Welcome to Sergei’s

At 6:30, after a night of cataloging a life’s worth of failure and regret, I slosh my way over to Sergei’s apartment. I have that edgy hollowness you get when you’ve been up all night drinking stale coffee. There’s a chemical burn inside me from the Guaro and the speed and I feel like shit. I need a drink, but try to avoid one. I pop a couple of uppers before I go—cheap trucker speed. I’m not sure how much trouble this will be, but I know that if I get too much sleep I’ll see it for the loser deal it is. You need to risk to profit in this world, and I need to shuck and jive my better self into thinking this is doable.

I buzz downstairs and he lets me in. I glide up the quiet elevators, walk through freshly painted halls with clean corners, and make my way to Sergei’s door. I wonder for a moment why someone who lives in a building this nice would want to get involved in crime and then I catch myself and remember that’s what pays his rent.

Sergei opens the door naked to the waist, wearing these slick dark green pants. He sees me looking at them and starts to walk away. He stops and spins like a runway model, poised for my approval.

“Lizard,” he says. “Very thick skin, these lizards. Make warm pants. Nick Ray get lizards pants when this goes down.”

“I don’t want lizard pants,” I say, and he looks hurt and confused. Like most people, Sergei lashes out with hatred and violence at things he doesn’t understand. I try to take a step back, soften the blow. Unring my bell. “I’m not a lizards-pants kind of guy.”

That seems to do it; he’s not hurt anymore. Sergei’s moods are jerky. You’re with him, you can never settle in and let things happen. He’s an edge-of-the-seat guy. Jumpy as an EKG. Talking with him is like bumper cars.

The buzzer sounds.

“Your Maggot friend,” he says, and goes to the intercom.

I sit on the couch. On the glass-topped table in front of me is a small pile of powder that looks like crystal meth, the polyester of drugs. At the side of the table are a bunch of IDs. I pick them up.

All of them are Sergei; at least, all of the pictures are him. There are nine of them with nine names. None of them have the name Sergei on them. A couple of them are California, but there’s a bunch from other states. I wonder if I know his real name and it gives me a jolt. Should you get into something illegal unless there’s absolute trust?

He grabs them from me.

“Don’t look at that.”

“Sorry,” I say. That doesn’t seem to do it. He stands over me tensed and poised. “I didn’t see anything,” I say.

He nods. Taps his temple with the same chunky hand that’s holding the nine IDs. “Good. Nothing to see, right, Nick Ray?” He flashes the gold canine tooth.

“Right,” I say.

“Nick Ray, look at this, though,” Sergei says, and runs to his kitchen and back. He hands me a diploma big as a vinyl place mat and almost as thick. It’s a Ph.D., awarded to Sergei in the field of political science.

“How did you get this?”

“Buy. Can buy many—save all trouble of school.”

“You bought a Ph.D.?”

He nods. “Thought about master’s, but went extra mile.” He takes a sip of coffee. “Nick Ray want Ph.D.?”

“I’ll pass.”

He shakes his head with what seems like genuine sadness. “No ambition, Nick Ray.”

Maggot Arm Joe comes in and says to Sergei, “What the fuck are you wearing?”

I tell him it’s lizard.

Sergei holds one finger up in a friendly correction. “Thick lizard.” He looks at Maggot Arm Joe. “Three thousand dollars. What do you think?”

Maggot Arm Joe shakes his head. “As long as it’s thick lizard, it’s a good deal.” He points to the table. “Coke?”

Sergei says, “Meth.”

Maggot Arm Joe goes to the kitchen to get some coffee. He calls back, “You’ve got three-thousand-dollar pants and nickel-and-dime drugs, Sergei.” He comes into the living room with his coffee. “You’ve got it backward.”

“It’s not what’s outside, but what’s inside?” I say.

He toasts me. “You got it.”