Sick City by Tony O'Neill Page A

disappear until the next day. He had talked and flirted with nearly every girl in the place, but nobody seemed to know much about him except for the most gothic and outrageous of rumors. These were breathlessly passed around, minor acts of violence and criminality were added and elaborated upon until Pat took on an almost superhuman aspect. He was like some old god, full of implied wrath and vengeance, sitting there nursing his drink and furrowing his brow.
    Â· · ·
    â€œHe’s handsome,” Trina said, looking over to Pat as he sat at the bar and ordered a drink. He was wearing a black leather jacket over his wifebeater, Levi’s 501s turned up at the cuff, and scuffed motorcycle boots. He looked casually over to Lupita as she danced and then to the girls, giving an easy wink to Trina when he caught her eye on him. Trina smirked at him flirtatiously, then looked back to the other girls. “I mean, handsome for an old dude. How old do you think he is?”
    Nobody had an answer for that. Lil Wayne had stopped singing. “Lupita! Lupita, ladies and gentlemen . . . give her a big hand . . . ,” the DJ roared before lining up another record, “Candy” by Cameo. Besides Pat and a lone Mexican well on his way to unconsciousness, the place was empty. The Mexican’s eyes were heavy as he sat in a booth, while a one-armed stripper called Little Five-O rubbed her ass against his crotch. Trina stood.
    â€œI’m gonna see if he wants to buy me a drink.”
    As she walked away, Foxy raised a plucked eyebrow and said, “Something about that combination don’t sit well with me. That bitch ain’t got no sense. She’d better be careful. . . .”
    The others uh-huhed, and drank their drinks, and looked sadly toward the light outside, which was becoming ever more abstract and unreal to them. In this place it was somehow always three a.m.

Chapter Twelve
    Once his paperwork had been processed, Jeffrey hunkered down to undergo detoxification. As the dope worked its way out of his system, he sweated and twisted on the thin mattress and his dreams were vivid, full-color nightmares of piles of pure, white Chinese heroin, Bill’s shriveled-up old corpse dancing as if suspended on marionette strings, and rocks of crack the size and shape of boulders. Sleep came in fits and starts, but he underwent his withdrawal with the stoicism of someone who had been through this routine many times before.
    On the fourth day of detox, Jeffrey saw a ghost. Not an emissary from another plane, rattling chains and groaning. This one happened to be alive, but it was a ghost just the same.
    The nurse poked her head around the door to Jeffrey’s room and said, “It’s time for your meeting.”
    â€œMeeting?” Jeffrey groaned, twisted up inside of a sweat-soaked duvet.
    â€œWe’re having a meeting. Out in the smokers’ lounge. Come on!”
    Reluctantly Jeffrey splashed water on his face and looked at himself in the mirror. By day three, the worst of the physical symptoms had peaked. Still, if he wasn’t on a large amount of drugs right now, he would be barely standing. Even with the addition of a cocktail of chemicals intended to mask the worst of his symptoms, Jeffrey still felt like shit. His asshole was burning and raw, from enduring endless bouts of violent diarrhea. He looked to have lost at least five pounds, and his skin looked an even paler shade of corpse than usual. His head felt like it had been stuffed full of cotton wool. He tried to brush his teeth, but the taste of the toothpaste made him retch.
    He shuffled out to the smokers’ lounge in his slippers, feeling like a little old man. Out here there were three nonpatients, sitting around the table, drinking coffee and chain-smoking. There were two other shell-shocked patients in their nightgowns, looking as miserable as Jeffrey was. Jeffrey was about to take a seat when he saw him.