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addicts and dealers wound up brain-dead or bankrupt, died in jail or the gutter. Everyone who snorted a line managed to believe they were the exception.
    As if by instinct, he lifted one of the bags, tapped half its contents into the toilet, watched the granules swirl and vanish. He hid what was left in a pair of socks at the bottom of his suitcase.

Staten Island, April 1984
    9
    Y ou look like you got your ass kicked,” Dunham said. “Funny thing is, so do I.”
    He was standing outside, wearing the same suede jacket, smoking a joint under the bright light of a streetlamp, flanked by sullen-looking bouncers.
    “I’m most of the way healed,” Raney said.
    “Yeah, me too. You find the place all right?”
    Raney nodded.
    “They got me buried out here. But fuck ’em, I made lemonade. This bar was a beer-and-shots dive when I showed up. Two hundred grand later and you’d think you were in the Village. People dress up to eat here now. Even the citizens of Staten Island deserve a nice place.”
    The interior wasn’t what Raney expected. He’d imagined a dropped ceiling, dartboards, duct-taped bar stools, a scattering of middle-aged drunks. What he found was more supper club than saloon: polished wood floors, tacky but expensive chandeliers, cloth table runners, candles floating in ceramic bowls, a jazz trio playing on a platform stage. He stood with Dunham at the back of the room, Dunham tapping his foot, scatting under his breath.
    “I pay them in blow,” he said. “It’s the only way to get them out here.”
    “They sound legit,” Raney said.
    “In another life, I’d have been a sax player,” Dunham said. “I’ve got every record Coltrane made. Hard to picture, right? Boxing and music are the only two things I give a shit about. So how did I end up the prodigal errand boy, banished to a trash heap?”
    “Seems like you’re doing all right.”
    “There are worse ways to fail. I could be making change in a tollbooth. They say those people earn good money, but I’d lose my shit with the fumes and the honking.”
    There was a shift in the music; Dunham let loose a hard round of applause. People at the tables turned to look.
    “The schmucks out here don’t know to clap after a solo,” Dunham said. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”
    He led Raney into a small but state-of-the-art kitchen, introduced him to a short, round man in an apron and a puffy chef’s hat. Raney wondered if Dunham made him wear the hat.
    “This guy is topflight gourmet. He’s a chef, you know? Not a cook, a chef. His name’s Benny, but I call him Pierre. Guys named Benny twirl pizza dough in the air. Pierre, give our friend Deadly something to taste. A spoonful of your chowder, maybe.”
    Benny found a spare ladle, dipped it into a vat, handed it to Raney.
    “Salt pork and bay leaves,” he said. “That’s the key.”
    “I buy him everything he asks for,” Dunham said. “Only the highest-quality ingredients.”
    “Mostly everything,” Benny said.
    “Pierre, don’t start with me.”
    “This is fucking delicious,” Raney said.
    “See, I told you,” Dunham said.
    Benny made a small bow.
    “All right,” Dunham said. “We’ve got one more stop on our tour. Thank you, Pierre. You’re a prince among peasants.”
    Dunham pushed Raney back through the double doors, steered him down a hallway behind the stage.
    “Don’t take this wrong, but I want to show you the john.”
    He knocked, then opened the door marked GENTS .
    “I keep meaning to order one of those EMPLOYEES MUST WASH HANDS signs.”
    He gave Raney a moment to take it in. The room was a nearly uninterrupted mosaic of small encaustic tiles. They covered the walls, the ceiling, the base of the toilet, the sink. Raney found no principle guiding their arrangement, no pattern or color scheme. Like taking a shit inside the mind of a madman, he thought.
    “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
    “The work relaxes me,” Dunham said. “I had a guidance