Walk across and turn right at the taxi stand and you’ll find a row of tourist shops with the lamest inventories of dust-covered unsellable crap—plaster statues of Jesus, wood carvings of dolphins, unplayable ukuleles, goofy sombreros with four-foot brims—and a skinny dark guy with a gold tooth and matching cross behind the register. He’s like the guy at a fancy uptown club: get past him and you can get to where the action is.
A nod by skinny-gold-tooth-guy will get you a pass to the shooting gallery in the next room, where you can order up any combination of goodies at cartel retail. Credit is a very bad idea, unless you want to leave some fingers behind.
I didn’t start out a junkie. Most of them start out as kids partying on booze and weed. Then they get bored and experiment with more exotic stuff. Acid, Ecstasy, DMT, you name it. Then coke and speed, which means downers for the end of the ride: Xanax and Oxy. When the balancing act gets too tricky, the first snort of heroin solves the whole riddle of how to get right. It’s no longer a question of how to get high, it’s a matter of simply trying to feel human again. Heroin can do that. Until you run out.
I came at it from another angle. I was a straight arrow in school. I drank a little in college, smoked some pot, so what. It didn’t really ring my bell. But after I broke my back in a diving accident and the pain never went away, I discovered Vicodin. And when ten of them a day couldn’t dull the knife jabbing in my spine and I was juggling three doctors to keep my prescriptions going, who just happened to show up at my physical therapy session? Jimmy Ortiz.
¤ ¤ ¤
My phone is barking at me. It’s actually Vincent, the Lab from the TV show
Lost
. The display says my ex is calling.
What the hell. I’ve got a long drive ahead of me.
“Hello Allison.” On my right, the lovely sight of the Long Beach refinery.
“Charlie . . .” She’s crying. This is the sweet, remorseful Allison. She’s going to try to reel me in. “I’m not your enemy.”
“I know that, Allison. We’ve got to be on the same side . . .”
“And do what’s best for Mindy,” she sobs.
“Right. What’s best for Mindy.”
“I worry about her all the time.” Her voice is low and husky. My guess is that she passed out in the late afternoon and is now on her third drink after waking up. She’s in the sweet spot—the eight minutes where it’s working for her. The rest is all about chasing the eight minutes.
“Have you heard from her yet?”
“No, I was hoping you had.”
“She texted me a while back. I think she has a new boyfriend.” I’m improvising, but the seeds that get planted now will surely bloom when Allison gets to crazyville.
“Really, have you met him?” I can hear the tinkle of ice on glass. She likes flavored vodka on the rocks.
“As a matter of fact, I have.” This could get tricky.
“Really? What’s he like?”
“Well, he seems to really like her.”
“Why that little bitch.” But this is purred, not hissed. “Tell her to call her mother, would you?” Her eight minutes are nearly over, and I have a chance to duck out before I have to duck for cover.
“I’ll definitely do that, Alli. Listen, I’m driving and don’t want to get a ticket. I’ll have her call you soon.”
“You do that, Charlie. Hey, are you anywhere nearby?” Oh boy. I’ve actually fallen for this one before. Lots of times. It’s at least as dangerous as hooking up with Tanya.
“No, Alli, I’m actually down near Palos Verdes right now. I’m on a case.” Finally, a true statement.
“Okay, that’s too baa-ad,” she says in a singsong voice. Accompanied by more tinkling of ice. Time to go.
“Bye Alli.” I toss the phone on the seat next to me.
¤ ¤ ¤
A new vision unfolds. The memory doors seem to pop open at random. This is fifteen years ago and Mindy’s a baby. Allison and I are on the couch in the living room of our starter condo
A nod by skinny-gold-tooth-guy will get you a pass to the shooting gallery in the next room, where you can order up any combination of goodies at cartel retail. Credit is a very bad idea, unless you want to leave some fingers behind.
I didn’t start out a junkie. Most of them start out as kids partying on booze and weed. Then they get bored and experiment with more exotic stuff. Acid, Ecstasy, DMT, you name it. Then coke and speed, which means downers for the end of the ride: Xanax and Oxy. When the balancing act gets too tricky, the first snort of heroin solves the whole riddle of how to get right. It’s no longer a question of how to get high, it’s a matter of simply trying to feel human again. Heroin can do that. Until you run out.
I came at it from another angle. I was a straight arrow in school. I drank a little in college, smoked some pot, so what. It didn’t really ring my bell. But after I broke my back in a diving accident and the pain never went away, I discovered Vicodin. And when ten of them a day couldn’t dull the knife jabbing in my spine and I was juggling three doctors to keep my prescriptions going, who just happened to show up at my physical therapy session? Jimmy Ortiz.
¤ ¤ ¤
My phone is barking at me. It’s actually Vincent, the Lab from the TV show
Lost
. The display says my ex is calling.
What the hell. I’ve got a long drive ahead of me.
“Hello Allison.” On my right, the lovely sight of the Long Beach refinery.
“Charlie . . .” She’s crying. This is the sweet, remorseful Allison. She’s going to try to reel me in. “I’m not your enemy.”
“I know that, Allison. We’ve got to be on the same side . . .”
“And do what’s best for Mindy,” she sobs.
“Right. What’s best for Mindy.”
“I worry about her all the time.” Her voice is low and husky. My guess is that she passed out in the late afternoon and is now on her third drink after waking up. She’s in the sweet spot—the eight minutes where it’s working for her. The rest is all about chasing the eight minutes.
“Have you heard from her yet?”
“No, I was hoping you had.”
“She texted me a while back. I think she has a new boyfriend.” I’m improvising, but the seeds that get planted now will surely bloom when Allison gets to crazyville.
“Really, have you met him?” I can hear the tinkle of ice on glass. She likes flavored vodka on the rocks.
“As a matter of fact, I have.” This could get tricky.
“Really? What’s he like?”
“Well, he seems to really like her.”
“Why that little bitch.” But this is purred, not hissed. “Tell her to call her mother, would you?” Her eight minutes are nearly over, and I have a chance to duck out before I have to duck for cover.
“I’ll definitely do that, Alli. Listen, I’m driving and don’t want to get a ticket. I’ll have her call you soon.”
“You do that, Charlie. Hey, are you anywhere nearby?” Oh boy. I’ve actually fallen for this one before. Lots of times. It’s at least as dangerous as hooking up with Tanya.
“No, Alli, I’m actually down near Palos Verdes right now. I’m on a case.” Finally, a true statement.
“Okay, that’s too baa-ad,” she says in a singsong voice. Accompanied by more tinkling of ice. Time to go.
“Bye Alli.” I toss the phone on the seat next to me.
¤ ¤ ¤
A new vision unfolds. The memory doors seem to pop open at random. This is fifteen years ago and Mindy’s a baby. Allison and I are on the couch in the living room of our starter condo
Similar Books
