'How long did you say? An hour?' The nurse motioned for him to he on the other bed. 'Should I do it?'

'Now or never.'

Amid my giggles, Neal climbed on the other bed and let her stick the needle, with its trailing tube, into his arm.

Of course it took longer than an hour. The yellow liquid in the container hanging above him was barely a third gone when the acid hit full force.

'Wow, look at those wavy lines in the ceiling. Hey, I can't stay like  this forever,' Neal exclaimed, checking his vein, which was swollen with needle and glucose juice. 'It's been longer than an hour. Hasn't it been longer than an hour? This is not the best place to spend a trip, you know?' He looked at me hiding my laughter with a starched-too-stiff sheet. 'Where’s the nurse?' he asked. 'I'm going to tell her to get me out of this contraption. How do I ring for her?'

'Your glucose isn't finished,' I managed to say between guffaws. 'You can't stop in the middle.'

'Will you ring for her? Listen, I've got to get out of here. Ring for her, okay? Stop laughing. It's not funny. I want out of here.'

Eventually I did ring for the nurse, but by the time she arrived she found the needle out of Neal's arm and swinging an inch above the floor.

'Thank you,' he said to her. 'That was delicious.' He kissed me goodbye. 'I'll see you later.'

'Neal, wait. Give me some smack, I'm coming with you.'

He giggled. 'You want to leave? Serge will be angry with me.'

And so I went back and forth between them. When I got fed up with chasing Neal across the paddy field, I'd look for Serge, who’d immediately feed me. He filled my stoves with kerosene and my shelves with spices, and he cooked me delicious dishes, including one called Beef with a cream sauce dyed blue. His cheese omelette was my favourite, it was his last resort when trying to seduce me into putting something in my stomach. The trouble with Serge was that he nagged me over the smack and, too frequently, convinced me to cut down.

Serge now stayed with me nearly all the time, though once a week he drove to Colva to see his wife and son. Since he'd told me about the arrangement at the beginning of our relationship, I accepted the situation. As time went by, though, it disturbed me that I wasn’t the only one in his life. And so, when I felt neglected by Serge or fed up with his doctoring, I'd go back to Neal.

My monetary situation looked bleak as February and then March came along. The money I spent fixing the house was nothing compared to what I spent on dope and coke. Every trip to Bombay drastically reduced my cash stash. I didn't want to use it all. I needed to save enough to fund a scam for the monsoon.

Finally, on yet another trip to Bombay, I decided I could NOT take any more money out of the bank. That was it. Somehow that last withdrawal had to last till the end of the season.

It didn't, of course.

'I can't take one more rupee out of my safety deposit box,' I told Serge one night. 'I have to think of a way to pay for another month or so down here.'

'Like what?'

'I don't know, maybe I could sell something.'

'I don't think you'd be good at dealing drugs; you'd consume more than you'd sell.'

'Hah! Some faith. What can I do then?'

He shrugged. 'You could design clothes like Gavroche does.'

'I don't sew. And I don't want to learn, either.'

'You can't cook and open a restaurant like Brigitte. Can you do anything?'

'Like cook and sew? No. Come on, there must be something else.'

'How about selling hash at the flea market, since you don't like smoking it.'

'No, what else?'

'Can you play poker? You could try to win money.'

'Hmmm. Know what? Dayid once asked if they could have their poker games here. Said he'd give me a part of each pot.'

'You want to host a poker game?'

I jumped up excited. 'Not an ordinary game, how about a CASINO! I could have different things going on at the same time. This place is big enough.' I paced the room as grand visions filled my brain. Cocaine was great for inspiration. 'Poker games last for days, right? Well, I'll supply everything. Food. Cigarettes. Services. There's room if anybody wants to sleep. They can take showers. What else?'

'I'll be here to sell coke.'

'Yes, yes, perfect! Our own resident coke dealer, I love it! It'll be the best poker game ever.' I ran to find pen and paper to write a List of what I needed. 'What else? I want the casino to be so spectacular they'll never have their games anywhere else. Opium! I can turn a room into an '0' den. They'll feel frazzled from playing for days in a row, and after they take your coke, they'll need a way to relax. I'll go to Bombay and bring down an opium baba and the smoking stuff. Maybe I can pick up a roulette wheel. Green felt for a crap table.'

'I'll make the food.'

'Ohh! This will be great. With your scrumptious meals, my casino will go down in the history of Anjuna Beach.' I skipped around the room, tapping the pen against my hip.

'Hold your horses, Miss Cleo. I don't want to be in the kitchen all day.'

'Well. . . okay, we'll have one far-out time the first night, before the playing starts. How's that? In the morning I can order eggs from Apolon.'

I began preparations immediately. Putting aside for the moment the idea of a roulette wheel and a crap table, the biggest problem was getting the Opium from Bombay, plus the baba to make pipes. I decided to put the baba in the front room. I set up mattresses there, forming a square so several people could he around the 'den.' I'd have to lock the front door and use the side entrance; wouldn't want people walking back and forth, making the baba nervous. Hearing that Bernard and Sima were going to Bombay for a few days, I asked them to buy me a pipe and the smoking utensils. Later, I'd figure a way to bring the baba down.

With everything in motion, I paid a visit to Dayid and Ashley and told them the plan.

'Sounds quintessential!' said Dayid. 'Do you know, there's a town in Southern Italy named Cassino. Spelled with two esses. It experienced heavy fighting during World War II.'

We set a date for the game the following week.

Serge planned the menu. Anjuna would never see something like this again—three courses of the best cuisine France had to offer, limited only by the availability of fancier items.

'I can't cook on this puny kerosene burner,' Serge said. 'You call this an oven? How am I supposed to know how hot it is?' The oven was one I'd bought at Crawford Market in Bombay, the Goa kind being made of rocks and wood. Mine at least had four metal sides and a door. It didn't heat itself, though, but rested on top of a kerosene stove, which meant there was no way to control the temperature. 'I'll have to borrow mine from the house in Colva,' Serge continued. 'I'll need more burners anyway for the different dishes and sauces.'

Since the dining room table could seat only twenty comfortably, we restricted the dinner's guest list to the players and their mates. This itself was unusual—Anjuna events were open to everybody.

Serge and I spent hours checking details. They seemed endless, and my casino took an improbable proportions as I figured out more and more ways to create something special.

'How about a masseur?' I asked. 'Sitting in a chair for hours, the players will develop cramps. I could have an Indian in the bedroom giving massages. What do you think?'

My most ambitious project, though, was turning the Goans into butlers. I wrote step-by-step instructions on how to serve the meal. Serve from the left; remove plates from the right; check for empty wine glasses, even planned finger bowls.

'Finger bowls!' laughed Serge. 'You're not serious. Miss Cleo?'

I was no longer merely earning money to last the season—I was creating a gala event. Bernard and Sima brought me the opium equipment from Bombay, but I had no baba. I tried making pipes myself, but it was complicated and resulted in more opium on the floor than in the pipe. I gave up. I did find an