Free Heroin Chronicles by Jerry Stahl Page B

mouth. He can only say, “I don’t get out much, man. Doesn’t surprise me, I’ve just never seen it, I don’t go anywhere. Keep my head down.”
    The Librarian is nodding, looking at him. Out of nowhere he drops an explosive laugh, loud in this huge space even through the surgical mask, which morphs into a dry coughing fit.
    â€œHead down, yeah,” says the man, recovering. “Well, brother, that can only be a good thing. All I’m trying to say is, watch for low-flying helicopters, and you spot one? Run. See, the way I figure it … and mind you, I try to stick with this plan myself … if you don’t appear aligned with one crew or the other, you’re less likely to get targeted. Word to the worldly wise. You dig?”
    Dos is nodding.
    â€œYeah,” the Librarian is looking around like he’s misplaced something, “yeah, just keep your head down like you’re doing, you’ll be all right, baby. For all I know? You and me are the last … educated black men on this island. I need you around, Mac, need somebody I can talk to. So, hey, if you tell me you got people trying to creep up on you, you want to be able to defend yourself in your own home , I hear you and am happy to be of service … You know what’s a motherfucking shame and a travesty is the fact that a man has to …”
    He disappears behind a pile of books, into the semidarkness. Continues talking quietly but Mac can’t make out specifics.
    This motherfucker, thinks Dos, this motherfucker is insane. I can make a break for the exit, should this go south. Throw my bag at him and move. In fact …
    Dos takes two steps toward the doorway and the Librarian is in front of him, mask down again. Smiling crookedly. Eyes black, with greenish shards, whites bloodshot. He points his chin at a gun, flat on both gloved palms. Shrugs.
    â€œThis here,” he says with a chuckle, placing one hand over the pistol, “is a CZ-99 semiauto. Fifteen-round mag. Not so different than what y’all must’ve been issued. Point and shoot. Easy like that.”
    Hands Dos the gun, butt first.
    â€œI appreciate this, I really do, man,” says Dos. The weapon has been gaffer taped, light but solid; Dos thinking, I really do hate guns. I jockeyed a desk, I sat it out , there’s a reason why I walked the path I did. Even so. Unzips his bag and places the pistol, gingerly, inside.
    â€œThis is a loan; heard me, you’ll get it back.”
    Waving this away, Librarian says, “Hell, I borrowed it myself. And I reckon the previous owner ain’t exactly gonna miss it, nah mean?” Winks at Dos, then snaps his be-gloved fingers. “Reminds me.” He digs in a jacket pocket and fishes out a laminated card. “You’re gonna want one of these, kid.”
    It’s one of those city-issued jobs, featuring only a barcode and the words, JUSTICE DEPARTMENT, PROPERTY OF THE STATE OF NEW YORK .
    Seen these before. Carried by protected scavengers/freelancers, like the Librarian here. Who says now: “Take it. For real.”
    Dos is pretty positive he’s already had his DNA replicated, somewhat standard government stuff, etc., etc. Hell. If he looked hard enough he’d find a clone of himself swanning around. So he’s not about to get all precious about his genetic code; otherwise he wouldn’t handle such an object.
    Plus, he’s anxious to bounce. So as it is, he accepts the card, sliding it into his sweat jacket pocket. “Thanks, brother. Again, I owe you large.”
    The Librarian bats this sentiment out of the air.
    Silence descends on them like a saturated blanket. Dos nods and makes to move for the stairs—
    The Librarian intercepts him, wagging his skull, still wearing that shattered smile, snatches Dos’s upper arm, hands like talons, a dead man’s hands, thinks Dos.
    â€œSnipers,” whispers the Librarian. “Snipers