Someone gives word:
it's on. Wee Danky's
serving,
fuckin' shift. The
crowd shuffles from the back-court into the rear tenement entrance.
Single-file down the hallway, dough in hand. Danky's in his doorway,
gated grille. Punters greet him, order tersely.
Awright Danky.
Gies a gairden.
Three, Danky
mate. Sound.
Just the wan, ma
man. Cheers mucker.
Gies a deuce,
Danky. Aye, two.
After Teuchter Mack
buys his eighth – or 'garden-gate' in bingo-lingo drug-slang – he
introduces me. I nod respect, expecting queries. But Danky's in his
work flow, know? He barely gives a shit, just briskly asks how many.
After all, Strathclyde Police aren't lacking intel on the wee man.
Gathering 50 junkies in Ponzipark to distribute a quarter-klick isn't
exactly clandestine. Aye well fuck
it, know?
Uh right, two?
Here.
My three ton is stuffed in his North Face padded jacket uncounted. He also rocks a
plaid fleece and trapper-hat, ear-flaps down. It's mid-winter, after
all. Fuckin' Baltic, so it is.
Everyone's
dispersing, smack in paws, spring in step. Teuchter Mack cadges us a
lift, some cat he knows. The driver's girl looks spooked, strange
guys jumping in the back. Maybe I look sketch, know? Eyes dilated,
grin elated.
God it's good to be
off and sorted. Away from the notorious Ponzipark. Just off
Salamander Street, near the Cross. Very dodgy post-code. The drugs
trade, the violence it attracts, police surveillance. Hairiness and shudderation.
Pretty much
everyone's heard of here. Most of Wee Danky's punters are citywide,
even regional. After all, that's a fair heft of kit if you think
about it. Maybe around a nine-bar, a rough 250 grams. Say he paid five grand for that. Sold at £150 per 3.5g, that's £10,700 gross. So
double-bubble, in short order. On down, double again, 30 tenner-bags
per unit.
As well as the
wholesale, Danky has a boy doing £20 bags in batches locally. Two
for £35, good gear too. But if you got the paper, weight's the way
to go. Especially if it's all for greedy you. Sheer gluttony, yumski.
So back to mine.
Nice one for the lift, pal. Cheers, happy new year to you too.
Hogmany, this city goes a little mental. But we're safe behind my
triple-locks. Got the tea and tinfoil, what else do addicts need?
TV on low, gas fire on high. Let's get a burn...oh fuck aye!
Few of us there,
chill as anything. Big nods and gentle bonhomie. Me and Mack
giggle about the Italian. Little fellow approached us in Ponzi
recently.
I looking for la
heroina?
Well you're in
the right place, pal. We looking for la heroina too!
Good, yes. I
asking, asking, la heroina? In Edinburgh, they say go Glasgow. In
Glasgow, they say go Ponzipark. In Ponzipark, they say Salamander,
then Cross.
Haha, right.
Stick with us we'll sort you out.
Says it all. Truth
to tell, Mack was for bumping him. No way. Dirty Teuchter cunt. Mind
though, his connections are golden. He gets about, maniac talks to
everyone. No shy!
Nice time-pass, that
New-Year. Two or three days, just smoking. No intrusions. Whenever it
was...who cares. My little-sister said she buzzed my place going by,
for a hug and hello. Thank fuck I didn't answer. Know?
__________________________________________________
*Note: proper names have been changed slightly. In the case of locations, to avoid stigmatising law-abiding residents. Anyone familiar with the city drug-scene will identify the setting.
