then I saw him come through the doors.

Sukie was with him. No cuffs. He'd done it—he'd gotten her off, had charges dropped and brought her to South Station for the exchange. Just as I'd told him.

For a moment, I felt exhilaration, and then caution. Murphy stood with Sukie in the center of the west entrance, waiting. He said something to her; she shook her head.

I put my dime into the slot and dialed. Faintly, I could hear the phone ringing in the booth near where Sukie was standing with Murphy. They ignored it for a moment. Then Murphy looked over at the pay phone. One pay phone in a row of 12 just doesn't start ringing at about 3:30 in the morning for no reason. He went over to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Murphy," I said.

I could see his body stiffen. He started looking around, back toward the inside of the station and then outside.

"Forget that," I said. "I'm where I can see you and you can't see me—unless you want to search a lot of buildings." That one worked; he was looking out toward the entrance.

"Is the girl free?"

"Yeah."

"Let me talk to her a minute."

"I want those——"

"Let me talk to her. I'm watching you."

"You son of a——"

"You want to blow it, Murphy? And have to book her again? What would they think about that, down at the station?"

There was a long silence. Then he waved Sukie over. He remained sitting in the booth. He held his hand over the receiver, said something to her and then gave her the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Sukie," I said, "don't speak. Just listen. I want you to answer yes or no to my questions. Have you been released?"

"Yes."

"Have charges been dropped?"

"Yes."

"Is Murphy alone?"

"I think so."

"All right. Give the phone back to him."

She did. I watched Murphy take the receiver. "All right, now, you little——"

"First of all," I said, "send the girl to stand by the information booth in the center of the station. Then go over to where the sailors are sitting. You'll see a black suitcase near one of them. The suitcase contains six bricks. Go check that."

"What about the rest?"

"I'll tell you about it."

Murphy put down the receiver. He said something to Sukie, who walked away from him. Then he went over to the sailors and demanded the suitcase. They protested. He flashed his badge. They gave it to him. He walked back to the telephone, sat down, opened the suitcase and checked.

"The bricks there?" I said.

"Yeah."

"All right. Here's how you get the rest. Go out to the taxi rank and get into the first cab. Say you are a policeman and show identification. The driver will take you to where the rest of the bricks are—and they'll be there, if nothing happens to the girl in the meantime. Understand?"

"Yeah." Very low.

"Anything happens to the girl between now and then, and by the time you get to the drop-off, the stuff'll be gone. Understand?"

"Yeah."

"OK." And I hung up.

Murphy closed the suitcase and walked out toward the door. At the door, he was met by three other men in raincoats. So he had been planning something, after all. He spoke to the men; they glanced at Sukie, standing alone in the middle of the station. The men went away. Murphy got into the cab.

The cab drove off.

It was over. I got out of the booth and went to the center of South Station, put my arms around her and kissed her.

Murphy's trip to the Newton tolls was, of course, a waste of time. There was no more dope at the Newton tolls that night than there was on any other night. Six bricks wasn't much of a burn, but it was the best we could do for such a close friend.

All Sukie had to say in the taxi back to Cambridge was, "How can those bastards arrest you and then decide, two days later, that they don't have enough evidence to hold you?"

"It's not easy," I said, laughing.

She laughed with me.

The narc, with Sukie in tow, picked up the phone and Peter told him he'd produce the pot when the girl was freed.

This is the third and concluding installment of "Dealing."