Shooting Dr. Jack Chapter One Troutman is a one-way street that runs from nowhere to nowhere, from Metropolitan and Flushing Avenues at the north end, to Bushwick Avenue at the south, in between Brooklyn and Queens, in between neighborhoods, unwanted and unclaimed. It is not really Bushwick, not really Ridgewood, not industrial and not residential, not a desirable place to live and without the character of Harlem or Bed-Sty. It is a street of failures. Fall through the cracks of a better or kinder world, and you find yourself on Troutman Street. Dreams of a new world die in her sweatshops, cars and trucks die in her chop shops and junkyards, children die in her vacant lots, shooting one another for the right to sell crack on the two or three big intersections, junkies die wherever they happen to be when they shoot up -- hallways, alleys, parking lots. Even the whores who work Troutman Street are failures, too homely, too scarred, too emaciated and wasted, too obviously addicted to be of much use as generators of profit. Even for endeavors such as prostitution and drug sales, there are better and more profitable places to do business. People who live on Troutman Street, businesses that locate there, and even the street people who make it their home stay because all of their other choices are exhausted. Troutman Street is a place of end games. From beginning to end, it is one of those places where whores, junkies, businesses, cars, and dreams go to die. God, Stoney thought, must be like one of those kids who likes to catch flies and pull their wings off so that he can watch them crawl around and suffer until they die. It was the only possible explanation. The thought made Stoney's hangover even worse, if that were possible, each throb God's way of saying, Take that, you punk. The brightly colored cars roasted in the sun, almost motionless on the New Jersey Turnpike, a long line inching to the north through the Jersey Meadowlands. He looked eastward across the ruined marsh, to where the bright towers of Manhattan rose over the low hills of the Palisades, a woman standing in a breeze to avoid breathing her own stink. The bleat of a horn roused him, and he eased his car forward another six feet. He began to turn to give the driver behind him a one-finger salute, but he felt a sharp, stabbing pain shoot from his neck up through the top of his skull as he twisted in the seat. Grimacing, he turned front again, not even lifting his eyes to the rearview mirror, and for a second he thought he would pass out. Jesus, he thought, just kill me, don't torture me like this. He reached under the seat for the bottle, and for one panicky moment he couldn't find it, but then there it was, stuck under the rear corner of the floor mat. He hefted the dark brown pint bottle, comforted by the familiar shape, slightly curved in his hand, full and heavy. Holding it below window level, he twisted the top off, listening to the crackle of the metal cap tearing loose from its retaining ring. He wanted to lift it to his nose, smell the smoky aroma, but he didn't. Everybody's a cop, he thought, everybody has a cell phone. He fished a paper cup out of the trash on the floor and poured three fingers into it. A snort, that's what his old man would have called it, not a drink, really, just a snort. He recapped the bottle and replaced it under the seat. He took a swig, just a small hit from the cup, and his body rebelled. His stomach rolled, suddenly he felt dizzy, and he started to retch, but he fought it, muscling the bile back down into his stomach, gritting his teeth and gripping the steering wheel hard. He knew that if he kept the first one down he'd be okay, but if he lost it... He didn't even want to think about it. One more DWI and he'd do time for sure, and he was in no shape to handle it. His partner, Tommy, would run the business into the ground inside of six months or else he'd make them a fortune. No way to tell which, but he'd roll the dice, no question. Donna would divorce him, he'd lose the house, the kids would hate him even more than they did already. He took another sip and it went down a little easier, and he felt that spreading warmth, the throbbing in his head began to fade, and he leaned back into the corner of the seat. A year in the can, he thought. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe it would be just what he needed. He loved his wife, but lately he could only make her cry. He tried to love his kids, but they were terrified of him. Even the cat hated him. If he walked into a room where the cat was sleeping, it would wake up, stare at him, and then get up and leave. He felt powerless to change any of it, other than to yield to the self-destructive impulse and just burn it all down. Donna and the kids would be happier, once they got over the initial shock. Donna would find another guy, easy, she still looked fine, and she could be so funny and sharp... His eyes began to burn, and he looked down into the cup to see how much was left, briefly considering a refill. No, he thought. Don't get started. He drained off what was left and crunched the cup into a ball and pitched it into the backseat. He had been able to do it so easily once, find that cruising altitude and hang there, never quite drunk and never quite sober. Happy... Shooting Dr. Jack . Copyright © by Norman Green. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from Shooting Dr. Jack by Norman Green All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. 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