24/02/2021

action-and shot him in the middle of his red forehead about two inches below the silver hairline. His air had been grey the last time. I saw him. That was about 15 years ago. My first arrest. His eyes went out. He fell off the chair onto his face. My hands were already reaching for what I needed, sweeping my notebooks into a briefcase with my works, junk, and a box of shells. I stuck the gun into my belt, and stepped out into the corridor putting on my coat.
I could hear the desk clerk and the bell boy pounding up the stairs. I took the self-service elevator down, walked through the empty lobby into the street.
It was a beautiful Indian Summer day. I knew I didn’t have much chance, but any chance is better than none, better than being a subject for experiments with ST(6) or whatever the initials are.
I had to stock up on junk fast. Along with airports, R.R. stations and bus terminals, they would cover all junk areas and connections. I took a taxi to Washington Square, got out and walked along the 4th street till I spotted Nick on a corner. You can always find the pusher. You need conjures him up like a ghost. “Listen, Nick,” I said, “I’m leaving town. I want to pick up a piece of H. Can you make it right now?”
We were walking along the 4th street. Nick’s voice seemed to drfit into my consciousness from no particular place. An eerie, disembodied voice. “Yes, I think I can make it. I’ll have to make a run uptown.”
“We can take a cab.”
“O.K. but I can’t take you in to the guy, you understand.”
“I understand, Let’s go.”