Andrew Vachss - Pain Management

“You’re right. Which is why I’m going into a new line of work.”

“What’s that?”

“Fund-raising,” she said, with a truly wicked grin. “You know how it says, ‘God bless the child who’s got his own’? Well, people dying in pain in America don’t have their own. But we can buy some for them.”

“That’s a better plan,” I agreed. “If the gun people can do it . . .”

“Yes! I know. We’ve all been thinking about this for quite a while. Things have to change. Even when there’s a huge market for a drug—like the so-called ‘abortion pill’—it took forever to get FDA approval. Not because of science—remember, this is something they’d tested on humans, and for years —but because the politicians were afraid of the anti-choice lobby. With pain medication, it’s a thousand times worse. The only market for new painkillers is for the ‘nonaddictive’ type. But the very reason for taking pain medication dictates that you become dependent on it. If it keeps you from being tortured, why shouldn’t you be dependent on it?”

I stepped away from her a little. Obsessives make me nervous. Maybe that’s why I scare people, sometimes. About some things.

“I’m not arguing with you,” I said, gently.

But it was too late to derail her train. “Do you know why dealers started cutting heroin with quinine?” she said, her voice shaking. “The U.S. government taught them. The military used to mix quinine into the morphine styrettes soldiers carried into battle in the Pacific Theater, because of the malaria threat. Nothing too good for our fighting men . . . until they come back home. The government doesn’t care. And neither do the drug companies. The only real R and D going on is for the illegal stuff, anyway. Like Ecstasy. You get a real quick turnaround on the research—instant profits—plus, you don’t have to pay the human guinea pigs; they pay you.”

“I know,” I said. Thinking about the morphine pump they’d hooked me to while I was recovering from the bullets meant to kill me. That magic pump that fired a little bit of painkiller into my veins every time I squeezed it. But I could only squeeze it six times an hour. And every time I did, the hospital’s billing computer went ka-ching! That machine hadn’t been developed to kill pain; it had been designed by an accountant.

“But don’t you get it, B.B.? The DEA creates the market for new ways to get high. The pious, hypocritical—”

“I get it, Ann. But what good is one big score—even a humongous one—against that?”

“We need that shipment,” she said, adamantly. “We need something to sustain the ground effort, while the rest of us pull back and put the pressure elsewhere.”

“I can’t help you.”

“Yes, you can,” she said. “And I’ll show you why.”

I piloted the Corvette to Ann’s instructions. If she was trying to confuse me, she did a great job. I wouldn’t have been more lost if I’d been blindfolded. We pulled up to what looked like the bank of a river, but we were facing the wrong way for it to be the one that runs through Portland.

“Milwaukie,” she said, as if that explained everything.

“What do we do now?” I asked her.

“Wait. It won’t be long. Besides, it’s dark out.”

“So?”

“So haven’t you ever heard it’s much sexier to fuck outdoors?”

“No.”

“No, you haven’t heard it? Or no, you don’t believe it?”

“I’ve heard it. When it comes to sex, there’s people who get turned on by everything from latex to liverwurst. But, me, I’m a big fan of privacy.”

“That’s part of the fun,” she said softly, giving her lips a quick flick with the tip of her tongue. “That someone might come along.”

“Save it. When I was a kid, that was the only way it ever happened.”

“Outdoors?”

“Standing up in an alley. On a ratty couch in a basement with no door. On a rooftop; in the park when the weather was right . . .”

“Sounds like you had a lot of experience.”

“Experience? With sex, sure. With sex where you felt safe, like someone wasn’t going to run up on you any minute—not until I was much older.”

“I never tried it,” she whispered. “You sure you don’t want to show me?”

“I’m sure.”

“You don’t feel sure,” she said, giving me a rough squeeze.

“You didn’t ask me how I felt. You asked me what I wanted. And I told you.”

“You think, if we . . . if it happens again, you’ll be stuck? That you’ll have to go through with it?”

“No. And stop with the word games. There’s nothing for me to ‘go through’ with. I never made any deals.”

“You implied . . .”

“If you’d turned her up before I could do it on my own, I would have traded, like I said. But you didn’t.”

“Wait and see,” she said, folding her arms under her breasts. Then lifting them a little, just to show me what I had passed up.

“Time to go,” she said, about fifteen minutes later.

“Go where?”

“I’ll show you. We just had to park so . . . some people could be sure we weren’t followed.”

“So we never were going to be alone, huh?”

“ You wouldn’t have known.”

“I get it.”

“No, you don’t. But this isn’t about that now. Just drive.”

The area behind the warehouse looked deserted. Except for the bright-red Dodge Durango.

“Flash your brights a couple of times,” Ann said. “Then pull in right next to him.”

I J-turned so that I could back in. As I was reversing, I saw two figures get out. By the time I was parked, they were sitting on the lowered tailgate of the Dodge.

Clipper and Big A.

“Hey, handsome,” Ann greeted Big A, giving him a kiss on the cheek, half big sister, half “Someday soon.”

“What’s up?” Clipper asked her, as if he was sitting in a coffeeshop and she’d just walked by.

“I don’t know,” Ann told him.

I took a step back, grabbed Clipper’s eyes, and took off my jacket. “All you had to do was ask,” I said to her.

“It was more fun my way,” she mock-giggled.

Big A ducked his head so I wouldn’t see him blush.

“What were you worried about?” I asked Clipper. “A piece, or a wire?”

“Guns scare me,” he said, calmly.

“We’ll be right back,” I told him. Then I reached over and grabbed the back of Ann’s neck. I would have used her hair, but I knew the wig would come off in my hand. “Come on,” I said.

She came along meekly enough until we got to the corner of the building. I had to put on a little pressure to get her to make the turn, out of sight of Clipper and Big A.

“Do it,” I said.

“Do . . . what?”

“Search me. Do a good job. I don’t know what all this is about, but I want you to be able to tell Clipper that I’m not carrying.”

She ran her hands over me. Tentatively, not sure what she was doing, but covering all the ground. It didn’t surprise me that she missed the sleeve knife.

“Can I . . . ?”

“Whatever you want,” I said. “Just get it done.”

She unsnapped my jeans. Pulled the zipper down. She tugged at the waistband just enough to get her hands inside. Spent more time there than she had to.

“All right,” she finally said.

We walked back around to where Clipper and Big A were sitting.

“He’s empty,” Ann said. “Now let me tell you what’s happening. B.B. doesn’t want to help us out with our . . . project anymore.”

If Clipper had a problem with “our,” he kept it off his face.