Doors of Deception

Noto Bene: excerpt from book – pub date April 1 2012

Dana Fitzgerald ©
Don’t Try this At Home: Toronto’s Drugstore Cowboys, ’72-89©

Preface: The Doors of Deception —Finding Forrest

Youth is a blunder, middle age a struggle, old age regret, or something like that.

Toronto Police Station – 52 Division – 10:30 P.M. – 1988

It was a small room. An interrogation room. Drab gray walls dripped with past agonies, while the filthy, tiled floor pooled in dread and dried blood. The only furniture a table and chair with handcuffs. It smelled of sweat, vomit, and terror; a typical soundproof sweatbox, where cops grilled criminals, getting their answers with persuasion and force. There were no windows, no escape; the thick door was sheathed in streaked rusty steel, a dangling bare bulb lighting the square space. Instruments of encouragement were in plain view—Corporal Polanski’s ham-like fists, and a tattered phone book, extra thick. Bookcased by two policemen, the chair’s current occupant, Lou McCraven, was shaken, disoriented, and scared. The two cops had been at Lou for over an hour; no good cop-bad cop, both pummeled him at will. “Enough of this bull shit — I want the whole story,” roared Lieutenant Storminsky, “you spineless little puke, I want everything…that was the deal. Is this water-downed junk from the heist? What’d ya do, get a gram, then cut it to nothing? Did it come from Forrest, and where is he?”

The tall, 6 foot 2, Lt. Storminsky continued walking around the seated and cowering Lou, a mean frown pushing his thick eyebrows together. Stopping behind Lou, he bent over and shouted in his ear:
“I kept my part of the deal, now I get everything you learned – names, numbers, addresses…everybody and everything! I still have you on that drug store, so start talking, or you’re turning right when you leave, not left, right to the cellblock. Who did the Enovo heist? Forrest and Barker? I want answers!”

Suddenly, a heavy phone book caught Lou unaware, hitting him so hard he saw stars. Seconds later, Storminsky held it against his face, while Corporal Polanski slammed it with a nightstick, the blow pounding through the phone book; cuts or marks were blocked by the thin pages—ergo, no Police brutality. That last whack did it; Lou had enough, his head spinning from the blows, he feebly raised his head and nodded in surrender. Storm leaned over Lou, straining to hear what the battered informant struggled to say. Lou coughed, shaking his head, trying to unscramble his marbles—his throat sore, parched, and full of blood – he managed to moan, “Forrest…he’s in a warehouse, an abandoned warehouse…on Lansdowne, south of Dundas West.”

Storminsky smiled, patted Lou on the back and ordered Polanski to get some cold drinks. Fresh cool air wafted through the door as Polanski left. Lieutenant Storminsky, Officer-in-Charge of Toronto’s Special Drugstore Squad, unlocked the chair’s cuffs, lit two cigarettes, handing one to Lou. He’d spent two years tracking the crew that stole pounds of pure opiates from a pharmaceutical manufacturer. Those drugs were now showing up on the street as cheap Heroin pills, and Storm wanted the guys who started this mess. With a long list of suspects, Forrest was at the top. Forrest was always at the top in Storminsky’s book. He repeatedly got him to court, but Forrest always walked out a free man. That only fueled his personal vendetta to grab him for the dozens of drugstores he figured Forrest had pulled off.

They’d been interrogating Lou for over an hour; just as he thought, once he walked on the drugstore and tasted freedom, he didn’t feel like keeping his end of the bargain. Giving up his dead brother’s friends, the big boys. The guys with the dope connections Lou valued. He had to send a car, drag him in, and remind him about the deal for freedom. The deal Storminsky gambled on, hoping it would give him information he needed.

Storminsky knew Lou’s brother had just died; after running away from a pharmacy with an 80-ouncer of cough syrup, he was later found face down in a nearby stream. Forrest was a good friend, and he wanted to use that connection to get Forrest. He had eased off Lou, after catching him red-handed on a drug store beef, telling Lou he could walk if he linked Forrest with the pharmaceutical heist, buying Heroin from him directly. Time to collect on his deal…anyway, Lou was just a link – he had what he wanted, something that led to Forrest. He placed the phone book on the table, right in front of Lou, a silent and malevolent reminder to keep talking. Lou sat still, puffing his cigarette, occasionally glancing at the battered book. Storminsky’s history with Forrest was long and convoluted. Catching him overdosed in a drug filled van, he thought he had him cold. Some fast-talking lawyer got the charges thrown out, and Forrest got a stint in rehab. The court thanked Storminsky for saving Forrest’s life. Ever since then, Forrest was personal; he’d dragged him in a couple of times, but his lawyer always saved him. Finding Forrest with his pants down would be a sweet victory.

“Ready to pay for your freedom? Selling your brother’s buddies down the river…well Lou, you’ve crossed the line now. Like it or not, you work for me now, and better stay out of jail. I hear rats have a hard time, especially after we put in a good word for you. Did you think I was going to let you slither away, giving me low-ball punks and bullshit samples of Heroin?” Storminsky gloated, sitting on the table, letting his legs swing. Polanski returned with the drinks; everyone cracked them open and took long sips. It had been an intense hour.

Lou coughed, leaned over a trash can, spat out a mouthful of blood, taking another drink to rinse his mouth. Notebook in hand, Storminsky puffed on his cigarette, ready to write anything down. After giving Lou a few minutes to recover, the questions flew; he didn’t get all the information he wanted, but he got the address he’d been searching for: apartment 2-B, 1750 Lansdowne Ave. Forrest’s hideout – maybe they could catch him off guard, holding dope from the heist.

He opened the door and let Lou go; Storminsky kept his deals, content to let one crime slide to bust a bigger one. He had his own reputation to uphold; if he didn’t keep his deals, no one would ever deal with him. With this tip, he might nab Forrest with leftovers from the heist…enough to nail him. They grabbed pounds of pure opiates; knowing Forrest, he probably kept an ounce or two, and if he caught him off guard, no bleeding heart Judge would let him go this time — Forrest had lived there a while, and wouldn’t be expecting a visit. Within minutes, Lou was a distant memory, a human stepping stone to the motherlode of busts. Back in his office, he started putting a task force together to pay Forrest a visit. He called his favorite Judge, and a proper warrant was faxed to his office. Amidst his giddy flurry of activity, one name and face stood out in his mind: Zach Forrest.

Zach’s Warehouse Apartment – minutes later.

The studio was cold and damp. Gusts of wind pushed rain through plastic covered windowpanes with increased fury. Rips in the flapping assortment of shopping bags and tattered tarps let the cold wet night sneak inside. Small puddles pooled under the windows, creating rivulets that streamed across warped floorboards, collecting around an old pipe hole, once connected to a rusting, long dead hot water heater. To retain heat, a frayed camping blanket was nailed over the crumbling back corner of the apartment. The corner needed brickwork and a large, warehouse-sized new window, impossible to ask for or get in a semi-squatting status. It was a make shift living arrangement I planned to leave, right I finished my business in Toronto. I took care of everything last week, and was just being lazy about saying good-bye.

I sat on the sofa, the only comfortable piece of furniture in the room, my attention focused on a small cotton ball, held against the side of a bent spoon by a 1cc disposable syringe. Sucking the spoon’s contents into the syringe, my eyes had a faraway but intense gleam to them, as if the ritual had a long, sacred tradition, like the Chinese tea ceremony.

Shaking slightly, I tightened a belt around my arm until a vein appeared, jabbing it with the needle, pushing the contents into my vein in a well-practiced motion. Instantly, a warm euphoria spread through my body, and I settled back on the sofa, my face glazed with a satisfied smile, my shaking and twitching body now relaxed under the narcotic’s insidious spell. I was totally wired, although I didn’t care; with all the opiates I had, my supply was secure, always there to feed my humungous habit. The dampness vanished, along with the rest of my concerns. They were still there – I just didn’t care. I was internally warm and cozy. The Heroin’s blanket of hospitality kept me snug and sheltered as I burrowed in the soft couch and pillows, pulling a blanket over me for extra warmth.

My world vanished into a drug-induced reverie; images appeared with no substance – the ephemeral dreams of Morpheus, devoid of meaningful explanation, scurried around, like thoughts on a hamster wheel. The pure Heroin, Diacetylmorphine, was part of my personal stash from the score on a drug manufacturer. My safety deposit box held over $300 grand, along with an assortment of pure, popular opiates. In total, I had a mix of 8 ounces: Heroin, Oxymorphone, Hydrocodone, and Oxycodone. We sold everything else; dozens of 20, 16 and 10 ounce bottles of every major narcotic base available, along with exotic narcotic derivatives – enough to make the tons of street pills flooding Toronto. The cheap Heroin was selling like hotcakes. The cops were still pissed about this score, and wanted blood. We lost them in a car chase, something they get really pissed about. They were all over me for six months, finding nothing, then I created a diversion that suggested a New York crew pulled the job, and the heat died off.

In December, an ex-girlfriend said they had a warrant; now I was hiding, biding my time before I left Toronto for good. I’d planned to leave earlier, once I finished beating a nonsense charge in court, but my old partner dumped the contents of a drug store at my place, then got jacked for the score. I had to sell everything before leaving. I sold the last three 80-ouncers of cough syrup last week: I still had enough Hydrocodone to make thousands of 80-ouncers, but $1,600 bucks was still $1,600 bucks. My business in Toronto was over, and it was time to go, but I’d grown lazy, hanging around my anonymous apartment, shooting way too much Heroin.

As the wind abated, a steady trickling could be heard; dripping water splashed into the accumulated pools of rain, slowly draining down cracks and holes. I imagined the apartment below had problems when it rained – the water ended up somewhere, probably through his roof or walls. It was almost the end of March – winter was sliding into spring – the perfect time to leave. At two hundred bucks a month, the warehouse served my purposes: it kept me safe and anonymous, off the street and off the grid – away from the cops, my most important goal.

I was totally unconcerned with the weather and the continuous stream of water that ran across the floor. My head was dry, as all the furniture was situated near the warm and dry front corner. A series of bamboo screens blocked off the studio’s demolished south corner, hiding the broken foundation. The screens were free, and I enjoyed the short-term decoration, making the months easier to bear. Free is good: some places have shit that costs a lot—in some other places, things are free, but they’re all shit.

With March here, it was a lot warmer; my spidy sense was tingling, telling me to go, but I needed a plan. I felt the warehouse was safe, and I was growing too lackadaisical here. Omar, my shady landlord, must have been quite the technician where he came from; he was able to hook up the electricity and phone lines, but constantly shoved warnings under our doors saying service would be interrupted—without explanation. We all knew he was a scamster renting out an abandoned building, so no one complained. Everyone was running from something, knew the scam, and enjoyed the anonymity and cheap rent.

Most of my neighbors were drug dealers and users, people on the lam, illegal aliens, or wanna-be gangstas. Omar showed up once a month for rent, and I found out you could get a month free if you missed him. He only showed when he had to. It was a quick fix all round: everyone was ready to make the midnight move. I was ready for an instant dash, out the smashed back window, onto a roof, and bingo, over a fence into the railroad track ravine. We were also told not to leave lights burning at night; an obvious clue the electricity was an illegal hook up (Omar suggested using candles, and almost admitted, in so many words, that a fully lit building would bring unwanted attention). People were happy to comply – no one wanted any officials nosing around. Some of my neighbors used black out curtains. I avoided socializing and mostly kept to myself. I made a few friends, all into something illegal.

Donato, a dude on the ground level, had stacks of brand-new stereos and other electronics piled to the ceiling. He offered me a good deal on a stereo, but I declined; when I had to leave, the less I had the better. My neighbors across the hall were okay – Tony dealt pounds of weed – always smoking and drinking beer, they were a blast to visit for an evening. We were all squatting, but paying for electricity, phones, and plumbing. I don’t know how Omar worked the phones, but I didn’t care. I trusted four people with my number, only using it for drug deals or emergency calls.

Along with selling Bark’s drugs, my other reason to stay in Toronto was a court case, thanks to a nut bar with fatal attraction syndrome. After throwing out some important documents, I asked this woman to leave me and my apartment for good, finally grabbing her and tossing her out. She booted me in the leg, leaving a big bruise, but I never hit her. She called the cops and tried to get me charged with assault, but to my utter amazement and surprise, even the cops believed my side of the story. With the Police refusing to charge me, she went to a Justice of the Peace to swear out a warrant. She claimed I beat her, kicked her and did all kinds of physical damage; unbelievably, all this abuse didn’t leave a tiny bruise or scratch. Even an ultrasound came up empty. Nothing is always nothing, no matter how many lies you tell.

The ensuing court case occurred while I was drinking heavily—I polished off half a forty-pounder before my trial—just to relax my nerves. Alcohol loosened my occasionally acerbic tongue. Since I had no lawyer, a duty-counsel was appointed to represent me, but after giving them my name, he flubbed everything so badly, I politely dismissed him and acted as my own attorney. The Judge smirked at this, and was already on my side. I focused on the Judge and told him what really happened. When informed about the magic ultrasound, just to see if she was supernaturally injured internally with no external marks, he actually chuckled. Using terms like miraculous, magical, and immaculate, I ridiculed the allegations, exposing them as fanciful lies. I looked at Rhoda and smiled, knowing the Judge saw through all the lies the Crown was trying to sell. This Judge wasn’t buying.

While relating my version of events to the Judge, I made the Crown look like a fool. Right away, I mentioned I had a record, and when the Crown tried to read it, the Judge gave one of those loving smacks with the gavel, telling him to move on, I’d already admitted I had a record. He noticed an assault charge on my record, and asked me about that. He made the biggest blunder a lawyer can make: never ask a question unless you know the answer. I told him it was when someone tossed me out of their house: the whole courtroom laughed. He sat down and said no further questions. I had a photo of the bruise on my leg, holding a newspaper against it for a date. The Judge took one look, smacked that gavel again and said case dismissed. They didn’t even deign to let her testify: unaware of courtroom proceedings, that last smack with the gavel meant she was a liar, and the Judge heard enough lies. I walked by Rhoda, and said, “See you on the 23rd,” the date of my counter charge. She was a bundle of nerves, unsure and unaware of what just happened.

That was in October—I took another job in December, and made the same mistake of dating a co-worker. That also blew up, and the cops later showed up with a warrant; thinking she was rubbing it in, she told me how much effort the cops were putting into my capture. She’d tossed me out of her apartment, and while staying with a friend, I hooked up with Omar in late December. She gave them my friend’s address, but he didn’t know and wouldn’t say where I went…he told them I left for Vancouver. As usual, they didn’t believe a word he said, but pulled him in for unpaid parking tickets.

Now I knew my smiling face was in every bus station, train depot, even the airport. My plan was to leave by buying a car, but my name had more red flags than the United Nations. Getting out was problematic; I needed an escape route, and I needed it soon. Shooting Heroin like there’s no tomorrow made me lethargic and complacent; the warehouse gave me a false sense of security, and I needed to wake up and devise an exit strategy. I always managed to stay one step ahead of the cops, and I had to start thinking that way again, or I’d be stuck in Toronto for a long time.

I was a bad name in many Police divisions, a name of derision and scorn. And, after numerous newspaper articles, I was infamous; they always included my parent’s address, so all the neighbors knew about my alleged exploits. I was careful, always wore gloves, got out in under two minutes, never carried dope or stashed it where I was living—so everytime they raided my place, they always came up empty handed—a fact that triggered deeper resentment. Trumped-up charges without proper evidence gave me an insight into their techniques and underhanded tactics, and taught me how to remain untouchable—it was now a familiar arrangement, notwithstanding, it was something that was dynamic and subject to luck. I was persona non grata in Toronto: time to return to the city I ran off to as an escaped juvie, Vancouver. I wondered if any of my old friends, like Vince, Uncle, Terry, and Freddie, were still roaming the streets as free spirits, or whether they’d changed to corporate clones, doing the 9-5 lifetime shuffle. The only problem was how to get out of Toronto…I was a wanted man, if only wanted for questioning, beating, and revenge.

My wardrobe was simple, portable, and functional. I favored military-style cargo pants—the large extra pockets on the legs helped keep my valuables close: money, phone book, passport, jewelry, wallet, I.D., and dope. I could grab my bag and be gone, leaving everything behind in a heartbeat. I saw this movie about professional thieves, and the lead character said real pros should be able to walk away from everything in under five minutes—I cut that down to 2 minutes.

I leaned over my homemade table, an orange crate with a 2’ X 3’ burnt and sanded plywood top, picking up the used syringe. I cleaned it several times, sucking water in and out; they could be used again, as long as the point was sharp. My supply of new units was running low, so I kept them as long as they would pierce a vein. I also grabbed the small bottle of pure Heroin from the table, returned it to my pocket, an easily accessible location in case I needed to lose it fast. The Heroin felt like a security blanket—with my humungous habit, I needed it in my pocket.

Stretching out on the battered sofa, I nodded off a bit, listening to tunes on my CD player, when the phone ring. With so few friends having the number, I wondered who would phone at 11:00—an odd hour to call, unless someone was close by. I casually answered the phone, thinking a friend was near, but quickly sat up. Within 20 seconds the call was over. I heard what I needed; plan or no plan, I had to go. Jumping up, I put on my shoes, thick hoodie, rain coat, and grabbed my backpack—trying to avoid panic, I was zooming around the apartment, gathering the remains of my life. I stuffed everything in my backpack and hooked it over my shoulders, tying the waist so it was secure. Less than two minutes and I was ready to go. Circumstances are real motive makers, helping you make up your mind and move; I was off, forced to make plans on the fly.

The call was from my partner Barker, or Bark: he was in 52 Division, and they left him alone in a room with a phone. Everyone knows to dial 9 for an outside line, so, probably handcuffed in front, he managed to reach me. Without knowing how long he had until the cops returned, he quickly told me everything he overheard: there was a buzz of activity there—they got my address from some police informant, and were planning a raid on my place—now. While advising me to get out of Dodge, he hung up. I figured
He heard the cops coming, hanging up before they knew he used the phone. I took a last look at my home for three months, put any evidence in a small bag, tore off the blanket and plastic, unveiling my secret exit. The rain had slowed, and everything was sodden and soaked: I hoped the nearby roof wasn’t too slippery.

Suddenly, there was a loud crash in the hallway. I quietly tiptoed to the peephole, and saw a bunch of cops in the corridor, equipped with a steel battering ram to knock down doors. The cops were on the front side, about one apartment down; they had the right address, but the wrong suite number. I knew the couple that lived there, feeling sorry for Tony, the pot dealer. I had a steel bar screwed to my floor, angled into a metal hasp, padlocked to my sturdy door, making it hard to knock down my door. He lived at 2-B, and I was at 2-E, so maybe they were dyslexic heard it wrong. I wondered if they were only there for Tony, but dismissed that, as I knew how much they wanted to talk to me…and not for casual conversation over a coffee.

Sneaking back to my window exit, I looked to see if any cops were watching—nothing—only flashing lights from the front. I crawled out, hung from the window sill, easing myself down onto the adjacent roof. I crept to the edge, jumped over the train-track fence, landed quietly, narrowly missing a large puddle. Thick bushes grew along the fence, so I snuck along, heading to the bridge. Passing the section of the parking lot only blocked by bushes, a cop stood by the side door, but seemed focused on the front of the building. A silhouette of personal danger, I watched him and avoided puddles, skulking along, painfully aware my sneak escape could become an instant hot pursuit if spotted. Gratefully clear, I breathed easier and ran to the bridge, clamored up the opposite side, emerging on Dundas west. Red and blue flashing lights reflected off dead glass buildings, but they were way down Lansdowne, in a run-down factory section, blocked by several buildings. I wondered how the cops got my address; on the phone, Bark only had time to tell me to run, even if he knew how they found me. I wasn’t about to go down to the Don and visit…they want I.D.—mine was as hot as Jimmy Hoffa. A rat; it must have been a rat…somehow, some dirt bag, unsolid dude got my address…it was the only explanation. Maybe someone was worked over, coughing up the building, but screwed them on the apartment number. Maybe they just had it wrong. Lucky me…once again, unexpected and unwelcome cops appeared, thanks to someone’s big mouth. If they had the right apartment, I could be in the back seat of a cruiser right now, with Storminsky grinning at me, waving my vial of Enovo’s Heroin in triumph. That was close—time to disappear.

There was a working phone by the buildings on the North side of the bridge. My only chance was cabbing it out of here, or jumping on a street car. If the cops got me, my future would be painful. In my current, heavily wired state, I’d be climbing the walls for a hit in a few hours, a fate worse than death. I looked at the address of one of the buildings, phoned a cab, informed it would take 5 minutes. I ducked between two buildings, trying to control my beating heart and think. If I headed downtown, I could disappear in the crowds on Yonge Street. I made a serious promise to myself: if I got out of this mess, and out of Toronto, I would never repeat this lifestyle, living as a normal functioning person. The cash and dope would be a leg up, but once that was gone, I’d quit narcotics, do Detox for real, and avoid Retox, a few blocks down the street. Or the Cordova Street Detox, where you walk out and pass Main and Hastings…the open air dope market—open 24/7.

Through my palpitating heart and heavy breathing, my thoughts were on the flashing lights, and a ride downtown. I was in Storminsky’s district…my future was totally fucked if he jacked me. The cab actually showed up early, slowing as he neared one of the buildings—I popped out, waving him over. Sliding in the back seat, I told him to take me downtown. He made a U-turn, and headed away from the sizable posse behind me. He asked about all the flashing lights—I gave a succinct answer, my distracted mood discouraging conversation—accident. With my hood pulled down, I sat like a statue, occasionally checking our progress as we fled the scene. I wondered how long they’d linger at the warehouse, and whether they’d find the gaping hole around my rear studio. They’d figure out how I left, but wouldn’t know where I went. If they went so far as to check any cab pick-ups around that time, I didn’t want this cabbie to see my face. At Young and Dundas, I tossed him a fifty for a twenty buck ride, hopped out, saying keep the change. I moseyed about, enjoying a few drinks at bars with live bands, bumped into a friend playing in a band, and after several drinks, eventually registering in a 5-star hotel. Using my fake I.D. and hundred dollar bills for pre-payment, I killed the clerk’s snobbish attitude towards my casually filthy attire: muddy shoes, cargo pants, waterproof hoodie, and backpack. I wasn’t their usual clientele. I told him my car broke down and had to wait for a cab. I didn’t want to raise any questions, and gave him a fifty to make him smile, and send me some hot food. I paid for three nights, hoping I’d plan my escape before the expensive rent expired.

….missing excerpt…see book…April 1, 2012 – edited and ready?

I started running in 1971, fleeing authority, and the terrors of Reform School…I left nowhere, seeking somewhere. Nevertheless, I’ve only known a life on the run, running from one disaster to another. It was a marathon of marauding, a stirring story of skedaddling, and an everlasting expedition of evasion; avoiding jails and institutional sovereignty, I clutched my autonomy and liberty, looking forward, and never looking back. I always knew what was chasing me, but never who. Addiction followed me, the only solace I had from a world of hate…it seemed to follow along, right behind addiction. From one crossing to another, from thought to action, this continuous journey created my life — ramshackled, riotous, and rambunctious, a whirlwind in a windstorm, and a tempest in a typhoon. Words could never paint the pictures I’ve seen, describe the death I’ve witnessed, or convey the violence I’ve experienced. Hell, even my birth was violent…I kicked the doctor that delivered me in the head. Funny.

I returned to the desk, and the catharsis I was experiencing, spewing my life out, the furious frenzy of writing this history I couldn’t believe was mine. It seemed like I was talking about someone else, as the years of abuse coalesced in my mind. Mournfully punctuated with grief, I managed to survive, and to record a miraculous litany of death and survival. I desperately needed a reversal of fortune; according to the great Aristotle, a peripeteia, or reversal, along with discovery, is more effective when it comes to a drama, particularly in a tragedy.


Chapter One…Birth