Shoot the Moon (3 page)

Goodman rests the back of his head against the sloped portion of the tub. He imagines he’s in a cocoon, warm and protected from the rest of the world.

He thinks of the spare tire. For the first time, he allows himself to wonder just how much drugs are inside it and what they could possibly be worth. He guesses there could be twenty pounds, maybe twenty-five. He has no way of knowing if it’s heroin or cocaine, or what. He has absolutely no frame of reference for calculating its value. But even if it’s worth a $1,000 a pound - which he guesses is a pretty conservative estimate - it comes to at least $20,000.

He wishes he were a different person, a person who had the nerve to keep the drugs, and the knowledge to turn them into cash. But he knows he has neither the nerve nor the knowledge.

He lies in the bathtub with his eyes closed, soaking until his fingertips shrivel up like prunes. Then he releases the washcloth from its job of damming up the water and turns off the hot faucet with his foot. He listens to the gurgling noise as the water is sucked into the overflow outlet. After a few minutes, the level has dropped and the temperature has cooled. He flicks the drain toggle open with his toe, and the water level drops more rapidly. He pulls himself to a standing position and steps out of the tub, telling himself that he feels a little better.

Wrapped in a towel, Goodman dials 911 again from the phone beside his bed. This time, a real voice answers on the third ring.

“Operator one-one-seven,” a woman says in a professional-sounding voice. “What is the nature of your emergency?”

“I’ve found some drugs,” Goodman says.

“What kind of drugs?” the woman asks him.

“I don’t know. Narcotic drugs.”

“Stay on the line, sir,” the woman tells him. There is a click, as though he’s been put on hold. But the woman comes right back on without a pause. “I got a jerk wants to turn in some drugs,” he hears her say in a different voice, not so professional-sounding. “What do I tell him?”

Goodman says, “Hello?”

There’s another click, and now it sounds as if he
is
put on hold. After about fifteen seconds, the woman comes back, using her professional voice once again.

“Sir,” she says. “If you wish to surrender a controlled substance, you must bring it to police headquarters during normal business hours. We cannot be held accountable for the actions of this or any other agency until you physically surrender the substance.” It sounds to Goodman as though she’s been reading the words from some prepared text.

“What are normal business hours?” he asks.

“Monday through Friday, nine to four-thirty.” Goodman suppresses a chuckle. That’s Florida for you. In New York, normal business hours are more like six in the morning to nine at night.

“Where’s headquarters?” he asks.

But all he hears is a dial tone. She’s already disconnected him.

From 140th Street, Russell Bradford works his way back uptown to 145th. There, in front of a laundromat, he finds Robbie McCray waiting for him. Even before Robbie spots Russell, Russell can tell Robbie’s hurting, from the way he’s shifting his weight from one foot to the other and moving his shoulders back and forth, sorta like he’s gotta take a piss. Only Russell knows Robbie doesn’t have to take a piss.

“Man, where you been
at?”
Robbie says when he finally sees Russell come up on him.

“Takin’ care a bizness is where I been at,” Russell says.

Russell follows Robbie into a building. It’s a five-story brownstone that once belonged to a wealthy white family, years ago. Then it was subdivided into apartments, which were rented to blacks and Hispanics. Now it’s abandoned, the glass gone from the windows and replaced with sheets of plywood. There’s a padlock on the front door, but it’s busted: Somebody sprayed it with a freezing agent, then hit it a couple of good shots with a hammer. Works every time.

They climb the stairs and open the door that leads to the roof. They step out slowly, not knowing if anyone’s there. But they’re in luck: It’s empty, except for hundreds of empty vials, bent needles, torn papers, empty glassine envelopes, a year’s worth of other garbage, and a couple of pigeons, which take flight on seeing them. It smells of urine and shit, and they watch their steps carefully as they thread their way to their corner.

“Whatcha got, man?” Robbie wants to know.

“I got some shit, an’ I got some cracks,” Russell tells him. “What-
choo
got?”

“Nothin’, man.” Robbie keeps his eyes pointed down at his sneakers.

“Shit, niggah. Wassamatta witchoo?”

“I’ll make it up to you, man.”

“Fuck that shit,” Russell says. But he doesn’t have the heart to send Robbie packing. There’ve been times when Robbie has had stuff and Russell hasn’t. Besides, cracking up is better when you’re with someone else than it is when you’re all alone.

“You got a stem?” Russell asks Robbie.

Robbie produces a small, glass pipe and something that looks like a lighter but is called a torch. Russell takes the pipe. He reaches into his pocket, finds one of the yellow tops, takes it out. He unscrews the top and carefully taps what look like two white Rice Krispies into the bowl of the pipe. He lights the torch and holds the flame under the bowl until the two kernels begin to sizzle and melt.

Russell draws deeply from the stem and holds the smoke in his lungs while he passes the pipe to Robbie. They take turns until the bowl is empty. Then they pour the rest of the contents of the vial into the bowl and repeat the process.

Almost immediately, the rest of the world disappears for Russell. Nothing is left but one corner of the roof. There is no apartment, no family. No being out of school and without a job. None of that exists. Robbie’s here, but barely. Mostly, Russell is aware of only himself, right here, right now, and an incredible feeling of rising up above everything else, of floating. . . .

Goodman dials his mother-in-law’s number. Her answering machine picks up after the second ring, and he hears her voice, along with what sounds like Frank Sinatra singing in the background.

“You’ve reached two-one-two-five-five-five-two-oh-two-six. I’m not here to take your call. Leave a message after the tone, and I’ll get back to you.”

He wonders why people think it’s necessary to tell you the number that you yourself have just dialed. He can’t think of anything to say, so he hangs up without leaving a message.

He stretches out on the bed, studies the ceiling fan for a while. Looks over at the clock. It’s the same kind that tricked him into oversleeping this morning. It’s 12:03, barely noon, though it feels like the end of a long day already. He lets his eyes close. Figures he can afford the luxury of a nap for an hour or so and still have plenty of time to find police headquarters before the end of their normal business hours.

Russell Bradford’s incredible floating feeling has come and gone. He’s finding that the feeling, which used to last for what seemed like hours, now lasts only a few minutes. He hears Robbie asking him if he’s got any more cracks.

“No,” Russell says. “Just the shit.”

Robbie forages about on the roof for a while until he finds what he’s looking for. He comes back with a rusted metal spoon, the handle of which is bent back under the bowl. While Robbie takes a needle with a rubber bulb attached to it from the inside of his cap, Russell retrieves the paper stamped night train from his pocket. He opens it carefully, until it’s completely spread out in the shape of a triangle, from which it gets its street name, “pyramid paper.” At the very center of the pyramid is a small pile of white powder.

Russell taps half of the powder into Robbie’s spoon. He watches as Robbie, not having any water, spits into the spoon, then proceeds to cook the mixture by holding the torch underneath the spoon while gently stirring with the tip of the needle. After a few seconds, the liquid begins to bubble. Robbie sets the spoon down carefully, rolls up one shirt sleeve, and removes the belt from his jeans. He threads the end of the belt through the buckle, creating a loop around his upper arm. By squeezing the bulb attached to the needle and placing the tip into the liquid in the spoon before slowly releasing the pressure on the bulb, Robbie draws the mixture up out of the spoon and into the bulb. Holding the bulb and needle in one hand, he uses his teeth to pull the end of the belt tightly. Russell, who has not yet begun to shoot drugs himself, watches as the veins in Robbie’s arm bulge.

With all the competence of a medical technician, Robbie probes into the vein with the needle. Without a syringe, he doesn’t have the luxury of pulling back to see if the glass fills with blood. Instead, he squeezes the bulb tentatively for a second, smiles slightly, releases his teeth from the belt, and squeezes the bulb empty. When he withdraws the needle, a drop of dark blood marks the spot.

Russell dips his index finger into the powder that remains on the pyramid paper and raises the finger to his nose. Holding one nostril shut with his other index finger, he snorts the powder. He repeats the process, changing nostrils, until the pyramid paper is empty.

A rush begins to spread through Russell’s body. He feels numb, but at the same time warm and happy and safe. He lets the feeling take him, rides with it. He notices that Robbie, who gets off much quicker by shooting, is already beginning to come down, to nod off. Russell turns away from Robbie, back to his own ride. . . .

* * *

Goodman awake. Unsure where he is. Sees a ceiling fan overhead. Aware that all he’s wearing is a towel. Remembers the motel room, the bath, the spare tire. Looks at the clock: 4:17. He’s slept for four hours, and he’s blown any chance he had to get to police headquarters, wherever that might be, by 4:30.

He swings his feet over the edge of the bed and pulls himself to a sitting position. His back reminds him it’s there, but it feels a little better.

He dials 911 again. A male operator answers after nine rings.

“Operator twenty-seven,” he says. “What’s your emergency?”

“I’ve found some drugs,” Goodman tells him.

“What kind of drugs?”

“I’m not sure.”

“How much?”

“I don’t really know.”

There’s a pause, then the operator’s voice again.

“If you wish to surrender a controlled substance, you must bring it to police headquarters during normal business hours. We cannot be held accountable for the actions of this or any other agency until you physically surrender the substance.”

“Thanks,” Goodman says, and hangs up.

He dials his mother-in-law’s number in New York. She answers on the second ring.

“Hello,” he says. “It’s me, Michael.”

“Hello, Michael.”

“I got your message. What’s with Kelly and these headaches?”

“Where are you?” she asks.

“I’m in Florida. Fort Lauderdale.”

“What are you doing
there?”

“Seeing about a job.”

“Don’t think for a moment you’re taking my only granddaughter to
Florida.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, “I didn’t get the job. What about the headaches?”

“I had to take her to the doctor this afternoon. Who else was going to do it?”

“What did the doctor say?” he asks.

“They want to do some tests.”

“What kind of tests?”

“Tests. How should
I
know?”

“And?”

“And they need insurance stuff first,” she says. “That’s why I called you. I need the name of the company you work for, and the policy number.”

Goodman bites his lip. “There
is
no company, and there
is
no policy number,” he says. “They canceled my coverage when I got fired.”

There’s silence on the other end.

“Let me speak to her, okay?”

“She’s asleep.”

“It’s four-thirty in the
afternoon.”

“She was tired. Call back in a couple of hours. I’ll wake her up for supper.” And she hangs up, leaving him holding the phone.

The thought of supper reminds Goodman that he hasn’t eaten since breakfast. Though he doesn’t feel particularly hungry, he feels guilty about having spent the entire afternoon sleeping in his room. In the bathroom, he brushes his teeth and combs his thinning hair. He cleans the lenses of his glasses, which tend to accumulate fingerprints. He puts on the same clothes he was wearing earlier; they’re all he’s got.

The Camry’s hot from sitting in the sun, and Goodman turns on the air conditioner. He gives it a few minutes to cool the interior before starting off. He decides he’s glad he made them give him the pink car. Then he remembers the spare tire. For the first time, the notion occurs to him that this car was obviously intended for someone else, who right about now must be pretty upset. He moves the gear selector to D and pulls out into traffic.

There’s a shopping mall on his right after a quarter of a mile or so, and he pulls in, finds a parking spot. At a JCPenney, he buys a pair of jeans, a couple of short-sleeved shirts, three pairs of undershorts, and a package of socks. He picks out a black nylon duffel bag and gets on line at a checkout register. Then, almost as an afterthought, he goes back and picks out a second duffel bag, identical to the first, but in the largest size they have. He tells himself he’ll be buying more things sooner or later, and it only makes sense to have two bags.

His purchases come to $89.55. He tenders his Visa card to the cashier and holds his breath while she swipes it through a machine. But there’s apparently no problem with it: He must not have reached his limit yet. He leaves the store, his arms full with his new belongings.

He loads everything into the trunk of the Camry, on top of the lid to the spare-tire compartment. Then he starts the car again and pulls out onto the highway in the same direction he’s been traveling.

It’s a particularly ugly stretch of road he’s on, nothing but gas stations, car washes, fast-food places, and U-Haul rentals. He supposes he should eat something, but he still isn’t really hungry. He spies a Taco Bell on the opposite side. He actually likes Taco Bell food, even the meat they use in the tacos, which looks a little like dog food. He makes a U-turn at the next intersection and pulls in.