Sunlight glitters on Big-Man's thick gold bracelet as he twists the throttle. The Honda surges to a sprint, crazy easy. Two wheels, two kliks a minute, too hot for helmets. The jungle is a thrilling green blur; I grasp Big-Man's solid shoulder and gaze at the horizon haze. The machine gobbles road so all being well, I'll make it back by sundown, cream for every cat.
First slurp for Top-Cat, tasty bowlful: Big-Man's gear is always boom. He doesn't use himself, a dues-paid pro. He does have vices; slowing down so he can live to place another silly bet. But he's all you could want in a dealer, a total man. So framed; more real than his shiny bike, his 22-ct gold, the paper pumped in pockets, the birds and beasts inked blue on tawny skin. The only thing more substantial is his product: heroin rules, eternal.
No homo - I don't fancy him or anything. But his knowing laugh is a drug in itself, or maybe foreplay to a dose. Usually when I call, he growls in deep affirmative, lighting-up my brain like Xmas. Seldom he announces empty, a soul-sinking sound. I know the whole clan, they're all sweet. His wife is soft for me and his nieces act mad flirty. I guess these chicks admire me, but I dig respect from dudes: gangster love. I'd probably enjoy prison, haha.
Might find out soon, I reflect as we merge with city traffic. Bus station's a place where police may pounce. Paranoia shielded by Ray-Bans, I hop off the motorcycle.
"Cool, Big-Man. Same time, same channel?"
"Ha. Just call! You know me."
Eyes twinkling, he cocks a mitt for the trade-mark hand-shake. Slap! It's like a racquet serve.
I wander un-suspiciously to the bus stands. Some guy chilling by the taxis wants words.
"That man who dropped you here? He's a really great guy, a very good person."
I want to praise that pukka poison, but I doubt this dweeb knows those angles. So I just agree.
"We love him...right?"
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| Eugene Richards pic |
