Bad to the Bone (19 page)

My compound would have other advantages as well. I decided to name it PURE because of its most basic attribute. Heroin might be ten- or twenty- or even thirty-percent pure and is cut with any number of substances. Cocaine is often cut with compounds like lidocaine or novocaine to increase the skin-numbing effect. PURE would be pure.

PURE would be marketed in vials with heat-sealed plastic caps. The caps would be red, white or blue (catchy combination, eh?), depending on the size of the dose. PURE would be so pure, it could be smoked, shot or snorted. Unlike heroin, it would dissolve in water without heating. Unlike cocaine, the effects would last for hours instead of minutes.

Are we talking user-friendly, or what?

Here’s how it worked: an analogue is a compound which is identical to another compound except for one or two atoms. To one extent or another, morphine, heroin and all the synthetics, like Demerol, are analogues of opium. Which is why they’re called opiates.

My goal was to create a new analogue with all of the previously mentioned attributes. The advantage of a new analogue is that it would not appear on any drug schedule and, therefore,
not
be illegal.

Here’s how it worked: I obtained the formulas (or recipes, for you cooks out there) for the production of fentanyl and synthetic cocaine from the U.S. Patent Office. (We
are
, after all, talking capitalist here.) Then I examined their molecular structures carefully.

Oh
,
look
, I said to myself,
here’s a hydrogen atom off by itself
.
It’s ‘vulnerable’ out there and you know how I
hate
vulnerability
.

‘Vulnerable’ hydrogen atoms can be knocked off and replaced with other atoms or groups of atoms by combining certain chemicals under certain conditions. For instance, if I partition a mixture of ordinary fentanyl and methyl sulfate in a Kugelrohr apparatus at 40–60 degrees for six hours, my ‘vulnerable’ hydrogen will fly the coop. An atom of carbon with three attached hydrogen atoms (all ‘vulnerable,’ by the way) will take its place.

Other chemicals attack other points and the possibilities are nearly infinite. Hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen…atoms can be made to tap dance around a central core. The effect (to a chemist, anyway) is kaleidoscopic.

Here’s how it worked: there’s a level on which the analogy (please note the relationship: analogue/analogy) between chemistry and cooking is false, and that is the predictability of results. The housewife, adding cinnamon to an old recipe for the first time, pretty much knows how the cake will taste before it comes out of the oven. The results of chemical reactions
cannot
be predicted in advance.

For instance an analogue of cocaine may not have any narcotic effect whatsoever. Or it may have undesirable side effects. Or it may be far weaker than the original. Or it may be a deadly poison.

Imagine the drudgery implied by this particular piece of information? Yes, I could make the atoms dance a thousand dances, but each dance had to be set up, thoroughly tested and carefully recorded. The chances of finding a dance that would produce the results I envisioned were very small. Perseverance is a given for experimental chemists.

The really amazing part was that once I decided to pursue the creation of PURE, my other problems began to drop away. The IRS concluded its investigation with a bill for $5,000 in back taxes and a $2,000 fine. The district attorney’s office decided (according to my lawyer) that Hanover House was no worse than most of the other cults on the Lower East Side and definitely not involved in drug use or crime.

The angry families, of course, never go away, but the difference was amazing. Despite the drudgery of the lab (until my specially chosen poochies were trained, I had to do most of the work myself), I woke up each day with a smile on my lips.

True, my good fortune could evaporate overnight. The IRS could descend with renewed fury or the DA find some new avenue of investigation. But a man who fails to enjoy good fortune for fear of the future is a slave and I was not born to be a slave.

Besides, there was always munching the meeses.

Here’s how it worked: the only test for the potency of an opiate involves the opiate’s effect on pain. For instance, I could have taken ten or twenty milligrams of one or another analogue, injected it into a vein, then smashed my finger with a hammer. Gee, did that hurt or didn’t it? Am I stoned, or what?

Though not a coward, I rejected this method as too subjective. No, I said to myself, you’re a scientist and you’ll proceed in a scientific manner. Besides, that’s why God made meese.

Ten animals were used to test each compound: little white mice with little pink eyes. The kind pet owners feed to their snakes. All aggression had been bred out of them and they wouldn’t bite no matter how much pain I inflicted. (Here, Poochie?)

The mice were anesthetized and catheters inserted into the tail artery and the external jugular. A thermometer probe was pushed up the poop.

In this way, blood pressure, anaerobic blood gases, respiration, body temperature and the speed with which the compound left the bloodstream could be measured from moment to moment.

Then the noses and tails of the mice were inserted into clamps.

Anesthesia was discontinued and thirty minutes later a tiny, tiny amount of the new compound was administered.

Then the clamps were tightened.

The dosage was increased every five minutes for thirty minutes and the results carefully recorded.

The screams of the mice were ignored. (Except by those who like music.)

Each time the dosage was increased, the clamps were tightened. I didn’t want the mice to become jaded.

After the experiment, each mouse was taken gently into the hand and carried to a far corner of the lab where it was held over a large gray cylinder bearing a sign that read
GARBAGE.
The scientist in question placed the ball of his/her thumb on the animal’s skull and snaked his/her forefinger around the animal’s throat.

Proper technique? Squeeze and drop.

Munching the meeses.

Life’s little consolations.

Here’s how it worked: the cocaine analogue was never found. The duration of injected cocaine, fifteen minutes, could not be stretched to four hours. After a year, I switched my focus to another stimulant, methamphetamine, and managed to find a compound which, though far less potent, had none of the jangling paranoia that characterizes the end of an amphetamine high.

My neo-speed was a perfect complement to an astonishingly addicting compound I obtained by rearranging the atoms attached to an asymmetric carbon on a molecule of fentanyl.

The marriage of neo-speed and neo-dope produced PURE. There was no need to clamp the mice. (But, of course, I did, anyway. Plastered on PURE, they didn’t mind all that much.) Their little mouse euphoria was palpable from the moment of injection.

As was the euphoria of Flo Alamare, chosen to be the first human to know PURE. She was thrilled by the honor and accepted the needle like Joan of Arc accepted the pyre. But when I shot the plunger home and PURE flooded her blood for the first time, she moaned in ecstasy.

Flo was psychologically addicted within days. Severe physiological addiction took less than one month.

Here’s how it worked: due to market conditions, a single dose of PURE (enough to make a nonaddict high for about six hours) had to sell for $10. The amount of PURE needed to make a nonaddict high was 10 mg. It cost me fifteen cents to produce.

One gram of PURE would produce 100 doses. Street value: $1,000. One ounce of PURE would produce 2800 doses. Street value: $28,000. One pound of PURE would produce 44,800 doses. Street value: $448,000. One ton of PURE would produce 89,600,000 doses. Street value: $8,960,000,000.

Let’s say that I, as the wholesaler and after manufacturing costs were deducted, could only realize ten percent of the retail price. That would be…$896,000,000.

Bye-bye, Poochie.

Late at night. Insomnia is the great curse and the great blessing. It is the place of decision.

I admit that I have no desire to occupy the crime stratosphere currently inhabited by the Colombians. (Do you think mafioso sigh and count their blessings each time a newsman mentions the awful, evil cartels?) The high-profile drug life is a direct road to long-term incarceration.

From my point of view, beating the odds can be defined as living a long criminal life without attracting the attention of the ‘po-lease.’

A ton of PURE? A motherfucking
TON
?

Why not ten tons? Four hundred billion dollars worth of PURE. It would only be a drop in the country’s collective drug bucket.

But my plan calls for a maximum of the old ‘in and out.’ In fact, although I’ve kept it quiet so far, my role model is David Rockefeller, not Scarface.

As of this writing, I’ve just finished setting up a laundering operation to handle the revenues from two hundred pounds of PURE. A series of corporations, each in a different state and ostensibly engaged in professional housecleaning, will funnel revenues into a number of offshore banks. A clumsy operation, but adequate for its decidedly short-term purpose.

Two hundred pounds of PURE equals ninety million dollars on the street. My end: no less than nine million. Plus the auction, of course.

The auction is a matter of conscience. How could I deprive America of the fruits of my labor? No, I say, PURE, the finest expression of the American entrepreneurial spirit (the spirit that made this country great and don’t
you
forget it), should not and shall not pass from the Earth.

Once I’ve established PURE as the product of the future, I intend to auction the recipe. I predict that the highest bidder will be every bit as sweet as I am. In fact, we will differ in only one respect: the purchaser will have no fear of incarceration.

J
IM TILLEY WAS FIGHTING
exhaustion when he walked into the Roberto Clemente Gym on Houston Street. He was coming off a fifteen-hour drug surveillance and wanted nothing more than to pass Moodrow a small piece of information and get home to Rose and his bed. Nevertheless, the sight of Stanley Moodrow working on the ‘problem’ of a tall, bony middleweight named Harold ‘Boomer’ Blevins lifted Tilley’s spirits immediately. Moodrow had been coaching young fighters for years, but it’d been a long time since Tilley had seen him in the ring. Not that Tilley was really surprised. Moodrow had called him with the details of his Hanover House adventure (including ‘Operation Coldcock’) the night before.

Tilley also knew ‘Boomer’ Blevins and was thoroughly familiar with his problem. A talented prospect at sixteen, Harold Blevins was quick and smart but had the unfortunate habit of dropping his left hand after throwing a punch. He’d been doing it since he’d started boxing and his success in YMCA tournaments had only reinforced the habit. Now he was entered in the Golden Gloves and the competition would have no trouble either finding or taking advantage of such a fundamental error.

Moodrow kept his massive arms down over his ribs and chest as they moved across the ring. His hands were uncovered, though he held a loose glove in his right hand. Blevins wasn’t throwing punches to the head, which made it that much easier for Moodrow to block most of the body shots with his arms. But ‘most’ isn’t ‘all,’ and Blevins, at 158 pounds, was very quick. He was also pissed off, even though he understood that it was ‘for his own good.’ Moodrow was slapping the side of ‘Boomer’ Blevins’ face with the loose glove each time Blevins dropped his left hand.

It was the ‘by the book’ way to deal with a bad habit—punish it in the gym, before an opponent punishes it in competition—but that didn’t prevent the side of ‘Boomer’ Blevins’ face from turning bright red. Blevins had been nourishing his untested amateur ego for a long time and Moodrow was supposed to be an old man. In some ways, the humiliation was as important to his budding career as the education of his lazy left.

“Hey, Stanley,” Tilley finally called.

Moodrow looked over and nodded. “Jim. What’s up?”

‘Boomer’ Blevins, noting his trainer’s distraction, took the opportunity to load up on a straight right hand. The sound it made echoed through the little gym, but Moodrow didn’t seem to notice. “Awright, Harold,” he said. “Let’s call it a lesson for today. Get some ice on your face before it swells up.”

Tilley shook his head. He recalled being up in the Bronx with Moodrow when they’d gotten a flat tire. Moodrow had insisted on changing it instead of calling for a tow from the police garage. He’d managed to get the spare and the jack out of the trunk, but had somehow pulled the wrong way on the lug wrench. First the wrench had bent in half, then the lug had sheared off the axle.

“I think I’ve maybe got something that ties in with Alamare,” Tilley said. “It’s worth a look.”

“Yeah?” Moodrow stopped running the towel over his face and chest. “Tell me the widow was found in the river. Make my day.”

“No such luck. Just a couple of ODs that turned out to be poisonings.”

Moodrow’s ears went up and he smiled. “Poisonings?”

“Ten days ago, the uniforms get a call about an apartment with a bad smell. They break down the door and find two stiffs, one male and one female. They
both
have spikes in their arms. The suits come an hour later and make the stiffs for ODs. They take evidence, seal the apartment and send the stiffs over to the medical examiner for autopsies. The ME also suspects an overdose, but then he cuts open the male’s brain and finds part of it turned to charcoal. Then he cuts the female’s brain and finds an identical condition. Naturally, the ME tests for every kind of poison, but he can’t make a match. Result: suspicious death resulting from unknown compound.”

“When was this?”

“Ten days ago. But, wait, it gets even better. Three days ago, two uniforms check out another DOA. One of the uniforms was present at the first apartment and remembers finding these unusual little vials of white powder on the male DOA. Now, here they are again. Being an ambitious sort, the uniform tells the detectives and they get a rush autopsy on the third stiff. Same poison killed all three.”