Gritty City

Gritty City

Philip Fraterrigo

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012, Philip Fraterrigo

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover Image: View from David's Window, P. A. Fraterrigo 2009

Table of Contents

Title Page

Bootsie's Addiction

Big Tony's Escape

Oh Crap

Fixing the Pipes

Friday Night Candy

Night to Remember

Viral

Girl Next Door

Bartime

Madam Zora

Mr. Horrible

The Accidental Alchemist

About the Author

Bootsie's Addiction

Marvin Bootsie Johnson began to stir, slowly awakening. It had been almost twelve hours since his last fix and he was already starting to sweat. If he didn't get another one soon, the muscle aches and runny nose that followed would be pleasant compared to the rest of the withdrawal symptoms he would experience.

Bootsie, get your ass out of bed. You're going to miss the picnic! his mother yelled from the next room.

I told you mom, I ain't goin' to no picnic. I got somethin' important to do today.

His mother stuck her head inside the bedroom. What have you got to do that's so important? It's the Fourth of July. We got a picnic planned with fireworks and everything.

I've gotta see Eight Ball today, he replied.

Eight Ball? his mother said, When are you gonna learn that he's no good?

He's my friend, mom.

Friend? He ain't got no friends, she said, He's a pusher.

He's got lots of friends, he replied.

The only friends he's got are George Washington, Abe Lincoln and Ben Franklin, she said, and if you don't know that by now, one of these days you're gonna end up learning the hard way.

Bootsie rolled over on his back and lay amid the rumpled bed sheets thinking, Where can I get some money for a fix? At eighteen years of age, he had been a drug user for almost two years and his family was smart enough not to leave cash or anything of value lying around where it could easily disappear. I can't even go to Kmart or Target anymore. They watch me too closely, he thought.

His thoughts were interrupted by his mother, Remember what I told you. You better not be doing that crack shit. This was your last chance. You go back to smoking that shit again and you're out of here. I'm not putting up with it anymore!

Bootsie sat up. I told you. I'm not smokin' that shit no more, and he was telling her the truth. He hadn't smoked crack in at least six months. Instead, he was now mainlining heroin or as his friend Little Sammy used to say, Riding the white horse.

Like most junkies, Bootsie had become a very good liar but he still couldn't believe he had managed to keep his heroin addiction a secret from his mother for the last six months. Early on, there had been some obvious signs and slip ups but she hadn't caught on. Little Sammy had a theory. Self denial, he said.

What's that? asked Bootsie.

Basically, it means that she loves you and wants to believe that you're not doing drugs anymore so she won't have to throw you out. She will if she has to but she really doesn't want to. For instance, let's say she comes into a room and sees you sitting there all glassy eyed. Before she'll believe you're back on drugs, she'll tell herself that you didn't get enough sleep or that you were working too hard in the hot sun or something else like that. But, if you screw up too many times, she'll have no choice but to finally admit to herself that you're using drugs again.

Bootsie didn't want to get thrown out again. Life on the street was dangerous and every homeless person was a potential victim. The first time he got thrown out, he was naïve and trusting and the other street people stole everything he had. He was smarter now and knew that you trusted no one because all they were after was your money or your drugs but a person couldn't stay awake forever. Eventually, you had to sleep and that's when you were most vulnerable. That's what he prized more than anything else about being at his mother's house. It gave him a safe place to sleep and so he put up with the occasional picnic or other family involvement because he didn't want to lose that benefit.

Once again, his mother's voice interrupted his thoughts, Are you getting up or do I have to come in there and drag your ass out of bed?

Okay, okay, I'm gettin' up, he replied, By the way, where are we having this picnic?

Sullivan Park, she said, now get a move on.

Sullivan Park was named for Mickey Sullivan, the boisterous Irishman who served as mayor in the early years of the Great Depression and during the Fourth of July weekend it would host a carnival with amusement rides and games of chance, along with a few thousand picnickers. At dusk the sky would be lit up with the best fireworks display in the county and traffic would come to a complete stop on the adjacent roadways as motorists would stop their cars and get out to watch the show.

Sullivan Park, thought Bootsie, that's not too far and with all the people there maybe I can lift a wallet or purse or something. Then I can sneak off and hook up with Eight Ball and be back before anyone notices.

He got up, went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. Then, he ran a comb through his matted hair and after searching through the medicine cabinet, found an open bottle of Motrin which he slipped in his pocket. In the kitchen, he poured himself a hot cup of black coffee, heavily laced with sugar which he downed with three of the Motrin caplets. He knew it was mostly psychological but still hoped it would help him with the muscle aches and shaking until he could get his next fix.

You look like you slept in those clothes. Bootsie looked up to find his mother's boyfriend, Jimmy, standing in the doorway.

I did, he replied, So what?

So what? I'll tell you so what. How you ever going to get a fine woman when you walk around looking like that? said Jimmy.

Right now I'm not interested in no woman fine or otherwise. I have other things on my mind, he replied.

Jimmy just shook his head. He knew the signs of heroin addiction having fought that battle himself many years ago. Just don't let your mother find out, he said as he turned and headed out to the car carrying a large red cooler filled with ice and beer.

I don't smoke that shit no more! shouted Bootsie.

I believe you, he heard floating back from Jimmy's retreating figure.

Parking was never a problem in Sullivan Park except on the Fourth of July when it was overloaded with picnickers but Jimmy got lucky and caught a spot near the far end where there were still some empty picnic tables.

Because of its size and central location, the park was a true melting pot, attracting a cross section of people of every nationality and race from every corner of the city. Many of those people had already lit their grills and were starting to cook as Jimmy and Bootsie unloaded the car. The aroma of charcoal broiled meat permeated the air as thousands of picnickers cooked hot dogs, hamburgers, sausage, steaks, ribs and chicken and Bootsie suddenly realized how hungry he was, having had nothing to eat since the previous evening. Jimmy fired up the grill and soon Bootsie was wolfing down two of the best cheeseburgers he had ever eaten.

With his stomach now full, he felt a little better but his eyes were beginning to water and his nose was starting to run and he realized if he didn't get a fix in the next few hours, those two delicious cheeseburgers would be coming back up the hard way along with some other nasty withdrawal symptoms.

Just then, he saw Chantel walking by with two of her girlfriends. Chantel was a heart stopper: raven haired, pretty face and a body that could kill. She lived in the neighborhood and Bootsie had known her since grade school. Hey there girl. You're lookin' mighty fine today, he shouted.

Chantel turned in his direction. Bootsie, is that you? she asked.

It sure is, girl.

She studied him for a moment. You look terrible, she said, Are you back on the shit again?

He looked around to see if his mother was in earshot. Naw, he said, Well maybe just a little here and there.

She stared at him disapprovingly.

Hey, have you got a few bucks I can borrow? he asked, I've got a check coming in next week and I'll pay you back as soon as I cash it.

Do I look stupid? she said, Do you really expect me to believe that?

I do have a check coming in next week, he lied, I really do.

Bullshit, she said, Look at you. All you care about is that shit and it's killing you. You used to be good looking and smart but since you started doing that shit you've become nothing but a loser.

Bootsie saw red, Loser? I'll give you loser. Fuck you! he shouted.

Yeah, that's right, she said, but Bootsie, you can only dream about it, and she turned and walked away shaking her ass for emphasis.

Bootsie was fuming. Bitch, bitch, he said to himself, I've got to get out of here. He looked over toward the picnic table and saw that his mother and Jimmy were playing cards with another couple from the neighborhood and decided this was the time to slip away unnoticed. He got up and walked to the nearby parking area and began to walk down the rows of parked cars casually looking inside each one as he went. After walking through a large section of the parking lot, he finally noticed a car with a zippered case lying on the back seat. He continued on for two more cars and then he turned around and went back. He approached the car very casually as if it was his and tried the rear door handle. Miraculously, the door opened and he reached in and took the case.

His mind was screaming, Run! but he forced himself to walk at a normal pace so he would not attract undo attention. He maintained his normal pace until he reached the end of the park and then he stopped and looked inside the case. Inside was an expensive digital camera and he knew he had hit the jackpot. All he had to do was find a buyer and he'd be able to get enough heroin to feed his habit for the next two days.

Bootsie spent the next couple hours trying to find a buyer for the camera. He hit all of his normal hangouts but because of the holiday, very few people were around. The only ones he could find were street people or junkies and none of them had money. He was beginning to panic because Eight Ball only dealt in cash and if he couldn't sell the camera he would have to go to someone else for his fix, someone who would accept merchandise. That meant dealing with Ikey.

He had only dealt with Ikey once before and it nearly cost him his life. He had been heading over to see Eight Ball when he ran into Little Sammy. He was one of the only people Bootsie trusted and it he who had shown Bootsie how to cook his heroin and how to use a syringe to inject it into his veins. Fuck Eight Ball! said Little Sammy, He isn't the only one around. There's a dude on Laurel Street sellin' smack a lot cheaper than him. And so they headed out to Laurel Street in search of this new supplier named Ikey.

A short time later in an abandoned house, Bootsie waited impatiently while Little Sammy cooked his heroin using a spoon, water and a butane lighter. After filling his syringe with the potent mixture, he held it up in front of him and smiled. Time to ride the white horse, he said and then gave the spoon and lighter to Bootsie so he could do the same. Bootsie was so absorbed with preparing his fix that he didn't notice anything wrong until he heard a thumping sound and something kicked the side of his foot. Turning around, he saw Little Sammy, the syringe hanging from his arm, lying on the floor convulsing and foaming at the mouth.

He dropped the spoon and ran from the house to get help but by the time he got back, Little Sammy was dead. The autopsy found that he had injected himself not with heroin but with a lethal mixture of heroin and household cleanser and Bootsie would have been next. When confronted, Ikey said he had no idea the heroin was bad. Sometimes you get bad shit. That's just the way it goes.

That was five months ago and since then, Bootsie would always pause before sticking a needle in his vein and wonder if this was the time he would end up convulsing on the floor like Little Sammy or would he once again get to ride the white horse.

He finally decided that before he'd risk dealing with Ikey again he would see if he could convince Eight Ball to take the camera as payment for some heroin. After all, he thought, the worst he can say is no.

Eight Ball was a very large and powerfully built black man in his mid thirties with ebony colored skin and a shaved head that glistened like a billiard ball. I'm sorry, man. You know I only deal in cash, he said when Bootsie offered him the camera.

His mother's words echoed in his mind, "The only friends he's got