tiny speck of PURE into the bottle cap and waited for the mixture to come to a boil.
The hit was instantaneous. Naturally. The needle slid into a thin vein on the outside of her forearm, and he grunted his satisfaction as he loosened the tie and slid the plunger home.
“Bout time you be learnin’ how to do this to yourself,” he said, already turnin’ toward his own rush.
The feeling was glorious. Almost as good as the hit. His body began to tingle with anticipation as he prepared the cure for all disasters. The difference between so sick you wanted to die and chief kaiser of the whole goddamned universe. He watched the brown heroin until it bubbled, blew out the candle, then emptied two red vials of PURE into the cooling liquid. He let the anticipation roll up into his throat as he dropped a small tuft of cotton into the fix and drew the liquid up into the needle.
“Sweet mama on the rock,” he said, turning back to find pretty Polly lying in a heap on the bed. Lying stone fuckin’ cold unconscious. Nothin’ moving. Not even her tits goin’ up and down. He snatched her off the sheets and started slappin’ her, but she didn’t move a fuckin’ muscle. Her skin didn’t have no color at all. Except, maybe, blue.
Panic replaced the joyous buzz of anticipation. He shook her and began draggin’ her ass around the room. Screamin’, “Wake up, bitch. Don’t die. Don’t die you fuckin’ bitch.” Like he was in a movie, but it wasn’t no good, no how. One thing he’d seen plenty of since he brought his monkey back from Vietnam was dead ODs. Pretty Polly wasn’t gonna be eatin’ no crackers no more.
He dumped her body on the bed and calmed himself down. Thinkin’, did anybody see your ass come into this buildin’ ? Askin’ himself did he have time to fix or did he have to get his Keds in gear right now this fuckin’ minute?
“Nobody know nothin’ ’bout me and the bitch,” he said to no one in particular. “Gotta be crazy ta walk outta here without gettin’ well.”
He looked back at Polly as he wrapped the tie around his left bicep, feeling all kinds of regret. Thinkin’ how maybe she got some cash lyin’ around the apartment. Or like a 14-carat chain or a cross or one of them Jewish good luck letters the bitches like to wear. Fifteen seconds later, he was dead.
SIX
W HEN BETTY HALUKA FIRST hatched the notion of a housewarming dinner at Stanley Moodrow’s new apartment, she was well aware of the fact that Moodrow’s idea of a home-cooked Italian meal was limited to a crusty loaf of bread, a box of Ronzoni and a jar of Ragu. Moodrow had never learned to cook, despite three decades of bachelorhood, because he’d never needed to learn. There were too many restaurants within walking distance of his apartment, most reasonably priced and featuring a unique cuisine. As the avowed protector of his neighborhood, Moodrow was known everywhere and the usual cop discount made eating out as cheap as cooking.
Still, he did love to eat, and he wasn’t entirely unhappy when Betty announced the menu. Pasta e fagioli ; an enormous cold antipasto; fusilli with grilled hot sausage and broccoli; chicken in garlic, wine and vinegar; homemade Italian cheese cake and espresso with anisette. What bothered Moodrow was the prospect of spending four hours shopping for the ingredients.
“We could buy everything on this list within a mile of here,” he’d insisted.
“We’re having a housewarming, Stanley. It’s a special occasion. When was the last time you moved?”
“In 1955,” he’d admitted sheepishly, “when the Dodgers won the World Series.”
“Then either you have to sneak into your new home in the dead of night or you have to celebrate with something special. You can’t compare supermarket cheese with what you can buy at DeLuca’s. And that goes double for freshly made pasta.”
Moodrow had grunted into his morning coffee. “I think I’ll sneak.”
“You can’t sneak. We already
The hit was instantaneous. Naturally. The needle slid into a thin vein on the outside of her forearm, and he grunted his satisfaction as he loosened the tie and slid the plunger home.
“Bout time you be learnin’ how to do this to yourself,” he said, already turnin’ toward his own rush.
The feeling was glorious. Almost as good as the hit. His body began to tingle with anticipation as he prepared the cure for all disasters. The difference between so sick you wanted to die and chief kaiser of the whole goddamned universe. He watched the brown heroin until it bubbled, blew out the candle, then emptied two red vials of PURE into the cooling liquid. He let the anticipation roll up into his throat as he dropped a small tuft of cotton into the fix and drew the liquid up into the needle.
“Sweet mama on the rock,” he said, turning back to find pretty Polly lying in a heap on the bed. Lying stone fuckin’ cold unconscious. Nothin’ moving. Not even her tits goin’ up and down. He snatched her off the sheets and started slappin’ her, but she didn’t move a fuckin’ muscle. Her skin didn’t have no color at all. Except, maybe, blue.
Panic replaced the joyous buzz of anticipation. He shook her and began draggin’ her ass around the room. Screamin’, “Wake up, bitch. Don’t die. Don’t die you fuckin’ bitch.” Like he was in a movie, but it wasn’t no good, no how. One thing he’d seen plenty of since he brought his monkey back from Vietnam was dead ODs. Pretty Polly wasn’t gonna be eatin’ no crackers no more.
He dumped her body on the bed and calmed himself down. Thinkin’, did anybody see your ass come into this buildin’ ? Askin’ himself did he have time to fix or did he have to get his Keds in gear right now this fuckin’ minute?
“Nobody know nothin’ ’bout me and the bitch,” he said to no one in particular. “Gotta be crazy ta walk outta here without gettin’ well.”
He looked back at Polly as he wrapped the tie around his left bicep, feeling all kinds of regret. Thinkin’ how maybe she got some cash lyin’ around the apartment. Or like a 14-carat chain or a cross or one of them Jewish good luck letters the bitches like to wear. Fifteen seconds later, he was dead.
SIX
W HEN BETTY HALUKA FIRST hatched the notion of a housewarming dinner at Stanley Moodrow’s new apartment, she was well aware of the fact that Moodrow’s idea of a home-cooked Italian meal was limited to a crusty loaf of bread, a box of Ronzoni and a jar of Ragu. Moodrow had never learned to cook, despite three decades of bachelorhood, because he’d never needed to learn. There were too many restaurants within walking distance of his apartment, most reasonably priced and featuring a unique cuisine. As the avowed protector of his neighborhood, Moodrow was known everywhere and the usual cop discount made eating out as cheap as cooking.
Still, he did love to eat, and he wasn’t entirely unhappy when Betty announced the menu. Pasta e fagioli ; an enormous cold antipasto; fusilli with grilled hot sausage and broccoli; chicken in garlic, wine and vinegar; homemade Italian cheese cake and espresso with anisette. What bothered Moodrow was the prospect of spending four hours shopping for the ingredients.
“We could buy everything on this list within a mile of here,” he’d insisted.
“We’re having a housewarming, Stanley. It’s a special occasion. When was the last time you moved?”
“In 1955,” he’d admitted sheepishly, “when the Dodgers won the World Series.”
“Then either you have to sneak into your new home in the dead of night or you have to celebrate with something special. You can’t compare supermarket cheese with what you can buy at DeLuca’s. And that goes double for freshly made pasta.”
Moodrow had grunted into his morning coffee. “I think I’ll sneak.”
“You can’t sneak. We already
Similar Books
![Her Three Entrepreneurs [The Hot Millionaires #8]](https://fs.collectorofbookboyfriends.com/619855/thumbs/152x264/her-three-entrepreneurs-the-hot-millionaires-8.jpg)
