Free Heroin Chronicles by Jerry Stahl

remains almost eerily intact.
    Mac makes his way around the corner of 42nd Street and pauses within sight of the famous twin marble lions. He is exhausted. At this point he’s so far north, there’s no way he’ll make it back downtown without running out of oxygen. He’s not positive if this will make any difference, but it’s a huge risk.
    Nobody around. Pauses to listen … Beyond the general hubbub of the fires and the clanging due east, which Dos assumes to be construction at Grand Central, the streets are barren.
    Up the exterior stairs, his oxygen tank lighter and lighter, bouncing along behind him … he tries the main doors, finds them open. Dos steps inside and takes a moment, his weak peepers calibrating to the gloom.
    The Librarian, he didn’t want to think about how he knew this cat. Sure, he wasn’t a bad guy, but damn. Goes without saying, this is not a dude you want to sneak up on unannounced.
    On the other hand, Dos would hate to wake the man up. That could be an even darker scenario.
    The lesser of two. Mac clears his throat.
    â€œLibrarian!” he calls, voice cracked and arid. Bounces off the vaulted ceiling. “Librarian! Dos Mac here! I’m unarmed, brother, I come in peace!” Trying to keep his tone light. You never know how the Librarian will come at you.
    Dos gets no response.
    There’s two conflicting knots in his intestines; one is related to fear, and one is all junk-lust. It’s the latter that pushes him upward.
    Nothing ventured , drones the Jones, and Dos shuts it down. Jesus, what bullshit.
    Calls: “Coming upstairs!”
    Tough to see much on the stairwell, so Dos takes it slow and easy. Hefts the near-empty tank so as to make less noise. His flip flops feeling insubstantial and wrong against the cold stone.
    One flight, and Dos takes a moment. Out of shape, breathing ragged. What the fuck does he think he’s doing? I mean, honestly? Despite his military credentials, he is an engineer, a technician, a brain. The brother at the party who faded into the background, the dude who spoke too quiet or too loud, his movements subtly wrong, nervous, the kid who could never bust anything smooth. The guy you didn’t notice till he, inevitably, knocked something over. Dos always liked to say he was a lover, not a fighter, but he wasn’t much of either really.
    Abort, reckons the Mac. Fuck this. Takes a step backward, reversing himself down the stairs. Cut your losses, son. Feels vastly relieved, having made this decision.
    Crack.
    A flip-flopped foot has found some kind of shell, crushing it under his weight. Not like the Librarian, thinks Dos idly, to leave garbage lying around … the Librarian, who to put it mildly is a bit of a neat freak …
    Wham, and Dos’s head hits a stair, as his legs are cut out from under him. The cart and tank go tumbling, and he finds himself facedown in a frighteningly professional choke-hold.
    Smells: latex, baby powder … alco-gel. No doubt.
    â€œHey, Librarian,” he manages, panic percolating, hold it together now … “It’s Dos, brother, it’s Dos Mac here …”
    Overhead lights come on with a deep clunk, and Dos is released. He sucks open air, his mouthpiece knocked aside, and is grateful for it. Pushes himself up to a sitting position.
    The Librarian hangs over Dos, blocking the light like a shadow puppet. Sharp angles, that signature hat.
    â€œWell I’ll be goddamned.”
    It’s a rusty sound, that voice, dried syrup, tinted with cigarettes and filtered by the surgical face mask the Librarian wears.
    â€œMister. Dos. Mac,” he says, separating the words.
    â€œThat’s me, son,” answers Dos, hoping he sounds calmer than he feels.
    Librarian saying, “Gotta ask you first. Have you been in contact with any livestock, any individual who might possibly be carrying a communicable disease, shit along those lines?”
    Dos shakes