Charlie dealt in pharmaceuticals, but he was strictly small time. He got his shit mostly from hardcases: grandmas and grandpas who'd sell off some of their meds to buy smokes or groceries when the food stamps ran out, and it was no big deal.
But every now and then, he'd jack up some small timer who was trying to move pills in the neighborhood. Charlie'd take his shit, put a beatdown on the poor bastard, and tell him to get the fuck out. That was how he stayed in business, and he got by.
But Charlie wanted to be big. In the end, I believe, that's what killed him.
One day he came to me with some deal he'd made with a Mexican he got hooked up with through a friend of some shithead he'd done time with - if you can call being held overnight on an OUI bust doing time - and this dude, this Mexican, fixed him up with a thousand 20s of oxy for 10 grand.
He talked me into coming in on it with him. I had the dough thanks to a fat settlement I came into about six months ago, after some shitstain doored me while I was riding on Polk St. It wasn't much after the jerkoff who called himself my lawyer took his cut, but it was enough, and Charlie knew it.
And when would I ever get the chance to score this many pills again? Never, that's when.
So we met the guy with the stuff and his two "associates" at the Zim's on Van Ness. We ordered some food and after the waitress had gone, the dude pushed a small ziplock bag wrapped in packing tape across the table toward Charlie.
Charlie slid a knife out from his boot and slit open the bundle under the table. He took out three pills, put them into his mouth and washed it down with a sip of coffee. Then he slipped the taped-up baggie into the pocket of his camo jacket, sat back and waited for the shit to kick in.
We stuck around for 20 minutes or so, shooting the shit, and I could tell it was good because I saw that beatific look he gets when he's high spread across his face.
Charlie slid an envelope across the table to the guy who gave him the pills and said he had to use the head. The guy across the table nodded, and Charlie got up out of the booth. Only instead of turning left and heading toward the can, he took a right and walked out the door, leaving me sitting there with three big dudes who were beginning to wonder what the fuck was up.
I watched him from the window. The Mexicans watched me watch him.
"Where the fuck is he going?" one of them said, slitting open the envelope. "What the fuck? This only five grand. Where's the rest?"
I could tell it was more of a threat than a question. I pulled an envelope from the pocket of my leather jacket and handed it to him.
Through the window, we watched Charlie come out onto the sidewalk. He stepped off the curb trying to light a smoke with that fancy silver lighter of his. He got it lit, snapped the lighter shut with a flick of his wrist and stepped out to cross the street - directly into the path of a 14 Mission crosstown express trying to make a light.
One of the Mexicans said, "Holy Shit!" and the lady at the table a few booths down screamed. Everybody turned to look.
When the bus hit him, Charlie flew through the air like a doll kicked across the room by an angry child. He landed a good twenty feet away, and his head bounced off the pavement.
Charlie tried to get up and rolled over instead. It looked like he was trying to talk, but the only thing coming out of his mouth was blood. The side of his skull that hit the street was all caved in, and I'm pretty sure the last thing Charlie saw before he died was a piece of his brain on the street in front of him.
People in Zim's freaked, and some of them went running outside, but the Mexicans didn't seem too upset about it.
The big dude slipped me another bag of pills and said, "It was nice doing business with you, bro." They got up to leave.
"So what am I supposed to do now?" I said, nodding at Charlie.
"I don't know. Not my problem."
I could hear the sirens in the distance. I knew I had to move fast.
The Mexicans left, and I ran out to the street, pushing my way through the 15 or so people that had gathered around Charlie's battered body.
I don't know where it came from, but the performance I gave that day deserved an Academy fucking Award, no doubt.
Wailing in anguish, I threw myself across Charlie's body, and slipped my hand into his pocket. Screaming his name, I deftly pulled the baggie of pills from his pocket and slipped them inside my leather, my other hand stroking his bloody face.
The ambulance arrived before the cops did. Two EMTs pulled me off of Charlie, and while everybody was busy watching them work, I wandered off.
Twenty thousand milligrams of oxy is a lot of dope. I didn't want to be there when the cops finally showed.
F. J. Gallagher is a former reporter, columnist and editor whose work has appeared over the years in a variety of local and national outlets. He writes under the name F. J. Gallagher because have you seen what comes up when you Google the name Frank Gallagher, which is what the initial stands for? Fuck that shit. You can see more of his stuff at
fjgallagher.com.