to  the  kitchen,  his voice  loud and
clear:  "Five  years a  piece. Nobody  gives a  better deal
on  the  street."  He  put  a finger  on the  dividing line
below the boy's nose. "ъight down the middle."
  "Mister, I don't know what you're talking about."
  "You will, baby... in time."
  "OK. So what do I do?"
  "You accept?"
  "Yeah,  like..."  He  glanced  at  the   package.  "What-
ever... I accept."
  The boy felt a silent black clunk fall through his flesh.
The Sailor  put a  hand to  the boy's  eyes and  pulled out
a  pink  scrotal egg  with one  closed, pulsing  eye. Black
fur boiled inside translucent flesh of the egg.
  The  Sailor  caressed  the   egg  with   nakedly  inhuman
hands  --  black-pink, thick,  fibrous, long  white tendrils
sprouting  from  abbreviated  finger  tips. Death  fear and
Death  weakness  hit  the  boy,  shutting  off  his  breath,
stopping  his  blood.  He  leaned   against  a   wall  that
seemed to give slightly. He clicked back into junk focus.
  The  Sailor  was  cooking  a  shot.  "When  the  roll  is
called up yonder we'll be there,  right?" he  said, feeling
along  the  boy's  vein,   erasing  goose-pimples   with  a
gentle  old  woman  finger. He  slid the  needle in.  A red
orchid bloomed at the bottom of  the dropper.  The Sailor
pressed  the bulb,  watching the  solution rush  into the
boy-vein, sucked by silent thirst of blood.
  "Jesus!" said the boy. "I never been hit like  that be-
fore!"
  He  lit  a  cigarette  and  looked around  the kitchen,
twitching  in  sugar  need. "Aren't  you taking  off?" he
asked.
  "With that milk sugar shit? Junk  is a  one-way street.
No U-turn. You can't go back no more."

  They call me the  Exterminator. At  one brief  point of
intersection I did exercise  that function  and witnessed
the belly dance  of roaches  suffocating in  yellow pyre-
theum  powder  ("Hard  to  get now,  lady... war  on. Let
you  have a  little.... Two  dollars.") Sluiced  fat bed-
bugs from rose wall paper in shabby theatrical  hotels on
North Clark and poisoned  the purposeful  ъat, occasional
eater of human babies. Wouldn't you?

  My  present  assignment:  Find  the  live ones  and ex-
terminate.  Not the  bodies but  the "molds,"  you under-
stand  --  but  I  forget that  you cannot  understand. We
have all but a  very few.  But even  one could  upset our
food tray. The  danger, as  always, comes  from defecting
agents: A.J., the Vigilante, the Black Armadillo (carrier
of Chagas vectors, hasn't taken a  bath since  the Argen-
tine  epidemic  of  '35,  remember?  ),  and Lee  and the
Sailor and Benway.  And I  know some  agent is  out there
in  the  darkness  looking  for  me.  Because  all Agents
defect and all ъesisters sell out....
    THE ALGEBъA OF NEED

    "Fats"  Terminal  came  from  The  City   Pressure  Tanks
where  open  life  jets  spurt  a million  forms, immediately
eaten, the eaters cancelled by black time fuzz....
    Few  reach  the  Plaza,  a  point  where The  Tanks empty
a  tidal  river,  carrying  forms  of  survival   armed  with
defences  of  poison  slime,  black,  flesh  rotting,  fungus,
and  green  odors  that  sear  the lungs  and grab  the stom-
ach in twisted knots....
    Because  "Fats'"  nerves  were  raw  and  peeled  to feel
the  death  spasms  of  a   million  cold   kicks....  "Fats"
learned The Algebra of Need and survived....
    One  Friday  "Fats"  siphoned  himself  into  The  Plaza,
a  translucent-grey,  foetal  monkey,  suckers on  his little
soft,  purple-grey  hands,  and  a  lamphrey  disk  mouth  of
cold, grey gristle lined with hollow, black,  erectile teeth,
feeling for the scar patterns of junk....
    And  a  rich  man passed  and stared  at the  monster and
"Fats"  rolled  pissing and  shitting in  terror and  ate his
shit  and  the  man  was  moved  by   this  tribute   to  his
potent  gaze  and  clicked  a  coin  out  of his  Friday cane
(Friday  is  Moslem  Sunday  when   the  rich   are  supposed
to distribute alms ).
    So  "Fats"  learned  to  serve  The  Black Meat  and grew
a fat aquarium of body....
    And  his  blank,  periscope eyes  swept the  world's sur-
face....  In  his  wake  of  addicts,  translucent-grey  mon-
keys  Hashed  like  fish spears  to the  junk Mark,  and hung
there  sucking and  it all  drained back  into "Fats"  so his
substance  grew  and  grew  filling  plazas,  restaurants and
waiting rooms of the world with grey junk ooze.
  Bulletins  from  Party  Headquarters  are  spelled   out  in
obscene  charades  by  hebephrenics   and  Latahs   and  apes,
Sollubis   fart  code,   Negroes  open   and  shut   mouth  to
Hash  messages  on  gold  teeth,   Arab  rioters   send  smoke
signals  by  throwing  great  buttery  eunuchs  --   they  make
the  best  smoke,  hangs  black  and shit-solid  in the  air --
onto  gasoline  fires  in  a  rubbish  heap,  mosaic  of melo-
dies,   sad   Panpipes   of   humpbacked  beggar,   cold  wind
sweeps  down  from   post  card   of  Chimborazzi,   flutes  of
ъamadan,   piano   music  down   a  windy   street,  mutilated
police  calls,  advertising  leaflet  synchronize  with street
fight spell SOS.
  Two  agents   have  identified   themselves  each   to  each
by  choice  of  sex   practices  foiling   alien  microphones,
fuck  atomic  secrets  back  and  forth  in  code  so  complex
only  two  physicists  in  the  world  pretend  to  understand
it  and  each  categorically  denies  the  other.   Later  the
receiving  agent  will  be  hanged,  convict  of   the  guilty
possession  of  a  nervous  system,  and  play  back  the mes-
sage   in   orgasmal   spasms   transmitted   from  electrodes
attached to the penis.
  Breathing  rhythm  of   old  cardiac,   bumps  of   a  belly
dancer,  put  put  put  of  a  motorboat  across  oily  water.
The  waiter lets  fall a  drop of  martini of  the Man  in the
Grey  Flannel  Suit,  who  lams  for  the  6:12  knowing  that
he  has  been   spotted.  Junkies   climb  out   the  lavatory
window  of  the  chop  suey  joint  as  the  El  rumbles past.
The  Gimp,  cowboyed  in  the  Waldorf,   gives  birth   to  a
litter  of  rats.  (Cowboy:  New  York  hood  talk  means kill
the  mother  fucker  wherever  you  find  him. A  rat is  a rat
is a rat is a rat. Is an informer. ) Foolish virgins  heed the
English  colonel   who  rides   by  brandishing   a  screaming
on his lance. The elegant fag patronizes his
bar to receive a bulletin from Dead
lives on in synapses and will evoke the exciting
Beater. Boys jacking off in the school toilet know
other as agents from Galaxy X, adjourn to a
night spot where they sit shabby and por-
drinking wine vinegar and eating lemons to
the tenor sax, a hip Arab in blue glasses sus-
to be Enemy Sender. The world network of junkies,
on a cord of rancid jissom... tying up in fur-
rooms... shivering in the sick morning...
Old Pete men suck the Black Smoke in a Chink laun-
back room. Melancholy Baby dies from an overdose
Time or cold turkey withdrawal of breath -- in Arabia
Paris -- Mexico City -- New York -- New Orleans -- ) The
and the dead... in sickness or on the nod...
or kicked or hooked again... come in on the
beam and The Connection is eating Chop Suey
Dolores Street... dunking pound cake in Bickfords
. . chased up Exchange Place by a baying pack of
Malarials of the world bundle in shivering
Fear seals the turd message with a cunei-
account. Giggling rioters copulate to the screams
a burning Nigra. Lonely librarians unite in soul kiss
halitosis. That grippy feeling, brother? Sore throat
and disquieting as the hot afternoon wind?
to the International Syphilis Lodge -- "Meth-
Epithcopal God damn ith" (phrase used to test
speech impairment typical of paresis ) or the first
touch of chancre makes you a member in good
The vibrating soundless hum of deep forest
orgone accumulators, the sudden silence of cities
when  the  junky  cops  and   even  the   Commuter  buzzes
clogged lines of cholesterol for contact. Signal flares of
orgasm  burst  over  the  world.  A  tea  head   leaps  up
screaming "I got the  fear!" and  runs into  Mexican night
bringing  down  backbrains  of   the  world.   The  Execu-
tioner  shits  in terror  at sight  of the  condemned man.
The Torturer screams in the ear of his  implacable victim.
Knife  fighters  embrace  in adrenalin.  Cancer is  at the
door with a Singing Telegram....

  HAUSEъ AND O'BъIEN

  When they walked  in on  me that  morning at  8 o'clock,
I knew it was  my last  chance, my  only chance.  But they
didn't  know.  How  could  they?  Just a  routine pick-up.
But not quite routine.
  Hauser  had  been  eating   breakfast  when   the  Lieu-
tenant called: "I  want you  and your  partner to  pick up
a  man  named  Lee,  William  Lee,   on  your   way  down-
town. He's in the Hotel Lamprey. 103 just off B way."
  "Yeah I know where it is. I remember him too."
  "Good.  ъoom  606.  Just  pick him  up. Don't  take time
to  shake  the  place  down.  Except  bring in  all books,
letters, manuscripts. Anything printed, typed  or written.
Ketch?"
  "Ketch. But what's the angle.... Books... "
  "Just do it." The Lieutenant hung up.
  Hauser  and  O'Brien.  They  had been  on the  City Nar-
cotic Squad for  20 years.  Oldtimers like  me. I  been on
the junk for 16  years. They  weren't bad  as laws  go. At
least  O'Brien  wasn't.   O'Brien  was   the  con   man,  and
Hauser  the  tough  guy.  A   vaudeville  team.   Hauser  had
a  way  of  hitting  you  before  he  said  anything  just to
break  the  ice.  Then  O'Brien  gives  you  an  Old  Gold  --
just  like  a  cop   to  smoke   Old  Golds   somehow...  and
starts  putting  down  a  cop  con  that  was  really bottled
in bond.  Not a  bad guy,  and I  didn't want  to do  it. But
it was my only chance.
  I  was  just  tying  up  for  my  morning  shot  when  they
walked in with  a pass  key. It  was a  special kind  you can
use  even  when  the  door  is  locked  from the  inside with
a  key  in  the  lock.  On  the table  in front  of me  was a
packet of junk, spike,  syringe --  I got  the habit  of using
a  regular  syringe  in  Mexico  and   never  went   back  to
using a dropper -- alcohol, cotton and a glass of water.
  "Well well," says O'Brien.... "Long time no see eh?"
  "Put  on  your  coat,  Lee,"  says Hauser.  He had  his gun
out.  He  always  has  it  out  when  he  makes  a  pinch for
the psychological effect and to forestall a rush  for toilet,
sink or window.
  "Can  I  take  a  bang first,  boys?" I  asked.... "There's
plenty here for evidence...."
  I  was  wondering  how  I  could  get  to  my  suitcase  if
they  said  no.  The  case  wasn't  locked,  but  Hauser  had
the gun in his hand.
  "He wants a shot," said Hauser.
  "Now  you  know  we  can't  do  that,  Bill,"  said O'Brien
in  his  sweet  con  voice,  dragging  out  the name  with an
oily, insinuating familiarity, brutal and obscene.
  He  meant,  of  course,  "What  can you  do for  us, Bill?"
He  looked  at  me  and  smiled. The  smile stayed  there too
long,  hideous  and  naked,  the  smile  of  an  old  painted
pervert,  gathering  all the  negative evil  of O'Brien's
ambiguous function.
  "I might could set up Marty Steel for you," I said.
  I  knew  they  wanted  Marty  bad.  He'd  been  pushing
for  five  years,  and  they  couldn't  hang one  on him.
Marty  was  an  oldtimer,  and  very  careful  about  who
he  served.  He  had  to  know  a man  and know  him well
before  he  would  pick  up  his  money.  No one  can say
they  ever did  time because  of me.  My rep  is perfect,
but  still  Marty  wouldn't  serve  me because  he didn't
know me long enough. That's how skeptical Marty was.
  "Marty?" said O'Brien. "Can you score from him?"
  "Sure I can."
  They  were suspicious.  A man  can't be  a cop  all his
life without developing a special set of intuitions.
  "O.K.," said Hauser finally. "But you'd better deliver,
Lee."
  "I'll deliver all right. Believe me I appreciate this."
  I tied up for a  shot, my  hands trembling  with eager-
ness, an archetype dope fiend.
  "Just an old junky, boys, a harmless old  shaking wreck
of  a junky."  That's the  way I  put it  down. As  I had
hoped,  Hauser  looked  away   when  I   started  probing
for a vein. It's a wildly unpretty spectacle.
  O'Brien was sitting on the  arm of  a chair  smoking an
Old  Gold,  looking  out  the  window  with  that  dreamy
what I'll do when I get my pension look.
  I hit  a vein  right away.  A column  of blood  shot up
into the syringe for an instant sharp and solid as  a red
cord. I  pressed the  plunger down  with my  thumb, feel-
ing the junk  pound through  my veins  to feed  a million
junk-hungry  cells,  to  bring  strength and  alertness to
every  nerve  and  muscle.  They   were  not   watching  me.
I filled the syringe with alcohol.
  Hauser  was  juggling  his  snub-nosed  detective special,
a  Colt,  and  looking  around  the  room.  He  could  smell
danger  like  an  animal  With  his  left  hand   he  pushed
the  closet  door  open  and  glanced  inside.   My  stomach
contracted.  I  thought, "If  he looks  in the  suitcase now
I'm done."
  Hauser  turned   to  me   abruptly.  "You   through  yet?"
he  snarled. "You'd  better not  try to  shit us  on Marty."
The  words  came  out  so  ugly  he  surprised  and  shocked
himself.
  I  picked  up the  syringe full  of alcohol,  twisting the
needle to make sure it was tight.
  "Just two seconds," I said.
  I  squirted  a  thin  jet of  alcohol, whipping  it across
his  eyes  with  a  sideways  shake of  the syringe.  He let
out a bellow of pain.  I could  see him  pawing at  his eyes
with  the left  hand like  he was  tearing off  an invisible
bandage  as I  dropped to  the floor  on one  knee, reaching
for my suitcase.  I pushed  the suitcase  open, and  my left
hand  closed  over  the  gun  butt  --  I am  righthanded but
I  shoot  with  my  left  hand.  I  felt  the  concussion of
Hauser's  shot  before  I  heard it.  His slug  slammed into
the  wall  behind  me.  Shooting from  the floor,  I snapped
two  quick  shots  into  Hauser's belly  where his  vest had
pulled  up  showing  an  inch  of  white  shirt.  He grunted
in  a  way  I  could  feel and  doubled forward.  Stiff with
panic,  O'Brien's  hand  was  tearing  at  the  gun  in  his
shoulder  holster.  I  clamped  my  other  hand   around  my
gun wrist to steady it for the long pull -- this gun  has the
hammer  Bled  off  round  so  you  can  only  use  it double
action -- and shot him in the middle  of his  red forehead
about two inches below the silver hairline. His  hair had
been grey  the last  time I  saw him.  That was  about 15
years ago. My first arrest. His eyes went out. He fell off
the chair onto his face. My  hands were  already reaching
for what I needed,  sweeping my  notebooks into  a brief-
case with my works, junk, and  a box  of shells.  I stuck
the gun into my belt, and stepped  out into  the corridor
putting on my coat.
  I could hear  the desk  clerk and  the bell  boy pound-
ing up the stairs. I took the self-service elevator down,
walked through the empty lobby into the street.
  It  was  a  beautiful  Indian  Summer  day.  I  knew  I
didn't have much chance,  but any  chance is  better than
none, better than  being a  subject for  experiments with
ST (6) or whatever the initials are.
  I had to stock up  on junk  fast. Along  with airports,
ъ.ъ.  stations and  bus terminals,  they would  cover all
junk areas and connections. I took  a taxi  to Washington
Square,  got  out  and  walked  along  4th Street  till I
spotted  Nick  on  a  corner.  You  can  always  find the
pusher. Your need conjures him up like a  ghost. "Listen,
Nick," I said, "I'm  leaving town.  I want  to pick  up a
piece of H. Can you make it right now?"
  We  were  walking  along   4th  Street.   Nick's  voice
seemed to drift  into my  consciousness from  no particu-
lar place. An eerie, disembodied voice.  "Yes, I  think I
can make it. I'll have to make a run uptown."
  "We can take a cab."
  "O.K., but I can't take you in to  the guy,  you under-
stand."
  "I understand. Let's go."
  We were in the cab heading North. Nick was talking
in his Bat, dead voice.
  "Some funny stuff we're getting lately. It's not weak
exactly.... I don't know.... It's different. Maybe
they're putting some synthetic shit in it.... Dollies
or something...."
  "What!!!? Already?"
  "Huh?... But this I'm taking you to now is O.K.
In fact it's about the best deal around that I know of.
     . Stop here."
  "Please make it fast," I said.
  "It should be a matter of ten minutes unless he's out
of stuff8 and has to make a run.... Better sit down
over there and have a cup of coffee.... This is a hot
neighborhood."
  I sat down at a counter and ordered coffee, and
pointed to a piece of Danish pastry under a plastic
cover. I washed down the stale rubbery cake with
coffee, praying that just this once, please God, let him
make it now, and not come back to say the man is all
out and has to make a run to East Orange or Green-
point.
  Well here he was back, standing behind me. I looked
at him, afraid to ask. Funny, I thought, here I sit with
perhaps one chance in a hundred to live out the next
24 hours -- I had made up my mind not to surrender and
spend the next three or four months in death's waiting
room. And here I was worrying about a junk score. But
I only had about five shots left, and without junk I
would be immobilized.... Nick nodded his head.
  "Don't give it to me here," I said. "Let's take a cab."
  We took a cab and started downtown. I held out my
hand  and  copped the  package, then  I slipped  a fifty-
dollar bill into Nick's palm. He glanced at it and showed
his gums  in a  toothless smile:  "Thanks a  lot.... This
will put me in the clear...
  I sat  back letting  my mind  work without  pushing it.
Push your  mind too  hard, and  it will  fuck up  like an
overloaded switch-board, or turn on you with sabotage.
    And  I  had  no  margin  for  error.  Americans  have
a special horror of giving up control, of  letting things
happen  in  their  own  way  without  interference.  They
would like to jump  down into  their stomachs  and digest
the food and shovel the shit out.
  Your  mind  will  answer  most  questions if  you learn
to  relax  and  wait for  the answer.  Like one  of those
thinking machines, you feed in  your question,  sit back,
and wait....
  I  was  looking  for  a  name.  My  mind   was  sorting
through  names,  discarding  at  once  F.L.--  Fuzz Lover,
B.W.--  Born  Wrong,  N.C.B.C.--  Nice  Cat   But  Chicken;
putting aside to reconsider, narrowing,  sifting, feeling
for the name, the answer.
  "Sometimes,  you  know,  he'll  keep  me  waiting three
hours. Sometimes I make  it right  away like  this." Nick
had a  deprecating little  laugh that  he used  for punc-
tuation. Sort of  an apology  for talking  at all  in the
telepathizing world of  the addict  where only  the quan-
tity  factor  --  How much  $P How  much junk?  -- requires
verbal expression.  He knew  and I  knew all  about wait-
ing. At all levels the drug trade operates without sched-
ule.  Nobody  delivers  on time  except by  accident. The
addict  runs on  junk time.  His body  is his  clock, and
junk runs through it like an  hour-glass. Time  has mean-
ing  for  him  only with  reference to  his need.  Then he
makes his abrupt intrusion into the  time of  others, and,
like all Outsiders, all Petitioners, he must  wait, unless
he happens to mesh with non-junk time.
  "What  can  I  say