‘Sure. How much will I get paid?’
‘Five hundred a trip to pick up anywhere from one- to five-thousand pills.’
‘What if I get caught?’
‘Don’t say anything to the cops,’ I say, drawing on Raul’s advice. ‘Exercise your right to remain silent. I’ll get you an attorney. If you do a good job, it’ll be a regular thing. I’m also looking for someone to rent an apartment as a safe house to store drugs at. Somewhere no one will know about, so if anything goes down with the rest of us the cops will never find it.’
‘Let me check into that. When do you want me to go on my first run?’
‘This weekend. What we’ll do is use your car one week, my Corolla the next,’ I say, referring to the car purchased by Hammy, ‘and if you feel these cars are getting noticed by highway patrol, I’ll buy new ones. Even if you do get pulled over, we’ve got fake Coke cans to put pills in. I don’t see the cops doing anything worse than giving you a speeding ticket. Most police dogs can’t sniff Ecstasy, except for specially trained beagles. But they can all smell weed, so never, ever travel with weed or transport anyone with it. Do you have a radar detector?’
‘No.’
‘Get one. Here’s $200. What do you know about guns?’ I ask.
‘Why?’
‘I’m clueless about them. We don’t have guns in England. It’s nothing like the Wild West. I bought a gun when I was a stockbroker—’
‘What type?’
‘A Lorcin.’
Shaking his head, Cody laughs.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘They’re cheap pieces of shit. Lorcins are more likely to jam on you than fire. What you need is a Glock. That’s what the cops use.’
‘I’ll buy a Glock, then.’
‘If I’m going to be doing these missions for you, can you get me a Glock, too?’
‘Yes. Will you train me to shoot it?’ I ask.
‘Why don’t we go to concealed-weapons-permit classes? There’s a place on the west side run by cops with a firing range. They’ll train us and we’ll be able to legally carry a gun hidden in our clothes.’
‘Let’s do it,’ I say, shaking his hand.
Chapter 32
Mari and Skinner call our first rave Clowning. To promote it, we stick flyers on cars parked at raves. I go on the nightclub circuit holding hands with my friend Karma, a partially blind albino whose pinkish eyes, long white hair and ghostly appearance attract mass attention. While I tell people about Clowning, Karma massages my shoulders.
Acid Joey shuffles into the next rave dressed as a Catholic priest. He positions himself on a platform and opens the Bible as if about to deliver a sermon. He tears pages out and sets them on fire. A near riot breaks out between the devout and atheists.
‘Put it out!’
‘You can’t do that!’
‘He can do whatever he wants! This is a free country!’
‘Sacrilege! You’ll burn in hell!’
‘Bullshit, Christians!’
‘God will strike you dead!’
‘Who believes in that crap?’
Acid Joey showers the people pushing and shoving and arguing with holy water and Clowning flyers.
The date of the party approaches, but we have no venue. Concerned about losing my investment, I urge Mari and Skinner to find a location fast. Mari drives all over town, on a painstaking search, and settles on a warehouse in West Phoenix, owned by the Mexican Mafia, adjacent to a furniture showroom.
On the way to the party, I pray for lots of people to show up. I’m greeted at the door by Cody, and a worried Skinner, who says the fire department have threatened to prevent the party from opening if they find any safety issues and that Mari is escorting them around the premises. I put my sunglasses on to disguise my dilated pupils. We wait, frowning, hoping no hazards are found. The firemen emerge with Mari charming them. They ask about security. Cody, sober, well spoken, states he’s in charge and flashes them his licence. I expect them to study it, to find fault, but they only glance and turn back to Mari. She answers a few more questions, makes them laugh and they leave.
The doors open at nine. Few ravers arrive. Mari and Skinner check tickets and take payment, surrounded by security. Cody positions bouncers inside to prevent the occupation of the furniture showroom. From nine to ten, hardly anyone shows up. What a disaster! I pace by the entrance, embarrassed, shrinking away from anyone trying to talk to me.
Grady – a tall stoner with a shaved head, a goatee and a flat boxer’s nose – offers a bottle cap of clear liquid: GHB.
‘Grady, what the fuck do you think you’re doing introducing Shaun to new drugs?’ Desirae yells, scowling.
‘How will it make me feel?’ I ask.
‘A little bit like X, but it doesn’t last as long,’ Grady says.
My inner wolves howl, Take it, take it, take it … ‘Fuck it! If it’s anything like X, I’ll do it.’
‘Like you don’t have a big enough drug problem!’ Desirae says, shaking her head.
As I drink the GHB, a salty-chemical bitter taste explodes in my mouth. I almost retch. They laugh at my puckered face. It was a set-up.
‘Here, drink this quick,’ Desirae says, holding orange juice.
I snatch it and glug half the bottle but can still taste the sickly GHB chemicals coating my tongue. Fifteen minutes later, euphoria hits. I feel drunk but lively. Breathing never felt so good: I can taste air. I attune to my surroundings with heightened, animal-like sensitivity. My jaw juts. Walking, I bounce with a new-found strength. I am a wolf.
Ravers arrive in droves. By midnight, the building is packed, the queue snaking around the plaza. I marvel at the success. My workforce is delighted.
With no smoke machine, we improvise. Skinner and Grady walk around with plastic bags full of hundreds of joints, giving away Mexican dirt weed. The ravers exhale so much smoke a cloud materialises on the dance floor, expanding slowly like fog. An ecosystem forms. Ravers chug water and sweat it out dancing. Vapour rises from the ravers; condensation forms on the ceiling and drops fall like rain. The marijuana cloud continues to expand, filling the room with the smell of burnt herbs with a hint of skunk musk, eventually engulfing more than 2,000 people. Robust beats shake the building like thunder and in the cloud the strobe flashes like lightning, illuminating body parts, heads bobbing, arms waving, hands drawing circles with glow sticks, legs stomping in baggy jeans.
Ravers sneak around a barrier to nestle into the sofas in the showroom. High on Ecstasy, they rub their bodies against the material like cats in heat. I laugh. On Ecstasy, I want to join them but can’t risk upsetting the owners of the building. I tell security to escort them back to the main room. But every time the sofas go unguarded, they’re reoccupied.
I’m heady on the atmosphere – until the cops arrive. Oh shit! I put my shades on and watch from a safe distance as Mari stalls them at the door. The stink of weed is enough for them to stop the party, never mind all the ravers on Ecstasy, their eyes bulging unnaturally as if a chemical experiment on the masses is under way. I imagine the cops calling backup, ravers getting searched, arrested, hauled into vans …
Patiently, Mari listens to the cops, who say the party is in violation of a sound ordinance. Phew! The sound is lowered and they leave.
Upstairs in a VIP area overlooking the dance floor, high on Ecstasy, electrified by the success of our effort, I admire my friends, glowing with purpose and triumph. Every so often, my bouncers bring in strangers who want to thank English Shaun for the party and the quality of the Ecstasy. At first, I’m taken aback by the reverence with which they treat me, but I begin to revel in the attention lavished by beautiful women competing to hug me, asking endless questions, and men greeting me with wide-eyed awe, impressed by my rising notoriety.
Around dawn, Cody asks, ‘What do you want security to do about the girl dancing naked on the speaker?’
‘That’s a sign of a good party, right?’ I say, my jaw quivering and my he
ad being massaged by Jake, a soft-spoken Mexican American with kind brown eyes. ‘Who is she anyway?’
‘Some chick from New York with a pierced pussy and a big mouth.’
‘Why don’t you bring her up here so we can meet her?’
‘I’ll be right back.’
My closest party friends – ‘The Circus’ – are sprawled on the floor, massaging each other, when Cody brings in the naked woman with big brown eyes, her hair in a pixie cut and a ten-gauge barbell in her clitoris. ‘This is Sally.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Sally. I’m English Shaun.’ I stand and give her a hug.
‘Grrrrrrrrrr,’ Sally says, running her eyes up and down Alice, still my number-two Ecstasy salesperson. ‘You’re so pretty. Exotic. That lip piercing’s hot.’ She sits down and kisses Alice’s big enticing lips.
‘Give her a Mitsubishi on me,’ I say to Alice.
‘I already took five Mitsues,’ Sally says. ‘Your pills are good.’
‘You’re not going to feel one more very much, then,’ I say. ‘Alice, give Sally another five.’
‘Thank you,’ Sally says.
‘Take a few more Mitsues and we’ll massage you,’ Alice says.
Sally grrrrs as Jake rubs lotion on her.
Skinner arrives, his eyes radiating joy below a tangle of sweat-compressed hair.
‘Come join us, little brother!’ I say, waving him over, delighted Skinner is thriving, really feeling a bond with him. ‘Well done tonight!’
‘No worries, big brother.’ Skinner rests his head on my shoulder and hugs me tightly in a brotherly way.
Chapter 33
Mari and Skinner pick a swingers’ club for a rave. Lucas brings Hotwheelz – the headliner – from the airport to my house and heads to the venue. Hotwheelz snorts glass, I sip GHB and we set off. I’m speeding along Loop 202 when the GHB – a depressant at high doses – knocks me out in the fast lane.
I hear Hotwheelz yelling, ‘Shaun, wake the fuck up!’ Leaning over, he’s steering the car in the middle lane. ‘You nearly fucking killed us!’
Realising the car’s changed lanes jolts me awake. But my head lolls forward like a baby’s. I almost nod off. ‘You’d better drive. That jibber juice hit me too quick. I’m all fucked up.’ I pull onto the shoulder, outraged by my stupidity.
At the club, Hotwheelz parks amid a crowd of agitated ravers.
Lucas runs to my car. ‘The owner’s cancelled the party!’
‘Why?’ The crisis lifts the GHB fog from my brain.
‘We don’t know yet,’ Lucas says. ‘He’s adopted the keep-the-doors-locked-and-hope-everyone-goes-away strategy. But it’s not working. More ravers are arriving and they’re getting angry.’
‘If he doesn’t open the club, the thousands I’ve spent will go down the drain!’ I shake my head.
Mari and Skinner rush over. ‘I’ve worked for months promoting this party,’ Skinner says. ‘If this fool thinks everyone’s going home, he must be smoking crack. I’ve been waiting to get the word from you to shoot the door open.’ He displays his gun.
‘Give me that gun.’ I grab it and place it in the glove compartment. ‘If you shoot the door open, that’ll just bring the cops. What’s that going to achieve?’
‘Actually, he would have shot the door down already if it wasn’t for me,’ Mari says.
‘Thanks for keeping him in check, Mari,’ I say. ‘Let’s hold off on any drastic action for now.’
Skinner storms off. Repeated requests to negotiate with the owner fail.
Fifteen minutes later, Skinner returns. ‘If you don’t give me my gun back, I’ll get a gun off someone else and shoot the fucking door open.’
‘Little brother, chill out,’ I say.
Mari shakes her head.
An Italian club-kid couple – short with big eyes and smiley faces – whom I’ve arranged to meet show up. I explain my predicament.
‘Primo’s real good at negotiating things,’ Marcello says. ‘He stays real calm. Do you want him to talk to the owner on your behalf?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
The bouncers allow Primo in. The crowd swells at the entrance, threatening to riot. The situation is on the verge of igniting when Primo re-emerges. The bouncers leave the doors open.
‘The club is open! Everyone come inside!’
We cheer and fill the small, dark venue with mostly ravers and some swingers. My friends settle on sofas adjacent to the DJ booth. Hotwheelz works the turntables. His trance elevates my mood. A hippy arrives with a gallon of GHB in a brown moonshine bottle. I sip some and take Ecstasy.
‘I’ve got a gallon of jibber juice!’ I say. ‘Anyone who wants a cap, come and help yourselves.’
‘I want some!’
‘Me!’
‘Can I try it?’
‘If you’ve never done it before, just take a small capful,’ I say. ‘This shit will knock you on your arse fast if you take too much. When it hits you and you’re feeling great and have the urge to drink more, don’t come back for more because you’ll OD.’
The ravers know their GHB tolerances, but the swingers don’t. They drink some, feel great and demand more. Disregarding my warning, they keep sipping it.
An hour after the arrival of the GHB, some women undress. Sally, Alice and their new glitter girlfriend Lexi start a female orgy on the dance floor. The mesmerised men – me included – don’t interfere. We cheer as Sally reels in a stranger, sits her down, hikes her skirt up, pulls her G-string aside and licks the region like a cat at a bowl of milk.
Two hours after the arrival of the GHB, people start collapsing. ‘Holy shit!’ I say. ‘It looks like the Grim Reaper’s walked through here.’ Cody, Acid Joey and I rush around checking eyes, pulses and that people are breathing. Some are conscious, eyes glazed, expressions confused; others twitching as if receiving electric shocks; a few unconscious and snoring.
‘What should we do?’ Cody asks.
‘Too much GHB puts me in a deep sleep,’ I say, ‘but I wake up fine. These people need to be watched to make sure there’s no complications. They’ll be fine if they sleep it off.’
A bouncer with a thin face, thick specs and a pterodactyl’s nest of hair rushes around, yelling, ‘Oh my God! They’re dying! They’re all dying! Someone call 911! Jesus Christ! They’re all dying!’
‘Where’s this lunatic come from?’ I ask. Cody shrugs.
‘How do you know they’re dying?’ croaks a voice from the crowd.
‘Listen to me! I’m a licensed paramedic! I can tell by their pupil dilation that they’re dying!’ Waving his hands, he yells, ‘Good God, has anyone called 911 yet?’ The partiers jeer as if about to stone him. ‘If we don’t call 911 and they die, we’ll all be held responsible!’ he yells, shaking his nest of hair. ‘For Christ’s sake, someone call 911!’
The owner of the club emerges. ‘They’re not dying,’ he says in the tone of a man who is regretting opening his club. ‘They’ve just drunk too much GHB. They’re in deep sleep. They need to be left alone. If anyone dials 911, I could lose my licence and the club could be shut down.’
‘Don’t listen to him!’ the bouncer yells. ‘I’m a licensed paramedic and I’m telling you, they’re dying! For God’s sake, someone give me a cellphone before they all die!’ he says, offering his palms as if expecting phones to rain down upon him.
The owner whispers in the ear of the largest bouncer. He and another security guy drag the renegade away, yelling and flailing. When the bouncers reappear, they pick up the bodies and arrange them side by side in a back room. Periodically, we check their vital signs and that none have vomited in their mouths. Eventually, they all resurrect and claim to feel well rested.
After the rave, Sally – waving a whip out of a car window – leads a convoy of bisexual women to Acid Joey’s. Word travels fast about the lesbian activity, drawing male spectators from far and wide; they tour the house and leave with their expressions transformed, as if their lives will never be the
same.
I arrive home on Sunday afternoon shocked to see my clothes on the lawn. Desirae! Immersed in work helping handicapped people, Desirae has reduced her partying in recent months and I’ve ignored her warnings about my lifestyle.
‘Jesus, Desirae!’ I yell, entering the living room. ‘You went and chose all my best clothes! All my Diesel stuff!’
Desirae marches towards me, pointing. ‘I’m sick of you staying out all weekend, doing all kinds of drugs! You’re gonna kill yourself, Shaun!’
‘It’s not like you don’t do drugs either!’ I say.
‘I smoke weed! I’m not the one passing out on GHB!’ she yells, brow clenched, spit flying at my face. ‘I can’t take it anymore. I’m moving out!’
‘Desirae, we’ve been together for over a year. I love you! I thought you loved me,’ I say, shocked, devastated.
‘I do, but since we met your drug intake has increased. You might have quit meth but look at all the other drugs you’re doing. Look at how much your dealing has increased. Everyone in the scene knows who English Shaun the Ecstasy dealer is. You’re getting too big. I don’t wanna be around when the cops come.’
I want to spend all day convincing her to stay, but she storms out. My thoughts go in a million different directions, as if my brain is melting down. I sob. Like a fool, I use her departure as an excuse to go on a diet of drugs and no food. A few days later, Alice finds me wasting away, heartbroken, and we go to a house where she performs a Native American healing ritual with chanting, incense, smoke and ash. Jake and Sally move in, force me to sober up and eat, and I’m nursed back to health. We talk endlessly about the problems in our lives and pledge to help each other in times of crisis.
Chapter 34
‘Hell, no! We won’t go!’ thousands of ravers chant at the cops outside Swell’s Musik 98 party. We mill around in a massive warehouse, disappointed.
‘Shaun, you need to get the hell outta here before the riot squad comes,’ Lucas says.
Having given away more than 100 Ecstasy, and on fifteen myself, I try to speak but end up sucking my lips.
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