Page 93

“I got what you need,” I said.

“What?”

“Kierin sold me two hits,” I said. “He said two was your base buy, so I got one to cut the pain but at the same time keep you able to talk. I’ll give you it right now. After we talk I’ll give you the other and two hundred dollars.”

“Kierin from up Harlem?” Burns asked.

He delivered the question as a foregone conclusion, telling me that he was a canny junkie whom I had to be careful with.

“You and I both know he works for the Gypsy in the West Village.”

“Let’s see what he give you.”

“Is there somewhere we could go?”

Burns’s grin was missing a brown tooth or two, but there was still mirth and real satisfaction there.

We went east a couple of blocks, crossed a concrete park, and entered a street I’d never been on; I call it a street, but it was closer to being an alley.

Halfway down that block was a three-and-a-half-foot space between two nondescript buildings blocked by a padlocked Dumpster. Burns and I pushed the can aside and made our way maybe fifteen feet when we came to a door that looked to be locked too but was not.

On the other side of the door was a chamber no more than six foot square. I could see this because there was a small lightbulb dangling from a socket overhead that Burns turned on by twisting it. It wasn’t inside, but then again it was walled off and roofed away from the outside. The floor was asphalt. The only furniture was a three-legged wooden stool.

There was no trash or garbage on the ground. As a matter of fact, there was an old broom leaning in a corner that had seen quite some use.

“What is this?” I asked my informant while taking the wallet from my pocket and the heroin from there.

Burns took the little fold of cellophane and studied it carefully.

“That’s Kierin all right,” he mumbled. “He step on this shit hisself.”

It felt odd that we shared knowledge.

“What is this place?” I asked again.

“You ever hear of Juaquin de Palma?”

“Yeah.” De Palma was a socialite addict who would give wild parties for like-minded people of all classes. He was slippery and dangerous, attracting artists, musicians, and debutantes to his “cause.” He was finally murdered by a man named Tibor whose daughter had OD’d at one of de Palma’s raves.

“I used to hang with him. This was his place he’d go when he just wanted to get high and be alone. And then when he died it was mine’s alone.”

While talking, Burns put together his fix. He sat down on the stool, filled the spoon, cooked the aitch with water from a bottle in his pocket, and used the simple hypodermic attached to a red rubber bulb.

The seclusion, dim light, and ascetic nature of the “room” made his actions seem holy.

I was hoping he didn’t die.

For one very long minute after the injection Burns stared at the ground. Then he looked up at me.

“I could use another one.”

“And so you shall have,” I promised, “but first we have to talk.”

“I like coffee after my fix,” he said, reminding me of a much older man.

29.

It was maybe eight blocks from the unique shooting gallery to Cafecino Caprice on Lafayette. The coffee shop was open twenty-three hours a day, at least that’s what the sign said. It was late enough that the place wasn’t completely crowded. We settled at a round corner table with our two paper cups of black coffee, which cost $2.95 each, plus tax.