* * * * *
He had a place on East 45th, a ratty old brownstone. It didn't look
as if he'd lived in it long. But that was to be expected; if you were
a pusher you had to keep on the move. After a while a landlady got
suspicious about all the queer characters visiting this one guy and the
next step was the cops.
Jones had called me the day after our talk in the cafeteria, setting
up a meet for that afternoon. I'd had a dream about _uru_, a wild
and wonderful dream that made it impossible for me not to go. I'm a
hunch-player, anyway. So I went.
But I was cautious enough to leave my money home and not to wear
my best clothes. Then if it turned out that Jones was pulling a
lush-worker switch, feeding junkies a knockout fix and rolling them, I
wouldn't lose much.
He was wearing the same black suit. His closet door was open and I
could see that there were no clothes hanging in it. Maybe he hadn't
unpacked yet, though I didn't see a suitcase anywhere.
I didn't think much about these things at the time. Jones smiled and
shook hands with me. Then he excused himself and went out into the
hall. So far so good. No smart pusher keeps the stuff in his room.
Possession carries a stiff rap.
I had my works with me--needle and eye-dropper--but Jones told me I
wouldn't need it. I was surprised. If his place wasn't a shooting
gallery, what was it? A weed joint? Weed was no good--that was fag
stuff. Marijuana, bennies, goof balls, nembies--that stuff was nowhere
for a cat who'd been mainlining it for a decade. I told that to Jones.
He smiled and told me to relax. He meant it literally.
"Lie down on the bed," he said. "Take your coat off. No, don't roll up
your sleeve."
He pulled down a blue shade over the single window and the room got
dim. Sunlight squeezed through the cracks at the edges and made
shimmering little patterns on the walls and ceiling.
He took a cigaret holder out of his pocket. It was green, like jade,
and carved around its fat middle was a design of some kind. I couldn't
make it out, even when I held it in my hand.
Jones put a cigaret in the holder. It looked like an ordinary king-size
smoke and I told him so.
"That is correct," he said. "It is not the cigaret that provides the
effect, but the _uru_ in the holder. The smoke travels over the _uru_
and activates it. Enough of it is absorbed by the warm smoke for the
desired result. Do not inhale too deeply the first time."
I took a short drag, half suspecting he was conning me. Nothing
happened right away. It didn't taste any different from any cigaret
smoked through a holder. I took another drag, deeper this time.