The Steel Kiss

“Man, those skyscrapers? How you fuckers do that? Climb up there? Fuck.”

“Almost fell a couple times.”

“Shit. Oxy fuck you up too.”

“No, no, this new stuff’s different. Just takes the pain away, doesn’t mess with your mind, doesn’t make you woozy, you know?”

“Woozy?” Alpho had no clue. “Why you ain’t get a prescription?”

“This stuff they don’t write paper for. It’s new, underground labs. Heard you could get it here, in BK. East New York, mostly. Guy named Oden? Something. He makes it himself or runs it in from Canada or Mexico. You know him?”

“Oden? No. Ain’t hear of him. What’s this new shit called?”

“Heard a name. Catch.”

“It’s called Catch?”

“What I’m saying.”

Alpho seemed to like the name. “Like it grabs you, you know, catches you, it’s so strong.”

“Fuck. I don’t know. Anyway, I want some. Bad, man. I need it. Gotta get these headaches under control.”

“Well, I ain’t got none. Never hear of it. But hook you up a dozen. Regular, I mean. One bill.”

Little lower than the general street price. Oxy went for about ten bucks per. Alpho was grooming for future sales.

“Yeah, okay.”

The exchange happened fast. As they always should. The plastic bag of OxyContin swapped for a handful of bills. Then the dealer blinked as he looked at the wad Pulaski had slipped him. “Brother, I telling you: one bill. That five right there.”

“Tip.”

“Tip?”

“Like a tip at a restaurant.”

Confused.

Pulaski smiled. “Keep it, man. I’m just asking, can you check around? See if you can find this new shit for me. Or, at least, who this Oden guy is, where I can get some Catch from him.”

“Dunno, brother.”

A nod at Alpho’s pocket. “Bigger tip next time, you point me the right way. I mean bigger. M and half. Maybe more, it’s righteous information.”

Then the skinny man gripped Pulaski’s forearm. Leaned close, radiating the smell of tobacco, sweat, garlic, coffee. “You ain’t no fuckin’ cop?”

Looking him back in the eyes, Pulaski said, “No. I’m a guy gets headaches so bad I can’t get it up sometimes, and who lies in the bathroom and pukes for hours. That’s what I am. Talk to Eddie. He’ll tell you.”

Alpho looked once more at the scar on Pulaski’s forehead. “I’ma call you, brother. Digits?”

Pulaski punched in Alpho’s number, and the gangbanger reciprocated.

Burner phone to burner. The age of trust.

Then Pulaski turned and, head down, walked back in the direction of the Broadway Junction transit complex.

Thinking it was pretty funny that he could very well have said to Alphonse Gravita that yeah, I am a cop, but it doesn’t matter because this isn’t an undercover operation at all. Not a soul in the NYPD—or in the world—knows about it. That wasn’t buy money I just handed over but my own, which Jenny and I can’t afford to give away.

But sometimes when you’re desperate, you do desperate things.

CHAPTER 10

Not good. Not good at all.

She’s ruined it. Red, the cop, the Shopper.

She’s taken it away from me. My wonderful White Castle. Stolen it.

And she’s walking here and there in Astoria, looking for clues—to me.

A little luck here, just like in the mall—when she was right next to the deadly escalator. Here I was fortunate too, spotting her first, a half block away from White Castle.

Red, walking inside, like a hunter.

My White Castle…

Two minutes later and I’d’ve pushed in, hungry, mouthwatering. Tasting burger and shake. Then eye-to-eye with Red. She could draw her gun faster than I could get my bone cracker out of my backpack, or my razor saw.

Luck saved me again.

Did her luck get her here?

No, no, no. I was careless. That’s it.

I am furious.

Remembering, yes: I threw away trash when the Shoppers came after me in the mall. I dumped the Starbucks litter nowhere near Starbucks but somehow they must’ve found it. And that means they found the other things I’d thrown out too. In the trash bin of that Mexican place behind the mall. I thought the help would grow blind and mute, or get shipped back to Juarez. It didn’t occur to me that Red would stoop to garbage. She’d have nabbed a White Castle napkin or receipt. Fingerprints? I’m pretty careful. When I’m in public I try to use far ends of fingers (the top quarter of tips are pretty useless for prints, oh, I know my stuff) or I dunk napkins in soda or coffee, turn them to mush.

But I didn’t think that time.

Speaking of hands: My palms’re nice and sweaty now, fingers—my long, long fingers—shaking a little. I’m mad at myself but mad at her mostly. Red…  Taking my White Castle away, making me finish up too fast with Alicia.

Now, watching her at some distance, I see her move sveltely down the street. Into and out of stores. I know what she’s done: asked a server at White Castle or all the servers and customers too, Hey, did you see the bean boy? The praying mantis? Long John, Slim Jim? Oh, sure we did. Funny, funny looking. Hard to miss.