the fellas get back.”
“And, what am I delivering?”
“Not a big deal,” Tommy smiled. His teeth were narrow and yellow, their gums pink and receded. He pointed at Klinger’s jacket. “It’s already in your pocket.”
“Hey,” Klinger smiled weakly. “I guess you are a friend of Frankie’s.”
“Taught me everything I know and most of what I forgot,” Tommy said. “I gotta lotta respect for Frankie.”
Klinger nodded faintly. “Frankie’s the best.”
The two mumblety-peg players returned. At a sign from Tommy, each shook hands with Klinger. “’Sup,” each of them said, “’sup.” The second handshake left a flat bindle in the curled fingers of Klinger’s right hand.
“Better take a piss before you head out,” Tommy suggested. “There might be traffic or somethin’.”
Klinger visited the men’s room and snorted one line per nostril. When he came back he offered to shake hands with any of the three men standing there, so as to pass the bindle back, but they waved him off.
The bar telephone rang and Bruce answered it. “Somebody call a cab?” he asked the room.
“Cathedral Hill Apartments,” Tommy told Klinger. “Opposite St. Mary’s. Tell the doorman to ring Apartment 1426, then wait.” He turned to the bar. “Brucie. Another round.”
Klinger was in the cab and four blocks away when he realized that the substance in his maxillary sinuses was maybe only half cocaine, and the other half was probably heroin. He might have known. At least he assumed it was heroin. By the time the cab got to Geary and Van Ness, Klinger was pretty sure he was rhino-metabolizing speed-ball, and he was thrilled. Well well well, he marveled, as the taxi climbed the grade, a real vacation at last. It’s been a long time since I’ve been cold and wet and not even able to feel it. Let alone, give a shit. He fingered the bindle in his pocket. I might not catch pneumonia after all.
The light at Gough was red. “Can’t make a left,” the cabbie said to the rear-view mirror. “Gotta go around.” He made a circle with a forefinger. “Loop de loop.”
“Yeah yeah,” Klinger happily told him. “Whatever,” he added; but what he was thinking was, “
mellow
.”
The cabbie stood on the hydrogen, and his taxihummed downhill to Laguna, where he took a right to Post, another right uphill to Gough, another right back down to Geary, and finally diagonaled across the intersection and four lanes of no traffic into the circular drive in front of Cathedral Hill Apartments. Klinger told him to wait.
A doorman buzzed Klinger into the lobby and made a call. Five minutes later a little old lady exited an elevator and greeted him like her long lost nephew.
“My prescription,” she enthused, and she traded the envelope Klinger pulled out of his jacket pocket for one of her own, which looked a lot like a package from a pharmacy, printed up one side and down the other with do’s and don’ts. “Please give Dr. Flagon my new scrip, which I will require to be filled by this time tomorrow night at the very latest,” she said with emphasis. “Be sure to remind him of that, and here’s a little something for your trouble, you darling young man.” She pressed a folded twenty into Klinger’s hand. “It’s so late for you to be working,” she embellished, “and in the rain, too.” She patted his arm. “I’m so very grateful. Get some dry clothes on.”
The whole time this charade was going down, the doorman was making a studious perusal of a copy of the
Wall Street Journal
draped over the phone bank on his kiosk.
Klinger was back at the Hawse Hole within twenty minutes of his initial departure. The cab fare came to a mere sixteen dollars. Klinger threw the guy a twenty.
The open sign in what used to be a window, along with the green neon martini glass above the front door, had been turned off. Klinger knocked, one-two, one-two, one. Bruce opened the door. Tommy pocketed the printed envelope without
“And, what am I delivering?”
“Not a big deal,” Tommy smiled. His teeth were narrow and yellow, their gums pink and receded. He pointed at Klinger’s jacket. “It’s already in your pocket.”
“Hey,” Klinger smiled weakly. “I guess you are a friend of Frankie’s.”
“Taught me everything I know and most of what I forgot,” Tommy said. “I gotta lotta respect for Frankie.”
Klinger nodded faintly. “Frankie’s the best.”
The two mumblety-peg players returned. At a sign from Tommy, each shook hands with Klinger. “’Sup,” each of them said, “’sup.” The second handshake left a flat bindle in the curled fingers of Klinger’s right hand.
“Better take a piss before you head out,” Tommy suggested. “There might be traffic or somethin’.”
Klinger visited the men’s room and snorted one line per nostril. When he came back he offered to shake hands with any of the three men standing there, so as to pass the bindle back, but they waved him off.
The bar telephone rang and Bruce answered it. “Somebody call a cab?” he asked the room.
“Cathedral Hill Apartments,” Tommy told Klinger. “Opposite St. Mary’s. Tell the doorman to ring Apartment 1426, then wait.” He turned to the bar. “Brucie. Another round.”
Klinger was in the cab and four blocks away when he realized that the substance in his maxillary sinuses was maybe only half cocaine, and the other half was probably heroin. He might have known. At least he assumed it was heroin. By the time the cab got to Geary and Van Ness, Klinger was pretty sure he was rhino-metabolizing speed-ball, and he was thrilled. Well well well, he marveled, as the taxi climbed the grade, a real vacation at last. It’s been a long time since I’ve been cold and wet and not even able to feel it. Let alone, give a shit. He fingered the bindle in his pocket. I might not catch pneumonia after all.
The light at Gough was red. “Can’t make a left,” the cabbie said to the rear-view mirror. “Gotta go around.” He made a circle with a forefinger. “Loop de loop.”
“Yeah yeah,” Klinger happily told him. “Whatever,” he added; but what he was thinking was, “
mellow
.”
The cabbie stood on the hydrogen, and his taxihummed downhill to Laguna, where he took a right to Post, another right uphill to Gough, another right back down to Geary, and finally diagonaled across the intersection and four lanes of no traffic into the circular drive in front of Cathedral Hill Apartments. Klinger told him to wait.
A doorman buzzed Klinger into the lobby and made a call. Five minutes later a little old lady exited an elevator and greeted him like her long lost nephew.
“My prescription,” she enthused, and she traded the envelope Klinger pulled out of his jacket pocket for one of her own, which looked a lot like a package from a pharmacy, printed up one side and down the other with do’s and don’ts. “Please give Dr. Flagon my new scrip, which I will require to be filled by this time tomorrow night at the very latest,” she said with emphasis. “Be sure to remind him of that, and here’s a little something for your trouble, you darling young man.” She pressed a folded twenty into Klinger’s hand. “It’s so late for you to be working,” she embellished, “and in the rain, too.” She patted his arm. “I’m so very grateful. Get some dry clothes on.”
The whole time this charade was going down, the doorman was making a studious perusal of a copy of the
Wall Street Journal
draped over the phone bank on his kiosk.
Klinger was back at the Hawse Hole within twenty minutes of his initial departure. The cab fare came to a mere sixteen dollars. Klinger threw the guy a twenty.
The open sign in what used to be a window, along with the green neon martini glass above the front door, had been turned off. Klinger knocked, one-two, one-two, one. Bruce opened the door. Tommy pocketed the printed envelope without
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