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

So I devised a little scheme whereby everyone in the country, for one day out of each month, had to assume the role of the person or persons whose station and intellect he feared most. It was quite delightful, figuring out what everyone’s role would be. J. Edgar Hoover spent the day stoned in a commune in Arizona. Spiro Agnew had to hawk copies of Muhammed Speaks in front of Grand Central Station. Radical student politicos took over the police departments of the nation. Lester Maddox shined shoes in Watts. Walter Hickel dropped acid in the Grand Canyon. Julius Hoffman served Panther breakfasts to school children in S.F. And Richard Nixon was allowed to do anything in the world that he wanted to do, so long as he did it right.

“Oh-oh,” Herbie said.

I sat up straighter in the seat. It was quite dark now; the street and the neighborhood were completely silent. Murphy was coming out of his house. He had his jacket back on, but no briefcase. And no other baggage.

I frowned as I watched. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” said Herbie.

Murphy got into the red car, backed out, and headed down the road, with us behind.

HE WENT NORTH AND TURNED off at the Roxbury exit. That was a little bit of a surprise, but not much. Roxbury was as good a place as any.

While I drove, I said to Herbie, “You got the Baggies?”

“Yeah.”

“And the piece?”

“Yeah. All set.” Then he giggled.

“What’s funny?”

“I’m nervous,” Herbie said.

I was nervous, too. We could get really fucked up doing this cops-and-robbers riff.

Murphy turned onto Mass Avenue, still going north. He drove past the hospital, then turned right on Columbia.

“Maybe he’s getting a little action,” Herbie said, and giggled again.

“Will you cut that out?” I said.

“Sorry.”

Murphy drove up Columbia. He went straight past the hookers without even slowing down.

Herbie said, “Slow down.”

“Why?”

“I want to look.”

“Shit, Herbie.” I kept going, right after Murphy. He went up five blocks, and turned right again, onto a side street, where he parked. I parked and watched as he got out of his car, walked around to the back, opened the trunk, and removed a large suitcase.

“Far out,” I said, to no one in particular.

Herbie started to get out of the car to follow Murphy, but I pushed him back. “My turn,” I said. I got out and followed him down the street a short distance, then watched as he climbed the steps of one of the old brownstones. He kicked aside some broken glass, which clinked down the steps to the sidewalk. I paused a moment, then followed him up, my shoes making a crunching sound on the glass.

At the ground level, I paused once again. I could hear Murphy going up the steps. I opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Then, cautiously, I looked up the stairwell. I saw his hand grip the banister as he went up to the third floor. Then his hand disappeared, and he paused, and I saw him leaning back against the railing. A knock, then the door opened and he moved out of sight.

I waited there a moment, then took off back to the car.

“You find it?” Herbie said.

“Yeah. Third floor on the right.”

“Good. How many?”

I was sitting down, fumbling for a cigarette with trembling fingers. “How many what?”

“Voices. Didn’t you go up and listen at the door?”

“Are you crazy?”

“That’s what I would have done,” he said and, looking at him, I realized it was true.

“You are crazy.”

“It’s important to know how many people are in that room,” he said.

“We’ll find out soon enough.”

“That’s true,” Herbie said. “Only it would be nice to know before we find out.”

“Yeah, well.”

Silence. I smoked and tried to get my hands under control. In the back of my head was the feeling that this might work after all, that we might really pull it off. I hadn’t really believed that all day. I didn’t expect we’d get this far, and in some ways I had hoped we wouldn’t get this far. Because from now on the trip was for real.

Murphy came out of the brownstone about ten minutes later. He was empty-handed, and he whistled “As the Caissons Go Rolling Along” as he got into his car.

We waited a few minutes after he’d driven off, and then Herbie said, “Ready?”

I nodded.

We got out of the car and walked to the brownstone.

IT IS WRONG TO SAY we were nervous. We were terrified. We stood in the ground-floor hallway of the brownstone, smelling the combination of old cabbage, urine, dust, and mildew which hung in the air. As we started up the stairs, Herbie gave me the gun. “Just remember,” he said. “Watch your fingers.”

“Is it loaded?” I asked. It felt light for a piece.

“Yeah,” said Herbie. “Just watch your fingers. If they see—”

“Okay, okay.”

We came to the third-floor landing and walked around to the door. Herbie moved forward and I stayed behind him, keeping the gun out of sight, as we had agreed. Staring at the door, I had a vision of a six-foot-six, two-hundred-forty-pound spade standing behind it, just waiting to grind up a couple of college punks.

Herbie knocked, looked back at me, and smiled.

Herbie was enjoying himself, in his own nervous little way. He didn’t know any better, I thought.

He knocked and waited. Nothing happened. Right at that point I was ready to forget the whole thing and leave, but Herbie knocked again, louder. Then I heard soft footsteps inside. They didn’t sound like the footsteps of anybody big; I began to feel better.

A voice said, “Who is it?” Herbie glanced back at me, uncertain what to say. “Who’s there?” said the voice.

“Murphy,” I growled. As soon as I said it, I knew it was stupid. Murphy wouldn’t use his real name with a Roxbury front.

Behind the door, a pause. “Who?”

There was nothing to do but barge ahead. “Murphy,” I said, in a louder voice. “I’m twenty bucks short.”

We heard the chain rattling. Then the door opened and a pimply, white creature nosed into view and said, “Listen, you counted it right in front—”

He broke off, staring at us. He started to slam the door, but Herbie got his foot in. “One moment,” Herbie said. “We wish to make you a business proposition.”

I pushed Herbie from behind and there was a creaking and then the soft crunch of rotten wood breaking as a chain lock ripped out of the door. We stepped into the room and the cat jumped back and stared at us.

“B-business,” he said, “I-I’ma not innarested.”

The last word came out in a tumble and as I looked at him I saw why. He was thin and pale and his pupils were tiny. Arms covered with tracks. Speed freak. Probably paranoid as hell to begin with, I thought, without a couple of dudes barging into his room and pulling a piece on him. Then I realized that the way we were standing, he wouldn’t be able to see the piece, and I moved aside from Herbie enough so that he could dig it. He crumpled on the floor and babbled as Herbie said, “Hear us out. We have no intention of doing you any bodily harm.” He paused to look around the room. “You seem quite capable of taking care of that yourself.” At this the guy only babbled some more, the words flowing out in an unintelligible staccato, and groveled on the floor. “Please sit down,” Herbie said, giggling again, and the guy pulled himself over to the single mattress in the room and collapsed. The room was definitely a speed freak’s home-sweet-home. The walls were peeling and there was the one mattress and a couple of posters that covered the places that were peeling the worst. The floor was littered with empty soda cans and candy wrappers, and right next to the mattress was a set of works and an old spoon in a glass of water. Ho hum. A couple of bags of what looked like hydrochloride. Nothing else.