Free Needle by Craig Goodman Page A

second .
    “Where’d you get’em?”
    “I fucking told you already, dickface!” he openly bellowed at me. “On my ass!!! Where the fuck else would I get them?!?!”
    “Yeah, I know. But where exactly did you—”
    “OK, YOU FUCK!!!” he roared. “RIGHT UNDER MY ASSHOLE AND ABOUT TWO INCHES ABOVE MY BALLS!!! ARE YOU HAPPY?!?!”
    “I am,” I said—though once again he was answering the wrong question. “But I wanted to know where you contracted the warts, not where they erupted on your ass. And incidentally, I believe the area to which you are now referring is known as the taint.”
    “Great, can we go now?!”
    “So then you actually had taint warts removed—not anal,” I confirmed.
    “Yeah, fine, taint warts. Can we go?” he begged once more.
    “Did they put you in stirrups like a lady?”
    “No,” he said a little on the patronizing side but I think he was lying. “Can we please get some dope?”
    “Yeah, but where’d you catch’em?” I pressed. “Who was the dirty little slut that gave’em to you?”
    “Cynthia,” he said sheepishly, clearly embarrassed by the implication.
    “CYNTHIA?!?” I bellowed.
    “Yeah.” Matt quietly admitted.
    I couldn’t believe it was true. I had to make sure we were talking about the same girl:
    “YOU MEAN TO TELL ME THAT CYNTHIA, PURE AS THE DRIVEN SNOW—CYNTHIA, YOUR GIRLFRIEND—CYNTHIA, GAVE YOU TAINT WARTS???”
    “ Yes ” he said again, now obviously getting irritated.
    “The bitch cheated on you?”
    “No. She caught them from that guy at Bethany.”
    For a moment I had to digest the news because up until now, Matt had always insisted that “that guy at Bethany,” also known as Josh McGregor, was merely a figment of Cynthia’s imagination. Apparently though, Josh was a real person—with very real warts.
    “You’re telling me that the ex-boyfriend you previously denied the existence of not only took Cynthia’s virginity, but also gave her anal warts which she has now transmitted to your taint. Is that correct, Matthew?”
    Matt said nothing but his silence was confirmation enough. I was rendered speechless by the poetry of the moment.
    I dropped the subject and followed Matt to his car, which The Good Detective had just purchased for him the previous day. It was a Ford Taurus, only three years old and in great shape. For a totally psychotic and physically abusive asshole, Ernie Anson wasn’t a bad guy. He secured his son the cushiest of teaching jobs, provided him with free room and board, and now purchased him a car to go to work in and buy drugs with.
    We hopped in the car and headed to Hell’s Kitchen, aptly named and located in midtown on Manhattan’s west side. At the time, to our knowledge, it was the only dope spot in the city. Of course, we would soon find other locations because as far as heroin was concerned—Hell’s Kitchen was for suckers. There, a bag of dope sold for $15 as opposed to ten, which was the going rate.
    Matt parked the car on 53 rd Street facing Tenth Avenue. Asalways, the same slippery-looking Colombian with bad skin manned the appointed building stoop awaiting visits from a burgeoning list of clientele.
    “Do you wanna come with me so you can meet him for yourself and stop busting my balls?” I asked though knew better.
    “No,” he said. “That’s all right.”
    Of course it was all right, as long as someone else was willing to risk a trip to jail.
    I grabbed $30, left the car, and made my way to the spot. As I walked toward the middle of the block I met the gaze of an incredibly beautiful girl. When we made eye contact she tried to maintain it—and she was so attractive that quite frankly, I found the moment unsettling and even a bit suspicious.
    Why the fuck is she looking at me?
    This was the type of girl who, typically, wouldn’t stop to give me the time of day—let alone a come-hither look. But there she was like an angel in white with green eyes, blonde hair and alabaster skin—offering the