Don Winslow - A Cool Breeze on the Underground

Neal wanted to fall down, which had always worked in the gym, but he figured that hitting the deck here would just invite a boot on the neck or a nice kick in the face, so he stayed on his feet and waited for the kid to push his luck with a third shot, which he did. Blessing his attacker’s lack of imagination, Neal stepped to his own left and dodged the punch and drove a hard left hook into the kid’s stomach. Son of a bitch if it didn’t work. The kid doubled over and Neal took advantage of this to fall on top of him, knock him over, and lie on him.

Colin was beating the uncouth piss out of the last Pakistani when Vanessa spotted the police car turning the corner.

“Peelers!” she yelled.

Colin broke off his engagement and grabbed Neal by the back of the collar.

“Run like a bastard!”

Neal wasn’t sure exactly how a bastard ran, but he assumed Colin was following his own advice, so he followed him. They ran several blocks before ducking into the proverbial alley, where he leaned against the wall, gasped for air, threw up, and started bleeding again.

Colin’s flat was a surprise.

It shouldn’t have been, Neal thought. Dope dealers and pimps always make money, even young corners like Colin. The flat was by no means luxurious, but it was in a not-so-bad part of shabby Earl’s Court. It was a second-floor walk-up, but spacious and surprisingly well kept. The sitting room was large and French windows led to a small balcony. The kitchen was not small, but certainly under-used. A coffeepot and a tea kettle sat on a stove, along with jars of Nescafe and sugar.

Colin’s bedroom was large and dark. A blackout shade hung even at night. Neal expected the water bed and the Che Guevara poster. He expected the five locks that secured the main door. He didn’t expect the expensive television in the sitting room, nor the pricey stereo equipment, nor, especially, the brick-and-board bookcases lined with paperback volumes of poetry: Coleridge, Blake, and Byron, Colin was doing all right for himself.

Colin disappeared into the bedroom and came out with a bowl of hash. “Here. This will help cool you out.”

He went into the kitchen and came out with ice wrapped in a paper towel. He handed it to Neal.

Neal placed the cold cloth on his face. It felt great. His nose had started to throb. He felt around it again and decided it really wasn’t broken.

He loved undercover work.

Colin lit the pipe, took a long drag, and handed it to Neal. Neal shook his head. More than enough is more than enough. “It’s mild, Neal. Bopper dope.”

Neal accepted the pipe and drew the hash into his lungs. He held it for a long moment, then exhaled. It beat the shit out of Oval tine.

Carnal sounds came from the small bedroom. “Violence turns Vanessa on,” Colin explained. “Is it worth it?” “For Crisp, it is.” “What’s his real name?”

Colin shrugged and took another drag. He offered the pipe to Neal. Neal declined. More than enough is enough. “I’m going to get some kip. I’ll get you a blanket.” Daddy Colin.

Neal had just dropped off when Allie came in. He heard her long sigh, and heard her put the kettle on the boil. She stood impatiently until it whistled. He listened as she stirred in milk and sugar and then tiptoed to the bedroom door. He heard it open and shut again, and was surprised to hear her tiptoe back into the sitting room. She finished her tea while looking out the window. Then he heard her shuck off her shoes and her jeans and felt her lie down beside him.

“Push over and give me some of the blanket.”

“If Colin comes out here-”

“I just want to sleep.”

“Does he know that?”

Another sigh from Allie. “He’s not alone.”

“He came home alone.”

“So?”

“Oh.”

“Bright guy.”

Neal gave it a shot. “You like living like this?”

“Yes. Now you want to shut up and let me get some sleep?”

Dear Dad, having a wonderful time. Wish you were here. By the way, tonight I’m sleeping with Allie Chase.

He woke up hurting. His nose felt like someone had driven a fist into it, and the rest of his body ached with righteous indignation. He was hangover thirsty and went into the bathroom to get some water.

Allie was sitting on the stool, her knees tucked up under her chin. She bent over with poignant grace, the needle poised over the small vein between her toes. She was concentrating hard, and noticed Neal only after she gently squeezed the plunger. She looked up at him as the heroin hit her. A small pop, but there it was.

“Well,” Neal said, “they do say that breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

“Don’t tell Colin.”

“It’s none of my business.”

“That’s right.”

“He doesn’t know you shoot up?”

“What happened to none of your business?”

“That shit’s bad for you.”

“But so good to me.”

She got up, carefully put the gear back into her bag, and walked past him into the sitting room, where she lay back down on the floor and stared at the ceiling.

He followed her in and lay down beside her. “How long have you been using a wake-up?”

“My, aren’t we hip? A couple of weeks. I don’t know.”

“Expensive habit.”

“I pay for it.”

“I bet you do.” “I’m not an addict.” “I didn’t say you were an addict.”

She rolled over on her side, away from him. “He knows I shoot up. He doesn’t know how much.” She drifted off.

Neal propped his feet up on the balcony railing and gently leaned his chair back. The last of the afternoon sun felt good on his face. He had showered and shaved, borrowed a clean T-shirt from Colin, and was now sipping a cup of bitter Nescafe, on his way to feeling at least remotely human. Allie was safely tucked in and sound asleep. Crisp and Vanessa had gone out in search of food, and Neal and Colin had settled onto the balcony.

Colin was dressed for leisure. He was shirtless and wore denim jeans and biker boots. Reflective sunglasses shielded his eyes from the harsh glare of day.

“Sunday’s a hassle, so I leave it alone,” he was saying. “Too many citizens on the street and the coppers don’t want to see you there. Sunday night’s all right, though.”

“I should get going,” Neal said, yawning.

“What for?”

“The job.”

Colin stretched like a cat. “Talk about the fox in the friggin’ ’en coop.”

“I don’t screw around with it.”

“Pity.”

“Do you rip off your customers?”

“Never.”

They sat quietly for a while. Neal thought about what he was up to, then tried not to think about it. Made him feel like shit.

“So are you a heavy dealer, Colin?”

“Not ’eavy enough. Bit of hash, bit of coke…”

“Heroin?”

“No. Wouldn’t harf mind, but the nicker, lad, the nicker…” He rubbed his thumb over his fingertips, the universal sign language for cash. “Takes a ’eap of the filthy lucre to get into smack in any serious way.”

“And the ladies?”

“Wha’ is this? The BBC?”

“Just making conversation.”

“I have a few lady friends who’d rather get paid for it. I take a finder’s fee.”

Yeah, I get a finder’s fee, too, Neal thought. So to speak.

Colin set his head back to catch the rays better. “I was a little bugger during the ’ole ’ippie thing. Love and peace an’ all ‘at shit. The bloody Beatles and their wog guru. Fucking sitars…”

“You got that right.”

“This punk thing. It says the world is shit. Get pissed, get stoned, get your rocks off. All there is.”

These are a few of my favorite things.

“We just got back from a ’oliday in France,” Colin said. “Got pissed, got stoned, got our rocks off in a different place.”