The Straight Man Read online

  1

  The bar had once been mentioned in Time magazine as an infamous hangout for dope people on Florida's west coast. The bitterfaced man sat at a red and white gingham covered table idly sipping a draught beer and watching the loser chicks wriggle to the blaring juke box. He'd been seen around, yet was known by virtually no one. He looked too straight. Those that knew anything about him considered him a strange, doper middleman. They were partially right. He didn't want to steal anymore. He didn't want to carry a gun. He just wanted to make money the easy way, by dealing. There was the usual fear of a bust, but narcs and finks usually ended up in Great Tampa Bay, so few of the dealers worried much.

  His contact walked up, and sat down. "Hey, man. How ya been? Here I am, right on time. Lemme get something cold."

  He rose and walked to the bar. He wore a cowboy hat, kept a scrapbook of his Viet Nam experiences and worked in the straight world as a mechanic. He was a sometime lid dealer. The cowboy hat was well known and exchanged words with at least half a dozen freaks on his way back to the table. He sat down, nodded, said, "I hear there's some Colombo in town?"

  The straight man said, 'That's right, man. All good bud. I can turn to you for two an L.B., singles, or one eighty-five quantity. How many you want?"

  "Well, I gotta try it man, you know?"

  "No problem, just tell me how many. I'll bring it over, and you can smoke right out of the pound."

  "Can we do a thing tonight?"

  "Yeah, if my man's home."

  "Okay, I'll take one right now. You know where I live, right?"

  "Same place? That trailer?"

  "Yeah. Same place."

  "Right. I'll be there in two hours. That'll be ten o'clock."

  "All right, brother. We're wired. We got a deal."

  They shook hands by grabbing each other's thumbs. No one seemed to know why that method of shaking hands had become the way. The straight man rose and left. He got into his compact and drove six blocks to a freak area of low rent cottages. It looked like someone was home at the cottage he had in mind. He parked, walked to the door and knocked. An attractive brunette opened the door, smiled, and let him in.

  Her old man, stoned as usual, said, "Hey bro, what's happening? Sit down and get high."

  The straight man sat on the floor with him. "Listen, what will you turn a single of Colombo to me for?"

  He took a hit of the preferred number and passed it back. The woman was cutting oranges in the kitchen.

  The dealer took a deep drag and said, "Oh, man, I can't turn singles for less than 175, even to you. You know that."

  "That's good enough. I'm supposed to turn one tonight at ten. I want you to front me. If he likes it, we might be able to do quantity. Say, this shit sure is good. I'm getting a buzz already."

  The dealer looked at the straight man and said, "Look, this shit is a front to me. I got to turn it, or give it back. When can I have the money by?"

  "You'll have it by eleven. I give you my word. I haven't fucked up yet, have I?"

  "Okay, man, okay."

  The dealer rose and went into his bedroom. Momentarily he returned with a three foot cardboard box and a green plastic garbage bag that appeared full. From the cardboard box he removed a triple beam scale with a large pan and set it up on the floor. From the garbage bag he removed handfuls of marijuana, buds and stems, and filled the pan. The scale registered fourteen ounces. From the bottom of the garbage bag he wighdrew a couple of handfuls of “shake," a mixture of leaf and seed. Moments later, there was roughly seventeen ounces in the pan. The woman brought in two large glasses of orange juice.

  The dealer said, "Hey mama, thanks. Bring a paper bag, will ya?"

  She went back to the kitchen and returned with a brown supermarket bag. The pound was placed inside it. The scale was carefully put away. From the shake of the garbage bag more leaf was placed in some Blanco y Negro papers, and they smoked.

  After a few pulls, the dealer studied the joint and said, "Look at that collar. That's how you tell if the reefer is any good. Shows you how much of that good tic resin is in it."

  The woman giggled.

  The straight man grinned, "I'm hip man. I can't stop smiling."

  They all started laughing.

  After a while the straight man said, "Well, I got to get out on the street and make a sale. See you later."

  He rose and went out to his car. The cool night air cleared his head. He looked up and saw the stars, clean and distant, out of reach. He thought of his ex-wife, long gone now, and cursed his stupidity. He occasionally wrote her a letter, but she was a Scorpio and they traditionally never forgive an affront to their egos.

  Letting his mind drift, he drove for thirty minutes to an obscure trailer park out in the piney woods. The cowboy hat was home. He parked, carried the shopping bag to the trailer, and knocked. Cowboy hat, still wearing the hat, stuck his head out. The straight man wondered if he ever took it off. He'd never seen him without the damn thing.

  The hat said, "Hey, man. Come on in. Want a beer?"

  "Yeah, okay. I hope you got some papers. This is the best shit I've seen since '69."

  It was a good sized trailer with a large living room and the kitchen looking down into it. The straight man sat on the couch and placed the bag on the small, hand-carved coffee table. The stereo, in the corner, had a Pink Floyd album on it. Cowboy hat sat down with a couple of cans of Budweiser. They popped their tops, cowboy rolled a number, cranked it up, took two deep drags and passed it with the comment, "Tastes good."

  The straight man took a small drag and returned it. Two drags later the cowboy rose, went up to his kitchen, opened a drawer and came back with two hundred dollars in tens, twenties and fives.

  After a rapid count, the straight man pushed the roll into his pocket. "Hat," he said, "I'm only making a nickel on this shit. If you want some more, just call me. You got my number. Just say how many six-packs you need and what time to be here, okay?"

  The cowboy hat, giggling and chuckling, said, "Okay, man. I got some people coming from Atlanta. Maybe we can do something."

  "Okay, good buddy. Later."

  The straight man left. He drove until he saw a convenience store, pulled up in front, withdrew the roll, peeled off twenty-five for himself and placed it in a different pocket. A little later he knocked at the cottage door.

  2

  At one a.m. the straight man parked at a restaurant near the University. He walked into the dimly lit bar area and saw the man he hoped to find. The cat was a bit of an idiot, but he was on top of a steady Jamaican connection. The idiot had stringy blond hair, had once been a social worker and now wanted only money. He talked, dreamt, and worshipped money. He drank only Heinekens beer.

  The straight man sat next to him at the bar. "Hey, idiot, how ya been?"

  "Fine, just fine. I've got a thousand pounds of dynamite red-bud. Best I've ever had. I can turn to you for one thirty-five, quantity. It won't be here long."

  The man said nothing, merely nodded. The idiot talked too much.

  He thought about the last time he'd been here with his ex-wife. She'd been dressed up and had looked beautiful. He'd made some enemies that night by telling some fat slobs not to cuss in front of her. He drank a Budweiser, and silently wished she would answer one of his letters.

  Finally he turned to the idiot and said, "Okay, man. I'll see what I can do. Later."

  He drove to his apartment slowly, thinking about her. She'd never said the words, not once, and he believed he still loved her.

  3

  The next day was bright and sunny but not the usual power-sapping heat. The telephone rang about eleven and the straight man answered. A strange voice said, "Hey, we're friends of Moe's. He said if we got down here
to look you up."

  "Oh, yeah. What do you do?"

  "I'm a mechanic, just like Moe."

  "Fine. Why don't you drop by." The straight man gave them directions. He'd known Moe for over fifteen years. Moe was a pound dealer in Chicago. The regular people had been busted at O'Hare airport because the names on the tickets and the I.D. hadn't matched. The cops had examined the luggage and found thirty thousand that hadn't been declared. The I.R.S. had the money now and probably wouldn't ever give it back.

  The straight man called Moe long distance. "Hey, shithead, how ya been? I just got a call from some people. Did you put anyone on to me? How's your old lady?"

  "Oh, yeah. They're okay. Jay and Ted. Jay is short, has black hair, and his partner is tall, shoulder-length blond hair, and wears glasses. I've done some things with them. My old lady is giving me a pain, but I got a girlfriend, so I'm gettin' by."

  "Okay, man. Talk to ya later." They hung up.

  The straight man and Moe had worked together before. They went back to the days when they'd been leather-jacketed punks on the street. Moe had done a stretch in reform school once. He'd gone by to see his girlfriend and she'd answered the door with the words, "Go away, I don't love you anymore," and closed the door. He'd rung the bell again and gotten the same words. After the third time he realized she was serious. He wandered to a parking lot and stole a Corvette. While driving it around, he gave a ride to one of the gang standing on a corner. The police began chasing them. Moe ran past seven roadblocks before he ran out of gas. That evening had netted him six months, plus costs, and the reputation as an excellent wheel man.

  Years later it had been alcohol that had gotten him a second bust. He and another friend had been down in Chatanooga. They'd been drinking the local moonshine for hours and become insane.

  Moe drove through the plate glass window of a Cadillac agency showroom and minutes later drove out another window in a brand new Cadillac. They played rat race with the police until Moe underjudged a turn and crashed inside a laundry. Moments later, when the police stormed in, Moe and his friend were standing there, laughing like crazy, throwing laundry at each other. He was given a choice: prison or the Army.

  When he came back from the Army he was a quieter cat, more interested in dealing dope than stealing. The same applied to the straight man. Dealing drugs didn't pay as well, but the risk wasn't as great, and in jails, next to the international jewel thieves, drug people had the highest status.

  4

  There was a knock at the door. It was a retired dope dealer and his wife. They lived in some small town out in the woods of north Florida. They were happy and healthy and they had both known the straight man's ex-wife. He was glad to see them. They stayed for a while, shared a number and left to visit other people while they were in town.

  As the straight man watched them pull away, a snow white Lincoln Continental pulled up. The driver was short, slight, and had black hair and a moustache. The other was six foot, had shoulder length blond hair, wore glasses, and appeared to be in excellent shape. They walked up, and all shook hands. They said their names were Jay and Ted. They came inside. The man felt something wrong, but Moe had said they were okay. They all smoked a number and got to the point. Jay did the talking.

  "We're here to cop. We need about five hundred pounds. We've got other people with our mobile home. Can you do us any good?"

  The straight man nodded, said, "I'll see," and called the idiot. The idiot wasn't home, but his ex-junkie girlfriend was. He left a message for the idiot to come over by seven that night. He went back to Jay and Ted and told them that they ought to come back about eight. They'd all go to dinner. They left.

  At five the idiot knocked on the door. "Hey, man. C'mon in. Want a beer?"

  "Yeah. Got any Heinekens?"

  "Fuck you, aristocrat. I got Old Milwaukee, take it or leave it."

  "Okay, okay. Gimme one of them."

  They sat on the straight man's couch. When he'd been married his ex-wife had done the rolling. He thought about her. He rolled a number. He decided to tell the idiot what he'd been called for.

  "Listen up. There's a couple people in town from Chicago. They want to cop five hundred pounds. Are you on top of that much? It's more than I've ever handled. I'll put them on to you. All I want is a nickel. Sound fair?"

  "Yeah, sure. Did you see the money?"

  "Nope, but my man in Chicago says they're okay. They'll be back at eight. We can all go to dinner."

  The idiot nodded, getting the in-the-know look on his face. He smiled. "Okay. But you let me take care of everything."

  "Fine. I just want a nickel, that's all. You can make as much as you want."

  The dealer rose, "I'll be back at eight. Just let me take care of everything." He left.

  The straight man considered the possibilities. With an estimated twenty-five hundred dollars from this deal he could go away, maybe even round up his ex-wife. Maybe they could start again, somewhere else. Maybe Oregon. He'd get a job, go super-straight. They'd be happy. Have kids. He sat on his couch and smoked the dope.

  The phone rang. It was the ex-wife of an acquaintance. She wanted to get laid. He said he'd be along about eleven and hung up. He left his apartment and walked down the street to another dealer's place. This other dealer only turned cocaine. He was home. A gram of coke that had only been stepped on once or twice was forty dollars. The straight man bought one for his date that night.

  5

  At eight, Jay and Ted were back. They came in and sat down. The straight man rolled a number. As he rolled, he mentioned that he'd been married once.

  "Shit!" said Jay. "You get what you pay for. Forget getting serious about any chick. Forget her. Be like me. I'm into V.Y.G. myself."

  "What's V.Y.G.?"

  "Very Young Girls," he grinned.

  Ted remained impassive. The vibes from these two were still wrong. There was a knock at the door. It was the idiot. Introductions were made. They all walked outside. It was decided that the roomiest car was the Continental. Jay drove and Ted rode shotgun; the idiot and the straight man shared the back.

  They took the Interstate north for a way and turned off at a steakhouse the straight man liked. He'd taken his ex-wife there many times. They'd even had their own "special" table.

  He made sure that they sat at a different one. They ordered drinks. Jay was insulted when he didn't get exactly what he'd ordered, and let the waitress know. He was unnecessarily cruel. The meal was good. Jay did the talking. He told a story about some Jamaicans he knew in Miami who'd shot each other up, and about how one who'd been shot with a .45 had been up and around the next day. When the meal was over they left and returned to the straight man's apartment.

  The idiot took Jay and Ted to meet some of his people. The man watched them go, hoping things would be all right. He turned on the television and rolled himself a number.

  6

  At eleven the straight man knocked on his date's door. A short Italian girl opened it with a smile. She was wearing hot pants and a T-shirt. The stereo was playing some Dutch sax. He sat on the couch while she went to make drinks. By the time she came back he'd pulled out the gram of coke and dumped it on the coffee table. She went back to the kitchen for a knife. They talked idly about mutual friends and acquaintances as he cut the lines. He rolled a dollar bill and did a line. She eagerly did a line. They looked at each other and smiled. Five minutes later the coke was all snorted and she lit a number of her own stash. They sat close, and talked, and fondled each other. After a while she led him to her king size bed. They made slow love. He pretended she was his ex-wife. She didn't pretend. He left at two. When he got home, Jay and Ted were waiting.

  Jay was angry. "What shit, man. I was blindfolded. Driven in circles. Taken to some barn, and there was five hundred pounds of wet shit. Grown locally, or something. You people here are a bunch of fuck-ups."

  "Slow down. Tell me what happened real slow. Sit down. Relax. Want a beer? You both were blindfolded?
"

  "No. Just me. Ted stayed with that idiot. I went riding around with some friend of his named Brad. He's a drifty dude, too. The reefer was shit! I'm ready to go to Miami right now. Fuck this. Fuck all this." He accepted a beer, so did silent Ted. The straight man rolled a number. There was a knock at the door. It was the idiot.

  "Listen," he said, "Brad is sorry. We just wanted to give you a better price than our other people. That's all. Tomorrow I'll take you to meet some other people. I'll get you prime Jamaican red-bud, but it's gonna cost you. I mean, like, can you handle a buck-and-a-half a pound for five hundred? That's about as good as we can do."

  Jay looked at Ted, who nodded "yes." The straight man lit the number, took a drag, and passed it on. He was tired. Tired of the dope world. Tired of balling chicks he didn't care about. Tired of the whole Tampa scene.

  7

  The straight man had been in Tampa seven years. When he'd gone to visit his mother for Christmas nine years before, he'd been drafted. Two years later he was more interested in drugs than in armed robbery. When he'd been discharged, the main drug import points had been Miami for cocaine, Savannah for heroin, and Florida's west coast for marijuana. The hard drug situation was closed but the weed scene had been open to all.

  Tampa, whose sister city was Baranquilla, Colombia, was a town experiencing a boom. It had been a sleepy little port until the Spanish-American War of 1898, when Teddy Roosevelt and his Rough Riders had come to town. Then again, it became sleepy.

  The twenties boom hadn't changed it much. As little as ten years previously a bored policeman had been arrested for shooting out streetlights. It had been the last city in the United States to build its streets out of brick. Now it had become an overgrown small town with people flowing in daily. Whatever cohesiveness it once had was disappearing. It was becoming another megalopolis similar to Miami or Los Angeles. The dozen families that had once kept it quiet were losing their hold. There wasn't much to do except drink and fuck. It had its annual invasion by pirates, a poor imitation of New Orleans' Mardi Gras, when the Rotary Club could dress up and get drunk. What nightclubs there were catered to visiting firemen who wanted something strange. Chain motels with a bar did a good business.