Detective

coke or cut. The only difference was, one got you high, and one didn’t. I had to be sure, so I figured the only way to be sure was to sample some.
    This presented a bit of a problem. Even if I’d had a razor blade, which I didn’t, the coke was so hard and compressed that chopping a line fine enough to snort was going to be quite an undertaking. I sealed up the package, locked it in my briefcase, and stashed the briefcase under the bed.
    I went out and hunted up a head shop. I was a little nervous about it. I couldn’t help wondering if narcs kept watch on head shops and tailed people who bought drug paraphernalia, but logic told me no. They’d have to follow everyone.
    I went in and told the guy at the counter I wanted something to grind up a crystalline substance. He gave me a look not unlike the one given me by the guy at the safe deposit counter in the bank, then showed me a three-piece plastic grinder that was just the ticket. When I told him it would do, he asked me knowingly if I’d be interested in a straw. I allowed as to how I would, and he showed me one. It was gold-plated on a gold neck-chain and went for $85. I asked if he had something simpler. The cheapest straw he had was of a baser metal—price $9.95.
    I decided to pass on the straw. I stopped at a newsstand down the street and bought a can of cold soda for 65 cents. The proprietor put it in a paper bag with a straw. Outside, I threw the paper bag and the can of soda in the garbage, and put the straw in my jacket pocket.
    I walked back to the hotel, went up to my room, and made sure the door was securely locked. I took the briefcase out from under the bed, put it on the table, opened it, and took out the plastic bag. I unwrapped the grinder, took it out, and unscrewed and took off the grinder top. I removed a couple of smaller chunks from the bag. They were so hard I was afraid they would break the screen. I took out my pocket knife, and crunched them up against the top of the table, and then scraped the results onto the screen of the grinder, screwed on the top, flipped out the lever, and began to twist. The sound was somewhat grating as with each bumpy revolution the plastic blades on the grinder pressed the tiny rocks into the screen. The grating gradually lessened, and the grinding got smoother. I stopped, unscrewed the bottom of the grinder. It was covered with a fine, white powder about a quarter of an inch deep. I dumped some of it out on the smooth surface of the table, took a matchbook cover, compliments of the hotel, and fashioned a decent-sized line.
    I took the straw out of my pocket, unwrapped it and, with my pocket knife, cut it in half. I murmured, “Cheers,” stuck the straw in my right nostril, leaned over the table, and snorted the line.
    I must admit that my experience with coke had been rather limited. In fact, it consisted of the time a guy at one of the poker games had persuaded me to try a line. It was not a particularly memorable experience. Aside from a general sense of well-being which lasted about a half an hour, I don’t remember feeling anything much at all. I just remember thinking that, as far as cocaine was concerned, I really couldn’t see what all the shouting was about.
    In light of that experience, I was in no way prepared for what happened next. My head shot back, my eyes teared, and my breath shot out in a whoosh. Jesus Christ! That’s not coke. What the hell is it?
    Then I realized. The coke I’d snorted at the card game had passed through many hands, and been cut and recut many times, so it was doubtful if it was even a tenth as pure as the line I’d snorted now. This stuff was, as Coca Cola puts it, “The Real Thing.”
    I’d just had time to work this out when the coke hit me. Christ, did it hit me! My whole outlook changed. I could rule the world. Suddenly, I wasn’t douche-bag, ineffectual detective; I was super-cool, super-successful, super-stud detective. Hell, I’d come to Miami, hadn’t I? Walked into the bank and walked out clean with ten C-notes and a key of pure snow. All deduced and tracked down from the vague ramblings of a paranoid client who couldn’t or wouldn’t get to the point. God, I was doing great. Hey, I thought, give me a shot at Tony Arroyo’s proposal now. Give me another chance to play that scene and I’ll show you some cool moves. Christ, I’d have the dope ring rounded up and Albrect’s murderer in jail by this time tomorrow.

11.
    L IKE A NYONE C AUGHT IN