Manhunt. Volume 14, Number 1, February/March, 1966

“Take your time,” Gortoff shrugged. “Who wants to hurry?” He pulled the blonde to him. “My baby doesn’t like to hurry.”

But Tony Bello hurried through another patch of the impenetrable San Francisco fog. He ran to his car from the phone booth and tore at the handle of its right hand door. He lurched inside and was swiftly and violently torn right through the front seat and out the left hand side. His forehead bounced off the steering wheel as claw-like hands grabbed at his lapels and propelled him to the pavement. One lone, yellow sodium-vapor light spotlighted the beating.

“Don’t kill him — yet. We want some answers,” a guttural voice reached Bello’s one good ear. The other hung in shreds from a pistol-whipping slash of a.38 revolver.

“You pushed a lot of sugar this afternoon, Bello. We want H. A little cut, sure. We expect that. But when you fill a lot of caps with sugar and add a little quinine to make it taste like the real stuff, you’re getting ready to fill a grave — a watery one. Who the hell you think you are, trying to get away with that kind of fraud? You’re lucky we found you instead of those sick bastards down on Geary Street. They’d pull you to pieces and ask questions later. Before we pull you to pieces, come up with our dough or some good stuff. Now!”

“Wait!” Bello gasped.

“Wait, hell, you dirty, phoney pusher bastard. We can’t wait. Come up with some money so we can send some one down to Tia Juana. Or come up with the stuff.”

“Wait,” Bello insisted. “Listen to me. You know me. I’ve been pushing stuff around this town too long to try and beat you people. If I’d wanted to beat you, I wouldn’t hang around to let you catch up with me. Would I?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I didn’t know those caps were phonies. My connection crossed me. I just phoned him now. Your money? Here, I’ll give you what you want...”

“Let’s take his roll and dump him down in the bay,” a tall youth moved from behind the addict who was holding Bello’s twisted arm.

“No. Wait,” another interrupted. “Let’s give the bastard a chance. We’ll all be sick by the time anyone can get to Tia Juana and back with more stuff. We’ll all need a fix before midnight — or be too damn sick to do anything about it.” The junker turned to Bello. “Alright, pusher, like you say, your connection crossed you. Let’s go see this smart sonuvabitch. Let’s find out who’s crossing who.”

“You know gawdamn well I can’t take you hopheads there. I’d be killed!”

“Take your pick, Bello. Your connection kills you. We kill you. You can get it right now if you want to stall.” The words were emphasized with the mouth of the.38 in another pistol-whipping blow, across his mouth this time. “Throw him in the back seat. We’ve been around here too long now anyway. I’ll be there in a minute.”

While the three other addicts muscled Bello to their car, the revolver wielding heroin addict prowled Bellow’s car. With a switch blade knife, he slashed the upholstery and ceiling as he searched for any possible hiding place. He tore up the seats and looked in coil springs. He ripped wires from under the dash; examined the engine; and crawled under the car seeking any hiding place where drugs might be hidden. He slashed wildly at the spare tire in the trunk and swore when he discovered no sign of narcotics of any description. “Not even a grain of powdered sugar,” he shrugged when he returned to the other car. “Let’s get down the hill and see if we can’t induce Mister Bello to talk about his connection. We can use one tonight, real bad.”

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“You tell him, Bello,” the revolver wielder ordered with a heel grinding into the captive’s ribs. “Sit up here!” He jerked the half-conscious Bello from the car’s rear seat floor. “In this fog you won’t be seen by the junkers who want to knock you off or the law who want to lock you up. And start talking. Like Eddie says, where to? Where do we find this connection who puts out powdered sugar and quinine for the real stuff?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“You can’t live and not tell us!”

A dozen slamming fists in his guts and a knee in his groin made Bello more talkative. “In an apartment,” he growled, “on Grant Avenue. But let me go up alone and see him. If I show up there with you junkers, we’ll all get shot. This guy’s a kilo man and the last thing he wants is any part of a deal with you.”

“He’ll get his deal with us, Bello, and it’ll be his last deal. And, if he can’t come up with some H, it’ll be your last chance.”

Bello peered through the fog. “That’s it. Turn down into the basement ramp. We can get up to his apartment from there without being seen. But I’m telling you, this guy’ll blow his top when he sees you.”

The addict laughed. “Always did want to do some business with one of these behind-the-scenes vultures who bloodsuck a living from us. All he’ll blow’ll be some good stuff for us. Or else!” Bello stumbled from the car when it’s lights faded off the basement wall, staggering from the addict’s kick. “We’ll follow, Bello. No tricks!”