In larval pupation, outside of hole-ringed avarice, eaten by insects on snowy day in park. Have inside my jacket’s lining one 15 mg syrette of M, hidden here for when I need it most. I’m moving up fast on Slow Joey Brown, a derbied fella with ears that ache from tinitus. He was known for his ability to lay down a smooth beat on the drums but he’d hocked the drums to buy H, sold out his family and lost his livelihood. Wouldn’t you?

Slow Joey Brown enters a rundown affair called the Double Deuce, a name held-over from it’s days on 22nd street. It’s now in the mid-50s on the east side of the island. And what a lurid scene inside, what horrible wasted lives. There are ghost artists, ratty looking junkies, botanists and musicians, beggars and prostitutes. There was a dealer in the midst, a small timer who had moved up with the disappearance of Avery.

It was here that I heard the first story of Avery, the first version. They said his body had been found in Utah, hanged from a tree. The surly bartender does not extend a tab but he did look the other way on illegal dealings, another slave to the black market as surely we all are at some point. The black market does not exist in any one place, but there is a place that it exists all at once.

Slow Joey Brown ambles toward the dealer in that junkie walk, so clear to spot from any police position. The cops had circled the bar one night and demanded that Aberwald come out. Aberwald was a known stoolie and so we had ignored him and cut him out of our business. An angry Chinese man stormed out the door waving a wooden cane and they shot him down right there in front of the door. That was the first version that I heard at that bar, there were others. Some said the Chinese man was the one that the police called out and it was an execution. Sometimes the teller of the story was involved in the incident, sometimes he would change the story and give himself a more minor role. Nobody would cop to being the one that told the police to find Aberwald there even though it probably would have meant a free drink from somebody.

But this day Slow Joey Brown is running down the line of people shouting his head off that I’m a narc now as soon as he sees me. I put my hands up in such a way as to suggest that I’m innocent of any such charge but Slow Joey Brown is gray with fright, ashy and wan. I wait outside until he’s calmed down and then try to explain to him about the police station. While I wait, I decide to take inventory of the situation. I start by emptying my pockets on a windowsill. The only thing of interest is the business card with a number written on the back. This is my contact and is to be used only in times of emergency. If necessary, they will contact me with instructions.

I’m reminded that H is surrounded by voodoo spells and mystery. The voodoo spells are a natural outlet for the police, they spend all day sticking the dolls with needles so the junkie will keep using. They do this day and night and pop in to arrest us now and then, sure we’re using because they’ve been causing it all along.

Now in LA, the whole situation is a bit different. I remember a trip there as a young man, the guy I was staying with was beaten black and blue one night. The cops were their usual wise self when they turned him over to the hospital with the explanation, “He got hit by a bus.”