Doctor Dealer by Mark Bowden Page A

conscience bothered him about that. He didn’t dare start looking for a job because then he would have to disclose his arrest, and besides, who knew where he would be in six months? Prison terrified him. He was afraid to think more than a few days ahead. Larry let him have a room at 3939 Chestnut, even though having him around was depressing. L.A. tended to be an introspective, moody guy anyway. His arrest sent him into a six-month-long funk. When he was well stoned—which was most of the time—sometimes he would weep.
    “You’ll look good in stripes,” Larry would joke. “I’ll send you a jar of Vaseline every month.”
    Andy Mainardi, who was around 3939 Chestnut a lot that summer, told Larry to lay off.
    “I’m just kidding,” said Larry. “Somebody’s got to try and cheer him up.”
    “Give the guy a break,” said Andy.
    “Come on,” Larry said. “What’s gonna happen to him? He’s a college kid dealing pot.”
    There was a measure of unspoken hostility between Larry and L.A. that summer. L.A. had always believed that Larry was passing most of the risk off on him, but he had never adequately assessedhow much risk that was. L.A.’s lawyer in Florida had told him that this was a case with “exposure.” He wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but assumed it had something to do with the case’s notoriety. Back in Philadelphia Larry had gotten a big kick out of the word. Around 3939 Chestnut the fun word for that summer was “exposure.”
    Everybody laughed except L.A. Larry’s little jokes infuriated him, and when Larry got off on one of his tangents about risk taking, about the importance of taking risks and about what a risk-taker he, Larry, was . . . well, it made L.A. want to throw up in his partner’s lap. He should have had the good sense to stop taking Larry’s risks a long time ago.
    But Larry felt entitled to rag his partner a bit. The bust had cost him. He had been hoping to turn his money over once more before the semester ended and end up close to his goal of fifty thousand dollars. But he had lost his complete stake in the deal, which was nearly twenty thousand, and he had kicked in almost fifteen thousand to help with his partner’s legal defense. He still had a few thousand dollars left, but on Larry’s private net-worth sheet he was nearly wiped out. And though he never directly confronted L.A. with his feelings (that was not Larry’s style), down deep he blamed his partner for the loss. L.A. should have known better than to get blitzed before making such an important buy—how did he know what he was getting? It was clear the dealers in Florida had suckered him with some terrific weed and then slipped him the garbage. Larry felt his own mistake had been hazarding his cash with such a hopeless pothead.
    By the end of his junior year there was very little of the old marathon doper left in Larry Lavin. He was 90 percent business. Larry still enjoyed partying, and when his studies were done and his money was counted and tucked away he enjoyed getting high as much as anyone. But business was business. Larry’s thick black hair no longer hung down to his shoulders. He still combed it across his forehead, but it was carefully barbered around the ears and in back. In keeping with his more conservative image, he had traded in the ’66 Nova for a big white ’73 Impala—paying nearly four thousand dollars in cash. Marcia was domesticating Larry. Her parakeets filled their apartment with soft chirping all day. Larry had a soft blue carpet installed. Marcia draped an easy chair and sofa with paisley covers and scattered throw pillows and blankets she had crocheted herself. She painted the kitchen yellow and kept it immaculate, with flowered curtains over the sink and neat racks and shelves for spices. Larry bought a brand-new Sony TV and two aquariums, one for keeping hermit crabs and the other for tropical fish. Marcia had a black cat named Spooky. Corners and surfaces and windows and