Also known as: Ko and Associates (on the phone). My D-boy. The man with the baton
Occupation: Entrepreneur, by his own description. In practice, an encyclopedia of stupefaction, with a loyalty program Google can only dream of.
First appears: Chapter 013
Status: Losing weight, he says. In neoprene.
Usually seen with: A matte-black Lada Niva with tinted windows, designed, apparently, to avoid attention. A man-bag printed with the face of his favorite pop singer, where he keeps the cash and the stash.
His philosophy of life, as far as I could reconstruct it
Ko does not talk about narcotics. Anybody can do that, he says. Even the police. Ko talks about destinations: the sharps and flats of your moods, a glissando from euphoria to ecstasy, and himself as the man with the baton. He can rearrange your senses, cultivate your religious fervor, make you peaceful and attentive, lively and shy, poetic and important. It is Aldous Huxley with a customer-loyalty scheme. Every five grams earn you a sixth free of charge. Christmas brings a complimentary envelope.
What I think he thinks of me
The love of his life. He told me so in the Lada, with sudden tenderness, after I had paid him a thousand euros and complained about his punctuality. It turned out he had been making advances for years, on the occasions when I was, in his phrase, super-dopey. I pointed out that I look nothing like his favorite singer: not the face, not the hair, not the voice. He makes exceptions. On the grounds of a thousand euros and a foul mouth.
What I think of him
Part dealer, part nocturnal animal, part Dadaist collage. The sharps and flats of my chemically assisted existence. Most days he looks like a diversity parade that has been hit by a tropical storm: ice-cream prints, spaghetti prints, dinner plates, imaginary national flags. We met fifteen years ago at Norman, Grace’s tattoo parlor, where he had come to have two amphetamine pills on his left forearm covered up; advertising the merchandise directly on one’s skin was considered poor operational security. Zoaie overheard him selling and threatened him with a tattoo I will not describe here. Ko slipped me his card before the threat reached its more anatomically ambitious stages. It was the best investment of his career.
Things he said, conducting
“My man, I’ll give it to you straight. I’m an encyclopedia of stupefaction.”
“I’m new in the business, but I’m good, I’m modest, and I’ve got a loyalty program Google can only dream of.”
“Now, I’m not gonna waste your time talking about narcotics. Anybody can do that. Even the police.”
“Drugs are destinations, my man. What matters is where they take you.”
“I can make you unsuitable for minors. Or I can open doors you didn’t even know existed.”
“I’m an entrepreneur, Love.”
“You’re the love of my life. Of course you can.”
“I move with finesse, Love.”
“I know, baby. But I make exceptions.”
“A thousand euros and a foul mouth.”
Andrei’s footnote: He answers the phone “Ko and Associates. How may I help you?” The associates are in Volume II.
