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eBook Category: Horror
eBook Description: Richie O'Brien's legless friend Short-stuff warns him not to mess with the chinese dealer known as Mister Doom. Richie doesn't listen.

eBook Publisher: Fictionwise.com, Published: Rockers, Shamans, Mannikins & Thanathespians, 2000
Fictionwise Release Date: February 2003

25 Reader Ratings: Great Good OK Poor

Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [91 KB], eReader (PDB) [35 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [22 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [21 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [70 KB] - PocketPC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [93 KB], hiebook (KML) [85 KB], Sony Reader (LRF) [55 KB], iSilo (PDB) [19 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [24 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [51 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [36 KB]
Words: 6718
Reading time: 19-26 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

Junkies are hip,
sometimes bold,
often cool,
but never old.

--graffito in the Haight

Richie O'Brien was in a hurry, a big hurry.

A summer fog had blown in from San Francisco Bay as evening settled, cooling off the City; but Richie's body was covered with a sweaty film that made his crouch and underarms feel gritty. His stomach was queasy, his bowels loose; and as he hiked up Powell into Chinatown, the muscles in his legs and arms began to ache, as if they would cramp any moment.

Hurry, man, hurry, the synapses in his limbs screamed silently--a mute chorus of pain.

Earlier, during most of the morning, he had roamed the Haight in vain, surreptitiously checking the inside of cars, looking for something to boost. Finally, about eleven, he'd spotted a Fujiko camera in the back seat of a white Topaz, the door window cracked several inches. He glanced about to make sure no one was watching; then, with a bent coat hanger, he had the door open in a few seconds and the camera under his shirt. Feeling paranoid he watched a couple cross the street and stroll his way, but as they passed by they paid him no mind, so Richie joined a group of punk rockers moving the opposite way, only partially restraining a giggle of triumph.

When at last he reached the A-1 PawnShop on Mission Street, it was almost noon, and the Russian had a long line of people waiting to see him. Richie joined the end of the line, and soon, like most of the others ahead of him, he began to squirm, feeling uncomfortable, his crouch itching, as if he'd picked up a case of crabs along with the camera. Ahead in line a few others were even further along than Richie, hopping back and forth on their feet, smoking one cigarette after another; some were even popping pills and swallowing them dryly. Richie wished he had some codeine or Valium to keep his jones at bay. Like some of the others in line at this time of day, he hadn't fixed since last night.

After forty-five minutes or so, it was finally his turn...

"Fif-teen dol-lars," announced the heavyset Russian in the wire cage after examining the Fujiko and looking up with his steely gray eyes.

"Ah, man," Richie complained, his heart sinking; but he knew it was no use arguing. The Russian never negotiated with his early customers. He'd just shrug when one indignantly demanded more money, push the item back, and gesture for the next one in line to bypass the disgruntled customer. Richie snatched up the receipt and money, hustling out of the pawnshop past half a dozen people still in line; some of them looking pretty strung out.

On the sidewalk, Richie bit the knuckle of his right forefinger, thinking hard. He still needed ten bucks to score a quarter gram of Mexican Tar.

"Yeah," he shouted to himself, remembering the fake Muni fast passes Rudy Sanchez had given him last weekend. Rudy, Richie's boyhood friend, who worked in a print shop on Castro, always had some scheme for turning a quick buck and usually included Richie in his plot. Right after high school, Richie had taken a fall when a Sanchez scheme turned sour--getting himself ninety days--but not ratting out on his friend; and during the last ten years Rudy Sanchez had often demonstrated his gratitude.

Richie dug out his wallet, unwrapping the cellophane from the ten fast passes. He'd sell two, and he'd be in business. Grinning, he took off for Market Street, deciding on the stop at Tenth.

On the Muni Island, he looked over the four people standing on the median, waiting for a bus. Richie decided to hit on the guy in the plaid sport jacket reading the green section of the Chronicle. But just before he flashed the phony pass, Richie saw a cop waiting to cross Market, looking in their direction. He decided to move back a stop uptown before trying to make a sale.

Richie hit up a dozen or so people before he finally sold two passes. Guess I gotta work on my sales technique, he told himself, shrugging off the lack of immediate success as he headed north across Market Street.

By the time he reached the Cajun's flat off Eddy and Jones in the Tenderloin, Richie was still in pretty good shape. His nose was running a little, and he felt the hint of a cramp in the pit of his stomach; but he would be okay after he did some business with his connection. But no one answered the knock at the second floor flat door. Strange, the Cajun was always home or his lady, Sweet Jane, even holidays. They were both carrying major joneses and needed to take regular care of a large number of customers daily to feed their own habits. But even though he was a heavy user, the Cajun was a good connection, always giving fair weight, and he or Sweet Jane never cut the tar. Not like those dope fiend assholes over on Sixteenth, who worked the street, selling four balloons for one free one from their connections--the balloons never weighing out to a quarter gram, sometimes cut with who knew what. And you always had to be alert that you were actually getting good shit and not getting ripped off. Besides the hassle, it was really easy to get busted doing business out on the street.