American cities in manifold ways. The dockworkers of New Orleans were among the first to partake of it. An observer I know personally has witnessed the increased endurance, the remarkable persistence, the stamina, the building up of sheer strength, the suppression of appetite, not to mention the cheerful disposition—without drink, mind you--among those hardworking men.”
“Without drink?”
“Without drink, young sir, and laughing in the sun.” Mortimer leaps to his feet, sprints around behind his desk, and produces charts, diagrams, ink drawings, more lithographs. “The divine plant is a stimulant, understand that, and as a stimulant not only does it produce all the salubrious effects I’ve just mentioned, but works as a cure for anemia, bronchitis, debility, la grippe, sore throat, angina pectoris, and lung troubles. Gastric carcinoma, pneumonia, typhoid fever, all these ills have been cured. Not to mention shock and sexual exhaustion.” He leans over the desk, and directs his blazing brown eyes into Daniel’s dazed gaze. “Melancholia? Of course! Need I add the cure for dipsomania?”
“I must try it!” Daniel cries.
“The cure is guaranteed.” Mortimer sits and folds his hands. “But, of course, living life is up to you, young sir. Dipsomania of your sort is a powerful disease. If you feel compelled to return to the bottle after the divine plant of the goddess, there is not much more I can do for you.”
“I understand. Please! Let me try it.”
Mortimer leaps to his feet again and leads Daniel to a side table. A wide flat mirror is set into the sort of silver tray a woman might use to display her perfume bottles. Mortimer reaches into a drawer, takes out a vial of fine white powder and a straight-edge razor blade. He spills a little mound of powder onto the mirror and chops at it like a Chinese cook preparing vegetables. In this fashion, he rearranges the powder into long, fine lines. Now he takes out a straw made of silver with cunning little designs of snakes entwined around the shaft.
“You ingest the cure like this,” Mortimer says and, with a vigorous inhalation, promptly sniffs up two lines of the powder through the straw. “You try it now. Take one nostril, then the other,” he says, coaching.
Daniel does as he’s told. A short blast of pain assaults him and the new discomfort of the astringent powder flying up his nose. A bitter taste pools at the back of his throat.
Medicine. By God, why must medicine always taste so dreadful?
And then sheer energy careens into his brain, a short blinding moment, a vertigo. The whole world reels and spins. And then the moment of reeling blindness passes into a sheer wash of pleasure, of strength, of good health and stimulation. Bliss, vigor itself, this sacred gift from the heathen goddess!
“Dr. Mortimer, I am cured!”
“Well now, well now,” the physician murmurs, clearly pleased. “Would you like a prescription?”
“Of course! How much?”
“Five dollars, please.”
It only takes money, that’s what poor old Schultz said. Daniel counts out coins. The proceeds from the sale of the Western Addition lot are flying out of his boodle bag like pigeons startled from a roost. Well. He shall spend no more cash on the Cocktail Route. He is cured of that expensive hobby.
“What is this divine plant of the Incas, Dr. Mortimer?” Daniel asks as he hands over the money.
“Young sir, the heathens plucked leaves right off the miraculous tree and chewed them as a cow chews her cud.” Mortimer hands over a receipt, a tiny silver spoon, and three vials of the white powder. “As you can see, the sacrament comes in a refined form these days. We physicians call it by a scientific name.”
“What name is that?”
“We call it cocaine.”
* * *
Cured!
In the space of an hour, Daniel has reclaimed his soul, restored his health and his sanity. Miracle! Invincible, he feels positively invincible. This must be how a Titan feels, thundering across the primordial world, fearing no one, shrinking from nothing. His blood soars! The pathetic stupor of mescal for lunch and brandy for breakfast is long gone. A god of the ancients he is, his muscles mythological, his brain swooping like a hawk. His eyes take in the splendor and the squalor of Montgomery Street in one omniscient glance as he steps out onto the sidewalk.
And what a sight it is—the proper plain-faced ladies suffocating in their corsets, sweating in their heavy dark dresses. The painted chippies pathetic in their shame, but colorful and lively. The bloated men of all classes leering