Ed McBain - Pusher

"Yes."

"How'd you start?"

"At the school. Some kid was shoving muggles. Marijuana, Dad. We call it…"

"I know the names," Byrnes said.

"So that's how I started. Then I forget, I think I had a snort of C, and then somebody gave me a snort of H, and that… Well, I tried a skin pop."

"How long before you went on mainline?"

"About two weeks."

"Then you're hooked solid," Byrnes said.

"I can take it or leave it alone," Larry answered defiantly.

"Sure. Where do you get your stuff?"

"Listen, Dad…"

"I'm asking as a father, not a cop!" Byrnes said quickly.

"Up… up in Grover Park."

"From whom?"

"What difference does it make? Look, Pop, I… I'll ditch the habit, okay? I mean, really, I will. But let's knock this off. It's kind of embarrassing, you know?"

"It's more embarrassing than you think. Did you know a boy named Aníbal Hernandez?"

Larry was silent.

"Look, son, you went all the way to Isola to buy. You bought in my precinct, in Grover Park. Did you know Aníbal Hernandez?"

"Yes," Larry admitted.

"How well?"

"I bought from him a coupla times. He was a mule, Dad. That means he pushed to other kids. Mostly because he had a habit himself."

"I know what a mule is," Byrnes said patiently. "How many times, exactly, did you buy from him?"

"A coupla times, I told you."

"Twice, you mean?"

"Well, more than that."

"Three times?"

"No."

"Four? For God's sake, Larry, how many times!"

"Well, like… well, to tell you the truth, I bought from him mostly. I mean, you know, you fall in with a pusher and if he gives you good stuff you stick with him. Anyway, he… he was a nice guy. Few times we… we shot up together, you know? Free. I mean, he didn't charge me anything for the junk. He laid it on me free. He was all right."

"You keep saying was . Do you know he's dead?"

"Yes. He hanged himself, I heard."

"Now listen to me carefully, Larry. I received a phone call the other day. The caller…"

"From who?"

"An anonymous call. I took it because it was related to the Hernandez death. This was before we got the coroner's report."

"Yeah?"

"The caller told me a few things about you."

"Like what? Like I'm a junkie, you mean?"

"Not only that."

"What then?"

"He told me where you were and what you were doing on the night of December 17th and the early morning of December 18th."

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

"So where was I supposed to have been?"

"In a basement room with Aníbal Hernandez."

"Yeah?"

"That's what the caller told me."

"So?"

"Is it true?"

"Maybe."

"Larry, don't get smart again! So help me God, I'll…"

"Okay, okay, I was with Annabelle."

"From what time to what time?"

"From about… let me see… it must have been nine o'clock. Yeah, from about nine to midnight, I guess. That's right. I left him about twelve or so."

"Were you with him at all that afternoon?"

"No. I met him in the street about nine. Then we went down to the basement."

"When you left him, did you come straight home?"

"No. I was high. Annabelle was already nodding on the cot, and I didn't want to fall asleep there. So I cut out, and I walked around a little."

"How high were you?"

"High," Larry said.

"What time did you get home?"

"I don't know. Very late."

"What's very late?"

"Three, four."

"Were you alone with Hernandez until midnight?"

"Yes."

"And he shot up, too, is that right?"

"Yes."

"And you left him asleep?"

"Well, nodding. You know—not here, not there."

"How much did Hernandez shoot?"

"We split a sixteenth."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure, Annabelle said so when he took out the deck. He said it was a sixteenth. I'll tell you the truth, I'm glad we shot up together. I hate to shoot up alone. It scares me. I'm afraid of an overdose."

"You say you shot up together? Did you both use the same syringe?"

"No. Annabelle had his spike, and I had mine."

"And where's your outfit now?"

"I got it. Why?"

"You still have your syringe?"

"Certainly."

"Tell me exactly what happened."

"I don't follow you."

"After Annabelle showed you the deck."

"I got out my spike, and he got out his. Then we cooked the stuff in some bottle caps, and…"

"The caps found on that orange crate under the light?"

"Yeah, I guess so. Yeah, there was an orange crate across the room."

"Did you take the syringes with you when you went to that orange crate?"

"No, I don't think so. We left them on the cot, I think."

"Then what?"

"We cooked the junk and went back to the cot, and Annabelle picked up his spike, and I picked up mine, and we loaded them and fixed ourselves."

"Annabelle picked up his syringe first?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Is it possible he picked up the wrong syringe?"

"Huh?"

"Is it possible he used your syringe?"

"No. I know the feel of mine. No, it's impossible. I shot up with my own syringe."

"What about when you left?"

"I don't know what you're saying, Dad."

"Could you have left your syringe there and taken Annabelle's by accident?"

"I don't see how. Right after we shot up, Annabelle… now wait a minute, you're getting me mixed up."

"What happened exactly?"

"Well, we fixed ourselves, and I guess we put the syringes down. Yes, yes. Then Annabelle saw he was about to nod, so he got up and took his syringe and put it in his jacket pocket."

"Were you watching him closely?"

"No. I only remember he was blowing his nose—addicts always got colds, you know—and then he remembered the spike, and he went over to get it and put it in his pocket. So that was when I went over for mine, too."

"And you were high at the time?"

"Yeah."

"Then you could have taken the wrong spike? The one Annabelle had been handling? Leaving your own spike behind?"

"I guess so, but…"

"Where's your syringe now?"

"On me."

"Look at it."

Larry reached into his pocket. He turned the syringe over in his hands studying it. "It looks like mine," he said.

"Is it?"

"It's hard to tell. Why? I don't get it."

"There are some things you should know, Larry. First Hernandez did not hang himself. He died of an overdose of heroin."

"What? What?"

"Second, there was one and only one syringe found in the room with him."

"Well, that figures. He…"

"The man who called me is after something. I don't know what yet. He said he'd call me again after I talked with you. He said you and Hernandez argued that afternoon. He says he has a witness who will swear to it. He says you were alone with Hernandez all that night. He says…"

"Me? Hell, I didn't argue with Annabelle. He laid a fix on me free, didn't he? Does that sound like we argued? How does this guy know all about this, anyway? Jesus, Dad…"

"Larry…"

"Who is this guy?"

"I don't know. He didn't give his name."

"Well… well, let him get his witness! I didn't argue with Annabelle. We were friendly as hell. What's he trying to say, anyway? Is he trying to say I gave Annabelle that overdose? Is that what? Let him get his goddamn witness, go ahead, let him."

"He doesn't need a witness, son."

"No? I suppose a judge is just going to…"

"The man who called me said we'd find your finger prints on the syringe in that basement room."

Chapter Nine

At three o'clock that morning, Maria Hernandez was ready to call it a day. She had thirty-five dollars in her purse, and she was tired, and it was cold, and if she fixed herself now and then went straight to sleep, she'd be set for the night. There was nothing like a nice warm fix before hitting the sack. For Maria, a shot of heroin was something that attacked her entire body. It made her tingle everywhere, even in what the Vice Squad and she herself referred to as her "privates."