Richie

by Thomas Thompson

  Richie and Brick wandered aimlessly through the giant Walgreens drugstore in the shopping center, looking over the record albums, checking out the magazine rack. On their way out, passing through the prescription department, Richie stopped at a counter of toothpaste. For the moment there was no pharmacist in sight. Casually edging his way behind the drug counter, Richie spotted a bottle of pills that he instantly recognized as Amytals, a barbiturate.

  Brick, seeing Richie’s eyes “light up,” cautioned, “Hey, man, don’t.”

  “I see Amytals,” said Richie. He snatched the bottle and began putting it under his jacket. Suddenly a druggist materialized and noticed Richie.

  “Can I help you?” asked the man.

  Richie tried to ease the stolen bottle onto a counter, but the manager noticed him. “I’m calling the police, and you’ll have to wait until they get here,” said the manager.

  Protesting his innocence, Richie lunged at the manager’s throat, seizing his necktie, twisting it. The two went at one another for several moments while Brick watched, at first in fascination, then in fear of being accused of participation. Brick fled quickly, giving testimony to the loyalty of friends in the drug culture. When police arrived, the store manager accused Richie of throwing a display basket and wooden table at him, of trying to choke him, and of suspicion of shoplifting and drug theft.

  Shortly after noon, George was telephoned at home by Nassau County police who informed him that Richie was being held on a charge of simple assault. “Is it a juvenile offense?” asked George. “He’s almost eighteen,” said the officer on the phone. “He’s a big boy now.”

  George went to the police station, engaged an attorney, and arranged for Richie’s release pending a hearing. Upon seeing his father, Richie insisted he was innocent. “I didn’t do anything,” he said. “That guy at the drugstore accused me of stealing something I didn’t steal, then he jumped me.”

  At the hearing the next day in District Court, Richie fell asleep in his chair while waiting for his case to be called. George nudged his son awake, but he drifted off again, still groggy from the barbiturates he ate the night before in apprehension of the morning’s court appearance. Not knowing this, George assumed his son was merely bored, indifferent to the serious charge. He looked at the slumbering youngster. Richie was now letting his hair grow into a semi-Afro; his sideburns were well below his ears. The beginnings of a wispy red beard and mustache further offended George. Disgusted at the way Richie looked, and at the way he was acting in a court of the land, George walked out on him, leaving the boy to speak for himself.

  Richie’s attorney arranged for him to be released until the trial, set for the last day of February at 10 A.M. “I think congratulations are in order,” said George to Richie that night as they passed one another in the house. “You now have a grown-up police record. To go with that lovely beard and hairdo.”

  Carol, always looking for a fragment of hope, something to get her through the next few days, told George that she hoped the trouble would shock Richie out of his troublesome ways. George nodded. “I hope you’re right,” he said. “But I doubt it.”

  The tape recorder had not been snooping for a few days because George had run out of cassettes. His do-it-yourself detective work was an expensive habit to support, and now there would be an attorney’s fee for Richie’s assault charge. Carol so hated the bug that she took Richie aside one afternoon before George came home and warned her son that, unless he behaved better, his father would start listening in again.

  For a few days, things were relatively quiet in the Diener home. Carol’s morale rose, as if her child had been long ill with a fever that was suddenly breaking. But within a week, Richie left the house against his father’s orders, and as soon as he was out the door, George went to the tape recorder to bait it once more. His reason, he told Carol, was that more tapes were needed in support of his petition to Family Court, still presumably under investigation.

  “I’m so sick of these confrontations, I’m ready to do anything to avoid them,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, Richie can come into the house and shoot up heroin at our dining-room table if it will avoid these terrible confrontations.”

  When a day had passed, George sat down at the machine to hear what had transpired on his telephone. It was as if he had put down a book for a time, and a strong wind blew the pages forward, yet when he picked it up to begin reading again, he could follow the plot without losing the thread.

  Richie telephoned Fritz, the dealer, and began telling the story of a rip-off in school that day.

  RICHIE:

  Guess who I ripped off? Stegler. The little one. Wanna hear what happened?

  FRITZ:

  Really?

  RICHIE:

  You know that shit green hash he’s had around? Smells like hamster food? You know, it’s hash all right, but … it’s not good hash. I figured I might as well take it, right? So that little scumbug, I set him up yesterday and told him to bring it to school today. So I went into the cafeteria, and he’s sittin’ there with these girls, and I take a look at his stuff. So when he turns his head away, I just casually put it into my pocket. And when he turns around, I go, “Whoops, it’s nice doin’ business with you.” And he says, “It’ll be nicer when you give me my hash back.” He pulls out this motherfuckin’ knife. So I stood up and I yell, “Stab me, Stegler,” and he fuckin’ didn’t do nothin’, so I grab him by the fuckin’ hair and I say, “Come on, Stegler, stab me!” And he wouldn’t do it, so I fuckin’ cracked him in the fuckin’ face and he started crying. And he ran out of the cafeteria.

  FRITZ:

  No shit? Then what happened?

  RICHIE:

  So I take the hash.…

  FRITZ:

  So how much was there?

  RICHIE:

  Nice quarter ounce.

  FRITZ:

  Real hash?

  RICHIE:

  Yeah. All right. Probably compressed pot, like what you had. I should have ripped Stegler off for that knife as well. Looked like a stiletto.

  FRITZ:

  I hear Brick has a switchblade, the kind where the knife pops out of the handle.

  RICHIE:

  So he says. It makes me feel so good, you know! Then fuckin’ Stegler pulls a knife on me. A lot of people saw it. ’Cause I’m yellin’, “Come on, Stegler, stab me!” And then I go upstairs and this kid Kapper catches up with me and he says, “Let’s see what you got?” He keeps hassling me, so I was gonna show him in the boys’ room, but this teacher sees me and says, “Whatta you got in your pockets, son? You a student, son?” I shoulda said, “No,” but instead, I go “Yes,” and the teacher says, “Then come with me.” So I said, “Fuck this,” and I started walking faster and faster and I run outside. He could never catch me.

  FRITZ:

  How can anybody ever speak to a freak like Kapper?

  RICHIE:

  For one reason, he has about a thousand Quaaludes. And I ain’t got a one.… (An idea comes to him.) Remember that kid in Hempstead, that connection you had? Remember those pharmaceuticals we got last year? Seconals and Tuinals? Is he still dealing?

  FRITZ:

  He’s a pain in the ass. Like Brick, you fuckin’ curse at him, and he still thinks you’re friends with him. That’s the way most down freaks are.… (Fritz hesitates, seemingly pondering whether to tell Richie something.) … But I know somebody who might be getting like ten thousand tonight.

  RICHIE:

  (Excited) Wow. What kind?

  FRITZ:

  Seconals. The real thing, baby.

  RICHIE:

  If you don’t wanna deal, just do me the favor.

  FRITZ:

  If I get ’em, you can’t tell nobody.

  RICHIE:

  I could sell them so fast …

  FRITZ:

  I mean, like don’t even call me up to ask about ’em. (He lowers his voice.) Your phone, I mean, it’s OK, isn’t it?

 
RICHIE:

  No sweat. I found the fuckin’ wires where my old man was tapin’ me, an I ripped ’em out.

  FRITZ:

  The price may be, like, really heavy. Like I’ve already fed this guy $600 the past two nights.

  RICHIE:

  Wow!

  FRITZ:

  As a matter of fact, if I don’t get ’em tonight, I’m gonna demand my money back. But this guy is a reputable down dealer. He doesn’t deal smack or anything. Sometimes it takes him a week, but he gets ’em. He’s like the only person in Nassau County who can get ’em.

  RICHIE:

  How much would I have to go in for?

  FRITZ:

  It depends. Maybe a couple hundred. Could you raise it?

  RICHIE:

  I dunno. My parents hide their money. I could sell my tape deck for maybe seventy-five dollars.

  FRITZ:

  I’ll see you at Ryan’s then. Tonight.

  RICHIE:

  There’s methadone going on at Ryan’s.

  FRITZ:

  Methadone! Can you get that?

  RICHIE:

  Yeah. I know the guy. Like ten bucks a bottle. I got some. I don’t know how many milligrams, but it’s a pretty big bottle.

  FRITZ:

  Maybe you could work out a trade or something.

  RICHIE:

  Maybe.

  On the morning of February 15, George was late in leaving for his food route, staying home to fill out sales records and to arrange his sample cases. At midmorning the telephone rang. Castelli, the assistant principal at East Meadow High, was on the line.

  “We had a little trouble with Richie this morning,” said Castelli.

  George gripped the receiver.

  “One of the teachers in the hall brought him in to me for being abusive. He saw Richie in the hall and asked for his pass and he didn’t have one. He said he was coming from the cafeteria so the teacher told him to go back to the cafeteria. Instead he ran up the stairs in the other direction. His mouth was a little fresh in talking to the teacher. He practically invited the teacher to strike him. I found out he hasn’t brought his report card home this quarter. In case you don’t know, he’s failing everything. I’ve suspended him.”

  “Yes,” said George. His voice was pained. He chose his words carefully. “I’ve got him now in Family Court. He’s involved with a bunch of drug nuts and … he seems to like this, and there’s no way I can talk him out of it. He has to go to court now. He attacked the manager of the Walgreens drugstore in the Roosevelt Field shopping center. There’ll be a hearing on this. We are … we are at our wits’ end trying to find something that might stop him … and we can … he’s just … he’s just …”

  “You’ll follow up on that, I suppose. Let me know,” said the assistant principal. “I hope you can keep his nose clean here. At school. If we let him back in.”

  George hesitated once more. He seemed ashamed to make his next admission. “Well, there’s nothing really I can do. If he doesn’t shape up … then I would suggest you throw him out permanently.”

  “I’ll discuss it with Mr. Barbour, the principal.”

  “He’s determined, my son. He’s got a suicide complex. He’s determined he’s going to ruin himself and his mother and me, and there’s nothing we can say that’s going to change his mind. He thinks this drug stuff is swell …”

  Then George ran out of words. Both men hung up awkwardly.

  A few minutes later, as George prepared to leave, he saw Richie and a carload of young people drive slowly past the house. They’re coming here to smoke pot, guessed George. But they’ll never come in as long as my car is in the driveway. George left the house, drove away, killed ten minutes, and returned home. As he expected, the car belonging to Richie’s friends was parked in his driveway.

  His first idea was to enter the house and break up the party. But then another thought took its place. George drove to a nearby police call station and rang the local precinct house. He had reason to believe that a marijuana party was going on in his son’s room, and could officers come and break it up?

  With two uniformed patrolmen as escort, George entered his home. He directed them to where the rock music was playing, down the steps, into the chamber of colored balls and psychedelic hues. Richie looked up in anger. There were four young people with him—two girls and two boys. George recognized only one of them—Sean O’Hara, and he was disappointed to see what he thought was a “straight kid” in with the others.

  But, to George’s further disappointment, there was no familiar odor of marijuana. The group did seem a little giggly, but Richie said they had used nothing stronger than a little wine. “Go ahead, pigs, search the room,” said Richie.

  While the police looked about his room, Richie taunted them—and impressed his friends. To one of the cops he chanted, “You should become a dick. You think like a dick, you look like a dick, you get out of a dick car, you’ve got a dick set of handcuffs. Put a zipper on you and you’re solid dick.”

  The officer stopped his search. “Someday you’ll lose that smile on your face,” he said.

  Richie toughened his voice. “Yeah, when it’s me in handcuffs and there’s about ten pigs in the pig room somewhere at the back of the pig house.”

  Nothing was found and George took the police to the door. He apologized for his son’s behavior. Suddenly another idea came to him. Asking the police to wait, he telephoned headquarters and asked for the narcotics squad. In the basement of George’s home, the tape recorder whirred and took down the conversation, as well as others on what would soon become a remarkable day:

  GEORGE:

  Is Patrolman Moran there, please?

  MORAN:

  Speaking.

  GEORGE:

  This is Mr. Diener. Remember me?

  MORAN:

  Yes, sir. Right.

  GEORGE:

  Well, I just had another problem with my son, and I was wondering if we could have him arrested on the strength of anything I’ve given you so far.…

  MORAN:

  Well …

  GEORGE:

  The police are here now.

  MORAN:

  There? In your house?

  GEORGE:

  Yes. Could there be an arrest from the information in those tape recordings?

  MORAN:

  Well, I did talk it over with the supervisors. Some people have been listening to the tapes and writing down different bits of information.… But as far as having him locked up for what he said on the tapes, we can’t do it because we don’t have any evidence … you know, as far as physical evidence.

  GEORGE:

  (Sadly) Right.

  MORAN:

  If he had the hash, you know, it’s gone, it’s not there now. It could have been catnip and so we might be locking him up for something that wasn’t even a dangerous drug. Even though you thought it was. So we do have a problem right there, and we won’t be able to lock him up.

  GEORGE:

  I see.…

  MORAN:

  OK.… I’m sorry about that. Does he have anything on him now?

  GEORGE:

  No. He expected me back.

  MORAN:

  He assaulted you?

  GEORGE:

  No. I brought the police in with me. But there was nothing around, so—

  MORAN:

  I’m sorry you—

  GEORGE:

  So right now he’s very cocky. See. He’s got his father beat, he’s got the police beat, and nobody can touch him. However, as they say, if it’s not today it’ll be tomorrow.

  MORAN:

  I see. OK, we’re still going through the tapes and pulling off bits of information. We have to get another tape recorder to transfer your tapes. Somebody’s working on it but they’re off today. They’ll be in tomorrow.… I am sorry about that. ‘Cause there is a lot of information on there and we thank you for that. We’ll see what we can do later on. OK? Thanks very much. />
  Now the police were gone, and the young people went away, and Richie and his father were alone. George prepared to leave the house, but Richie began to taunt him. He draped himself against the kitchen door and stopped George from passing.

  “Someday,” said Richie, “I’m really gonna kick the shit out of you.”

  George lowered his head and attempted to go through the door. Richie shot out a hand to stop him. “You hear me? Someday you’re gonna get it.”

  Seizing his son’s hand, George pushed it away, his face white. He backed up and took a stand. “OK,” snapped George. “Let’s get it on right now. Man to man. Come on.” George raised his fists.

  Richie was not sure how to react. He seemed stunned. George flattened the palm of his hand and slapped his son. “Now you’ve got a reason to fight back,” said George.

  On the end table next to the couch rested a pair of Carol’s mending scissors. Richie seized them and held them up. They were golden scissors that Carol had once used to create the masquerades for Richie when he was young.

  George felt fear. Richie came at him, grabbed his arms, pinned one behind him, put the scissors to his father’s throat. “Motherfucker, when you and me fight,” he hissed, “it ain’t gonna be fair. Some night when you least expect it, these scissors’ll come at your throat. Only next time …”