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                        "Me and Travis here, we do undercover work. You know what I'm saying, Jack?"
                        "Cops?"
                        "Yeah, cops, but we ain't pigs, man. Dig it, I never busted anybody for being high or having a few joints on them. Quiet as it's kept, I smoke a little weed myself."
                        He showed me his badge and a Pittsburgh Police ID card, and when I looked back at his eyes after seeing the photo, it occurred to me that Larry was high right now.
                        "Why're you telling me all this?"
                        "Cause you're perfect. Cause we can use a dude like you."
                        That got me smiling again, and I shook my head.
                        "I couldn't do that kind of work."
                        "Why not? What's wrong with that kind of work?"
                        "Nothing, man, I just . . . I just can't see myself slapping the cuffs on anybody, that's all."
                        His expression relaxed when he realized I hadn't been insulting his profession.
                        "Ain't about that, Jack, ain't about slapping cuffs on people. It's about information . . . intelligence."
                        "You mean squealing?"
                        "No, man, snitches are unreliable. They're unreliable people with unreliable information. You'd be employed by the department--you'd be on the job like us." He glanced at his partner. "You wouldn't have a badge, but then you wouldn't need one, cause you wouldn't be making any arrests."
                        "So what would I be doing?"
                        "Being yourself. Look, you're different, but you're hip. You can fit in. So that's what you do. You fit in, you watch, you listen, maybe ask a few questions. That's all."
                        ‘. . . I don't know. Some of my friends--"
                        "Look, I told you, we ain't pigs. We don't care what your friends do. We're just trying to get the dealers off the street. Coke, horse--that shit's killing people, man."
                        The arrangement Larry was suggesting was illegal, and it turned out he had a lot more in mind for me than just asking questions, but I wouldn't find that out till later. That summer afternoon in 1972 I was just a lame kid living in my grandmother's attic. My life up till then hadn't prepared me for college, but I didn't really belong on the street either. Truth was I didn't belong anywhere. And yet the world outside my window was a glass of water, and most of the time I felt like I was dying of thirst.
                        I looked up at the white guy named Travis. His stern face as he gently handled the fidgeting infant remained an enigma. Probably thought he was cool.
                        "What you think, my man?" Larry asked. "Wanna get involved, do some good?"
~~~~~~~~~~
                        Center Avenue connected my East End neighborhood with another ghetto, an older one, called the Hill District, which bordered downtown Pittsburgh. The man Larry was investigating worked out of the Hill. Nate Wright was a dealer who also owned a couple of night clubs.

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Look for I GOT THE FEELING soon in Dark Streets: After Hours, to be published by Cyber-Pulp in 2004.

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