The Speed Chronicles by Joseph Mattson Page B

she left. At the time he was a high-paid wheeler for the entertainment industry, escorting celebrities to the most exclusive dealers in town, when heroin was making its comeback in the ’90s and speed was mostly for maintenance, and Grace himself had not yet partaken in either.
    â€œThey’re still together. They divorced us both,” Dozer said, his face old and worthless. “Back when I was full of piss and fire,” he waved his hand, “and actually cared about all of this. A real star trooper.”
    I rubbed my temples and dreamed of simpler times, times that I had mistaken for complex, before my own downfall into this exciting, mesmerizing, and delicious and nefarious, dire, and abusive world. I’d been living disenchanted beyond my means for too long, so I thought, just wanting certain kicks—some sort of adjuvant freedom from the pain of life, I guess. But the fee, it seemed, had suddenly grown too large. You cannot blame it on the drug, only the people.
    â€œSpeaking of piss,” I said, bewildered, disgusted, “excuse me.”
    I got up from the picnic table, glanced once more at the horrendous scene in the clubhouse, and stormed into the mansion. I went into the bathroom, pulled myself out, but nothing came. I zipped up, flushed the unsoiled toilet, and scrambled through the medicine cabinet for some downers. There were none. I shut the cabinet and looked in the mirror. Alien, a phantom, as if I could no longer place who I was. I produced the sack, crushed the biggest dose I’d ever considered, withdrew a single from my wallet, rolled it tight, and sucked the line dry. I didn’t know what else to do. Moreover, at this point I was full of distortion, blasting like a roaring, gnashing, hot-blooded ice comet through outer space. My throbbing, beaten eye could have easily popped with stroke against the mirror. A. Am. Amp.
    I walked out of the bathroom and passed Nettles. I paused, turned, and headed into the kitchen.
    â€œWhat do you make of this shit?” I asked, chewing on my lips, my brain swelling to the palpable limit within the gripping palm of my skull.
    â€œMind your own business.”
    â€œJesus, Net, you should cook yourself up a sandwich or something. You look like hell. Get strong, don’t let the bastard hit you no more.”
    â€œI’m getting the fuck out of here,” she said quietly. “And I’m taking it all with me.”
    â€œMe too. But first I’m going to cook you something to eat.”
    I feigned rifling through the cupboards for food, secretly contemplating the options of my exit, until I found a large cast-iron skillet that must’ve weighed ten pounds.
    â€œIf I don’t ever see you again, for chrissakes, Net, stick up for yourself. You don’t need to deal with all this just to get some good crank.”
    â€œWhy you ain’t got no woman, Will?”
    â€œHell if I know,” I said. I walked past her and out toward the pool, the skillet firm in my hand.
    Dozer went out like a lit match under tap water. I stood over him panting, having clocked him from behind with all of my might. I dropped the frying pan and scrambled through his clothes until I found what I was looking for. Jim Grace eyeballed the piece.
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    â€œDid you give him my phone number?”
    â€œNo way. He’s a cop, man, it takes him two minutes to figure that stuff out.”
    â€œWhat kind of deal do you have with him, you a selective narc or something?”
    â€œHell no,” Jim Grace shot back, offended by the question. “Can’t you tell he doesn’t give a shit about the law anymore? He didn’t even know we were coming. He was up here doing his own kind of business with Harv.”
    I almost pointed the thing at him, my best friend. Catching myself, I lowered it. I reached in my pocket for the car keys.
    â€œGo start the car, Jim.”
    â€œDozer just wants the