Jewish Connection answered the door. 'I have some money for you, but I'm not giving you any more dope.'

'Please, I'm DYING! Look at there goose bumps.'

He made a face but went into the other room. He came out with a little supply. 'But this is IT.' He gave me five thousand dollars. 'You'll have to wait for the rest,' he said. I was overjoyed to receive that much. I'd started to doubt I'd ever get anything. 'I'll call YOU when I have more,' he added.

My spirits soared. I was no longer sick. And I had money!

First, I wanted to tell my friends everything had worked out. Actually, I should now help those who'd not been so fortunate that monsoon—that was the Goa Freak way. As soon as I returned to the hotel, I sent two telegrams—one to Neal and one to Mental, both in care of Dipti's in Bombay. Both telegrams said the same thing, if they still needed money to put a trip together, I could send two thousand dollars. I included the phone number of the hotel.

Then I went shopping. I bought clothes and took a stroll down Young Street. Nightspots lined the sidewalk. Perhaps I'd go out later and mingle with the natives. I also needed a way to score dope. How ridiculous. I'd had a pound of it only clays before.

On a corner I found a headshop. Goa Freaks loved gadgets, and at the start of each season they fussed over the latest inventions brought from the West. Odd smoking hardware made great gifts. The colourful bhongs in the headshop window caught my eye. In India the Freaks used bamboo bhongs to smoke smack; here I beheld plastic ones in creative designs. Apparently bhongs were coming into style in the West for smoking marijuana.

I left the store loaded with packages. Wait till the Anjuna gang saw my red ceramic Buddha bhong! The bowl sprouted from the Buddha's fat belly.

Later that night I went to the Gaslight, one of the clubs I'd passed that afternoon. I recognized the regulars right away. Instead of sitting attables, they hang out in the hack. Those were the people I had to meet. Nobody would know where I could find a dealer.

Oh, look at that blonde. Exquisite! His face was perfect. What a nose.

I positioned myself among the regulars, leaning against the back benches the way they did. I spoke to a Person or two, not Perfect Blonde, though. He was so perfect I could only watch him from afar and let my eyes honour the form of his pale yellow No one picked up on my gentle questions about drugs. After a few hours I suspected I was in the wrong kind of club.

When I accidentally found myself next to Perfect Blonde, I felt so overwhelmed it took me ten minutes to smile at him. He barely acknowledged me. A while later I tried again. 'Um. Excuse me,' I said. He didn't turn around. I tugged at his suspenders. 'Yoo hoo.' Ugh, that wasn't what I'd wanted to say. He half turned in my direction. I stepped closer to him. 'Um. Do you know where I can score, by any chance?' That wasn't what I'd wanted to say either.

He faced the dance floor. For a moment I thought he'd ignore me, but finally he said, 'Maybe. I might know someone who could sell you a lid.'

'Ah . . . no, not marijuana. I'd like to buy smack.'

'That stuff? No.' Still looking away from me, he shook his head. 'Nothing like that.'

Uh! I felt his disapproval. Anyone who looked as healthy as he did could only disapprove. Stupid me. Why had I mentioned it? He gazed at the dancing forms with a crinkled mouth. Now he hated me. We spoke no more during the next two minutes, and then he moved off without a farewell.

All was not lost, however; I did manage to find a dealer at the club. The dealer didn't hang out at the rear but sat at a table. He too was blonde and nice-looking, but we united on business terms only. He didn't have anything on him, and we made an appointment for the following afternoon in the same place. Terrific. Just terrific. I returned to the hotel satisfied with the night's accomplishments.

The next morning I received a collect call from Bombay.

'Hello? Tee hee.'

'Mental? Mental! How's it going?'

'I just got your telegram. Tee hee, thanks.'

'No problem. Everything line there?'

'Well, tee hee, you know there's trouble with Giuliano, don't you?'

'Giuliano! No. What kind of trouble?'

'You don't know? He's after you. He's angry.'

'At me? I don't understand. What happened?'

'I can't explain now. I tell you when I see you. He hasn't caused you trouble there? That's good, tee hee.'

'What? Mental, what's going on?'

'I'll tell you later. Just be careful. Tee hee, you gonna send me the money?'

We made arrangements for two thousand dollars to be sent to Thomas Cook's. When I hung up the phone I was uneasy. Why would Giuliano be after me? Why was he angry?

Caution got the better of me and, after I cabled the money, I checked out of the hotel and into another one using a different name. Since I was now in America, I didn't have to show my passport to register, and since I was paying cash in advance, I didn't need identification. What kind of trouble could Giuliano cause?

When I went to the Gaslight Club to meet Dealer, it was still daylight. My eyes had trouble adjusting to the dark interior of the club, and I banged my hip against the corner of an unplugged cigarette machine. When I finally got my night vision going, I saw chairs hanging upside down from tables. A vacuum cleaner sat in the centre of an aisle, and there was no one in sight. Oh, no. Was this how we were supposed to meet? It didn't seem a subtle way to make a drug transaction.

With no place to sit, I stood by the door. I half expected to be thrown out as soon as someone saw me. But there was no one. No Dealer, either.

Even after he was a half hour late, I hated to give up and leave. He'd been the only contact I'd made and I'd soon be out of dope again. I continued to wait. When Dealer came through the curtained opening from the street, he walked right into me, treading on my feet.

'Oo. Hey, is that you?' he asked. 'I'm sorry. I couldn't see. Are you okay?' I was okay—and very relieved. 'Here, let's sit,' he said, pulling a chair off a table and setting it on the floor.

He didn't have anything on him, but we talked a bit, and I toll him who I was and what brought me to Canada. Then we walked to his nearby apartment, and he turned Inc on to his personal-use dope. He said he wouldn't have a gram to sell me until that night. Feeling expansive I also asked for a gram of coke. Why not? I was a successful drug smuggler, wasn't I? Might as well give it up. The prices were exorbitant. Well, just this one buy of coke. We arranged to meet later at the club.

Perfect Blonde didn't come near me that night—didn't even look my way. But I wasn't interested in the club people anyway. I spent the hours watching the door for Dealer. He hadn't given me a time. He'd just said 'tonight.' As it got later, the club filled, and I had to keep moving out of people's way. Where was Dealer?

When he finally arrived, again he had nothing on him, and I had to go with him to score the smack. This was getting to be a pain.

It cost five hundred dollars for one gram of smack; in Goa it cost fifty. Outrageous! By the time I had the powder in hand, I was exhausted from the effort of acquiring it. The coke wasn't available yet.

By the next afternoon I'd sniffed away the whole weak gram. This was a drag. I was also still concerned about what Mental had said. Just speaking to Mental on the phone wasn't cool either. Maybe someone had been listening at one end or the other. Had my cab from the other hotel been followed? Meanwhile, if Neal tried to call me, he'd be told checked out. Oh, well. Maybe not hearing from Neal right away meant he'd left Bombay. Anyway, with my costly expenses, it didn't look as if I'd have money left to send him.

Extra cautious, I checked out of that hotel too and into one a few blocks from the Gasfight Club. Yet again I invented a new name for myself. I called Jewish Connection to let him know the new phone number. He had no news for me. He would call me.

I went to Dealer's apartment early to score more dope. Eek, this was costing a fortune, and it took more hours of running around to finally get it.

'You're wasting so much by snorting it,' Dealer advised me. 'It would last you longer if you shot it.'

The only times I'd fixed anything was the vitamin B shot with Sasha and the vitamin B and cocaine shots