tourniquet and humming along with “Mr. Tambourine Man,” I take her biggest syringe and fill it all the way with the methedrine solution. I find the vein first try. She’s too whacked-out to notice the size of the syringe until I’ve got most of it into her.
She tries to pull her arm away. “Hey, that’s ten fucking cc’s!”
I’m cool. I’m more than cool. I’m stone-cold dead inside.
“Yeah, but it wasn’t full. I only put one cc in it.” I pull her off the toilet seat. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“How about you, Troy? I thought you wanted—”
“Later. I’ll do it at the club. I’ve got to get back.”
As I pack up her paraphernalia, carefully wiping my prints off the syringe and bottles, she sags against the bathroom door.
“I don’t feel so good, Troy. How much did you give me?”
“Not much. Come on, let’s go.”
Something’s going to happen—twenty thousand milligrams of methamphetamine in a single dose has to have a catastrophic effect—and whatever it is, I don’t want it happening in my apartment.
I hurry her out to the street. I’m glad my place is on the first floor; I’d hate to see her try a few flights of steps right now. We go half a block and she clutches her chest.
“Shit, that hurts! Troy, I think I’m having a heart attack!”
As she starts retching and shuddering, I pull her into an alley. A cat bolts from the shadows; the alley reeks of garbage. Sally shudders and sinks to her knees.
“Get me to a hospital, Troy,” she says in a weak, raspy voice. “I think I overdid it this time.”
I sink down beside her and fight the urge to carry her the few blocks to St. Vincent’s emergency room. Instead, I hold her in my arms. She’s trembling.
“I can’t breathe!”
The shudders become more violent. She convulses, almost throwing me off her; then she lies still, barely breathing. Another convulsion, more violent than the last, choking sounds tearing from her throat. She’s still again, but this time she’s not breathing. A final shudder, and Sally the Speed Queen comes to a final, screeching halt.
As I crouch there beside her, still holding her, I begin to sob. This isn’t the way I planned it, not at all the way it was supposed to be. It was all going to be peace and love and harmony, all Woodstock and no Altamont. Music, laughs, money. This isn’t in the plan.
I lurch to my feet and vomit into the garbage can. I start walking. I don’t look back at her. I can’t. I stumble into the street and head for the Eighth Wonder, crying all the way.
The owner, the guys in the band, they all hassle me for delaying the next set. I look out into the audience and see Dylan’s gone, but I don’t care. Just as well. The next three sets are a mess, the worst of my life. The rest of the night is a blur. As soon as I’m done, I’m out of there, running.
I find Perry Street full of cops and flashing red lights. I don’t have to ask why. The self-loathing wells up in me until I want to be sick again. I promise myself to get those records into a safety-deposit box first thing tomorrow so that something like this can never happen again.
I don’t look at anybody as I pass the alley, afraid they’ll see the guilt screaming in my eyes, but I’m surprised to find my landlord, Charlie, standing on the front steps to the apartment house.
“Hey, Jonson!” he says. “Where da hell ya been? Da cops is lookin’ all ova for ya!”
I freeze on the bottom step.
“I’ve been working—all night.”
“Sheesh, whatta night. First dat broad overdoses an’ dies right downa street, and now dis! Anyway, da cops is in your place. Better go talk to ’em.”
As much as I want to run, I don’t. I can get out of this. Somebody probably saw us together, that’s all. I can get out of this.
“I don’t know anything about an overdose,” I say. It’s a form of practice. I figure I’m going to have to say it a lot of times before the cops leave.
“Not dat!” Charlie says. “About your apartment. You was broken into a few hours ago. I t’ought I heard glass break so’s I come downstairs to check. Dey got in t’rough your back window, but I scared ’em off afore dey got much.” He grins and slaps me on the shoulder. “You owe me one, kid.