DEAD OF WINTER

The kitchen at Sticky’s, February 1982. Dead of winter. One of the guys who hangs out with the bosses, Marty his name is, approaches me. His blue eyes seem sad, maybe scared. I’ve been warned away from him by wait-staff gossip, which I always take for fact.

Marty’s supposed to have done time on a drug charge. Some say he was a rat in jail, gave up his pals and got out. Others claim he made parole early. I don’t know, he’s never revealed anything of himself to me. Our longest conversation was, “Hi. How are you?” But Marty’s a handsome guy, the kind who knows it and likes to show it. A preppy ladies’-man type: white smile, long legs, nice chest. Waspy nose. He draws me aside, away from the line, pushing his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

“Listen,” he says. There’s a wince in his voice, a nasal baritone. “D’you think you could go over the East Side and cop a couple of bags for me?”

I look at the time: two a.m.

“I can’t go over there,” he explains, his cheeks going red. “I’m too shaky.” He stutters a little. Marty’s a cokehead, he’s been blowing coke. He has to bring himself down. Like, now. “I’ll buy you a bag and pay your cab,” he offers.

It’s freezing outside, plenty of ice on the street. Do I want to go over to the Lower East Side in the bitter cold to buy drugs for a guy who has no other interest in me? I pretend to think about it but I know I’m on my way. He looks so helpless, it makes me soft.

I tell Marty he’ll have to buy me a bag for each one of his. I’m thinking about Kit. I can hear her voice in my head, complaining that I would cop for a guy like Marty and not get something for her. He hands me forty bucks for the dope, ten more for the cab. I have to close the kitchen first. He retreats to the office.

Rico comes out a minute later. I haven’t been seeing much of him—his wife has adopted a baby. Some nights he actually stays home. He walks behind the line and casually nuzzles my shoulder, like old times. I hope he’s not going to start telling me how he was a bag man for the C.I.A. chief in Cambodia. I’ve heard that one. It’s his favorite bedtime story, how they were running dope to disperse opium lords in the Golden Triangle who were selling scag to American soldiers. I look around. Maybe he can tell it to someone else. But these cold nights don’t bring in much work and most of my crew has gone home. The rest mind their business, as usual.

“Hey, you goin’ over there?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I must be crazy, but yeah.”

“You mind getting a little something for me?” He’ll turn me on to some coke for the favor. Okay okay. I’m going.

A little before three, my coat thrown over three sweaters and a fur-lined cap pulled over my eyes, I go out and hail a cab. The air sparkles in the cold, the park looks barren, the streets are deserted. Even the homeless have gone inside. My cab’s all that moves for many blocks. I give a vague destination. I don’t know exactly where to go, what’s open this time of night. I decide to try Executive, even though I’ve heard it’s been busted.

The cabbie drops me a block and a half away and I walk fast toward Avenue D. On the far end of the street, I spy a lookout standing in front of the steps. The police have nailed a metal sheet over the door to the building, but the sellers have cut away the bottom half of the metal. “Watch your head,” the lookout says. He’s friendlier than usual. I duck under the sheet and find myself standing in a pitch-black hall. In the distance, I hear the shuffle of feet. As I edge toward the stairs, I see the light of a burning candle. A worker is standing there warming his hands over the flame. “Tracks?” he says.

“You gotta be kidding!” I’m not about to peel off any clothes—I want to cop and get out of there. “Straight on up,” the guy answers, breaking into a laugh. “Shit’s good tonight, all right! G’wan up.”

There’s another guy on the landing, blowing his breath in his hands and jittering. No waiting line—that’s a relief. I pull out Marty and Rico’s money with twenty of my own and hand it to the seller. He passes the money through the hole. While I wait, I’m thinking, For another twenty dollars I could buy a bundle, ten bags. Nobody messes with bundles.

Eight glassines emerge from the hole. I stuff them in my sleeve and hustle down the stairs, hugging the wall. When I get to where I think the door is, I lunge. Something hits me hard, knocks the hat off my head. I get ready to fight but I think I’m blacking out. It’s so dark, I can’t see the metal sheet over the door and have forgotten it was there. I steady myself, pick up my hat. Then I flee.

Moving fast, sliding along the icy sidewalk, not stopping to look around, I hurry down three long, frosty blocks west, when I spot a cruising taxi. It must have dropped some other desperado nearby. I jump in the cab and go back to the store, deliver the goods, and run home.

It takes me several minutes to thaw. When I get off my hat, I see a lump forming over my eye—a mark of honor, perhaps, like the Red Badge of Courage.

“I can’t believe you went over there this time of night,” Kit says, taking her share from my hand. “How is it?”

“It hurts.”

“I mean, the dope.”

“Same as usual.”

“Anyone out there?”

“Couple of guys. Maybe it’s better going over there in the middle of the night. Safer. The workers are a lot nicer and there’s no one in the street to give you the eye.”

“I wouldn’t do it too much.”

“I don’t really want to do it at all.”

“People like getting drugs from you,” Kit says. “Maybe we should buy larger quantities and sell some. It would save us money. I hate paying for this stuff all the time.”

I know what she means.

“Dickie Howard knows someone who has China White.”

“Who’s Dickie Howard?” I turn on the TV. There’s a movie ending. The sound-track music rises to a crescendo.

“One of Sylph’s friends. You’ve met him—the Vietnam vet, the war poet. Maybe you should get to know him better.”

“Maybe.”

“We know enough people who like getting high. We could do it.”

“I don’t know …” I change the station—another movie about to end. “What’ve you been doing all night?” I ask.

“Waiting for you. Did you bring anything to eat?”

“I forgot. It’s awfully cold in here.” Still in my sweaters and jeans, I get into bed and pull up the covers.

“You didn’t bring any food at all?”

“I brought the dope.”

“I wish you wouldn’t get into bed with those clothes on. You smell like garlic and oil.”

I throw off my jeans and climb back under the quilts. “I like the smell of garlic.”

Kit goes to the refrigerator, opens the door. “I wish there was something to eat,” she says. “Can you go down to the store and get some chips? Maybe I’ll make nachos.”

“You’re asking me to go out to that wasteland again?”

“Well, I’m not dressed.”

“Neither am I!”

“You’re half-dressed.” She comes back in the bedroom and gives me a pleading look. “I’ll cop for you tomorrow.”

“I already copped for tomorrow.”

“Next time, then. Come on. The dope’ll keep you warm.”

Before I know it, I’m back on the street again, copping tortilla chips and jack cheese at the all-night grocery around the corner. I don’t know why I’m doing this, except I’m a little keyed up from the earlier run, and maybe Rico’s coke. I might be hungry now, too. I never have time to eat at work, and cocaine always makes me want to chew.

Kit makes the nachos, and we sit in bed with the cats and talk about our future. We’re a family now. When the sun comes in the window, we find ourselves watching an aerobic exercise program on TV and smoking. Kit gets a kick out of the chirpy blond instructor, who’s not very graceful, considering.