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. I m fine.His arm steadied me as I tried to sit up.I did itslowly, expecting the thudding headache of a hangover,but I felt okay, except for a passing dizziness.I could see more of the room now.It wasn t big;about the size of my bedroom back home.The 292 / Elizabeth Peterswalls were adobe, unpainted and dirty.There was asingle door of heavy wooden planks.No windows.The furniture consisted of a battered table and twopacking cases.Originally the place might have been astorage shed or an animal pen.Now it was a prison.I looked at my fellow prisoner and he returned mylook with an unconvincing attempt at a smile.Thedried blood on his cheek looked black in the poor light.He was in his shirt sleeves; his coat, rolled and wad-ded, was on the floor behind me, where it had servedas a pillow for my head. What time is it? I asked. I don t know. He held out his arm, and I saw thathis watch was smashed. It s night.Late. Where are we? I was hoping you could tell me that. I m afraid I wasn t paying attention to where wewere going. I m not surprised. His arm tightened reflexively; itwasn t an embrace or a gesture of reassurance, it wasas if he were squashing something. They gave you aheavy dose. Dose of what? Psilocybin, maybe.Derived from a local mushroom.It s considerably more potent than mescaline, and lessapt to produce nausea.Possibly ololiuqui morning-glory seeds.Ivan seems to have access to a lot ofthings. The Night of Four Hundred Rabbits / 293 Ivan, I said. He s our boy.I don t know what they told you  A pack of lies.Except you are fuzz, aren t you? I guess my cover is wearing pretty thin, he saiddrily. I m from the Bureau of Narcotics. What are you doing down here? Making a complete ass of myself.Don t get anyideas, Carol.I don t carry bombs in my shoes, and mykarate belt isn t black.It s pale gray. I could have picked a better person to get kidnappedwith&.I m sorry.I didn t mean that. You are only too right. His mouth relaxed in anunamused smile. But you haven t heard my excuses.I have some great excuses.I underestimated Ivan.Ithought he was a two-bit punk like most of the lower-echelon narcotics types.He isn t.He s paranoid anddangerous.And this is not a two-bit operation.If hebrings this deal off, he ll be in the big money.And itlooks as if he ll succeed.Tonight s the night.The nightof the four hundred rabbits.He wasn t making a lot of sense, but I knew hewasn t trying to explain; he was talking, out loud, tohimself.But for me all the whirling clues of the pastweek suddenly snapped together, like a jigsaw puzzlewhen the one strategic piece has been found. That s what she meant, I gasped. Not her 294 / Elizabeth Peterspots; his& Uncle Jaime s pots of marijuana, that s whatshe meant when she talked about thirty rabbits.Theyuse the rabbit scale to describe drugs.Ivan and Ramón,at the party& And if thirty rabbits refers to marijuana,then four hundred rabbits&  Heroin.I think we re on the same track; why don twe carry on a conversation instead of having two sep-arate monologues? I don t know where to start.Heroin? Is Ivangrowing poppies? I remember thinking that it wassurprising more people didn t cultivate them. No, you re off the track again.Ivan is enough of amegalomaniac to think of something like that eventu-ally; his interest in chemistry may have been stimulatedby some such notion.But that isn t how the narcoticsbusiness works, it s too complex for one man to controlall the stages.You know something about heroin? I read an article once.From the poppy fields ofTurkey to Marseilles by way of Beirut or Damascus&  Then I don t have to give you the complete lecture.The point is that after the morphine base has beenturned into heroin, the problem of smuggling it intothe States still remains.The poor, hard-workingsmuggler has it rough these days, we ve caught on tohis best tricks. The Night of Four Hundred Rabbits / 295 I never even heard of your little group, I said re-pressively [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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