Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [45]
“Gonzo’d be too polite to say.”
“I can imagine. Anyway, Conway’s scum. Cheap with it, too. He jumped when the shit hit the fan and didn’t bounce until he hit Torremolinos. And there he stayed, until one fine day he upped sticks and disappeared. Six months ago we tracked him down here. We can’t make anything stick, because all along Robbie keeps schtum. Same old story, it even has a happy ending, Conway’s back in business. This time we think the gear’s coming in through Belfast. Stop me when I tell you something you don’t know already.”
“Go on. I like the sound of your voice.”
“Jesus, Rigby. You’re a – What do you call it? A research consultant?” He laughed, harsh. “I’d get a new job, Rigby. One where you don’t need to put one and one together.”
I let that one float.
“Okay, here’s what we reckon is going on. Eddie – Gonzo, Robbie, whatever the fuck he calls himself – does eighteen months. It should be two years, but who the fuck does a full stretch these days and he was a good boy. He gets back here last week, scouting Conway. Once he’s sussed what’s going on, he tells Conway he’s looking for sick pay. Conway makes with the fatted calf, tells Eddie he’ll look after him. Gives him a little something, just to show willing. Maybe it’s a lot of something, and Eddie’s back on commission. Except maybe there’s something more in the little something. Something that shouldn’t be there.”
“No chance. Gonzo knows his drugs.”
“Gonzo knows fuck all, panned out on a gurney with his face inside out. It makes me want to cry, but it’ll keep, until we’ve nailed Conway.”
“Why don’t you nail him now?”
Brady sniffed, thumbed his nose. Offered me another cigarette. I turned it down, started rolling a twist. The shakes had subsided. I was already sober, the hangover kicking in. Brady said: “Four-MTA.”
“Say again?”
“Four-MTA. Four-methylthioamphetamine, if you prefer. It’s what the Dutch boys started on, when the authorities put the boot into PMA.”
“PMA?”
Brady looked like he was enjoying himself.
“PMA is a primer for MDMA. Ecstasy, like. When the punters started dropping like flies a couple of years back, the vice boys in Holland tried to stamp PMA out. The lads making E just switched to Four-MTA, came up with Flatliners. It’s supposed to be a super-E but it’s more of a super-Prozac. Gets your serotonin off the charts but doesn’t reabsorb it back into the brain. Worse, Flats take about two hours to kick in. Some punter thinks he has strong E that isn’t going off, he drops another. Half an hour later another one goes down the neck. By the time the first one starts coming off, there’s four or five down the hatch and ready to dance.”
I said, dull: “Gonzo had five tabs tonight.”
“That’d be right. And once you peak on Flats it levels out. There’s no up and down, like E. Once you’re up there you think you’re coming down again. So you pop another one. And so on. The heart develops arrhythmia trying to keep up and the other organs start to overcompensate. Everything heats up. Meanwhile, the brain is drowning in serotonin. You’re dying but you’ve never felt better in your life.”
“Sounds like a good way to go.”
“If you want to go. Anyway, we think Conway has diversified into Flats but we can’t nail him until we catch him red-handed. No one says fuck all about a new drug. Dope, E, smack, coke – every fucker’s talking about those. But a new buzz, people keep it under the duvet.” He tapped the plastic wrap. “Eddie was lucky,” he said. “Don’t let Conway get lucky too.