Party Time_Raving Arizona

by Shaun Attwood

  ‘Quick. Let’s bail in Keoki’s limo,’ Hotwheelz says, seizing my arm.

  ‘Er … yeah,’ I say.

  I run with Hotwheelz. The thrill of escaping in a limo intensifies my buzz. The car weaves around a battalion of cops lined up in riot gear, about to storm the rave.

  Superstar DJ Keoki is at the back of the limo, legs akimbo in black leather trousers, wearing pointy boots and sunglasses bordering on snowboarding goggles, his square, chiselled face and broad bronze chest tattooed tribally, lending him the look of an Aztec warrior. ‘Fe fi fo fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman,’ he says, imitating the voice of a giant.

  ‘Two Englishmen, actually,’ Hotwheelz says. ‘Keoki, this is my mate Shaun. When he’s not this fucked up, he throws raves.’

  ‘How do you do?’ Keoki leans forward to shake my hand.

  I try to assemble a reply. ‘I’m … er …’ I inhale loudly, relaxing into a smile.

  ‘He took fifteen hits of E,’ Hotwheelz says. ‘My Dollar Signs.’

  ‘Fifteen! Can people do that many and survive?’ says a thin man with the air of a boffin, his squinty eyes scanning me through narrow oblong glasses.

  ‘There’s gotta be a certain level of toxicity going on there,’ Hotwheelz says.

  ‘You … can’t OD … on happiness,’ I say.

  ‘He looks exceedingly euphoric to me,’ Keoki says. ‘What about getting crystal meth around here?’

  ‘Shaun and his friends can get just about anything in Phoenix,’ Hotwheelz says.

  ‘Can they now?’ Keoki says. ‘Nice shades, Shaun.’

  ‘Kieselsteins.’ I hand them to Keoki.

  ‘How much?’ he asks.

  ‘A thou,’ I say.

  ‘Sharp. Hmmm. I’ll have to get me some of these. My, what big eyes you’ve got,’ he says, handing them back.

  My response floats out: ‘Thanks.’

  ‘He’s breathing funny,’ the thin man says. ‘We’d better get him to a hospital.’

  ‘Hospital or after-party, Shaun?’ Keoki says with a smile borrowed from the devil. ‘Or would you like me to flip a coin?’

  ‘After-party … always,’ I say.

  ‘Will Keoki be safe there?’ asks a man with olive skin, twice the size of Keoki. ‘I’m Leon, his bodyguard.’

  ‘Shaun has his own security team,’ Hotwheelz says.

  ‘There you have it, Leon,’ Keoki says.

  We head to a one-storey, four-bedroom house where Jaxson, one of my biggest bouncers, lives. Excited ravers are waiting for Hotwheelz and Keoki to arrive. We enter to cheering, whistles blowing, air horns sounding – attention that raises my high – and Sally dancing, wearing only body glitter. The living room is a mini-rave. Strobe machines firing beams. A black box breathing out fog. We hug our way through the crowd, over a carpet littered with deflated balloons. In the back yard, ravers are queuing for nitrous-oxide canisters, anxious to fill balloons with laughing gas for a quick high. Keoki gets on the turntables. The house fills and we have to turn people away.

  ‘You wanna cap of X for free?’ asks a large, unfamiliar man.

  A competitor with a good product or a scam artist? ‘What you got?’ I ask.

  He offers a size 00 gelatin capsule packed with powder. Scam artist. One dose of Ecstasy is 100 to 125 milligrams of 3,4-Methylenedioxymethamphetamine, a fraction of a 00 capsule – such a small amount that I advise my dealers never to sell Ecstasy in 00 capsules because customers complain they’re getting shorted because of the empty space.

  ‘What’s in it?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s pure.’

  ‘Pure MDMA?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Mind if I taste it?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ he says, smiling.

  Ravers and some of my bouncers gather around. I twist the capsule open, pour powder onto my palm, lick it and hold it on my tongue. The chemical taste is sharp and unfamiliar. No hint of MDMA. ‘It doesn’t taste right. I reckon it’s bunk.’

  Jaxson – shaven-headed, his biceps bulging from a black ‘SECURITY’ T-shirt – steps up to the man like a wall. ‘You need to leave,’ he says in a husky voice.

  The man disappears fast.

  ‘The thing is, I took one of his capsules,’ Jaxson says.

  ‘Glad I didn’t,’ says Big Jed, a bodybuilder with long permed hair. ‘But a bunch of people did.’

  ‘I took one,’ Sally says. ‘If this messes me up, I’ll fucking beat that guy’s ass into next year.’

  ‘The powder in those horse pills smelled like angel dust,’ says my friend The Prophet, handsome with short brown hair and a New York accent. ‘That’s why I took one.’

  ‘Prophet, you’re a crazy bastard!’ Sally says.

  ‘Never trust a 00-cap full of that much powder,’ I say. ‘He probably crushed up a bunch of pharmaceuticals. Whoever wants good X, come and see me for a free Dollar Sign.’

  A hippy arrives with GHB. We drink capfuls. The Prophet puts some in the freezer to make popsicles.

  Worm, gangly and Gothic-looking, with each fingernail polished a different colour, enters the kitchen to cook ketamine, pestered by ravers craving the veterinary anaesthetic. When it’s ready, Jaxson allows a select group into his bedroom to partake. Worm arranges a small pile of powder into rows of white lines on a blue plate, his forehead crinkled, his stare focused, like an engineer operating on a circuit board. The rest of us watch greedily. He raises his face and smiles to acknowledge that the ritual of dispensation is about to begin, increasing the hunger in our eyes. He exhales loudly, lodges a piece of a straw into his right nostril, leans forward and snorts a line.

  ‘Good burn,’ he whispers. ‘Who’s next for the kitty cat?’

  Like hatchlings spotting the approach of their mother with a worm, all of our mouths open at once.

  ‘I am,’ Skinner says.

  ‘Me!’ I say.

  ‘Over here!’ Alice says.

  ‘Me!’ Acid Joey says.

  ‘Me first,’ Sally says, snatching the plate.

  ‘Sally, you don’t suit the name Sally,’ I say. ‘You’re too wild. I’m hereby renaming you Sallywack. You know, like scallywag.’

  ‘She is a Sallywack!’ Alice says, eyeing the plate, eager to sacrifice her faculties after peddling Ecstasy all night.

  Sallywack snorts a line, grrrs and kisses Alice. ‘I, Sallywack, do hereby declare I’m going to fuck Alice’s brains out later on. I even brought a strap-on.’

  We laugh. Round and round the plate goes, everyone keeping an eye on how much is being snorted and calculating if there will be anything left by the time the plate returns – a kind of musical chairs for eyes. The plate empties. We groan. Worm leaves to cook more.

  When the ketamine hits, I close my eyes and curl into a ball on the floor. The music – a Plastikman CD, a futuristic jumble of sounds – divides into components that connect to different parts of my brain. The conversation and music fade in and out, blend together and mix with my thoughts. I try to speak but don’t know whether sentences are coming out or I’m just hearing my own voice inside my head. Attempting to force words out, I forget what I want to say. The confusion is scary one second, delightful the next. The feeling of someone massaging my neck rouses my eyes open. ‘That’s great. Thanks, Alice.’

  ‘You looked like you were in a K-hole,’ Alice says, smiling.

  ‘I was. You brought me back to earth.’

  She kisses me and I suck her lip piercing.

  Three batches later, we’re all sedated and hallucinating.

  Big Jed starts drawing triangles in the air. ‘Everyone follow me, for I am the navigator and, being the navigator, I’ll take you to where you need to be, for I am the navigator, so follow me …’

  Anchored to the floor, bathing in the vibration of our laughter, I sway.

  Our reaction encourages Big Jed. ‘Follow me, for I am the navigator, taking you exactly where you need to be on the Special K superhighway today, so follow me, for I am the navigator �
��’

  Listening to him with my eyes closed, I imagine the house is a spaceship with Big Jed’s bodybuilder physique at the helm, rising through a sky spattered with stars, streaking past planets – until the ketamine wears off. I struggle to stand up and shuffle out. In each of the four bedrooms, ravers are focused on a different drug.

  ‘This is the pot-smokers’ room!’ Grady yells. ‘Get back to your E and K room and your cheesy-ass fucking trance!’

  I pinch my nose. ‘This room stinks!’ I end up in the living room, delighted by Hotwheelz blending the Batman theme tune into a mix. Everyone cheers. I join the ravers jumping and leaping as if on a bouncy castle.

  The Prophet appears, yelling through a bullhorn. ‘The GHB popsicles are ready.’

  I join the stampede for the kitchen.

  By the time the sun rises, each room contains at least one unconscious person on a bed or the carpet.

  ‘Shaun, Sallywack’s in the bathroom crying, talking to a bar of soap!’ Alice says. ‘C’mon! We gotta help her!’

  I follow Alice to Sallywack, naked in an empty tub, a faraway look in her eyes, not responding to the ravers trying to snap her out of it.

  ‘It’s those horse pills,’ I say. ‘Alice, why don’t you take her to your pad and look after her? I’ll see if Cody will drive you home.’

  The next casualty is Jaxson. I find him in his closet, shuffling hangers back and forth, mumbling softly.

  ‘What’re you looking for, Jaxson?’ I ask.

  His response is a blend of baby babble and smoker’s cough.

  ‘Forget about Jaxson,’ Lucas says, grabbing my arm. ‘You need to see what’s going on outside.’

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘Follow me.’

  I rush after Lucas. On the roof of the neighbour’s one-storey house is a raver I barely know, a 40-ish peroxide blond in bright-red trousers.

  ‘The police are on the way. Get down off my house!’ yells an old man.

  Oh shit! Tempe cops. Detective Reid … I tremble.

  ‘He took one of those capsules,’ Lucas says.

  ‘We’ve got to evacuate,’ I say, sobering up to take command. ‘Let’s move everyone to Acid Joey’s. If the cops use this as probable cause to come in, they’ll see all the people passed out on GHB and do a full search.’

  ‘I’ll get everyone who came in an SUV to park in the alley behind Jaxson’s,’ Lucas says, ‘and we’ll have security load the people who’re passed out into the SUVs and unload them at Acid Joey’s.’

  The evacuation starts immediately. From the living room, I watch the police arrive. One car. Two cops. The man on the roof jumps onto a fence and climbs down. On the lawn, on all fours, he casually sniffs the air like an animal and moves to the edge of the garden nearest the cop car.

  The officers get out and appraise him chewing a flower. The man swivels his head and sniffs and chews another flower.

  ‘Lie down and put your hands behind your back!’ an officer yells.

  Nibbling on petals, the man frowns as if vexed by the intrusion. Cautiously, the other officer approaches the man. He stops chewing, raises his head and moos, a deep, protracted moo that sounds like a warning.

  The nearest officer stops and draws his gun. ‘Don’t moo at me, mister!’

  The man moos again. Even louder.

  ‘I told you once not to moo at me, mister!’ The officer moves forward as if to capture the man.

  The man moos again, bolts on all fours, jumps onto the fence and disappears out of view.

  ‘He’s on the roof again. The cops are calling backup,’ Lucas says.

  ‘Whoever’s left needs to leave right now,’ I say. ‘Keoki, would you like to drive my car?’

  With the cops distracted by the mooing man, Keoki and I rush to my car. More cops arrive and park. With several cars leaving the after-party, Keoki pulls away. The cops eye us suspiciously. I brace for them to stop us. A parked cop car screeches off, pulls a U-turn and comes after us, lights and siren on.

  ‘Fuck, dude!’ Keoki says.

  ‘We’ve got no drugs on us,’ I say. ‘What can they do?’

  The cop pulls over the car behind us. I’m relieved – but upset. ‘Fuck! One of my dealers, Fish, is in that car with over 100 X. Hopefully the cops won’t do a full search. Let’s get the fuck out of here.’

  From Acid Joey’s, I call Jaxson. ‘Did the cops let Fish go?’

  ‘They’re still searching the car, tearing it apart. They’ve got everyone in handcuffs in the back of cop cars.’

  ‘Aw, shit!’ I say, shutting my eyes. I grit my teeth. ‘That’s fucked up. Spread the word they need to keep quiet and I’m bonding them out right away.’ Don’t want anyone snitching. ‘They’ve all got clean records, so if anyone gets charged it’ll be a first offence, a slap on the wrist, probably probation.’

  On Sunday night, I learn Fish was charged for the Ecstasy, but none of the others. I post his bond and take G Dog to his apartment the next day.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask.

  ‘They kept me in there, saying I was in very serious trouble, asking me all kinds of questions. I exercised my right to remain silent.’

  ‘Good man!’ I say.

  ‘You sure about that?’ G Dog asks. ‘You know what happens to snitches.’

  ‘I didn’t tell them shit!’ Fish says, offended.

  ‘I believe you,’ I say. ‘Did they ask you about me?’

  ‘They asked who I got the pills off. They asked if it was some English guy.’

  ‘Did they mention any names?’ I ask.

  ‘No. The head dude gave me a card with his number on. He said to call him when I’m ready to talk to them. It’ll save me a prison sentence.’

  ‘That’s just the cops trying to bullshit your ass,’ G Dog says.

  ‘You got the card?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah, lemme go get it.’ Fish fetches the card.

  I read it. ‘Fucking hell!’ I say, shaking my head, a creepy feeling rising up my spine. ‘This is the guy who was behind Wild Man’s arrest! Who is this Detective fucking Reid anyway?’

  ‘I dunno,’ Fish says.

  ‘Sounds like he’s got a hard-on for the English,’ G Dog says.

  I take Fish to see Ray, an attorney who saved one of my associates from a similar situation. I pay Ray $5,000. He gets the charges dropped because the police didn’t have probable cause to search the car, hence the fruit of their search, the Ecstasy, is inadmissible as evidence. News of our victory spreads. To motivate my dealers not to cooperate with the cops, I announce they’re all covered by legal benefits: an attorney and bail money. More ravers request to work for me.

  A few months later, Tempe police raid Jaxson’s house. My friends are asked the same questions over and over, one in particular: ‘What can you tell us about the guy with the English accent?’ The man asking the question: Detective Reid.

  Chapter 35

  In the Blue Room, four of my bouncers are standing over a man on the carpet with his hands tied behind his back: Calvin, a stocky raver with long blond dreadlocks, wearing a black T-shirt and green combat trousers.

  ‘Stealing Joey’s wallet while he was in jail was a fucked-up thing to do,’ Jaxson says. Acid Joey, berserk on Special K and in a car chase with Lucas, crashed and got arrested.

  ‘I never took his wallet,’ Calvin says.

  ‘Then what the fuck happened?’ Jaxson yells.

  ‘My roommate caught Calvin stealing shit from here while the cops had me,’ Acid Joey says. ‘My wallet’s still missing.’

  ‘We reckon he came here,’ I say, ‘saw no one was home, stole the wallet, then got greedy and came back for more.’

  The front door bursts open and clangs against the wall. Mari charges down the hallway, scowling, wearing a beanie, a wife-beater and baggy shorts, her right arm outstretched, pointing a gun. Behind her, Skinner is also pointing a gun, his frown almost as severe as Mari’s. They stop at Calvin and take aim at his face, which scrunches like
a plastic bag.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ Mari yells, her top lip unfolding, displaying her teeth.

  ‘A friend of Joey’s,’ Calvin whimpers.

  ‘What kind of motherfucking friend are you?’ Mari says, shaking the gun. ‘You steal all your friends’ shit? I’m pregnant and I was about to eat, motherfucker, before I got the call to come here.’ She puts the gun to his temple. ‘It’s ’cause of you I’m angry and hungry!’

  I’m stunned, yet convinced that if anyone can get the truth out of Calvin it’s Mari. No one in the room will actually shoot Calvin over a few hundred dollars, as I’ve instructed them only to scare him.

  ‘Chill out, Mari,’ Skinner says.

  ‘I know you stole his wallet!’ Mari says. ‘Give him his motherfucking wallet back!’

  ‘Mari!’ Skinner says.

  ‘Fuck you, Skinner! Who is this fucking guy anyway?’ Mari puts her gun to the tip of Calvin’s nose.

  Fear flickers across Calvin’s watery eyes as he stares at the barrel as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever see.

  ‘I’ll tell you who you are: you’re a fucking joke!’ Mari yells.

  ‘How do we know for sure he took it?’ Skinner asks.

  ‘Worm saw him come and go earlier,’ Acid Joey says.

  ‘Some fucking friend!’ Mari says.

  ‘Chill, Mari,’ Jaxson says. ‘We’ll take care of this. You’re pregnant. You shouldn’t even be here.’

  ‘Shut the fuck up!’ Mari yells. ‘Someone called me to come down here, right? Well, I’m here, and I’m gonna take care of this shit!’

  ‘Mari, chill, for the baby’s sake,’ Skinner says.

  ‘Chill!’ Mari swings her arm and points her gun at Skinner, her face red, on fire. ‘You’re the one who interrupted my fucking dinner for me to come over here and help you guys deal with this dumb-ass fucked-up loser!’

  ‘What’re you doing, Mari?’ Skinner points his gun at Mari.

  With the guns off his head, Calvin’s expression softens a bit. But as he watches Mari and Skinner, terror returns to his eyes.

  ‘And what the fuck do you care about our baby? You’re always telling me you hope the baby will just fall out of me and die. Your only concern is money and your drug addiction! Nobody is gonna talk shit to me today and get away with it!’