Hustle (11 page)

“What’s with you and that phone anyway?”

“I told you …”

“I know, I know, it’s got pictures of your kid, your wife, your real life. The one you lead when you’re not sucking dicks for dope money.”

Donny interrupted, “He’s got all our phones, and all our wallets.”

“You’ll live,” said Bear.

“We can help you,” said Big Rich.

“How?”
The whiskey was starting to effect Bear, he was ready to laugh in the kid’s face.

“We know
Gilly.”

Chapter 11

The three of them crowded into the Toyota, Bear and Rich in the front with Donny in the back. They started out toward the Mission District to see if the Gilly in the notebook was the same one that Rich and Donny knew. Bear thought it was pretty likely; how many Gillys could there be in San Francisco? He’d taken a chance calling Watson; he’d found his number, too, in Dustin’s address book. Watson was a scumbag, a tweaker, but at least it was a name he recognized. Maybe, Bear thought, Watson knew this Gilly character. It was worth a shot. All these fucking tweakers seemed to know each other. Maybe they had clandestine union meetings at some dumpster in an alley somewhere.

Big Rich
described Gilly as a wayward soul from Texas, spun in the City. He was a meth-head who dabbled in computer scams, identity theft, stolen property, and, of course, drugs. Rich had said the guy lived in a flat on Treat Street at 22
nd
in the Mission District. He also said that he had a lot of roommates; Big Rich was pretty sure that someone would be up. Big surprise.

“How do you know this guy?” asked Bear.

“Oh, he’s a good guy. I used to trade him computer stuff for speed. And for a while I was cashing checks for him.”

“He’s got money?”

“Nah, he ain’t got shit. He was printin’ ‘em up on the computer. He’s good with that stuff. He can do ID’s and everything.”

“Sound
s like a real class act,” said Bear.

They drove
down Gough Street with Big Rich monopolizing the conversation. He went on about how Gilly was a great fence, and, then, paper-hanger. How he’d employ tweakers to root through garbage cans and dumpsters looking for discarded checks and other information. He’d take the checks and print them up on his own, using special ink and printers, then, he’d forge ID’s for people to take into the bank, California driver licenses with the same name that was on the check. The banks eventually got wise and technology got better. Rich got popped a few times. They took his fake ID and he spent a few nights sick in County lock-up. Gilly had to find a better scam. That’s when Gilly moved into selling speed, and then manufacturing it, too. Right there in his flat, said Rich. The whole placed smelled like paint-thinner.

Donny stayed quiet in back while Rich rambled on
about his criminal accomplishments. It took a while to sink in, but Bear’s comments about sucking dicks had stuck with him. The man was obviously disgusted by their company. In truth, Donny couldn’t blame him. They were dope fiends: the lowest kind of criminal. He was already thinking about getting high. Even now, he was wondering if he could find a way for them to cop, wondering if he could just get out of the car and go fix at his hotel and forget all about tonight. Donny tuned out completely from the conversation in the front. A fragment of a pop song he hated played over and over in his head.

He snapped out
of his daydream when he heard Big Rich ask Bear, “If you’re a biker, how come you’re not on a bike?”

“’
Cause all three of us couldn’t fit on a bike.”

Rich nodded like this seemed to make sense to him.

“Okay, 22
nd
and Treat,” said Bear, “Where’s this guy’s place at?”

Rich told Bear to take a right
onto Treat Street and they crawled up the block. Rich pointed the place out, a decrepit-looking two-story in need of a paint job. Bear kept going.

“What are you doing? Looking for a place to park?”

“I’m looking for the old man’s car, the Bentley. See if it’s near here.”

They tooled
around the surrounding blocks. Each time they passed the flat where Rich had said Gilly lived Bear would slow and look up the marble stairs, hoping to see some kind of activity. Nothing. Bear kept going, and, after not finding the Bentley, looked for a parking spot of his own.

The
y found a spot about a block away and walked back to the house. As they walked up the steps toward the door, Bear could hear music, voices. Rich rang the bell. No response. Rich knocked on the door. They waited until they heard footsteps.

The door cracked open and
a prematurely aged woman stuck her head out. Bear could tell she would have been a looker in her youth, but the speed had obviously taken its toll. Her teeth were gray and she had that sickly pallor that all drug fiends get when the years stack up against them.

“Kathy,” said Big Rich. “Is
Gilly up? I need to see him.”

Kathy said, “Tommy?”

“No, Gilly.”

“No, I mean, are you Tommy?”

“No, I’m Rich. Remember me?”

“Not really. Who did you want to see?”

“Gilly.”

“Hang on,” she said and shut the door.
They heard her footsteps pounding up the inside stairs, and, after a few moments, heard them coming back down. The door opened, “What was your name again?”

“Rich, Big Rich.
Tell Gilly it’s important. He knows who I am.”

She shut the door again and went
back upstairs to give Gilly the message. Rich said, “Fucking cunt. I stood next to her every day at the methadone clinic for six months and she don’t even ‘member who I am.”

“Yeah,” said Bear. “Drugs fuck people up.”

Big Rich missed the joke entirely, but Donny smiled. Bear caught him and shot Donny a wink. The door opened again, wide this time, and another person stood there, fat and greasy, face full of acne framed by glasses so thick they made his eyes look like they were being squeezed out of his head. He wore a dirty white T-shirt that clung to his humid body and a pair of dark blue sweats that were peppered with burn-holes. He said, “Hey, Rich. Gilly says c’mon up.” The man didn’t inquire as to whom Rich’s guests were, so they all followed him up the stairs single-file. When they reached the top, the fat man turned and said, “Just wait in the kitchen for a minute, okay? Gilly’s finishing up some business.”

The fat man walked away to a bedroom down the hall, so the three followed the source of the most noise and found the kitchen.
They crowded into the tiny space that was already occupied by five others. Three of those five sat around a red Formica table looking over-heated in their interchangeable white T-shirts that were spotted and speckled with what looked like dried blood. The other two nodded solemnly while they stood and smoked near the door-less pantry that was stocked with not food but well-used appliances. They let their cigarette ashes drop to the floor and seemed to communicate only with quiet grunts.

The first thing Bear noticed was the sink. There was no other place to
stand, so he was forced to be closest to the pile of abandoned dishes that filled the sink. They were piled above the level of the counter, balancing high and leaning on one another like a filthy house of cards that may come crashing down at any moment. The basin was bone dry, but the dishes still managed to grow a spectrum of molds. The stink was sour and he couldn’t understand why no one else was wincing because of it.

He fought back a gag and turned to see the table. On it were two scales
—one electric, one weighted—empty baggies of every size imaginable, glass pipes, burned spoons coated inside with brown goo, overflowing ashtrays, needles—some new, some filled with dried blood—an empty bag of cat food, which immediately made Bear notice the ammonia smell of cat piss mixing in with the decomposing food. He reached into his coat for a Camel to combat the stink.

The moment Bear shook out a smoke, one of the fiends at the table turned to him and said, “Hey Buddy, mind if I get one of those?”

Bear said, “Sorry, last one,” and slipped the pack back into his pocket. The guy at the table turned his attention back to his drugs, shaking some white powder into a dirty spoon.

Donny didn’t bother lighting up. He wasn’t sure how many smokes he had left and he didn’t want to give any up. The action at the table made
him jones a little. He wanted to ask if he could get in on some, whatever they were doing. He knew Rich would be feeling the same way. He watched them work, drawing up the shit in their rigs, arguing about who got more, who was going to pound the cottons. He looked over at Rich and saw him staring wide-eyed, mouth open, lost in his own desires. 

One of the guys at the table said, “Don’t put coke in mine, I
gotta muscle it.”

The one on the end sai
d, “I already did, I thought you wanted it. Have Kathy hit you in the armpit. She’s good at it.”

The one in the middle said, “At least she’s good for something.”

Then the first one, “I can’t hit my armpits, they’re blown out.”

“You can’t blow out your armpits, you’re just missing.
I been getting a spot in there for months. You just have to know how to do it.”

The wise-ass in the middle said, “Try your neck, that’s easy. I hit mine almost every
day.”

Sure enough, Bear noticed, there was a dark blue bruise crowned with tiny scabs running up the man’s jugular.

Big Rich interrupted, “I can hit you in the neck, or in the armpit. Just give me the wash and I’ll do it.”

The guy on the end turned to Rich, seemed to be considering it, but then the first guy said. “You can’t give him the wash; it’s not yours to give. I promised Sarah the rinse. She’s sitting back there
in the room sick.”

The guy wit
h the needle decided he was going to muscle it anyway.

The one in the middle, who seemed to know
everything, told him, “You can’t muscle coke, you’ll get an abscess.”

“Sure you can, I do it all the time. Just no rush, that’s all.” He stuck the needle into his shoulder and pressed the plunger. Bear watch
ed a lump form under his skin. Bear was disgusted. He flicked his ashes in the debris behind him and wondered how much longer it would be until he could question this Gilly character.

“Rich?” a
voice sounded from down hallway, “Big Rich? C’mere.”

Bear was relieved. He couldn’t take another minute in the kitchen. He followed the two boys out into a dark hallway. The three followed the voice.

At the end of the hall, standing in a doorway, was a young, spindly man. He had dirty blond hair and wisps of a beard, more peach fuzz than whiskers. He was grinning and showing a gap where one of his front teeth had rotted out—or been knocked out. He wore camouflage pants that bore the same burn holes as the fat man who’d answered the door. He wore no shirt to cover his skinny frame and his skin was covered in a film of greasy sweat.

“
Gilly,” said Rich, “long time, no see.”

“How’re you
doin’? Come in, come in.” He ushered them into a cramped space that was lit with colored bulbs. The room was sealed off to outside light; it would be impossible to tell from inside if it was day or night. Bear let his eyes adjust and looked around. The walls were stacked with computer equipment, most of which looked like it had been pulled from a dumpster. The floor was knotted with wires and cords tethering some of the pieces together. A large, old TV was playing without any sound, but music came from somewhere, a fast heavy-metal song that playing so low it sounded like violent static.

“Move that shit,” said
Gilly, pointing to a couch that was covered with cardboard boxes and papers. Donny scooped up enough of the debris to make room for the three of them and they sat down, in the same arrangement as when they’d sat on the couch at Thaxton’s

When they had settled,
Gilly introduced himself. He was friendly, polite, and laying on that thick Texas accent.

“So,” said
Gilly to Rich, a serious tone creeping into his voice. “What brings you around? You haven’t been seen since all that bullshit went down.”

“I been
broke, haven’t had anything together lately. You know how it is.”

Gilly
nodded thoughtfully. His mind was already far away from the conversation. Then he said, “You guys want a hit, see what’s new in pharmaceutical science?”

Rich
grinned and said sure and Donny quickly nodded. Bear sat still. He was still assessing, thinking about when to break in with his line of questioning. Gilly took a loaded glass pipe from the top of a monitor and held a lighter under it. He inhaled deeply and passed it to Rich while he kept the smoke in his lungs. He watched Rich re-light the pipe and suck in the smoke before he asked, “So, who are your friends?”

“This is Donny, I think you know Donny. He’s been over here before.
And that there is Bear.”

“
You lookin’ to buy something?” Gilly said to Bear, “I got this shit, and some cheaper stuff, all you need. The glass you can fuckin’ see through and the raw, it’s cheap, but it’s got a real …
ka-bang
.”

Big
Rich passed the pipe to Donny and it went right under Bear’s nose. It stank just like any other speed he’d smelled and he pulled back his head a bit so as to not breathe any more of the fumes than he had to. “No, not me. I’m looking for a friend of mine. He’s a friend of yours too. His name is Dustin.”