We agreed we would and, as we got out of the elevator on the eighth floor, he said, ‘If you’d really like to wind down, I can help you out.’
      I knew exactly what he meant and I only hoped that he wouldn’t make us pay.

We sat in Mark’s office under the fluorescent lights and he made four lines on a piece of cardboard. He cut the powder with the first American Express credit card I’d ever seen.
      The air-conditioning had been switched off and Mark’s face was wet with sweat and his face and neck and arms were pink, like the skin on his back.
      ‘Who wants to go first?’ he said.
      I didn’t know whether the powder was cocaine or speed, and I didn’t care.
      I snorted the line just as though I’d done it a thousand times before and almost as soon as the chemical taste hit the back of my nose and throat, I felt the kick.
      ‘It’s Grade A,’ said Mark. ‘The best amphetamine money can buy.’
      I was awake like I’d never been awake. I doubted nothing, felt no pain. I’d never come close to feeling as good. The stuffy wet heat in the office was good heat, the white fluorescent light, good white light; the sound of my voice, a good sound; my legs, good legs. And Mark and David, and the short English boy, and the Scot; they were very good, too.

By the end of the second week I was selling four or five paintings a night, sometimes for as much as $150 each. I was addicted to speed and so was David.
      In Mark’s office, the Scot and the other boy sometimes took a few lines, sometimes none at all. They often just drank beer. I took two lines, sometimes three. Mark had stopped handing it out and I paid for my own stash.
      Before selling each night, I dissolved about a half-gram into a glass of water and drank it down, chased it with a few pieces of toast.
      I needed sedatives to sleep and I slept in the afternoons, sometimes for only two or three hours. My eyes were hot and my skin was tight. I ground my teeth. I took more speed.
      At the end of our third week of selling, Mark invited us to come to Sydney for the long weekend.
      ‘Who’s paying?’ said David.
      ‘The company.’
      I was sure we’d be getting on a plane to Sydney, but Mark told us to meet at the office at nine on Friday.
      ‘I’ll be driving,’ he said. ‘We might stop along the way and do some selling.’

It took us fourteen hours to get to Sydney and we ate McDonalds and KFC and chain-smoked in the back of the van. Mark didn’t smoke and kept his window wound down, stuck his head out now and then.

4

  

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