Hair of the Dog by Gordon Carroll (reading strategies book TXT) 📗

he stared…he didn’t bark or growl…just stared, like he was looking for the exact right place to attack. Ziggy had seen plenty of bad men and bad animals. Very few had given him the creepies bad enough that he kept his distance, paying them their due respect, but none of them came close to the fear this dog inspired. So, instead of going to Gil’s room, he left the note on his desk where they would easily find it. He’d tried calling both of them with no luck. He doubted either had been as successful as he had in gaining info. This was his town after all, or at least it had been. He’d been away a long time, this was as true as could be, but some things never change. Things like knowing the right people and debts owed and paid. No sir, those things never changed. People were always people and greed was always greed. Playing the two correctly was the key to everything.

Ziggy broke out his kit and tied off his arm. He’d long since given up on trying to hide the puncture marks. Ziggy knew what Ziggy was and he was at peace with it. He didn’t care that others knew. Their thoughts of him were their thoughts and they meant nothing to Ziggy. He could no more live without meth than a diabetic could live without insulin. And that was just fine with Ziggy, yes sir it surely was. Besides, the needles these days were free. He’d joined a needle exchange program and, just like that, good old Uncle Sam supplied all his needs except the drug itself. And the needles had come so far from the old days. They were so thin they hardly left a mark and almost never drew blood. His veins lasted way longer and most times the pain was not even there at the initial stick. Not like the old days, with them clunky big shafts that felt like you was shoving a pipe into your arm. Back then, the cops would shove up your sleeves soon as they made contact to see if you was usin’. So folks were apt to shoot up between their toes, around their nipples… other places. Ziggy tried that hisself a few times, but it weren’t for him. Too nasty. And hey, the Good Book says the law is the great teacher. If the law says it’s okay and fine and dandy for you to get free syringes and all the works, then it must be okay with somebody way up high, so who was little old Ziggy to argue.

He melted the shards of ambrosia in the bowl of the spoon with the wonderful compact flame throwers they sold as lighters these days, careful not to let any boil away, and then filled the syringe, not losing a drop.

The slender proboscis of tooled metal slid past the skin barrier and into his vein. He pulled back and pushed in on the plunger, a few drops of his own blood mixing with the melted narcotic before being forced into the freeway of his blood supply. He released the rubber tie off and felt the instant surge. Ziggy loved all forms of music and thought, as he often did these days, of the great Jonny Cash in his last prime, singing the song Hurt and how the needle left its stain. Oh, but what a wonderful stain. Even after all this time, that first instant, when the demon’s blood mixed with his own, there was that flash…that explosion…like a bolt of liquid lightning that melted his soul. It didn’t last. Not anymore. Not like when he first started using. But it was still there for that instant, that split second, and it was enough. It had to be. That and the semi-normalcy he felt for hours after.

Ziggy put his kit away, wiping the spoon down and throwing the used syringe in the trashcan in the bathroom. Ziggy felt fine now. Yes sir, he certainly did. He only wished that the others were here to go with him. He would need more cash from Gil, but they’d probably be back in time and see his note and call him. Ziggy couldn’t chance being late and missing his meeting with Rockeeta.

Once back at the motel, I let Max out and refilled his food and water bowl. Max wouldn’t eat dog food, so I plopped in a pound of raw steak. He still didn’t like it, he preferred his meat fresh… very fresh… like still warm and maybe even breathing fresh… yuck, but I wasn’t about to let him out to hunt on his own in downtown Chicago. Although it would probably decrease the crime rate by a few indexes.

After that, I tried calling my two compatriots on their respective phones, but neither answered.

After about fifteen minutes, Jerome opened my door and stepped inside. He gave Max a look because Max was giving him a look, and for a few seconds, it was anyone’s guess as to whether or not one or the other was going to jump. I didn’t feel froggy so I stepped between them.

“You were supposed to stay inside your room and lay low,” I said.

“I followed the Senator’s men to a rundown apartment building in the projects,” he said.

Well, that was interesting.

“Did you find anything out?”

“They were hassling a pimp and a ho.”

“But they didn’t see you, right?”

He just looked at me.

“Tell me they didn’t see you.”

“I shot one of them, knocked another out and stole their car.”

“Tell me you did all of that with none of them seeing you.”

“They saw me,” he said.

Well that complicated things. I scratched behind an ear and sat down on the chair by the desk. I looked at Max. Maybe I should let Max just finish him off.

“Ok, so how do the pimp and the whor… the woman play into this?”

“Don’t know,” said Jerome. “But they went there right after you went in to see the Senator.”

“You