The Cocaine Chronicles

by Gary Phillips

  Ah, with the coke plus the riff-specific sensitivity, you were just too good to be true. (Which pretty much sums up what I was … way too good to be true, ever.)

  Anyway, after a few laserlike riffs, which honed in on something the woman couldn’t see coming, and a few spoonfuls of the requisite powders, well, she was pretty much all yours.

  Man, I know it sounds cold but it wasn’t … not really. It was fun, sharp, predator-and-victim fun. And what’s more fun than that?

  Not to mention the fact that I got something else out of it. I mean, besides the obvious things. Can you guess?

  Nah, you’re not smart enough.

  Reverie. That’s right, reverie. Of the two or three hundred girls I bedded with my artistic approach, I could remember about half of them in stunning detail. I mean, every lick of their tongues, the curve of their thighs, the way they looked in naked profile. I could see them down on all fours; I could see them on their backs, their legs open. I could see them up against the wall, their asses out, their long legs spread, begging for it again.

  Yes, I could replay my conquests any time, night or day. At my little pad, there was no need for television. I had my own movie theater, Roger’s Memory Lane, and in every frame I was the star. And some beautiful, fantastic creature I’d picked up was my costar.

  And, I might add, I was very picky. I didn’t exert all this energy or attention on just anyone. No, the girl had to have a certain quality, and she needed to present a specific technical problem for me. A challenge, if you will.

  Now take this girl … the one in question, Nicole. There was something special about her, not just her great dark looks. At first I wasn’t sure what it was … so I waited, watched.

  Then I began to see. There was a sigh after she sipped her wine. The way she wearily shifted her weight from one great-looking leg to the other. She was beautiful, but above all, she was tired. Right away, I guessed she’d been through something tough. That told me how to tailor my opening gambit. What she needed was a little coke and sympathy. Well, reverse that. Sympathy first, then coke.

  Fortunately I had a ready supply of both. Sympathy, in New York City, perhaps more than in any other place, is essential to seduction. For making women fall in love with you, sympathy is a basic ingredient … like, say, bread or water to a starving man. The city is so full of truly creepy guys that most women spend half their time frightened, wary, bummed out. If you don’t have a fine reservoir of feigned sympathy, you really have no shot. And as for the chemical side of the equation, I’d just purchased a gram or so of coke from my local dealer, a guy named Wease, who stood at his post at the south end of the bar. The Wease, as his customers called him, sold decent, cheap blow. Granted, sometimes it might have a little crank in it—the kind that made you grit your teeth for about fourteen hours—but basically it was good, reliable stuff. And the nice thing is, if you got greedy and snorted all the shit up, all you had to do was hustle down to the other end of the bar, and there he was, ready with another handy little packet to enrich your emotional life.

  Yeah, I thought, looking at the surreal sheen of her black hair, this promises to be a very exciting night.

  “Roger Deakens,” I said, smiling in my most understanding way.

  “Nicole,” she said, smiling in a sad way. “Nicole Draper.”

  A great name, a great-looking girl. Classy, with that touch of sadness. I felt my heart begin to beat.

  “You okay?” I said, using my soft, caring voice and doing “concern” with my eyebrows.

  “Is it that obvious?” she said.

  “You just look a little down,” I said. “Hard day?”

  “Hard week,” she said. “Our stock is down and my boss is going nuts. Not to mention that he’s hitting on me every chance he gets.”

  “Oh man, I hate that,” I said, trying out my PC chops. “And let me guess, you go over his head, complain, and you’re gone.”

  She smiled and nodded her head. I saw her nostrils flare a little. God, she was a good-looking woman. And those lovely, small breasts, obviously all her own.

  “You got it,” she said. “But I don’t want to bum you out.”

  “You’re not,” I said. I shook my head and sighed.

  “What?” she said.

  “Oh, it’s just I wonder sometimes … when two people meet in a bar, why there’s all this pressure to be witty and happy.”

  I could see a certain measure of relief spread across her lovely face.

  “That’s true,” she said. “Which is why I never come to bars.”

  “So how come you’re here tonight?” I said, doing my good-guy, smiley-face thing. (A cross between, say, rakish Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon and country-boy innocent Ron Howard playing Opie.)

  “Meeting my boss,” she said.

  “But I thought you just said …”

  “I did. But he wants to get together with me to ‘discuss certain problems in our mission statement.’”

  “Oh,” I said. “I get it. And while he’s explaining these deep problems, he’s playing footsies with you under the table.”

  “Exactly,” she said. “Only it’s more than footsies. He actually groped me during a presentation last week.”

  “Jesus,” I said. “What an asshole.”

  “Yeah,” Nicole said, smiling, “but he’s the top asshole. Nothing I can do. Short of quit and bring in the lawyers, and you know where that gets you.”

  I sighed and took a sip of my drink. What a bummer. We’d established a real connection, I mean, even a kind of rapport, and now her jerkazoid boss was coming and she’d have to leave. I excused myself and went into the men’s room, which was just opposite the bar.

  Once I’d locked the battered old door, I put the toilet cover down, had a sit, took out my little vial of coke, and dipped in the spoon. The white flakes were big, chalky, and when I snorted them up, I was pleased to find they didn’t burn the lining off the inside of my nostrils. Indeed, this stuff actually was coke and not some weird Wease combination of Mannitol and greaser speed. Within a few seconds I felt that ebullient lift in my head and the racing of my heart. Ah, that was good, truly good, and if I could just add the fair, elegant Nicole to the mix … Images of delight flashed through my head: Nicole lying in bed in front of me with her garter belt on, her legs open, on her knees, her lovely lips parted. Ah, but what of the boss? How could we rid ourselves of the boss?

  I got up from the toilet, checked the mirror to see if I had any telltale white residue under my nose, and headed back to the bar.

  She was still standing there, but she was no longer alone. Looming next to her was a hulking guy with a $200 haircut and a tan Burberry coat, the kind that would have cost me a month’s pay. Obviously, the boss had arrived, and before I could walk the three or four feet to the bar, he’d edged even closer to her and put his arm on her back, moving it up and down in a familiar way.

  Perhaps it was the drugs that made me do it, perhaps the challenge, but before I could think the thing through, I found myself opening my arms and stepping to Nicole’s left.

  “Nicole,” I said. “I can’t believe it.”

  She turned and looked at me. Stunned. The boss, a big, dark guy with thick eyebrows and a broad bear’s nose, was shocked and, better yet, annoyed.

  “I was just over at your office and they told me you might be here.”

  She hesitated for about a nanosecond, then went along with my performance.

  “Terry,” she said, winging it and throwing herself into my arms.

  The combo of her fabulous little breasts pushing into my chest and my cocaine high filled me with a kind of soaring inspiration.

  “It’s so great to see you, baby,” I said.

  I kissed her on the cheek, and after beaming at her like Mister Sun himself, I looked up at the boss, who stood looming, glowering, totally usurped.

  I pretended not to notice the scowl on his broad, thick-lipped face.

  “Hi,” I said. “Terry Andrews.
I’m Nicole’s fiancé. Just in for the night from Chicago.”

  “Fiancé?” he said, his head jerking like I’d backhanded him in the mouth. “Nicole, you never mentioned that you were engaged.”

  She smiled and looked at him with big, innocent eyes.

  “You never asked, Ronnie,” she said.

  “But I assumed that …”

  She ignored him, put her arm around me, and beamed into my face.

  “Terry, this is my boss, Ron Baines.”

  “Hey, Ron,” I said. “Great to meet you.”

  I flashed my hand, but he pulled away from me like I had a fungus on my fingers.

  “Yeah, well, you’re from Chicago, how come you’re here?” he said, blurting out the words with a barely disguised hostility.

  “I had a few days off between meetings, so I got the first plane out this afternoon. Man, I miss my baby. She’s a real great girl, huh, Ron?”

  “Right,” Ron said, gritting his teeth and quickly tossing back his vodka. “One in a million. You staying long?”

  “Not that long,” I said. “Just long enough to get married.”

  There was a long silence after that. Finally, Nicole spoke up. “Oh, Terry, you’re serious?”

  “Why not?” I said. “That is, if Ron will give you the morning off. I bet he will, too. You’re a married man, aren’t you, Ron?”

  “Well, yeah, technically,” he said, biting his lower lip.

  “Oh, separated?” I asked.

  “Not yet. I mean, practically.”

  “Oh, you don’t want to do that, Ron,” Nicole said. “What about the kids?”

  “Yeah, the kids,” I said. “You have to consider them. How many do you have, Ron?”

  “Three,” Ron replied, sounding as though he’d announced that nuclear war had just commenced in New Jersey.

  “That’s great,” I said. “Well, Ron, I hate to take this little girl away from you, but it’s kind of a big night for us. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Yeah, well … yeah, right,” was all he could come up with. He looked down at Nicole’s finger. “How come you don’t have a rock on your hand?”

  “Tomorrow, Ronnie,” I said. “We take care of all that tomorrow. Well, we have to run, pal. I just want to say what a pleasure it’s been to meet you. Great to know my baby is in such good hands … professionally speaking, of course. Take care.”

  I looked up at Tommyboy, who gave me a smile from the side of his mouth, as I put my arm around Nicole and hurried her out of the Head. When I looked back, Ronnie-baby was hanging over the bar like a dead sentinel. It couldn’t have been sweeter.

  Out on cold, dark Christopher Street we laughed and hugged one another.

  “That was wonderful,” she said. “How the hell did you come up with that?”

  “Inspiration, my dear,” I said. “The source of which is your beautiful face, your stunning eyes, your raven-black hair.”

  She looked at me and actually blushed.

  “You’re wonderful,” she said.

  “We’re both wonderful,” I said.

  Then we kissed, one of those long, passionate public kisses, the kind that makes love a spectacle. The kind that draws attention from everyone on the street, and the kind I always loved for exactly that reason.

  And yet, this time, this time something happened. You know all that heart talk—I mean, how one kiss can make you lose your heart, your heart skipping beats, zing went the strings of my heart—all that kind of pop crap, the likes of which I had never felt before? Well, this time, God help me, something happened. Kissing those lips, feeling her breasts press into my chest, I not only wanted her sexually, I wanted, God help me, to take care of her, too. Oh God, what was happening to me? I wanted to cherish her. I was gone, wasted, down the blue drain of love.

  I literally pulled myself away from her. This wasn’t happening. Not to me, Roger Deakens, adopted son of Alfie.

  It was the coke … had to be the coke … Yeah, that’s what it was, the cocaine. What the hell had the Wease put in that shit? Maybe some kind of goddamned love potion? Yeah, that was it. That had to be it. He was jealous, very, very jealous of me and all my success with women. He’d even said so on more than one occasion. I remembered the night we’d both been hustling this blonde from Iowa, Susan something, a real looker, and he’d really wanted her, felt, he told me later, something really strong for her, and I’d just whisked her away doing my riff-specific Kansas corn-fed routine. Yeah, I’d aww-shucked her right into bed. And he was pissed because he knew that I didn’t give a damn if I ever saw her again. That really pissed him off. He’d even said he’d get even with me someday, and this must have been that day. He’d put some kind of goddamned erotic love potion in the coke, but even as I entertained these thoughts, I knew it wasn’t so. Nah, that was bullshit. That was crap I was telling myself so I wouldn’t feel this horrible and yet so unbearably wonderful feeling of losing control, of slipping away …

  Oh God, what had happened to me? As we walked toward Seventh Avenue I had my arm around her and I felt, really felt, that if I lost Nicole I was doomed, that I would do anything for her love, that if I didn’t have her and keep her, my life would be nothing but the proverbial empty shell.

  And then we were waiting for a cab, and she hugged me and said, “God, I want you inside me. I want your cock in me so bad.”

  And I heard myself groaning with lust, with a need that was worse than any lowly junkie’s H-jones.

  And she said, “My place. Let’s go to my place. I’m just two blocks away on Barrow and Hudson.”

  “Right,” I said. “Right. Let’s go. I’ve got some coke with me.”

  “Fabulous,” she said. “I love coke.”

  And then we were running across Seventh, stopping every two or three feet to kiss, to grope one another, and I knew that it was all over. Impossible as it sounded, I was finished, dead, totally whacked on love. By the end of this very night, I knew without a shadow of a doubt, I would ask this complete stranger to be my wife.

  “Oh God, I can’t stand it,” she said, as I groped her in the elevator at 72 Barrow Street.

  “Baby, baby, baby,” I said, knowing it was a hopeless cliché but not caring anymore. Originality, it occurred to me, doesn’t matter when you’re in love. Neither does being riff-specific.

  We scrambled out of the elevator on the fifth floor. I put my hand up her dress and felt her unbelievably tight ass, as she opened the door, moaning.

  Then we were inside. I can’t describe the place … only her lips, her hair, her arms around me, my hands under her blouse, the incredible tautness of her nipples.

  “Nicole, Nicole, Nicole,” I repeated like an idiot.

  “Roger, Roger, Roger,” she refrained. I’d always hated my name but now it sounded like pure sex.

  I kissed her hard, harder, my tongue found her throat. We staggered across the room as I pulled up her dress and put my hand into her throbbing, wet cunt. It was literally pulsating with pleasure and she screamed when I put my middle finger up her asshole.

  She fell back against the wall, and I pressed my hard cock into her. A picture fell down. Crashed to the floor. I laughed wildly. This was real sex, not one of my carefully orchestrated little games. And I loved every second of it. And yet it was terrifying, for I felt wildly out of control.

  I took off her suit top and started in on her blouse but she pulled away, panting.

  “I need to see you naked first.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, believe me, it’ll be worth it. I need to see your hard cock, baby.”

  I felt suddenly frightened. I was used to giving the orders. But now … God, I only wanted to please her.

  I stood back, unbuttoned and slowly unzipped my pants. Smiling, I let my pants drop to the floor as I started kicking off my $300 shoes.

  She smiled back as she saw my cock, and I knew she was mine. All mine, my lovely Nicole. Oh man, I loved her. I did … I wanted her. I needed her. I
would fuck her until she screamed, begged for more, then screamed again, again, again … Or maybe, maybe this time it would be me doing the screaming and begging. I no longer cared.

  “Do you like it?” I said, looking down at my hard member.

  “Yes,” she said. “Oh yes, I do.”

  “Me too,” said a voice from behind me. “That’s a real winner, for sure.”

  I turned, breathless, and to my horror saw the boss, Ron Baines, coming through the unlocked front door. There was a .38 in his right hand. “What the fuck are you doing here?” I yelled.

  He didn’t say a word, but ran right at me, raised the gun, and smashed the butt into my skull.

  I felt a hot flash pass through me as I fell into a very undignified heap on the floor.

  Blood rolled down my nose, over my lips. I was drowsy and my head pulsated with pain, but I was still conscious. I looked up at Nicole, my Nicole, for some kind of help, if only moral support.

  But she didn’t look like Nicole anymore. She was staring down at me as if I were a bug under a microscope.

  “Get his hands,” Baines said.

  She reached down, and I weakly pushed her away. That was another mistake because Baines whacked me again with the gun butt, and this time I fell on my back, barely conscious. Blood ran down my neck and collar. They tied my hands behind me with some kind of cord that cut into my wrists, nearly cutting off my circulation.

  Lying there in my own blood, I felt like an old dog whose body was covered in tumors.

  “Now I could gag you, but we have to talk to you first. You scream at all, you get this.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out an old-fashioned push-button knife. He hit the button and I was staring at a saw-toothed eight-inch blade.

  “I won’t scream,” I said.

  “Good. By the way, you were really excellent back there at the bar,” Baines said. “The whole fiancé bit was a real good improv. You’re fine, for an amateur.”