is,” Wulff said. “You’re still in it.”
Versallo’s face clotted further and he seemed about to scream, then checked himself. That strange smile began again, plucking tentatively at the corners of the mouth, then centering. “Really?” he said. “You really think that that’s so, Wulff? Let me tell you something, I’m answering a human need, that’s all. And that’s all everybody in this business is doing; we’re just servicing people. We didn’t create that need, we had nothing to do with it and if it were to go away or if the government was to handle it promptly we’d go right out of business. But the way it is, friend, if it wasn’t us it would just be someone else and that’s about the size of it. Ex-narco, huh? Then you know all that.”
“London solution,” Wulff said bitterly, “the British policy. Open up a clinic on. every corner. Throw smack into every drugstore, let any twelve-year-old walk in there and buy it to order, give it to all of his friends. That would suit you, wouldn’t it, Versallo?”
“No,” Versallo said, “it wouldn’t suit me at all. It would put me out of fucking business, that’s all that it would do. I wouldn’t get anywhere so I like it just the way it is and so do you, you ex-narco, filthy son of a bitch. Crusader, where would your crusades be if they just gave the stuff away?”
“You tell me,” Wulff said, “I’m not here to solve your life for you.”
“Aren’t you?” Versallo said. He put the gun on the desk neatly, leaned himself across the desk his hands straddling the gun, nowhere in a position where he could not reach it before Wulff’s lunge but wanting the position for emphasis. “Let me tell you something you vigilante Christ-loving son of a bitch. I used to be on the shit myself, do you know that?”
“Good,” Wulff said.
“I was on shit for twenty fucking years,” Versallo said. “
Twenty
years, and I kicked it myself without any help or any drugs or any assistance at all. Probably the only guy in history who ever kicked it cold and all the time went on living his daily life, just like he had before with no one knowing what was going on. And do you know something? That was six years ago, when I kicked it. Nineteen hundred and sixty-eight on June fourth was the last day I ever took any horse and there hasn’t been a day since then, there hasn’t been one fucking minute when I haven’t been dying for it. All right?”
“All right,” Wulff said. “I’m very moved.”
“Dying,” Versallo said again. His cheeks had sunken in; momentarily he looked both younger and older, wrapped in some cloak of recollection which made his face translucent. “
Dying
for a fucking shot of horse. So don’t tell me that I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I know what I’m doing, I know what I’m dealing with.”
“You’re dealing with death.”
“Maybe,” Versallo said softly, “maybe you could call it that. But death is only part of it.” The translucence faded; his features were again opaque as he took the gun and caressed it. “The thing with you fucking narcos, you Christ-loving clean-up-the-world men,” he said, “is that you ought to take a little shot or snort yourself before you go around taking it away.”
“I know someone who took a little shot or snort.”
“Oh,” Versallo said in an abstracted way. “Oh year, that.” He tapped the desk drawer as if referring to the brochure. “You’re referring to that cunt, Marie Calvante, the one you were supposed to be engaged to, who was found OD’d out in shit city and was supposed to be so very pitiful that it got you started on your crusade. Seeing ain’t doing, friend, and if you had shot it up with the little cunt instead of denying what you probably could have seen, she might be alive today and you might be in some gallery somewhere.”
Wulff did not contrive what he did then. There was no way that forethought could have allowed it; it was an insane act but
Versallo’s face clotted further and he seemed about to scream, then checked himself. That strange smile began again, plucking tentatively at the corners of the mouth, then centering. “Really?” he said. “You really think that that’s so, Wulff? Let me tell you something, I’m answering a human need, that’s all. And that’s all everybody in this business is doing; we’re just servicing people. We didn’t create that need, we had nothing to do with it and if it were to go away or if the government was to handle it promptly we’d go right out of business. But the way it is, friend, if it wasn’t us it would just be someone else and that’s about the size of it. Ex-narco, huh? Then you know all that.”
“London solution,” Wulff said bitterly, “the British policy. Open up a clinic on. every corner. Throw smack into every drugstore, let any twelve-year-old walk in there and buy it to order, give it to all of his friends. That would suit you, wouldn’t it, Versallo?”
“No,” Versallo said, “it wouldn’t suit me at all. It would put me out of fucking business, that’s all that it would do. I wouldn’t get anywhere so I like it just the way it is and so do you, you ex-narco, filthy son of a bitch. Crusader, where would your crusades be if they just gave the stuff away?”
“You tell me,” Wulff said, “I’m not here to solve your life for you.”
“Aren’t you?” Versallo said. He put the gun on the desk neatly, leaned himself across the desk his hands straddling the gun, nowhere in a position where he could not reach it before Wulff’s lunge but wanting the position for emphasis. “Let me tell you something you vigilante Christ-loving son of a bitch. I used to be on the shit myself, do you know that?”
“Good,” Wulff said.
“I was on shit for twenty fucking years,” Versallo said. “
Twenty
years, and I kicked it myself without any help or any drugs or any assistance at all. Probably the only guy in history who ever kicked it cold and all the time went on living his daily life, just like he had before with no one knowing what was going on. And do you know something? That was six years ago, when I kicked it. Nineteen hundred and sixty-eight on June fourth was the last day I ever took any horse and there hasn’t been a day since then, there hasn’t been one fucking minute when I haven’t been dying for it. All right?”
“All right,” Wulff said. “I’m very moved.”
“Dying,” Versallo said again. His cheeks had sunken in; momentarily he looked both younger and older, wrapped in some cloak of recollection which made his face translucent. “
Dying
for a fucking shot of horse. So don’t tell me that I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I know what I’m doing, I know what I’m dealing with.”
“You’re dealing with death.”
“Maybe,” Versallo said softly, “maybe you could call it that. But death is only part of it.” The translucence faded; his features were again opaque as he took the gun and caressed it. “The thing with you fucking narcos, you Christ-loving clean-up-the-world men,” he said, “is that you ought to take a little shot or snort yourself before you go around taking it away.”
“I know someone who took a little shot or snort.”
“Oh,” Versallo said in an abstracted way. “Oh year, that.” He tapped the desk drawer as if referring to the brochure. “You’re referring to that cunt, Marie Calvante, the one you were supposed to be engaged to, who was found OD’d out in shit city and was supposed to be so very pitiful that it got you started on your crusade. Seeing ain’t doing, friend, and if you had shot it up with the little cunt instead of denying what you probably could have seen, she might be alive today and you might be in some gallery somewhere.”
Wulff did not contrive what he did then. There was no way that forethought could have allowed it; it was an insane act but
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