guess ugly is more acceptable when you’re surrounded by it.
Mason felt bad for having upset Sissy. He wanted to make it up to her with a decent letter but it wasn’t coming, and now he was almost out of blow. He flipped open his cellphone and gave Chaz a call.
The doorbell rang. Still holding his phone, Mason walked to the window, pulled it open. He looked down into the street. “Now that’s fast!” said the voice on the phone. He could see Chaz on the sidewalk, mouthing the words into his handset. Mason hung up. A minute later, Chaz was in his apartment.
“’Bout time you dropped a dime. Started to worry you weren’t a drug addict any more.”
“Nice to see you, too.” He was curious as to why Chaz had been standing outside his apartment, but wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of asking.
Chaz sat down and started shuffling cards. “Oh yeah,” he said, as if in afterthought, and pulled out a dime bag of coke. Mason handed him two hundred dollars. Chaz arched an eyebrow. “What’s up, Marlowe? Sell another story?”
Mason nodded, then peeled off eight more hundreds. “Square?” he said.
“Like Steven.”
Mason dumped some powder on the table and reached for a card.
“Before you get all sniffy,” said Chaz, “there’s something I want to show you.”
“All right.”
He waved for Mason to follow him: out of the apartment, down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. He took a few steps to the right and stopped in front of Harvey’s, closed since 11 p.m. He pulled out a ring of keys, and unlocked the door. “I didn’t know you were in the burger business,” said Mason. They stepped into the vestibule. To their left was the entrance to the restaurant, presumably still locked. Right in front of them, however, stood a steel-grey door. “After you,” said Chaz.
Mason pulled the handle. A bulb flashed on and he was descending a staircase, turning, down into darkness. The door clicked closed above. The flip of a switch. “Holy shit!” Mason looked into the soft yellow light. “What is this place?”
“I call it the Cave.”
25
The Cave was everything a rogue could want: a long, fully stocked bar, a billiard and a poker table (both with brand new felt), a rounded stage, a DJ booth and plenty of dark corners. The colour scheme was classic dingy brothel—walls painted black and burgundy, the shadows of burgundy drapes. There were hovering spots of yellow light—over the poker table, the pool table, the bar.
They walked together, boot heels clicking, across the floor.
“What can I poison you with?” said Chaz.
Mason, still in awe, reached for a stool and sat down.
The bar was fairly high, like in a saloon. Chaz ducked down and came up with a bottle. He rolled out two tumblers, three ice cubes, three fingers of whisky in each. Then, next to Mason’s glass, he placed a disc like a coaster, but stainless steel—a straight line of coke, and a straw.
“I like this place,” said Mason.
“I thought you would.”
“Is it just for me? Or you thinking of inviting other people?”
Chaz took a drink. “Wouldn’t be fair to keep it to ourselves.” He looked around, grinning. “This place is too good—don’t you think?”
“How you going to do it?”
“Nice and simple: cards, coke and booze. Two a.m. till noon, seven days a week. No daylight, no bullshit—just safe, dark fun. We open on Friday.”
“Who’s we?”
“Could be you and me—if you weren’t such a snowbird.”
Mason inhaled through his nose, put down the straw.
Chaz laughed. “So really just me. But you know how it is.”
Mason didn’t, in fact, know how it was. He would have said so,if he thought Chaz would clarify things. But every time he tried to learn about the urban drug trade it proved too complicated and too simple at the same time. Mason had been in enough dens of iniquity to know how much he didn’t know. You either grew up understanding how it all worked, like Chaz or Tenner, or you got popped
Mason felt bad for having upset Sissy. He wanted to make it up to her with a decent letter but it wasn’t coming, and now he was almost out of blow. He flipped open his cellphone and gave Chaz a call.
The doorbell rang. Still holding his phone, Mason walked to the window, pulled it open. He looked down into the street. “Now that’s fast!” said the voice on the phone. He could see Chaz on the sidewalk, mouthing the words into his handset. Mason hung up. A minute later, Chaz was in his apartment.
“’Bout time you dropped a dime. Started to worry you weren’t a drug addict any more.”
“Nice to see you, too.” He was curious as to why Chaz had been standing outside his apartment, but wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of asking.
Chaz sat down and started shuffling cards. “Oh yeah,” he said, as if in afterthought, and pulled out a dime bag of coke. Mason handed him two hundred dollars. Chaz arched an eyebrow. “What’s up, Marlowe? Sell another story?”
Mason nodded, then peeled off eight more hundreds. “Square?” he said.
“Like Steven.”
Mason dumped some powder on the table and reached for a card.
“Before you get all sniffy,” said Chaz, “there’s something I want to show you.”
“All right.”
He waved for Mason to follow him: out of the apartment, down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. He took a few steps to the right and stopped in front of Harvey’s, closed since 11 p.m. He pulled out a ring of keys, and unlocked the door. “I didn’t know you were in the burger business,” said Mason. They stepped into the vestibule. To their left was the entrance to the restaurant, presumably still locked. Right in front of them, however, stood a steel-grey door. “After you,” said Chaz.
Mason pulled the handle. A bulb flashed on and he was descending a staircase, turning, down into darkness. The door clicked closed above. The flip of a switch. “Holy shit!” Mason looked into the soft yellow light. “What is this place?”
“I call it the Cave.”
25
The Cave was everything a rogue could want: a long, fully stocked bar, a billiard and a poker table (both with brand new felt), a rounded stage, a DJ booth and plenty of dark corners. The colour scheme was classic dingy brothel—walls painted black and burgundy, the shadows of burgundy drapes. There were hovering spots of yellow light—over the poker table, the pool table, the bar.
They walked together, boot heels clicking, across the floor.
“What can I poison you with?” said Chaz.
Mason, still in awe, reached for a stool and sat down.
The bar was fairly high, like in a saloon. Chaz ducked down and came up with a bottle. He rolled out two tumblers, three ice cubes, three fingers of whisky in each. Then, next to Mason’s glass, he placed a disc like a coaster, but stainless steel—a straight line of coke, and a straw.
“I like this place,” said Mason.
“I thought you would.”
“Is it just for me? Or you thinking of inviting other people?”
Chaz took a drink. “Wouldn’t be fair to keep it to ourselves.” He looked around, grinning. “This place is too good—don’t you think?”
“How you going to do it?”
“Nice and simple: cards, coke and booze. Two a.m. till noon, seven days a week. No daylight, no bullshit—just safe, dark fun. We open on Friday.”
“Who’s we?”
“Could be you and me—if you weren’t such a snowbird.”
Mason inhaled through his nose, put down the straw.
Chaz laughed. “So really just me. But you know how it is.”
Mason didn’t, in fact, know how it was. He would have said so,if he thought Chaz would clarify things. But every time he tried to learn about the urban drug trade it proved too complicated and too simple at the same time. Mason had been in enough dens of iniquity to know how much he didn’t know. You either grew up understanding how it all worked, like Chaz or Tenner, or you got popped
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