ED LEARY (1939-1944) PART 3
Continuing from the February 2020 MM Report...
Eddie proved an excellent manager of money—although we both steadily increased our own habits, however—cutting down the actual financial gain. One whore alone—a large, wholesome, and good-looking woman named Sal—did forty to forty five dollars of business with us a day. She was a good money-maker and we could always count on hearing from her—sometimes two or three times an evening. She became a good friend—frequently coming to see us—sitting and talking or shooting up—taking a rest in between her working periods. She was remarkable in that she showed absolutely none of the effects of the usual drug addict. She continued to remain large and healthy-appearing, with bright natural coloring. She was a heavy eater, smoked incessantly, and shot up no less than ten grains of morphine each day. She was amazingly good-natured—seldom indulging in self-pity—never gossiping and always anxious to help anyone. She’d set aside a few dollars a day—for handouts, to the less fortunate sisters or for the innumerable Time Square characters she knew out scuffling and trying to score in one way or another. Sal had a daughter somewhere—with someone—whom she supported. She loved her deeply and never failed—when occasionally the three of us went out for something to eat—often to Chinatown—to pick up some trinket to surprise her with.
Our business venture proved successful and we began laying money aside for a trip the following spring to California. The holidays came and went and one day we realized we had been together almost a year. It seemed incredible. A whole year had passed with things going smoothly—a record for both of us.
In the beginning Eddie had been a bit self-conscious about our relationship but even that had ceased to be of importance and he no longer considered it strange. We were unexcitably happy. We had arguments and sudden flare-ups of temper—but thus far nothing really serious. Eddie had gotten rather melancholy around the holidays but it had passed quickly.
Most of the doctors we had started with were still with us. One suddenly had trouble with the law over an abortion case he was involved in and another had gotten cold feet after some junkies he had been writing scripts for took a fall—mentioning his name to the police—who had promptly paid him a visit.
He refused thereafter to write any more for anyone.
As for the rest—about six in all—most were not only writing prescriptions for us in our names but would also—for a few extra dollars— write scripts with other names which they’d readily honor when questioned by the pharmacist. There were several druggists as well that we had gotten to know who would always fill our scripts without question.
Most of our doctors were located in Brooklyn. One afternoon I made a trip over to Brooklyn alone in order to pick up an extra script from a doctor who had been with us almost from the first. Eddie planned on seeing someone else—the two of us expecting to see each other back at our place late in the afternoon.
It was a beautiful day—all golden and full of sunshine and the first hints of warm weather.
I had seen the doctor—incidentally picking up a quarter-grain fix before leaving his office—returned to New York—stopped by a drugstore— had the prescription filled—stepped out onto the street—and was just getting ready to cross over to the other side—when I was suddenly gripped on the arm by a neatly dressed, unassuming appearing young man who—before I realized what was happening—reached into my pocket, removed the box of morphine tablets, and said, “Step over here, I want to speak with you,” flashed a badge, and further added, “Federal Agent.”
I was so completely taken by surprise it was several minutes before I became conscious of just why I was being stopped. He was very polite, asking me about the box of morphine—inquiring whether I was an addict or not—and if so how long had I been an addict—but particularly how long this doctor had been taking care of me.
He went on further to explain there had been a number of prescriptions written in his name. I answered his questions as honestly as possible without admitting the doctor had long known I was simply a drug addict and was merely doing business with me.
He then asked me to step back into the drugstore—while he checked further with the druggist, who assured him that the script was legitimate—having called the doctor to make sure. He and the druggist spoke in undertones for a few minutes. He then turned to me and told me I could go—giving me back the morphine at the same time.
I departed as quickly as possible. I used a somewhat roundabout way of returning home—feeling pretty sure at the same time the man undoubtedly already knew where I lived. When I got in, Eddie still hadn’t returned. I called the doctor immediately—describing in detail exactly what had happened—advising him to lay off writing scripts for a while at least. A short time later Eddie returned and I gave him a full account of what had taken place.
Eddie was calm about the whole thing—saying only, “Well, man, that’s the end of another good doctor.”
We discussed to some extent whether or not it would be wise to move—finally deciding in favor of staying—figuring if we were due for trouble we’d get it whether we moved or not. Eddie did make other arrangements with our customers for meets, etc. but otherwise we continued along pretty much as we had been. We never did have any further trouble directly as a result of this particular episode, but it did act as a turning point in our general good luck.
Shortly afterwards one of our dependable sources of supply began getting nervous and cut us down to one script apiece a week. Almost the same thing happened with a doctor we had only recently contacted. All of them were getting jumpy. Several arrests had been made of doctors in New York and the papers had played the cases up big.
We were becoming increasingly worried—having had to cut out one of our customers because we were unable to get hold of enough stuff steadily to take care of our own habit and handle the usual number of customers as well.
We began looking round for new doctors, covering neighborhoods we had previously shied clear of.
Then one day we solved the situation—we decided to write our own scripts. In the same way our first plan wasn’t original, this one wasn’t either. We were both conscious of the greater risk involved—but we were also aware that we were caught up in a situation we had to contend with no matter what else happened. The whole junk scene—insofar as the user was concerned—was growing worse instead of better. Junkies were becoming desperate—more and more of them turned to crimes of violence to keep up their habits. The stuff being pushed on the street was becoming more expensive and harder to get.
There had always been a certain amount of criminal activity involved with junk, but prior to this period it had been kept somewhat to a minimum. Now anything went. Also—and what is probably the strangest aspect of the whole deal—more and more people were taking an interest in junk—becoming curious about it—experimenting with it. The idea was that if you handled junk—you automatically made money.
Eddie and myself were fortunate in that we were pretty well organized and, although our immediate predicament was unpleasant, we felt our new solution would be effective. And it was.
