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through the sunroof.
    “Oh man, we have the same name dude, righteous,” came from the third man who had short hair.
                  I sat directly behind the chauffeur and took the band up to the City Grill on the upper West Side.  When we arrived, I learned how popular they were.  A gang of people called their names.  After our meal, we were mobbed by a group of young girls.  Right there, I saw where the first hustle was coming in.
    Ivan handed me a banded $10,000 stack of cash from the bank. “That should take care of all our expenses for the day, chap.”
                  With the cash stashed away, I rode them back downtown to a few boutiques in the Village.  After making clothing purchases, I promised that the band would promote the stores and convinced the storeowners to give them the items on the house.  I pocketed the extra cash.
    By nightfall, we had been all around the city, and then the question came.  “Hey, man, you know where we can score some good heroin?”
                  Thoughts of Keiki danced through my mind.  During my pause, I realized that my heart had turned cold.  I had no business going where I was going, but I gave the driver the instructions to 170 th Street on College Avenue.
                  The gritty block with the tall tenement buildings, and a church across the street, made the limo stick out like a sore thumb.  When I stepped out, Money and a group of other dealers had a fit.  The limo was an attraction for the police.  Over the protest of the dealers, I made the quick purchase of ten bags, said my farewells, and then headed for the car.
                  When I handed Ivan and the crew the drugs, I couldn’t believe my eyes.  With the exception of Peter, they pulled out syringe kits.  The small cases were complete with needles, an elastic band to tie their arms with, and a spoon with cotton to fill the needle with the drugs.  As the car headed back downtown, the men prepared their drugs.  They used the same kind of miniature torch Dave had to melt the powder.  Once everything was prepared, they shot the drugs into their hungry veins.
                  John only used one bag, but Ivan had four without knowing the potency of the product.  Peter, who skipped the hard substance, smiled at me while drinking Absolute Vodka straight from the bottle.  As for me, I was paranoid, looking out the tinted windows for the police
                  That night the band was scheduled to stop by the punk rock club CBGB’s , but I told the driver to go straight to the hotel.  From the way the two men were nodding, and the way Peter was drinking, they would need a place to sleep instead.
                  I was thinking two steps ahead when we reached the hotel.  I told the limo driver to pull into the garage of the Hilton.  I didn’t want any of the Culture Shock fans or the press to see how high those guys was.  I was in no mood to carry anyone, so I told the driver to pull up as close to the elevator as he could.
    Peter jumped out of the car first, hardly able to stand.  I gave John a light smack.  He pulled his head from out of his crotch and opened his eyes.  He then stepped out into the cold air using Peter as a crutch.  It was an effort for both men to make it into the ground level elevator.
                  “Ivan! Ivan,” I yelled while putting his syringe kit into his pocket.
                  The man didn’t move.  I called him again, and still no response.  I smacked him like I was trying to peel the skin off of his face, and that’s when I saw his eyes go up in his head.
                  “Oh shit, he’s overdosing,” I said while banging on the partition, yelling for the limo driver to help me get him out of the car.
                  The whole world was spinning out of control.  The chauffeur told me to put him back in the