'Sure, love,' said Birmingham Bobby when I bravely knocked on his door and asked for a job. 'We can always use another runner.' Gold jewellery circled his neck, wrists, and fingers. He wore a gold Rolex watch and lit my business-deal-sealing bhong with a gold Dupont lighter. Not a drop of liquor could he seen anywhere. While far from being a Freak, this Birmingham Boy did indeed seem to have mellowed.

Associating with the Birmingham was not my idea of success, but at least I was taking a positive step toward something and, most important, removing myself from Neal. The thought of transporting powder worried me less than the thought of returning to him.

Later, while Neal ate ice cream at Dipti's, I put my bags out of his room at the Ritz and into the Sea View Hotel with the Birmingham Boys—two Birmingham Boys, Birmingham Timmy and Birmingham Bobby and their two English girlfriends. I stayed in Bobby's room.

'Over there, love,' said Bobby. 'Park your body in the bed by the window. Me and my bird sleep in this one.'

Being with the Boys, I shared their stash and joined in their visiting; and the dope and coke flowed nonstop from all directions. If the flow slowed, we visited someone else. Crowds came to our room, too.

'Here, mate,' Timmy would say, opening his gold cigarette case and offering hash joints to his guests. 'You won't get better shit than this from nobody.'

But, of course, what had happened to everyone else had also happened to Timmy and Bobby—in the bustle of Bombay they had forgotten about business.

When two weeks went by, I started to have doubts about the scam. I heard no mention of plans. No business conferences. No tickets or reservations. The Boys played poker, socialized, and got high. Period. Yup, it was the old Bombay Syndrome. When another week went by, I doubted anything would ever go down.

Sometimes I met with Neal on neutral territory, such as the hotel rooms of Mental or Giuliano, one of the Italians at the Nataraj. I still loved Neal but refused to return to the torture of being with him.

'When are you sending for Eve and the baby?' I asked him once in Giuliano's room, where we were the only two speaking English.

'I'm waiting to hear from my connection in California,' Neal answered. CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK. 'I have to do business before I do anything else. And I'm quitting the dope. Maybe I'll stop next month.'

Neal hated the idea of my running for someone, especially the Birmingham Boys. 'I wish I could fund you in your own scam,' he said, 'but I have money troubles myself at the moment.' He giggled and our eyes met. I wanted to touch his purple satin leg. I wanted to wrap my arms around his neck, but I didn't. 'Are you sure those Birmingham characters are okay?' he asked.

I nodded yes, lying. I didn't tell Neal the truth because I was afraid he'd convince me to move back with him. No, I no longer felt the Birmingham Boys were okay. Along with their Bombay Syndrome, they were developing Coke Amuck.

Since the time I’d moved in with the Boys, I'd be taking my up-and-coming business venture seriously, but they hadn't. After the Taj salon had creme-rinsed the knots out of my hair and I'd washed off the Goan red dirt, I'd been sleeping every day and keeping reasonably sane. I realized that coke-bingeing for long periods without sleep caused hallucinations and paranoia. While I'd geared my brain for the scam at hand, though, the Birmingham Boys strove only for pleasure. They seemed to have erased the financial endeavour from their memories; but worse than that, as weeks went by, they seemed to have also forgotten my role in their fives. They looked at me as if wondering what I was doing in their rooms and why they were keeping me in food and drugs. A thorn in their side—not a rosy situation for me.

Then one day, Birmingham Bobby scored an ounce of smack and was so coked-out he had trouble weighing it. He and Birmingham Timmy must have weighed the bag six times, and they came up with a different measure all the time. They eventually decided that half of it was missing and that Bobby's girlfriend and I had stolen it.

Oh, dear. One should never be suspected of ripping off a Birmingham Boy. Especially not a Coke Amuck Birmingham Boy.

Finally, after weighing it a few more times, they decided they'd been mistaken—none had been stolen after all.

I was not reassured. By this time, my good sense told me that the scene with the Birmingham Boys had soured beyond hope. If I were to do a heroin run, I wanted to be certain there'd be no stupid problems somewhere. Heroin could land you in jail for a long time. The Boys seemed so wired that even if they put the scam in motion right away, I no longer had faith in them.

I made a decision. I had to escape the Birmingham Boys—but without going back to Neal. Where could I go? Giuliano had mentioned he needed a runner for his powder trip. Maybe I could work for him.

Coke Amuck had everyone watching everyone else suspiciously. Even the Boys side-stepped around each other.

I waited till everyone was away from the hotel, then dragged my suitcase across the corridor and plopped it down the stairs one step at a time. BUMP, BUMP, BUMP. What a racket. I didn't want to take the elevator for fear of running into a Boy. Meanwhile, heads popped out of doors at every launcher I clattered passed. In the lobby I concealed the suitcase behind a potted philodendron while I went to hail a cab. When I ran back to get the case, the doorman looked askance at me as I accidentally broke a leaf from a plant, maybe I had a touch of Coke Amuck myself? I leapt into the cab and hid on the floor.

'Nataraj Hotel,' I told the driver, who twisted back to peer down at me. 'Go. Go.' I shook my hands feverishly