IN the middle of a rough part of town, a college represents an opportunity of mind-boggling proportions: an enormous market of extremely naïve (for such we were in those days) and disproportionately well-monied suckers, all scrabbling for a way to ease seemingly unbearable pressures and searching for the appropriate Animal House character to play in order to accrue recognition and respect. It's a frantic jumble of depressed self-esteem and undeveloped character - a moment of bliss for the appropriate predator. And at that time, the appropriate predators of West Philadelphia were licking their chops in carnivorous delight.

I took to college like I was born for it, which in a way I guess I was. I'm a big guy, I used to play football, and I guess girls have always kind of gone for my look. I went to a rich-kid boarding school, although I think I was the poorest kid there, so when I got here I didn't have to worry about crap like missing home or trying to fit in or something - I had all that figured out back when I was thirteen. I drank in high school, and I hit that point where you don't remember stuff anymore and when you wake up your mouth tastes like puke, and I realized back then that I didn't like it. I always figured booze was just for fun anyway, not like some people I met since I came here. So when I got here I had it under control, I knew how much I liked to drink and I knew I could drink a lot, so if I went to a party and did some keg stands it was ok, but I never got all messed up. I never liked seeing people like that, where they get out of their heads - how do you respect someone after you've seen them like that? So I took care of myself, I kept in shape, I did my work - that's the other thing that school taught me: I do my work no matter what everyone else was doing. All my rich-kid friends blew it off because they knew when college time came around their parents would donate a science building or something, but I just quietly did my work and didn't bitch about it. That's how you get ahead.

I went to a lot of parties in those days; just sort of cruising for girls - girls are so much easier in college because they don't pretend not to like sex anymore. I'm not saying they didn't like it back in high school, but they were all caught up on acting like they didn't want it. But here I would just cruise around with my friends, and if we found some girls we liked, then great. You could tell right away what the good frats were; some places had ragers with unbelievable girls and some of them just had a keg in the basement and a few nasty chicks trying to get some dude drunk enough to go home with them. So we kept going back to the places with sick parties and eventually we got to know some of the guys there - not really well; you never really get to know people you run into at parties, even though you maybe nod to them on the street during the day. But it got so they knew we were cool, and they let us in in front of other people, which was nice.

The first time I went upstairs, I was dancing with this girl in a packed room - she was unbelievable, she had this long, black hair, incredible body, exotic-looking face (Lebanese, I think) - and she asked if I wanted to hit the upstairs party. I didn't really know what she meant, so I said, sure, why not. When we got to the stairs, the guy stopped me in the dark and asked me where I was going, but the girl told him it was ok, I was with her and he let me by. The staircase was dark and circled round to a hallway upstairs, also dark, with probably twelve rooms opening off of it and a window at the end. She took me by the hand and we walked a few doors down to a door that was open, feeling our way through a palpable darkness, the kind that if you wave your hand through it, you can almost imagine ripples coming out, until we came into this room, and what I saw in that room blew my mind and changed my life.

It was a simple room, just a bed and a couch and a long table in between, and a desk at the end by the window. There were some tapestries or hippie crap hanging on the walls, nothing really interesting, but then I could hardly look at the walls. The room was bathed in the purple glow of black lights, and the low table was crisscrossed - literally hatched with glowing white lines, like rips in the fabric of the dimness. The room smelled like smoke - it was full of people, guys all in too-trendy clothes and girls wearing outfits that must have cost the national product of Indonesia - and what girls! I have never seen such girls in all my life; these were models to a one, each a perfect ten, every last one with that exotic look that sets a girl apart from the rank and file, that makes everyone else seem crude, and immediately I was hooked. I saw those girls and I thought, whatever it takes, I will have girls like those; they will want me.

I want to explain myself here - this wasn't just some penile attraction, some sexual thing to satisfy a physical urge. I saw those girls and recognized all that I wanted to be in life, because I was in the room with the high-rollers - these were the people with money, with power, with the kind of aphysical sex appeal that involves drugs and diamonds and card-playing, that doesn't fade with time but thrives on success. And once I walked in the door of the high rollers' lounge, I wasn't leaving for anyone.

That night was the only time I ever used the product, and I'm not going to describe it except to say that I have never been so exhilarated, so completely blown away, or so completely out of my mind - never before, and never since.

I woke up the next morning knowing that I could never do it again. I was depressed all day.

For a while I didn't go back there. It's not that I was scared -when I say I'm done with something, it's over. But I had to get to a point where I wasn't pissed I couldn't do that stuff anymore - I can't have that on my mind. But I didn't forget those white lines crisscrossing in the darkness, and I didn't forget those girls. So one night after I hit a few pregame scenes, I headed back over to that house. The scene was the same - pervasive darkness, the kind of deep, pounding music that's honeycombed with sexual undercurrents - but this time I was all eyes. I figured out who the brothers were; it's not hard; I took in all elements of the scene, and I made my moves carefully. I found the right girl and danced with her for a while, and then I asked her if she wanted to check out the scene upstairs, and let her go up first. The guy on the stairs gave me a knowing wink, and I was back.

I never really made introductions, but I was there enough that I became part of the scene. These people lived night to night anyway. From the start I knew I would never be like them - I didn't want to be. But I started buying the powder - it was expensive as hell, but with them it was like a business card; if you wanted to be a part of the scene, you had to have it. I never used it; I just shared it with people and sometimes sold it to people. We would go out to clubs where everyone was looking for a piece, and if you were with the right crew the bouncers didn't want to see your ID. They know exactly how the game works. I should have run a club - it's less risky. But that wasn't in the cards. I kept with the same crowd, watching and learning and trying to find out where I fit in. But though I never realized it, I was really the one being watched - being observed, being appraised, and, as it turned out, being chosen.

When he came around he was like a black angel in the club. He didn't hang with the crowd as such, but he occasionally graced them with his presence as someone who is laughably out of their league. Atmosphere shifted around him - people weren't sure whether to crowd him like a celebrity or shrink away in abject terror, and so the effect was a confused non-reaction that belied the internal turmoil. Not that I understood why. It took me a while to properly notice him, and a lot longer to figure out why he was the object of so much attention. But he was the one who made it all possible; we all carved out niches in the scene but he created the scene. He was the dealer. Nobody called him by his name; nobody knew what it was. People would say, "I have to call a friend of mine," or, "I have to call some guy;" I heard someone say, "I got to call Mr. Jones," once but I think it was a reference to a song. And so, nameless, paradoxical, he quietly dictated from afar. And so I was extremely surprised when he came to me.

I was on my way into the bathroom when, halfway through the door, a shadow detached itself from the wall behind me, pushed me into the bathroom, and shut the door behind it. It was a one-person stall, with room enough, as it turned out, for one to stand and one to sit on the john. I looked up at him from my seat and briefly wondered if I was about to die, but I figured if he wanted me dead I would no longer be alive, and I almost asked him what the hell he was doing. But he remained silent, and so did I. I looked him up and down; the clothes were of the most expensive kind; he was not huge but he looked wiry - I put my chances in a fight with him right about zero. Looking at his face I realized what he really reminded me of was a cat - a panther, more like. And then I realized his eyes were red. It had to be some kind of contact lens, but it looked as if his eyes were red and shimmering. I couldn't tear myself away; I looked into his eyes, and he looked into mine. And then he spoke.

- I know what you've been doing.

In that moment I had no idea what I'd been doing.

- I've seen you selling it on the side. You don't use it, so whatever you're buying I assume you're selling.

I was speechless; once again I wondered if my life was about to end.

- You can relax; if I wanted you dead you'd be dead. I don't mince words with dead people, see, because they don't remember it afterwards. You're lucky - normally you'd be dead. But I find myself in a situation which I'll explain presently, in which I have an interest in keeping you alive.

I can see you have good business sense. You're buying from these fucking kids and selling it back to them for a profit; they're so cracked out they don't know the difference. And you got balls, that's for sure. How you thought you would get away with that shit, I cannot begin to imagine. But you don't do the shit, and they don't know who you are. I heard them give me four different names they thought might be yours, but they don't know. Know this: you have no secrets from me. There is nothing about you I can't find out, and if you fuck around I will know. All that aside, I'm here to make you an offer.

Listen well; I'm only going to say this once. Written inside this matchbook are a number and a figure; when you get together the figure call the number. If you can't figure out what happens after that, don't call. If you do this right, you will have more money than you can spend. You will have any woman you want. These people will worship you. You will be able to travel through the highest echelons of society, and throughout you will be respected and feared. If that's not what you want in life, don't call. If you haven't got the figure together a week from now, don't call. This is not an RSVP; from here on out we don't talk unless we talk business. That's all.

He stepped out and the door closed behind him - white against the black hallway. I closed my eyes and his image danced before me, outlined in green from the door. He had golden cufflinks carved like poodles.

I called the number three days later.

* * *

I ran into JJ in AC; I had taken a room for the night in Caesar's Palace and it didn't take long tossing chips at the small-fry dealers before I was invited into the high-stakes room upstairs. I had some girls with me - they were just for show. Everything becomes a calculation when you're in the business, even leisure time. People who sell drugs to their friends are different; professional drug dealers are a calculating bunch. I explored and made inroads into new markets, I experimented with profits at different volumes of trade, I created demand. I would go into an upstairs party and break out the yeyo, and leave a pager number. I had a contact in every circle. And when it became too hectic, I would cut back - drive the prices up. So anyway, I was in the high roller's room in Caesar's Palace, a beautiful glass enclosure shaped like a Russian onion dome, and in walks JJ with two girls of his own. JJ is the competition; he deals to a slightly different group. He's West Philly homegrown, but he's making money like I am; he's got the bills to dress like a player. We represent the two schools: he deals with the people who think they're getting factory direct, I deal with the people who think they need to trust their drug dealer. Both groups are wrong - the distribution network for this stuff is so complicated I can't begin to work out the details, and the Feds, who've been working on it for years, aren't much farther. They know the key players, but they've got nothing they can prove. And the customers who think they can trust me… well, they are crack heads.

JJ and I stayed at the table until three or four in the morning - I ended up down ten large and he was down even more by the end. But we're both in a place where we can make that back pretty much as fast as we're willing to work. There's something intrinsically fun about throwing money away, and watching the dealer while we're at it. This guy is a professional card player, but he can't keep his eyes off the women with us. And though he sees it every night, this guy doesn't make in a year what we wipe our asses with on his table. Sure he's winning our money, but he doesn't get to keep it. His smug grin has some serious cracks. On our way out, JJ and I exchange a professionally courteous nod.

* * *

I woke up and Renee was in the bathroom, blowing a line. It wasn't an unusual situation, I suppose, but on that particular morning I had an epiphany of heartbreaking proportions. I was faced with two options, neither of them at all appealing. I reflected.

I remembered, of course, the first time we had met, the conspiratorial look in her eye when she had told me to come upstairs to check out the scene. She had been beautiful then, as she was beautiful now, and I had thought about her in the weeks intervening between my first ascension of those stairs and the next time I had made the climb. When I returned, much to my consternation, she was not there, and indeed I hardly saw her for a long time, until just a week before that night when I was approached in the club. When I saw her again, I was blown away - she was dynamic. She was all keyed up, but she remembered me, and we danced manically all night.

The next morning I woke up and she was there, sleeping next to me, and I knew I was in trouble. Women, I guess, were always my weak point. We made a date to meet for dinner later in the week, but she didn't show. The price you pay for being only a peripheral member of the nose powder scene, I guess. I was pretty pissed about it, I swore I would do all her best friends just to get at her, but I didn't really want to. Being blown off like that tweaked something in my brain. It wasn't so much anger as a burning, burgeoning ambition. I wanted to be the kind of man she couldn't resist - right then, I said, I would give anything to be that man. Three days later I was followed into the bathroom by a black man who I thought wanted to kill me.

And here we were - I had her, all right, and I had all the money and fearful respect a man can have. But at the heart of it - and here lay the searing truth of my epiphany - at the heart of it was only the product, keys of Vitamin C, bags of white dust. Nothing more. It had nothing to do with me, it was just the yeyo. Here I had spent all my time keeping business from getting personal, and behind my back everything personal I had that was worthwhile had turned to strictly business.

I walked into the bathroom and told Renee that she was addicted to cocaine and that I would help her get off it, but if she wasn't willing she would have to leave. She cried and pleaded for a time, and then put her clothes on and left. I sat down and figured out how much money I would need to pay for rehab, and then began to plan my exit strategy.

* * *

It had only been a gesture, of course - she came back the two days later, and I had her enrolled in rehab a week after that. People at that stage tend to burn their bridges, and I doubt she had anywhere else to go. I was busily depleting my stocks - I had to sell off some premium varieties I had been keeping for special occasions. I knew I had to finish off my business - there was nothing left in it for me, I had seen through the lies and illusion, and I couldn't have her come back from rehab to live with a drug dealer. I got paged by Mr. Jones every once in a while, but I never called him back. I had the advantage in that respect - I had never let him know anything personal about myself. My pager number was listed under a pseudonym; I even had a rented apartment on 46^th Street, paid in cash, under a false driver's license, where I did any business that required a room. That was it. For all intents and purposes I lived two completely separate lives. So that when my phone rang right as I stepped into the apartment after working out one evening, I picked it up without the slightest apprehension.

The voice that replied almost dropped me to my knees.

- How've you been, buddy boy? Long time no see. I'm going to swing by so's we can have a little chat. Don't be shy, now, come on down.

As he was speaking a car pulled up outside and honked. I stood, stock-still, unable to quite believe it.

- Come on, now, don't take all night about it. We've got people to see - people who don't like to be kept waiting. Step to it.

I considered my options: I could go down the fire escape out back and probably make it out - but to where? And if they could find me, they could find Renee, and then use her to get to me. Doubtless the thought had already occurred to them; my only option was to go out front.

Down on the street was a big black Cadillac de Ville; I got in and smelled the red leather upholstery. Jones was smiling, but then Jones was a drug dealer; the expression on his face had little or nothing to do with what was on his mind.

- You haven't been around much, my boy. I called you, and you didn't call back. See, that hurts my feelings, boy. That's the kind of thing makes me think you don't like the life I gave you.

I kept my peace. Nothing I could say would make much difference one way or the other.

- You got a problem: your balls are too big for your britches. You think if you can do something, you can get away with it. Didn't I tell you? I am all-knowing and all-seeing. Nothing you do remains hidden from my view. Now don't be concerned, I know you're not buying anywhere else. So if you're not buying from me, you're not buying at all. And that seems like a damn shame. You hear what happened to JJ?

This was news.

- Poor son of a bitch OD'd. Cranked himself up till his heart jumped straight out of his chest. Made one hell of a mess, let me tell you. Coroner said he'd never seen anything like it.

The bastard was abysmally well-informed. But then, he was probably there for it; JJ never used the product in his life.

- Now, with JJ out of the way, that pretty much clears the path for you to take over the whole area. Make twice as much money for half as much work - you can make them haul their asses up to that rat trap on 46^th, run it like the McDonald's of Drugs. But first, you got to talk to the Big Man. Ronald McDonald himself. He knows about you; knows everything I know and more. He likes to keep track of his employees. And he has expressed to me the gravest consternation at your recent lack of determination in the distribution of our product. Because if people like you aren't buying it, then we're not selling it, and that makes us very, very unhappy.

That was it. We drove northwest, out into Cherry Hill. The houses got bigger and farther apart. Finally we pulled into an enormous mansion of a house - the square footage I could not even guess - with a garage the size of most suburban houses. I wanted a look in that garage; I've always been a car enthusiast, but it hardly seemed the time for a side trip.

We walked in through the front doors and into a floor done in the French baroque style. Every facet was ornately carved, the entire place looked - not precisely old, but new stuff made in an old-fashioned style. Very New Jersey. At this point it became clear to me that I was nearly delirious; I made a mental note to check myself before opening my mouth and making an ass of myself.

We walked to a door that led to an ornate brass spiral staircase down - ornate in a different style. This room was made out like the harem of a prince of Araby, complete with a throne at the end that looked essentially like a pile of shiny cushions. Everything was embroidered in gold and covered in precious metals and stones; I had the impression of walking into a pirate's treasure chest, and once again felt the need to check myself as I was almost giddy. It was dim, and the light seemed to collect at our end of the room - squeezing away, as it were, from the far end and its occupant.

- That you, boy?

The voice was enormous: full, rich, deep, sepulchrally intoned; this was clearly the voice of a priest.

- I'm here, father. And I've brought someone to see you.

- Bring him on down here.

As I approached I realized that the air was dense with incense - the man must have had a million sticks burning around and behind him, giving the impression that he was surrounded by burning coals. In the dim light of the embers I could make out a large black man in black priest's robes, with the white collar around the neck.

I was made to kneel before him. I breathed the incense; it pervaded my mind.

- My son.

I looked up at him.

- My son, I will make this brief and I will make it plain. You have wronged me. I have given you everything you wanted, and once enjoyed you have returned my gifts; opened, used, and spent. Take heed of James's [this was JJ's real first name] example, for such is the fate of those who cross me. Now I trust that you do not wish to end up like him, and if you return to my side we will make a great deal of money together, but do not doubt that if you stray from the cause I will strike you down.

I could only kneel in silence; no reply was wanted.

- But if you are to continue in my service, you must have a baptism. You are soiled; you must be reborn. I will give back all my gifts, but you must pledge yourself to me, and this time in the only terms that are binding: blood.

What happened next is not entirely clear to me. At this point I felt overpowered by the incense; I dimly remember my finger was bleeding, and the blood was used to make some kind of mark on my forehead - perhaps a cross? But it didn't feel like a typical cross - the horizontal bar was too low. And then there was an ink well, full of blood, and a pen, and the curtains were drawn back from the walls. And it seemed that all the walls were covered in signatures and marks, all in blood; that all the room was a living history of lost souls; but perhaps I was delirious then too.

When I woke up the next morning, I was scared out of my mind. I had more product to move; that was clear, but more importantly I had to find a way to free myself of my bonds. I was enslaved, and I desperately sought emancipation.

I went to work; I made some calls, offered the kind of prices addicts could not refuse - I went through all the motions, all over again. I went to their homes and I looked into their sick eyes; I observed their hollow reverences, their gaze permanently fixed on the pocket where the next hit was coming from. I turned over the dust like I had at the best of times, for in my absence and JJ's the market had run a little dry; in retrospect I was extremely lucky no other organization had sprung up to replace mine. I'm sure it was only a matter of time. But all this time my mind was racing; I concocted the most extreme remedies - I considered suicide, and I considered going to the police. But neither was a viable solution; how could the police protect me from such a one as the devil?

When I returned home that night I sat at my desk and considered the possibilities. They were few. I set my perpetual motion machine in motion: I lifted one ball, and it swung until it knocked the line of them, and the ball on the other end swung up, slowed, reached its apex, and swung back down. And at that point the faintest beginning of an idea was born.

All night I paced back and forth about the room and the idea burned brighter and brighter within me until I found myself grinning with manic joy, for I had found my exit. I knew what I had to do, but there was a great deal of care to be taken in doing it right, for to make a mistake was to condemn myself and probably Renee to JJ's fate.

I spent the day in preparation. I considered the druggies I knew, and had met. I thought of each of them, but I had already decided. As soon as the idea occurred to me, I knew who it had to be.

I graced them with my presence that night. The once-proud upper echelon of college society seemed crude and uncouth; they bandied about their money because it was their only redeeming quality. They occupied a club downtown like an invading army, brought with them their lewd girls and ill-fitting outfits. But while I made great show of false friendship, as they were to expect, I was not only looking down my nose at them. I was stalking. I detached myself from them and went downstairs to lay in wait; I knew with an almost religious faith that he would come. And he arrived, quiet and unassuming, making his way down the hallway - I slid farther back into the shadows - until he finally opened the door, at which point I stepped forward, shoved him into the bathroom, stepped in behind him, and shut the door behind me.

- I know what you've been up to, I said, and I know what you're trying to do.

I was sorry that it had to be this way, sorry that to save my soul I had to condemn another, but perhaps the only true satisfaction can come from having tasted the highest high, and ultimately rejected it.

- In this matchbook is a number and a figure. Once you've put together the figure, call the number.

Because I recognized that at the end of the day, these men - demons, rather - did not care about me individually. Once again, I had let business get personal. They needed to own someone, and it needed to be someone with talent. But as long as they had someone it didn't matter who it was. I merely passed the torch on to the next. And if he falls, another will rise to take his place. As long as there is such outrageous demand, people will always step forward to supply it. This is one of the most exploitable markets in the world, and for these people, it's an opportunity they can't afford to miss: the opportunity of a lifetime. For me, as I walked out of the club, I knew it was over. As I rounded the corner, a black Cadillac roared by, and I almost got the impression the driver tipped his hat.

The number on the card was not mine.

* * *

I will never know how she really feels about me. Our relationship went through so many ups and downs, we call it the elevator of love. There was that first animal attraction that brought us together at a frat party; there was her failure to appear when we made a date - which she swears was drug-induced; there was her resurgence of interest when I reemerged as a dealer (a negative as far as I'm concerned), and now, finally, who can say what emotion since I put her through rehab. Gratitude? I hope not. I am transfixed by her sleeping form; I always have been. She is like an angelic child, a cherub in my bed. I can only hope she is as grateful to have me, as I am eternally grateful to have her.