Junky by William S. Burroughs

are afraid of losing their responsible jobs. It does not occur to them that there is anything wrong about giving information to the law. Of course, they will not come forward with information because of their fear of being “involved.” But they will generally spill under police questioning.
    Narcotics agents operate largely with the aid of informers. The usual routine is to grab someone with junk on him, and let him stew in jail until he is good and sick. Then comes the spiel:
    â€œWe can get you five years for possession. On the other hand, you can walk out of here right now. The decision is up to you. If you work with us, we can give you a good deal. For one thing, you’ll have plenty of junk and pocket money. That is, if you deliver. Take a few minutes to think it over.”
    The agent takes out a few caps and puts them on the table. This is like pouring a glass of ice water in front of a man dying of thirst. “Why don’t you pick them up? Now you’re being sensible. The first man we want to get is—”
    Some of them don’t need to be pressured. Junk and pocket money is all they want, and they don’t care how they get it. The new pigeon is given marked money and sent out to make a buy. When the pigeon makes a buy with this money, the agents close in right away to make the arrest. It is essential to make the arrest before the peddler has a chance to change the marked money. The agents have the marked money that bought the junk, and the junk it bought. If the case is important enough, the pigeon may be called upon to testify. Of course, once he appears in court and testifies, the pigeon is known to the trade and no one will serve him. Unless the agents want to send him to another town (some especially able pigeons go on tour), his informing career is finished.
    Sooner or later, the peddlers get wise to a pigeon and the pigeon can’t score. When this happens, his usefulness to the agents is at an end, and they usually turn him in. Often he ends up doing more time than anybody he sent up.
    In the case of young kids who would be no use as full-time pigeons, the procedure is different. The agent may come on with the old cop con: “I hate to send a young kid like you away. Sure you made a mistake. That can happen to anybody. Now listen. I’m going to give you a break, but you’ll have to cooperate with us. Otherwise I won’t be able to help you.” Or else they just belt him in the mouth and say, “Where did you get it?” With lots of people that’s all it takes. You could find an example of every type informer, overt or potential, among my customers.
    After the hotel clerk spoke to me, I moved to another hotel and registered under another name. I stopped going to the Village and shifted all the Village customers to uptown meets.
    When I told Gains what the hotel clerk said to me and how lucky we were he happened to be a right guy, he said, “We’ve got to pack in. We can’t last with this crowd.”
    â€œWell,” I said, “they’re up there now, waiting for us in front of the automat. The whole lot of them. Shall we go today?”
    â€œYes. I’m going to Lexington for the cure and I need bus fare. I’m leaving tonight.”
    As soon as we got in sight of the meet, Doolie broke from the others and ran up to us at full speed, pulling off a two-tone sports jacket. He was wearing some sort of sandals, or slippers.
    â€œGive me four caps for this coat,” he said. “I’ve been in the can twenty-four hours.”
    Doolie sick was an unnerving sight. The envelope of personality was gone, dissolved by his junk-hungry cells. Viscera and cells, galvanized into a loathsome insect-like activity, seemed on the point of breaking through the surface. His face was blurred, unrecognizable, at the same time shrunken and tumescent.
    Gains gave Doolie two caps and took the coat.
    â€œI’ll give you two more