It was a new sensation, a much bigger charge than marijuana had given him. He liked it. He threw away the slip of paper, put the heroin away, and leaned back to relax. Everything was pink and fuzzy, soft and smooth and cool.
He started sniffing heroin daily, and soon he noticed that he was physically aware of it when it was time for a fix. He began increasing the dosage, as his body began to demand more of the drug. And he didn't tell Sara anything about it.
His hate for her had grown, but it too became habitual.
He learned to live with it. However, when they had a disagreement over the business, he realised that she was standing in the way.
Andy wanted to expand operations. He saw that, with a little effort and a little muscle, he and Sara could move up a notch and have a crowd of pushers under them. He explained it to her, step by step. It couldn't miss.
"No," she said, flatly. "We're doing fine right where we are. We make good money and nobody will want us out of the way."
"We could make more money," he said. "Lots more. The cops wouldn't be able to touch us."
"It's a risk."
He shrugged. "Everything's a risk. Walking across the street is a risk, but you can't stay on your own block forever. It's a chance we've got to take."
She refused, and once again she used her body as a bargaining point. At last he gave in, as always, but the hate was beginning to boil in him.
A few days later an addict came whining for a shot. Andy saw the way he trembled and twitched, but the spectacle didn't bother him any longer. He had seen it time and time again, until it was just a part of the day's work.
"Sorry, junkie," he said. "Come back when you raise the dough."
The man begged, and Andy started to push him out the door when a thought came to him. He opened the door and let the man in.
"C'mere," he said. "You got a spike?"
The addict nodded dumbly and pulled a hypodermic needle from his pocket. Andy took it from him and inspected it, turning it over and over in his hand. "Okay," he said at length. "A shot for your spike."
The man sighed with relief, then demanded, "How am I gonna take the shot without a spike?"
"Take it first; then get out."
Andy followed the addict into the bathroom and watched him heat the powder on a spoon. Then he filled the syringe and shot it into the vein in his arm. It hit immediately, and he relaxed.
"Thanks," he said. He handed the syringe to Andy. "Thanks."
"Get out." The addict left, and Andy closed the door after him.
He washed the syringe in hot water, then put some heroin on a spoon. He deftly filled the syringe and gave himself a shot in the fleshy part of his arm.
It was far more satisfying than sniffing the powder. It was stronger and faster. He felt good.
As the heroin became more and more a part of his life, he switched to the mainline, shooting it directly into the vein. It was necessary to him now, and he itched to build up his trade until he controlled narcotics in the town. He knew he could handle it. Already, he had virtually replaced Sara. She was the messenger now, while he handled the important end. But she still called the shots, for she still held the trump card. And no matter how he argued, she would simply rub herself up against him and kiss him, and the argument would be finished. So he could do nothing but wait.
And, at last, he was one day ready.
He took a long, sharp knife from the kitchen drawer and walked slowly to the bedroom, where she lay reading. She looked up from the magazine and smiled at him, stretching languorously.
"Hi," she said. "What's up?"
He returned the smile, keeping the knife behind his back. "I have news for you," he said. "We're expanding, like I suggested. No more small-time stuff, Sara."
She sighed. "Not again, Andy. I told you before..."
"This time I'm telling you."
"Oh," she said, amused. "Do you think you can get along without me?"
"I know I can."
"Really?" She threw back the bedcovers and smiled up at him. "You need me, Andy."
He forced himself to look at her. He ran his eyes over the firm breasts, the soft curves of her hips. He looked at her carefully, waiting for the familiar stir within him. It didn't come.
"I don't need you," he said, slowly. "Look."
He held out his right hand, the hand that held the knife. He unbuttoned the sleeve and rolled it up slowly, showing her the marks of the needle. "See? I'm a junkie, Sara. I only care about one thing, baby, and it isn't you. You don't show me a thing."
But her eyes were not on the marks on his arm. They were on the knife in his hand, and they were wide with fear.
"I don't need you at all," he went on. "I don't need liquor, I don't need sex, I don't need you. You're just dead wood, Sara."
She rose from the bed and moved towards him. "Andy," she cooed. "Andy, honey." Her whole body seemed to reach out for him, hungrily.
He shook his head. "Sorry," he said. "It just won't work any more. I don't care about it. Just the horse is all that matters."
She looked into his eyes, and they were flat and uncaring. "Wait," she said. "We'll play it your way, Andy. We'll expand, like you said. Anything you say."
"You don't understand. I don't need you."
"Please!" she moaned. "Please!"
"Sorry. It's time for my shot." And he lowered the knife.
He moved towards her and she tried to back away, but he kept coming, the knife pointed at her. "No!" she shrieked. And she started to say something else, but before she could get the words out the knife was in her heart.
The End
Lawrence Block, Ride A White Horse
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends