Bobby Null had a few days to recuperate. The antibiotics and bed rest had helped. He saw everything clearly now. It no longer hurt to piss. Two nights ago he had become delirious, the infection breaking, and he had lain on the hotel bed, staring up at the ceiling that rippled like water. He heard bugs in the mattress, plotting to lay eggs in him. He saw the ghost of his brother Kevin, laughing at him for being such a wimp. His brother’s face was shot up, holes in his cheek and forehead. His chest spouted blood. Bobby didn’t know all the details of his brother’s death, but he hadn’t realized that Kevin had been so mutilated.
He had blown off Underhill because he had been so sick, but now it was time to deal with him. He telephoned Underhill and told him he’d come by the office. Underhill said, “I was wondering when you’d call.”
“I was sick.”
“I figured.”
“You got the name and stuff?”
“Oh, yeah.”
So, Bobby was getting closer. He bought a burger and fries at a dingy Mom and Pop grill, ate them standing up by the window, then looked up and down the street for a dealer. He saw one, a pale, scrawny junkie leaning against a wall, trying to catch the eye of people walking by. Bobby crossed the street, and the man, dressed in an oversized denim jacket with his sleeves rolled up, his forearms bone thin, said, “Weed, rock, crystal?”
“Bennies. Uppers.”
The man smiled. Two of his lower teeth were capped with silver. He said, “All right, my friend. You wait here. I can get diamonds, dexies, and black beauties. How much you want?”
“How much for dexies?”
“How much you got?”
“Enough.”
“A nice baggie with ten dexies—hundred bucks. Top, man.”
“Ten bucks a pop? Fuck no. Twenty for the bag.”
“I gots to run down the street for them. It’s labor. Top shit.”
“Get it and let me check it out.”
The man walked down two blocks, stepping over a homeless guy under a cardboard blanket, and turned a corner. Bobby hated buying off the street like this, but he needed that kick. He just wanted to get all this shit over with and then go back to L.A. where he could lie out on Venice beach and soak up some heat. He was always cold up here, even colder than Seattle. This sucked.
He worried about Ron wanting his money. He owed juice on the juice, and it was getting higher every week. But with the stash Jake had stolen from him, Bobby would be fine. He’d pay it all back and then some. And he’d swear off card rooms and swinging-dick poker games forever. He’d get a tan. Bobby looked at his white arms and hands. You could almost see through him right now. It was from Seattle and now this place. Where was the goddamn sun? Why was it always so cloudy and grey?
He rubbed his arms and thought about how he’d deal with Underhill. Bobby knew the asshole would try to squeeze him, and he had to think of a fast and easy way to get what he needed.
The junkie with his dexies turned the corner and approached. Bobby looked around for cops, but saw only a bunch of panhandlers. The man said, “Got you a dozen. Check it out.” He slipped Bobby a plastic bag.
Taking out one pill, Bobby read “10 mg” on the side, and said, “This is lightweight. I’ll give you twenty for these dozen.”
“Fuck no. A hundred for the bag.”
“Thirty.”
“Fifty, or you can take a fucking walk.”
Bobby thought about it, then said, “All right. Here’s fifty. But I’m taking one now. If anything’s wrong, I’m coming back for you.” He pushed aside his jacket and showed him the gun.
“Don’t be showing me that bullshit.” The man held up his hands. “I’m just a businessman. It’s good. We’re cool.”
Bobby swallowed the pill and nodded. Everyone was trying to fuck him over. He turned and walked up the street towards Underhill’s building. He considered waiting until the pill kicked in, but wanted to get this over with. He saw his ghost brother watching him from across the street, shaking his head. Fuck you, Bobby thought. You’re so smart, you got shot in the face.