The taxi was approaching Tompkins Square, the beginning of the fun district. It was here that Chilly Willy, his street contact for those annoying occasions on which Pierre was asleep, dragged out his life of perpetual withdrawal. Chilly could only ever get enough smack to keep him looking for more; scavenging enough bags to twitch instead of convulsing, to squeal instead of screaming, he walked in little jerky steps with one limp and nerveless arm dangling by his side, like an old flex from the draughty ceiling. With his good hand, Chilly held up the filthy baggy trousers that were always in danger of slipping down over his emaciated waist. Despite being black, he looked pale and his face was speckled with brown liver spots. His teeth, the four or five that still clung heroically to his gums, were either dark yellow or black, chipped or shattered. He was an inspiration to his community and his customers since nobody could imagine looking as ill as him, however recklessly they lived.

The cab crossed Avenue C and carried on down Eighth Street. Here he was among the filthy haunches of the city, thought Patrick contentedly.

‘Where you want?’ asked the Chinaman.

‘I want heroin,’ said Patrick.

‘Heloin,’ repeated the driver anxiously.

‘That’s right,’ said Patrick. ‘Stop here, this is good.’

Wired Puerto Ricans were pacing about pugilistic-ally on the corner, and black guys with big hats were leaning in doorways. Patrick lowered the window of the taxi, and new friends crowded in from every side.

‘What ju wan, man? What ju looking for?’

‘Clear tape . . . red tape . . . yellow tape. What you want?’

‘Smack,’ said Patrick.

‘Shit, man, you from the police. You’re a policeman.’

‘No, I’m not. I’m an Englishman,’ Patrick protested.

‘Get out the cab, man, we don’t sell you nothin’ in the cab.’

‘Wait here,’ said Patrick to the driver. He got out of the taxi. One of the dealers took him by the arm and started to march him round the corner.

‘I’m not going any further,’ said Patrick as they were about to lose sight of the taxi.

‘How much you want?’

‘Give me four dime-bags of clear tape,’ said Patrick, carefully unpeeling two twenty-dollar bills. He kept the twenties in the left trouser pocket, tens in the right trouser pocket, fives and ones in the overcoat pockets. The hundreds remained in their envelope in the inside coat pocket. This way he never tempted anybody with a show of cash.

‘I’ll give you six for fifty, man. You git one extra bag.’

‘No, four is fine.’

Patrick pocketed the four little bags of greaseproof paper, turned around and climbed back into the cab.

‘We go hotel now,’ said the Chinaman eagerly.

‘No, just drive me round the block for a bit. Take me to Sixth and B.’

‘What you go lound block for?’ The driver mumbled a Chinese curse, but moved off in the right direction.