Read F Paul Wilson - Novel 04 for Free Online
Authors: Deep as the Marrow (v2.1)
Summit in The Hague next week to advocate a cease fire in the war on drugs. John was already
familiar with most of the arguments, but he’d hoped some rhetorical magic
would make him a believer.
He shrugged. “Intellectually
I can see it. But emotionally…” He shook his head as he tapped his
chest. “Something in here won’t go along with the idea of an America where I can drop by the local drugstore for some toothpaste, some dental floss,
and a fix of heroin.”
Tom smiled tightly. “Et to,
Brute?”
“What can I say? You’ve
got a fight on your hands. The fight of your life.” And you’re going
to go down in flames, old buddy.
“I need your support,
Johnny.”
“No, you don’t.
I’m just one guy. You need the support of those four-fifty odd guys on
the Hill.”
“No, Johnny,” he said
softly. He put his hand over his heart. “I need your support here. I need
to know the one guy I could always count on is still watching my back. Somehow
it’ll be easier to win knowing you’re with me.” He jutted his
jaw defiantly at the protesters. “But with you or without you, I am going
to win.”
John knew that look. He remembered
the time when they were seventeen and had been tipping a few brews behind
Ebersol’s gas station outside Freemantle. A couple of the guys started
making fun of the beat-up old Kharman Ghia Tom drove, wondering if it could top
fifty.
Tom couldn’t defend the
car’s speed, so he said something like, “Yeah, but I can drive all
the way home without ever using the brake.” Well, nobody believed that,
so they challenged him to prove it. A crazy idea, an insane
dare—he’d have to drive through the center of Freemantle to reach
his house on the far side of town. Four traffic lights stood between him and
home, and they were not sequenced. Freemantle’s lights changed whenever
they damn well pleased.
John never expected Tom to take
them up on it, but he drained his beer and said, “Sure. Follow me and
watch. You see my brake lights once, you guys can have the car.” Truth
was, nobody wanted that pint-size rust bucket, but after checking to make sure
the brake lights worked, everybody piled into their cars to follow. Everyone
except John. He got in beside Tom. No discussion. It was understood, expected.
Off they went. John still got shaky
when he remembered that ride. The first light was green, and that had been
fine. But the next three turned red as Tom approached. He never slowed. Playing
the manual gear shift like a Stradivarius, he passed stopped cars ahead of him
on the left or swung onto the shoulder and shot by. But never once did he hit
the brake pedal. Ran three red lights, and each time he flashed through an intersection
his face wore the same expression it did now, with that same jutting jaw.
And he seemed to be demanding that
same kind of loyalty now. But John couldn’t quite bring himself to slip
into the passenger seat on this trip.
“Why, Tom?” John said.
“It’s not only bad policy, it’s bad politics. Even your own party—”
“Will eventually come
around.” He ground a fist into his palm. “The ones that really irk
me are the budget cutters. They wail about federal spending? Well, I’m
giving them something real to cut: sixty billion a year. Every year. For what?
Drugs are more available on the street now than they’ve ever been. Sixty
billion, Johnny. The truth is, I want that money. I’ve got better places
to spend it.”
“But the social
cost…”
“How can the social cost be
higher than what we’re paying now? You mentioned buying heroin at the
corner drugstore. You can do that now, John—on the corner outside the
drugstore. Legalization is not going to change availability—drugs are
everywhere now! And you talk about social cost? What about every sociopath in
the world fighting for a piece of the profits?”
“My point exactly,”
John said. “Why become the enemy?”
“Aw, Johnny,” he said.
“Don’t look at it that way.
familiar with most of the arguments, but he’d hoped some rhetorical magic
would make him a believer.
He shrugged. “Intellectually
I can see it. But emotionally…” He shook his head as he tapped his
chest. “Something in here won’t go along with the idea of an America where I can drop by the local drugstore for some toothpaste, some dental floss,
and a fix of heroin.”
Tom smiled tightly. “Et to,
Brute?”
“What can I say? You’ve
got a fight on your hands. The fight of your life.” And you’re going
to go down in flames, old buddy.
“I need your support,
Johnny.”
“No, you don’t.
I’m just one guy. You need the support of those four-fifty odd guys on
the Hill.”
“No, Johnny,” he said
softly. He put his hand over his heart. “I need your support here. I need
to know the one guy I could always count on is still watching my back. Somehow
it’ll be easier to win knowing you’re with me.” He jutted his
jaw defiantly at the protesters. “But with you or without you, I am going
to win.”
John knew that look. He remembered
the time when they were seventeen and had been tipping a few brews behind
Ebersol’s gas station outside Freemantle. A couple of the guys started
making fun of the beat-up old Kharman Ghia Tom drove, wondering if it could top
fifty.
Tom couldn’t defend the
car’s speed, so he said something like, “Yeah, but I can drive all
the way home without ever using the brake.” Well, nobody believed that,
so they challenged him to prove it. A crazy idea, an insane
dare—he’d have to drive through the center of Freemantle to reach
his house on the far side of town. Four traffic lights stood between him and
home, and they were not sequenced. Freemantle’s lights changed whenever
they damn well pleased.
John never expected Tom to take
them up on it, but he drained his beer and said, “Sure. Follow me and
watch. You see my brake lights once, you guys can have the car.” Truth
was, nobody wanted that pint-size rust bucket, but after checking to make sure
the brake lights worked, everybody piled into their cars to follow. Everyone
except John. He got in beside Tom. No discussion. It was understood, expected.
Off they went. John still got shaky
when he remembered that ride. The first light was green, and that had been
fine. But the next three turned red as Tom approached. He never slowed. Playing
the manual gear shift like a Stradivarius, he passed stopped cars ahead of him
on the left or swung onto the shoulder and shot by. But never once did he hit
the brake pedal. Ran three red lights, and each time he flashed through an intersection
his face wore the same expression it did now, with that same jutting jaw.
And he seemed to be demanding that
same kind of loyalty now. But John couldn’t quite bring himself to slip
into the passenger seat on this trip.
“Why, Tom?” John said.
“It’s not only bad policy, it’s bad politics. Even your own party—”
“Will eventually come
around.” He ground a fist into his palm. “The ones that really irk
me are the budget cutters. They wail about federal spending? Well, I’m
giving them something real to cut: sixty billion a year. Every year. For what?
Drugs are more available on the street now than they’ve ever been. Sixty
billion, Johnny. The truth is, I want that money. I’ve got better places
to spend it.”
“But the social
cost…”
“How can the social cost be
higher than what we’re paying now? You mentioned buying heroin at the
corner drugstore. You can do that now, John—on the corner outside the
drugstore. Legalization is not going to change availability—drugs are
everywhere now! And you talk about social cost? What about every sociopath in
the world fighting for a piece of the profits?”
“My point exactly,”
John said. “Why become the enemy?”
“Aw, Johnny,” he said.
“Don’t look at it that way.