Free Junky by William S. Burroughs Page B

back in the opposite direction. When I reached Sixth Avenue, he was about fifty feet behind me. I vaulted the subway turnstile and shoved the cigarette package into the space at the side of a gum machine. I ran down one level and got a train up to the Square.
    Bill Gains was sitting at a table in the cafeteria. He was wearing one stolen overcoat, and another lay on his lap. He looked sly and satisfied. Old Bart was there and an unemployed cab driver named Kelly, who hung around 42nd Street and sometimes picked up a few dollars peddling condoms and with a routine of hitting commuters for fifty cents, which is one variety of the “short con.” I told them about the agent, and Old Bart went down to pick up the stuff.
    Gains looked annoyed and said pettishly, “For God’s sake, watch whose money you pick up.”
    â€œIf I hadn’t picked up Ray’s money, I’d be on my way to the Federal building.”
    â€œWell, be careful.”
    We waited around for Bart, and Kelly began telling a long story about how he told off a guard in the Tombs.
    Bart was back soon with the stuff. He reported that a guy in a white trenchcoat was still walking around on the station platform. I gave Bart two caps under the table.
    Gains and I walked over to his room to take a shot. “Really,” he said, “I’m going to have to tell Bart I can’t carry him any longer.” Gains lived in a cheap rooming house in the West Forties. He opened the door to his room. “You wait here,” he said. “I’m going to get my works.” Like most junkies, he kept his “works” and caps stashed somewhere outside his room. He came back with the works and we both took a shot.
    Gains was aware of his talent for invisibility, and at times he felt the need for holding himself together so he would at least have enough flesh to put a needle in. At these times he would assemble all his claims to reality. Now he began rummaging around in the bureau and brought out a worn manila envelope. He showed me a discharge from Annapolis “for the good of the service,” an old, dirty letter from “my friend, the captain,” a card to the Masons and a card to the Knights of Columbus.
    â€œEvery little bit helps,” he said, indicating these credentials. He sat for a few minutes, silent and reflective. Then he smiled. “Just a victim of circumstances,” he said. He stood up and carefully put away his envelope. “I’ve about burned down all the pawnshops in New York. You don’t mind pawning these coats for me, do you?”
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    After that, things got worse and worse. One day, the hotel clerk stopped me in the lobby. “I don’t know how to say this,” he said, “but there’s something wrong about the people who come up to your room. I used to be in illegitimate business myself years ago. I just wanted to warn you to be careful. You know, all calls come through the office. I heard one this morning and it was pretty obvious. If someone else had been at the switchboard . . . So be careful and tell these people to watch what they say over the phone.”
    The call he referred to was Doolie’s. That morning he had called me up. “I want to see you,” he yelled. “I’m sick. I’ll be over right away.”
    I could feel the Federals moving steadily closer. It was a question of time. I did not trust any of the Village customers, and I was convinced that at least one of them was a rank stool pigeon. Doolie was my number one suspect, with Nick running a very close second, and Chris trailing in third place. Of course, there was always the possibility that Marvin might take the easy way of raising money to buy a pair of socks.
    Nick also scored for some respectable working people in the Village who indulged in an occasional “joy bang.” This type person is a bad security risk because of timidity. They are afraid of the police, they