Free Heroin Chronicles by Jerry Stahl Page A

his head negative.
    The Librarian extends a rubber-gloved hand. “Okay then. My second question then: what’s a downtown nigger like yourself doing up here in the nosebleed section?”
    Dos accepts the man’s paw, and is hauled to his feet.
    Mask dangling from its chinstrap, the Librarian is frowning at the spine of a blue hardbound volume. He taps it and looks up at the stack in front of him, which is a couple of feet higher than the top of his hat, leaning crazy. Says, “You’re not for real.” Says, “Thought Dos Mac, the gentleman, is all about peace …”
    Dos raises a shoulder, thinking this was most def a mistake. The Librarian could be working for anybody and everybody. He had thought the man was strictly on muscle jobs for the city, but he could very easily be doing the odd Chinese gig, in which case … but this was paranoia.
    Librarian saying, “Intelligent motherfucker like you? I don’t need to point out—huh, do I?—that the mere presence of a firearm in the home exponentially increases the chances of …” He falters, distracted by some tiny aspect of the book’s binding. He shakes his head rapidly, pops a pill of some kind. As he turns to Dos, he is shifting his mask back into place over his mouth and nose. “I’m not putting a judgment thing on you, man. No sir. Everybody gotta look out for their own …”
    Dos ducks his head, murmuring his agreement.
    â€œI mean, shit,” continues the Librarian, stripping off his gloves and producing a four-ounce bottle of hand sanitizer. “I don’t even wanna know what you need it for. Just, let’s leave it there.” Squirt. Rubs his hands vigorously, grabs a new pair of gloves.
    Feeling the compulsion to give him something, Dos is aware of himself saying, “… Folks know I got computers, com units, and whatnot down at my place, word is I better watch my back should people get ideas …” Thinking, if this man can’t smell a bullshitter …
    The Librarian, adjusting his glove, lifts a hand and sets an index finger against his masked lips.
    â€œYo. Hush, Mac, I got you. I don’t wanna know about it and that’s my word. Wanna just plant this seed, though, an alternative approach, check it. Rather than bringing some heavy gun energy into your castle. I talk to the DA, we set up a man or two down at your joint, discretion for sure … ’Scuse me, is that a no?”
    Dos has been shaking his afro. Says, “Don’t want to put you all out. Just, just the loaner, and I’m straight.”
    The Librarian scans him. Curious. His eyes glaze a touch, and snap to a point just over Dos’s left shoulder.
    Spooked, Dos throws a glance behind him. Books, space, darkness. Returns his attention to the Librarian, who is in fugue mode.
    â€œCrop sprayer.”
    Dos swallows. “Don’t follow, my man …”
    â€œWe used to do it like that in the sandbox. You know about that? Helicopter, nerve gas, just blanket spots, neighborhoods. You could do it with drones. Insurgents hiding out, yeah, you get them but this, this shit kills everything, so you get … you get everybody else too. Regardless …”
    Dos knows about this practice but doesn’t see the relevance. “What’s that got to do with—”
    â€œChinese, Russians, Saudis, all doing it to each other on the island. Knock out the competition and all that. Say to themselves, damn, it’d be nice to have that Brooklyn Bridge contract those other folks got and all, something sweet, meaty. Chrysler Building, whatever. Do a flyover, spray ’em, then before their crew can get more live bodies in there, you take the site. That’s the realness. You haven’t seen this?”
    The Librarian seems to want to have a conversation about this subject, Dos is thinking it’s fucked up to be talking to somebody when you can’t see their