Taste of Tenderloin by Gene O'Neill Read Free Book Online Page B

Lisha had bailed out on him,
going to her Aunt El in the Sunset. With the old lady’s financial
help, she had entered a treatment program up in Glen Ellen at
Truman’s Mountain Vista Farm, where she’d apparently gotten her
mind right. She had been back from the farm at Aunt El’s for about
five days, but had called him only once. She had told him she had a
sponsor now and was working a twelve-step program. She said she
couldn’t see him until he was clean. A few days ago she’d left a
receipt for the paid rent.
    Richie made himself a
milkshake with the ice cream Lisha had left. He washed down the
other chocolate doughnut with the thick drink. Holy crap , he thought, she’s blown the whistle to my
mom . His mother had thought everything was
cool since Lisha and he had gone through the methadone detox
program back in December. What a joke. Each day they’d cut back the
dosage at the clinic. As they had gotten down to where they could
feel the new jones kicking in—about day twenty-six—they’d both
started using shit again. And kept using steady for the next six
months, until the day that had shaken Lisha so badly she had taken
the action to get herself straight.
    He was strung out that day,
pretty bad, missing a fix the night before and not scoring that
morning, but keeping his jones at bay with codeine and Valium.
Finally, he sold a pair of boosted car stereos to a fence he knew
for twenty dollars and got enough tar for a short fix for both him
and Lisha. With all the codeine and Valium in his system, he quit
breathing right after shooting up. Lisha, scared shitless and shaky
herself, dumped him in front of emergency at San Francisco General
and sped off in her beat-up VW bug.
    The next thing Richie knew,
he was staring up into a nurse’s face.
    “ That’s right,” she said, a
mixed expression on her face—half relief, half disgust, “you
overdosed on heroin. We gave you a shot of Narcon, an opiate
blocker. You’re going to be okay, this time.”
    “ Water?” he asked hoarsely,
realizing he was on a gurney in the hallway just outside the
emergency room.
    Nearby, another guy was
stretched out, a hand on his bandaged head, moaning, “The
muthahfuckah kicked me.”
    The nurse nodded and said,
“You stay put, I’ll be back in a second.”
    As soon as she disappeared
through a nearby door, he got up and took off, hustling quickly out
of the hospital even though his legs were rubbery and he still felt
badly shaken.
     
    Richie finished the
milkshake, mulling it all over in his head,
trying to think clearly. It was hard.
    He knew he should quit, but
at the farm? Man, that’d be almost like going to the slam. And all
that higher power jazz in the steps that Lisha was so stoked on.
Giving yourself up to God?
    No way, man.
    He could do it himself,
real soon. Maybe even tomorrow. Yeah, why not? Tomorrow, he’d
kick.
    Absently, Richie flipped on
Lisha’s answering machine. He’d tried to hock it the week before,
but it was so old the Russian wouldn’t give him anything for it,
not even a five spot. But it still worked well enough for him to
hear the excitement in Rudy Sanchez’s voice:
    “ Yo, Richie. Got to see
you, man—” There was a pause and Richie thought his friend was
restraining a giggle. “Got a deal, a big one this time. Call me at
the print shop or come by at four, when I get off. Do it, man, our
ship has finally come in. This is the big one!”
    Richie grinned to himself.
Another scheme. He wondered what this one would be. He had no idea,
but he would be over at the print shop on Castro to cash in when
Sanchez got off.
    There was another message
on the machine.
    “ Richie, this is your
mother. Oh, Richie how could you do it again? You said the
methadone program was ninety percent successful. But Lisha has told
me the whole story…” She paused long enough that Richie was about
to turn the machine off, then he heard, “Son, this thing Lisha has
gone through can work. That farm’s a good