gypsy eyes. Well, once theyâd been puppy dog eyes, but that was about ten years ago. A Roman nose, broken only once. Before Chris, before the needle, heâd never lacked in opportunities for dates, thank you very much. But now? Well ⦠The sport coat and trousers, threadbare in places, were baggier than remembered. If the shaving job he did had been a blow job, he wouldâve asked for his money back. At least there was still the cleft in his chin. Havenât lost everything.
He sat on the edge of the bed, gave his scuffed shoes a quick shine that didnât do shit for them. There werenât two socks in the whole place that matched or didnât have holes. Ran his hand through his tangle of dark hair as he tried to neaten it, but stopped then. Stopped dead, like he was an actor caught on stage forgetting his lines.
What the hell am I doing? I canât go see Ericâs widow.
What the fuck was he thinking? What was he really going to be able to do? Why was he even considering doing anything at all? Let the cops do their job. The tension set off The Need. A fix. Now. Yeah, just fix a small shot to take the edge off. Itâll help me calm down , he thought, make it easier to see Jenna . That brought him up: was he still thinking of going to see Jenna? The battle was tearing apart his mind, and his soul.
A giant cramp racked his body. Bent him up like a hairpin turn. His stomach was on a rampage. He had to fix, and bad.
But he couldnât.
It was the first time since getting hooked that he felt that way. The thought entered his consciousness like a sudden and unwelcome party guest. Fuck being a pallbearer; Iâm in some agony here. The rig was in the coffee can. He stumbled across the cold floor. The sweat across his back made him shiver. He set the fix as fast as his shaking hands would let him. The sharp odor of Butane filled his nostrils as he held the lighter under the spoon. Soon , his mind crooned, soon â¦
There was the sudden explosion of a car back-firing outside. Sounded just like a Glock.
Ericâs gun.
It had been his gun, too, until he switched to something easier to hide: a Heckler and Koch M7. Insanely, he still missed that gun. Heâd never forget the day he had to turn it in. Like saying goodbye to one world, turning the corner into another.
His hands began to shake, crouched there on the floor with the spoon and lighter in his hands. Sweat dripped into his eyes. The world went wavy. It didnât feel like it was his choice when he put the rig down and stiff-legged it to the window like an old man without his walker. He needed air.
Gazed out at the street. A typical Tenderloin street. Filled with people struggling, people hustling, people fronting. They were all fighting something. Addictions. Evictions. Unemployment. Their family. Their past. The government. Hell, even the whole world. There was a major part of him, however, that no longer felt a part of what he saw down there in the street. A junkie walks alone, they always say. Four years is a long stretch, man â¦
He was hit with another spasm of pain. A real bad one. Like being folded up with a vise clamping down on him. He was barely able to make it through the agony into the bathroom to splash water on his face. Could hear the needle, hear it softly crooning to him from the other room. The sirenâs call.
One that wove its way inside â¦
Relentless, unforgiving.
Unable to keep the song away from him, he went back to the main room. The needle pointed right at him, the spoon glinted in the light. Winking. Crying for him â¦
Just a small one, man.
Shooting just a little turned out to be a fucking brainstorm.
It took the edge off but still left him able to function. He felt invigorated as he decided to just walk up Polk Street toward California. Hell, why ride that shit number 19 bus? He again took out the address Phoebe had written down, forgetting her last words to him. Well, Jenna
April Angel, Milly Taiden