Michael Crichton - Dealing or The Berkeley-to-Boston Forty-Brick Lost-Bag Blues

“I told you, I don’t smoke marijuana.”

“How long?” he said, like I better answer.

“I smoked, maybe two years. Maybe more. Don’t any more.”

“O’Shaugnessy turn you onto this shit, huh?”

“No, he didn’t,” I said. Absurd questions.

“LSD,” said Crew Cut, dragging on his cigarette fiercely, “what about that shit, you take that too?”

“I don’t recall being busted for that,” I said.

Deskman leaned forward, a strange gleam of satisfaction in his eye, as though he’d just destroyed the golden calf single-handed.

“Tell me, Harkness,” he said, “is it good kicks?” I looked at him, astonished. So that was the problem. Well, there wasn’t anything I could do for his head. I shrugged and said, “Better than alcohol.”

It was pointless to bait the pig, but I couldn’t help enjoying it when he suddenly began to sweat. His face got red and his lower lip twitched. “Only it’s not legal, is it, Harkness? And that doesn’t bother you, does it, Harkness? You don’t give a fuck for the law. You can’t be bothered with what’s legal and what isn’t. The whole fabric of society is a big joke to you, isn’t it? You’re just so smart you can do whatever you want, can’t you, Harkness?”

“How do you figure that?” I said.

“I don’t have to figure it, Harkness,” he shouted. “I know it. I know all about you.”

“You know all about me?” I said, and looked at him. He was serious. “You should’ve considered the priesthood, Lieutenant. This isn’t a job for you, it’s a calling.”

His eyes flashed when I said that. He rocked feverishly in his chair for a moment, and then said, “Okay. Okay, Harkness. You’re pretty funny, you’re a pretty funny guy. You got a lot of quick answers, a lot of smart-guy, know-it-all answers. And you go to your big Ivy League school and wear your English clothes and your old man buys you everything and you’re sick, you’re sicker than hell and all the bastards like you… But let me tell you something, punk.”

His face was now very red. I waited for him to tell me something, seeing as how he knew all about me.

“Tomorrow, punk,” he said, “tomorrow you’re going to be in front of a judge, and that judge is going to know you weren’t very helpful. And you’re gonna get a felony for all your efforts, see? A big fat felony.” He held an open hand out to me, and crushed the air, squeezing the felony, big and fat. “And you might even do some time for this one, Harkness, because society isn’t going to put up with your kind of liberal shit any more, you better believe that. We aren’t going to put up with it forever—your drugs and your sick life and your disrupting and your crime.”

“Disrupting? Listen, I was trying to get some sleep when—”

“Shut up,” the pig said. “You better learn to shut up, Harkness, and you better learn fast. Because when you get out of here all your cars and your money and your slick girl friends aren’t going to get this off your record, no matter how much you talk. You’re going to have to explain this one, Harkness, everywhere you go. Every time you try to get a job you’re going to have to do some explaining, and every time you apply for a loan. And no matter how much explaining you do, it’s never gonna go away.”

He paused to catch his breath, and shook his head at me. “Sure, Harkness,” he said viciously. “I know. Sometimes it happens, a good boy like you. Good family, good education—you just slip up, and make one little mistake. But you’ve made your mistake this time, see, Harkness, and you’re gonna be explaining it for the rest of your life. The rest of your crummy life.”

Deskman put out his cigarette in an ashtray next to me, and I could smell the fumes as I said, “Well, it seems that everybody gets their kicks somehow.”

WITH THAT HE STOOD up from behind the desk, and I saw again how small he was. Beware the Small Man. He waved to the other two.

“All right, boys, get him out of here.” His face was strained; he was showing great forbearance. I stood up and he came over to me, until he was just a few inches away. I was half a head taller than he was, and he didn’t like that.

“You’re a really funny guy, Harkness,” he said in a low voice. He began to speak slowly, but the words picked up as he went. “A real funny guy, a joker, a know-it-all. I bet all your friends think you’re a funny guy and a know-it-all, too.”

And with that, suddenly, he kneed me in the groin. It was very quick, and I coughed and bent over, leaning on the desk.

“You’re scum,” the pig said. “And we’re going to break you and your kind of scum, curb you like dogs so that decent people don’t have to step in your shit. So decent people don’t even have to look at you, see, Harkness? So that they won’t even have to know you’re there.”

And he kicked again, and I coughed again and fell back into my chair, my pack of cigarettes falling out and spreading like white splinters over the floor. The pig gave a final snort and walked out, leaving me doubled-over in the chair, trying to get my breath. When I finally looked up I saw a cigarette being offered. Crew Cut held it out, looking sort of embarrassed to be offering me a smoke, but too embarrassed not to. The other cop was trying not to look at anything, peering out into the outer office.

I took the butt and Crew Cut lit it. After a drag or two I felt a little better. The pain was sliding away. I wiped the tears from the sides of my eyes. “That’s a man the force can be proud of,” I said.

Crew Cut looked pained, and swallowed a couple of times. “Murphy feels strongly about all this,” he said.

“I noticed,” I said. “Is he always like that?”

“Murphy feels strongly about these things,” Crew Cut said again. “He thought he could find out a lot more from you than he did. He couldn’t, so that’s that, and—”

And then it hit me. “Murphy?” I said.

Crew Cut and Fats exchanged glances.

“Lieutenant Murphy, old FBI man, now a narc?”

The two of them stood up. It was time to go.

“Didn’t he used to work in Boston?” I asked.

“He still does, kid. He’s out here following up a smack case. Now let’s go.”

And I was out the door and through the office very fast. On the way downstairs I began to understand.

LIEUTENANT JOHN L. MURPHY WAS a familiar name in Boston, and a household word in Cambridge. Narc squads are usually distinguished only for their irritatingly obvious presence—you see a freaky guy wearing white socks, and you know he’s a narc—but Murphy had been doing his damnedest to change the image. He was tough, fast, and imaginative. He was also a screaming sadist and a crook.

There were a lot of stories about him, but I’d never taken them too seriously. When somebody on the streets tells you about a narc who busts people single-handed, makes deals with them, takes their bread or their dope and then works them over and turns them in anyway—well, that’s a little hard to believe. I mean, the image is a bit too desirable to be true. Everybody wants a good reason to hate cops. They’re The Enemy.

I was converted when Murphy busted Super Spade. Super Spade was a loping, agile, funky, beautiful, good-time dude, whose face had been glowing in Harvard Square for years, long before the college boys had even heard of dope. Super was sort of the grand old man of the street. Everybody liked him, and everybody was unhappy when he got busted.

After he got out, he came over to see John to borrow some bread for a lawyer. And he blew our minds when he told us the story, because Murphy had busted him and the story was like all the other Murphy stories. Murphy had busted him alone; the warrant was in order, and Super had been caught holding eight bricks. So far so good. Then Murphy began talking about how much Super’s eight bricks were worth, and how much time he’d probably draw for that kind of quantity. And Super finally made the connection and suggested that perhaps he and Murphy could work something out.