CHAPTER 16

Shooting Speed

Paisley and Santo discovered five bored figures loafing on the edge of anticipation in Six-thirteen's seedy front porch furniture when they returned from the Nextime Bar.

“Hello, handsome,” Kerry chimed. “We missed you.”

Nat was unable to contain himself any longer. “Well, goddamn it? Now what?”

Paisley disappeared into the kitchen and returned with his brown paper bag of speed and paraphernalia. “It's time to get high.”

“I hear that,” Julian said, always enthusiastic where that was concerned. This was his one clear direction in life.

Paisley handed the bag to Julian, knowing this would happily occupy him. “We'll hit the road for Panama City as soon as you make everybody's head right.”

“Anything you say, my man.” Julian rung his hands like a fly. “Somebody lock the front door.” He set the bag on a wooden side table, then placed the table in front of a wicker chair; he sat down. “I need cotton, a candle, a spoon, and a glass of water.”

Kerry quickly located and presented the items to him.

“Thank you, Kerry, baby.”

Julian lit a short candle seated into the neck of an empty wine bottle. Its flicker seemed to give meaning to the lives of Six-thirteen's inhabitants.

He removed the contents from the bag: a cellophane pouch of amphetamine pills, a hypodermic needle—commonly known as “the works”—and an elastic band to tie around the upper arm to bring up a vein.

Julian's eyes sparkled. This was the only activity that brought calmness into his being.

He dropped two pills into the spoon, squirted water over them with the syringe until they were submerged, then cooked the ingredients over the flame while stirring it with a matchstick until the pills dissolved. Then he laid the spoon on the table, tossed in a tiny ball of cotton, and submerged the tip of the needle into the liquid, using the cotton as a filter. He carefully pulled the plunger out and drew the liquid into the works.

Nat stepped forward. “I'm first.” He picked up the elastic band and tied it around his upper left arm. Then he slapped his forearm until he saw a fat vein. “There's a good one.”

Julian handed him the works.

Nat placed the needle parallel to his left forearm alongside the enlarged vein. Then he pushed the point through the skin and into the vein. He retracted the syringe's plunger until he saw his blood mingling with the solution, then slowly pushed the plunger in. The rush up his arm made him let go of the works in ecstasy, leaving the syringe stuck in his vein. He staggered a bit and accepted Julian's assistance into a chair.

“Wow, man, what a rush.”

Julian took hold of his arm. “Hold still.” Then he untied the elastic band and pulled out the syringe. “Looks like we're all getting high tonight.”

Within the hour, that statement had become a fact; they were filled with the well-being associated with shooting speed. Suddenly, they had all the time in the world: no topic of conversation was too trivial, no observation was too small. Their bodies felt balanced and their movements graceful. Everything was beautiful. Love was tangible. Laughter and hugs and incessant chatter made immortality feel good.

At first there's a rush, then there's the speed of a high, followed by the buzz of a plateau when shooting speed. It was during this plateau when Paisley regained control of himself and encouraged those who were involved in that night's operation to do the same.

After the others came into focus, danger's realization crept into them, dampening their humor and darkening their souls. The contagion spread to Kerry and the girls; even the candle went out, leaving them among static shadows—they were washed away with a lamplight. It was 9:00 P.M.