Read Getting Higher for Free Online

against the wall. "Three deliveries today--two in South Side, one in Hoover. Forty bucks, as usual, if you come through."
    Crank nodded curtly. "You got a list, addresses?"
    Suddenly, Fart shouted, startling both delivery boys. "No fuckin' way, man! No more lists, there's too much heat. They busted some guys in Bartlett just last night. They catch one a' you shitheads with a list, and everything's screwed."
    "Right," agreed Shack. "From now on, you get smart. We tell you once where you gotta' go, you make the drop. We ain't takin' no more chances with this shit goin' down." Shack's twiggy body ticked back and forth in his chair. He was a thin, bony man, who had little in the way of hair or muscles, and was losing what he had. He was probably in his thirties, Joe figured, and was already going bald. Almost always, he wore plaid flannel hunting shirts and bell-bottom jeans, and baseball caps which hid his thinning hair. That day, he wore a scraggly old cap with a Los Angeles Dodgers insignia peeling off the front.
    "What if we forget?" asked Joe. "1 mean, should we come back here, or take the stuff home, or what?"
    Fart laughed. "You won't forget, shitface, 'cause we know where you live."
    "I just got evicted today, so you don't, man," chuckled Joe.
    Fart leaned forward and glared. "Don't get smart, fuckface. Don't make me mad."
    "Back off, man," said Shack. "These guys'll do their job, don't worry." He stood and walked around his chair to the wall. He jammed two spidery fingers into a crack between cement blocks and started to pry a block out. As the cold stone scraped and shifted, mortar dust loosened and trickled to the floor.
    As Shack worked on the wall, Monkey picked up a crinkled slip of paper and read from it. "South Side," he mumbled, his dull voice so low Joe could barely hear it, "120 Maxwell Street. It's a side door in an alley off some bar. There'll be a black guy named Teddy. Give him the bag on top, he'll pass you an envelope." Monkey clawed a hand through his greasy black hair; his hair was so dark and slick, it looked like he'd dumped a quart of oil on it.
    Joe and Crank stood for a moment, committing the address to memory. "120 Maxwell, 120 Maxwell," whispered Joe as he tried to memorize. "120 Maxwell, 120 Maxwell, 120 Maxwell."
    Monkey looked impatient and restless. "Got it?" he drawled, tipping his knobby, clefted chin in the air. Joe nodded briskly and Crank shrugged. "All right. Next one goes behind the gate at the old wheel plant at Global. Dump your package in an old garbage barrel beside the gate. It has a big, black 'X' painted on the side, you can't miss it. There'll be an envelope in the same barrel for you to pick up."
    "Okay, yeah...the wheel plant. That one's easy." Crank brushed his hand through the air in a cocky "nothing to it" gesture, then spread the other hand wide and ticked off the deliveries on his fingers. "120 Maxwell, the wheel plant at Global. Got it."
    "Good. Last package goes to Hoover." Monkey checked the paper he was holding, then cleared his throat. "You guys know where the old YMCA is?"
    "Uh, yeah, right," said Joe. "Isn't it over by the bridge, uh, over on Rachel Street?"
    "Yeah. You cross the bridge, go down Rachel for a block, then it's on your left. It's right beside Willy's Bar. You can't miss it." At that, Monkey ripped up the slip of paper; as he talked, he plucked a matchbook from his shirt pocket, pinched a single match from inside, and lit it. One gangly arm dropped the paper scraps to the floor, then set them aflame. "Now," he continued, "where are you dudes goin' today?"
    "120 Maxwell, in a alley, some guy named Teddy. Old wheel plant at Global, by the gate, barrel with a 'X' on it. The old YMCA in Hoover." Joe stopped and thought for a second. "Wait, whatta' we do at the Y? Who's our contact?"
    "No contact, man. You leave the shit in a garbage can, like you do at Global. You'll know which can it is, 'cause there'll be a big envelope on top of the trash. Just make