Because street selling has become such a competitive business, it’s not long before the undercover is told exactly who’s “working,” what he’s selling, and how much it’s going for. A deal is struck on the spot, and the person whom the undercover has encountered (the “steerer”) takes the undercover (“steers” him) to someone else to complete the transaction. That someone else (the “moneyman”) takes the undercover’s money and gives him change if necessary. He may give him the drugs right then and there (in which case he is not only the moneyman but the “hand-to-hand man,” as well) or send him to yet a different hand-to-hand man. Or he may direct him to a phone booth, a car bumper, or a vacant lot where the drugs are hidden. There may be one more member of the selling group, a “lookout,” who scans the block for signs of the police.
Once he has the drugs, the undercover leaves the area, heads back to his car, and radios the backup team. He tells them where he’s made the buy and gives them a brief description of the cast of characters involved - the steerer, the moneyman, the hand-to-hand man, and the lookout. He’ll refer to a suspect by his most identifying feature: J. D. Sideburns, J. D. Boots, or J. D. Tattoo. J.D. stands for John Doe, a suspect whose true identity is not yet known.
Within minutes, the backup team swoops into the block, grabbing as many of the group as they can find. Once they’ve done this, they radio the undercover and tell him to drive by the spot where they’re holding the suspects. This the undercover does (in what’s come to be called a “drive-by ID”), following which he uses the radio once more to inform the backup team whether they’ve picked up the right individuals.
The suspects are arrested and searched for money and drugs - “cash and stash.” Money seized from them is checked for serial-number matches against the photocopies of the money with which the undercover started out; drugs are compared with the drugs bought by the undercover. Either will provide powerful corroborative evidence at trial.
Because he’s neither black nor Hispanic, Ray Abbruzzo is invariably relegated to being a member of the backup team, which is okay with him. The team works on a rotating basis, meaning they take turns “taking the collars.” In other words, they alternate being the officially designated arresting officer.
Today, by virtue of the fact that he arrived late to the meeting, Ray Abbruzzo will be “batting cleanup.” That means he’ll have to wait until the fourth and final buy the undercover makes to be the arresting officer. Whoever gets grabbed for participating in that buy will become his prisoners.
Russell Bradford and Robbie McCray spot Big Red as soon as they turn the corner from Walton Avenue into 140th Street. Robbie’s for walking right up to Big Red, but Russell knows better and holds him back: You don’t just walk up on a man like Big Red. Better to hang back a half a block away and wait.
It doesn’t take long for Big Red to spot them. He signals one of his men to take his place, then heads their way.
Big Red stops directly in front of Russell and greets him with a broad smile. Russell is tall, just under six feet, but Big Red towers over him and outweighs him by 100 pounds.
“‘Sup, Russell?” Big Red says. He says nothing to Robbie, acts as if he’s not even there.
“Not much, Red.”
“How’s your grandmama?”
“Okay, I guess.” Russell wonders how Big Red’s heard about her, but he doesn’t ask.
“Take a walk with me?” It’s spoken like a question, but Russell knows it really isn’t. He falls in step with Big Red as they head east. When Robbie begins to follow, Big Red finally seems to notice him. He stops and addresses him for the first time.
“You wanna work?” he asks him.
“Sure,” Robbie says.
Big Red seems to think for a minute, tugging at the brim of his red baseball cap. “Go see Tito on Thirty-Eighth Street. Tell him I said to put you to work.”
Robbie looks surprised, as though he’s disappointed he’s not going to be part of whatever business Big Red wants to talk over with Russell. But he’s not about to pass up a chance to work for Big Red. So he hesitates only a moment before nodding and heading off toward Thirty-Eighth Street, which is, of course, really 138th Street.
Big Red resumes walking, Russell alongside him. They cover a full block before Big Red says anything.
“Your friend back there be messin’ around with needles, huh?”
Russell shrugs. “I dunno,” he says.
“You know. You jus don’t wanna say.”
It seems Big Red knows just about everything there is to know.
“You know what I want to talk with you about?” he asks Russell.
Russell has a pretty good idea, but he shakes his head as though he doesn’t.
“You don’t talk much, do you? That’s good.”
They keep walking, past storefronts and boarded-up brownstones. Five or six Puerto Ricans standing in front of a bodega make way for them to pass, something Russell knows wouldn’t happen if it was just him who was walking by.
Big Red waits till they’re alone before he gets to the point. “That shit you traded yesterday,” is what he says.
“Yeah?”
“Your buddy says there’s a lot more where that came from.”
“My buddy’s got a big mouth.”
“That he does,” laughs Big Red, “that he does. But he seemed to know what he was talkin’ about.”
Russell doesn’t say anything. He’s trying to figure out if this is good or bad, Big Red getting involved in this. He knows it’s good in one respect, because Big Red has all sorts of money, can surely buy the whole kilo himself if he wants to. But it could be bad, too, because as soon as Big Red gets involved, it’ll become his show, and Russell will get squeezed out.
“How much are we talkin’ about here, Russell?”
“I dunno. Maybe a lot.”
“What’s a lot?”
Again, Russell says nothing. He doesn’t want to tell Big Red, but then again, he doesn’t want to lie to him, either.
“Unnastand, Russell, I don’t want to take this away from you,” Big Red says, as though he’s read Russell’s thoughts. “I want to work with you. See, you got the contact, right? But that’s only half of it. The other half of it is the money. And you don’t got the money.”
Here, Big Red abruptly stops walking and faces Russell. No more than a foot separates them. Russell feels forced to answer.
“Right,” he says.
“Me,” Big Red says softly, “I got the money.”
Russell wants to think it over, but he suddenly feels so crowded by the bigger man that he finds thinking all but impossible.
“How would this work?” he manages to ask.
“Like magic,” Big Red smiles.
“Partners?”
“Absolutely. You get what’s called a ‘finder’s fee.’ All you gotta do is cut me into the source. I do the rest. My money my people, my risk. Whatever I make on it, you get 10 percent.”
Russell’s not sure. He’s not too good at percentages. He thinks Big Red may be taking advantage of him. But he’s not sure what choice he has.
“What kinda weight we talking about here?” Big Red asks him. The smile is gone; this is all business now.
“I think the guy’s got a key.”
“Same quality as yesterday?”
“I think so.”
“We’re talkin’ big money here, Russell. We pay him maybe thirty grand, turn it into a hundred and thirty! You’re looking at $10,000, partner. For makin’ one little introduction. You gonna beat that for an hour’s work?”
“I guess not,” Russell admits. But he says it looking down at his feet.
“Hey, man, I want you to feel good about this,” Big Red says. “Tell you what, make it 15 percent. That’s fifteen grand. Sound better?”
Russell looks up. It’s his turn to smile. Truth is, he was ready to do the deal for the 10 percent. But by the simple trick of looking unsure, he’s managed to outbargain Big Red, and he fee
ls good about that.
Were he older and smarter, of course, Russell Bradford would realize that it was all too easy, that a man like Big Red doesn’t just throw away $5,000 in order to make somebody else feel better. But Russell is young and not too smart, and he misses this nuance completely.
Big Red extends his hand. Russell reaches out with his own, and they meet in a three-stage inner-city handshake that seals the deal as surely as any notary’s stamp ever could.
It’s only later, walking home, that Russell has a chance to realize that maybe he hasn’t bargained too well after all, that when it comes down to it, even 15 percent isn’t really much of a partnership. Aren’t partnerships supposed to be fifty-fifty?
But then again, $15,000 is an awful lot of money.
Before leaving for work, Michael Goodman phones his mother-in-law. As much as he wants to find out how Kelly’s doing, he’s put off the call because he knows it will expose him to attack on money issues. But for once, she surprises him.
“I’m really worried about her,” she tells him instead. “When I ask her, she tells me her head doesn’t hurt her. But then, when she doesn’t think I’m looking, I’ll catch her with this grimace on her face, like she’s really in pain.”
The thought of his daughter grimacing in pain is almost too much for Goodman to bear.
“Are you working yet?” she asks him.
“Yes, I am,” he tells her. “It’s only part-time. But I’ve got something in the fire that could be big.”
“I hope so,” is all she says.
“Can I talk to her?”
“Hold on.”
A minute goes by; then he hears his daughter’s voice. It sounds frail to him.
“Hi, Daddy.”
“Hi, angel. How you doing?”
“I’m fine,” she says.
He doesn’t want to ask her about the headaches, afraid the very question might bring one on.
“When are you coming to get me?” she asks. “I don’t like staying with Grandma.”
“Soon,” he says, “as soon as I can. And I’ll see you very soon. Maybe tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay. Daddy?”
“Yes, angel?”
“Larus has a headache.”
“Oh?”
“Yup. And it hurts him very, very much.”
He feels a lump in his throat and doesn’t dare speak. Is this what kids do, pass their maladies on to their stuffed animals? He hurriedly tells her again that he’ll try to see her tomorrow, then gets off the phone just before the tears come. He prays to his God that he might have his daughter’s pain, tenfold, if only she could be spared it.
Then he gets ready to leave for his new job.
Ray Abbruzzo rides in an unmarked Plymouth with three other members of the backup team to 136th Street and Gerard Avenue. There, they wait for the first radio transmission from the undercover officer. Ray checks his watch. After seven years on the Job, he unconsciously reads it in military time, the way one who’s become fluent in a second language begins to think in it. It’s 1222 hours, 12:22 p.m. in civilian time.
There’s a short burst of static on the receiver, followed by the voice of a black male. “Okay, I’m about to leave my vehicle and head into a Hundred and thirty-fifth. Do you read me?”
Ray grabs the microphone. “Four by four,” he says into it.
“Ten-four,” the voice comes back.
“Ten-four,” Ray echoes.
The day’s buy-and-bust operation has begun.
Goodman takes the subway to 161st Street. He’s determined to stay away from the area where he first ran into Russell. He walks the half a dozen blocks to 155th Street rapidly this time, paying careful attention to his surroundings. He arrives ten minutes early, and by one o’clock, he’s already at the desk Manny’s semi-cleared for him.
It turns out that his predecessor, the pregnant and gum-cracking Marlene, has called in sick on what was supposed to be her final day and Goodman’s orientation. So Goodman begins to review the ledgers and checkbooks and tax forms that Marlene’s kept in some fashion previously unknown in the history of bookkeeping.
But, he reminds himself, it is a job.
Robbie McCray spots Tito in the middle of the block on 138th Street.
“Red said to see you,” he tells him.
“See me about what?” Tito is missing most of his front teeth. He’s one of the scariest-looking guys Robbie’s ever seen.
“‘Bout workin’.”
Tito looks him over. “You worked before?”
“Sure,” Robbie lies.
Tito looks like he doesn’t believe him. But then he says, “Okay, you be on lookout. You cross over an’ stan’ right there.” He points to the opposite corner. “You see anyone looks like he could be the Man, you holler ‘Five-O!’ You hear?”
Robbie nods. After all these years, the only legacy left by an otherwise-forgotten TV series shot on an island paradise half a world away is the phrase used when the police come into the block.
Tito’s not finished explaining. “I don’ care if they in uniform or plainclothes, inna car or on foot,” he says. “You jus holler good an’ loud.”
Robbie nods again.
“So get goin’.”
Robbie crosses the street. He finds a hydrant to lean against, so it’ll look like he’s just hanging out. He looks to his left, then to his right. He sees nobody who looks like the Man. This is going to be one muthafuckin’ boring job, he tells himself.
But just as it is for Michael Goodman, this is Robbie McCray’s first day at work in quite awhile, and after a few minutes, he, too, settles in.
Russell Bradford was on his way home to sniff some more of the heroin in the baggie, but now he changes his mind. He knows if he’s going to be a successful businessman, it’s important he keep a clear head. Besides which, he’s seen the contempt that Big Red holds Robbie in for being an addict.
And Russell, even though he’s not the brightest person on the planet, knows this much about himself: If he goes home now, he’ll be the only one there. His mother’ll be at work, the other kids off at school. He decides to go to the hospital and visit his grandmother. That’ll keep him out of trouble for a while, and at the same time, it’ll be nice for Nana, who he guesses doesn’t get much company. On top of that, Big Red knew about her, and it’s possible he also knows that Russell hasn’t been to visit her yet.
By 1510, Detective Ray Abbruzzo and the other members of the backup team have completed three waves of arrests, and have a total of seven suspects in the back of an unmarked van off the corner of 134th Street. Three down means one to go, and that means it’s finally Ray’s turn at bat. Whoever they grab on this one will become his collars.
As before, they wait in the unmarked Plymouth. Ray holds the microphone in one hand. The undercover has already radioed that he was heading into a block - this time it’s 138th Street - to try to make one last buy.
They don’t have to wait long.
“Chico here,” comes the voice.
“Go,” Ray says.
“Just bought a couple vials in the middle of the block, downtown side. Two black males: J. D. Gap is an ugly-looking dude with no front teeth, green shirt; J. D. Stud is a light-skinned guy, jeans and a T-shirt, gold stud in his nose.”
“Ten-four,” Ray says. The driver of the car guns the engine, and they head for 138th Street. Ignoring a red light at the corner, they make the three-block trip in less than a minute, their tires squealing as they pull into 138th. Ray’s out of the car even before it comes to a full stop. He grabs a black man wearing a green jacket. Behind him, one of the other officers handcuffs a short, lighter-skinned man with a gold stud in the side of his nose.
“I’m clean, man,” insists the one in the green shirt. “You got nothin’ on me. This is po-leece harassment!” Each time he opens his mouth to complain, he reveals that he’s missing several of his front teeth.
“Wanna make it a triple, Ray?” The voice is that of Ray’
s partner, Daniel Riley. He’s got a skinny black kid by the shoulder. “Soon as we pulled into the block, he starts yellin’, pointin’ at us. Gotta be a lookout.”
Ray looks at the kid. He can’t be sixteen. He’s wearing a faded orange jacket with syracuse on it in black letters. Had the undercover noticed him and included him in the buy transmission, no doubt he would have named him J. D. Syracuse.
“Hook him up,” says Ray Abbruzzo.
As soon as he walks into the hospital room, Russell Bradford is struck by how old his grandmother looks. She’s in a ward that has twelve beds; only two of them are empty. She’s attached to all sorts of tubes and wires and things, but she recognizes Russell right away.
“Hello, Russell,” she says. Only when she says it, she says it out of the corner of her mouth, like the other side of it doesn’t work anymore.
“Hello, Nana.”
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I feel better than I look.”
“You look fine,” he says. The truth is, she looks half-dead to Russell. But she lets him get away with what they both know is a lie.
“What have you been up to?” she asks.
“Nothin’ much. Tryin’ to find a job.”
“Any prospects?”
He thinks of Big Red and his finder’s fee. “Yeah,” he says. “I got one good prospec’ I’m workin’ on.”
“Good,” she smiles. “I just know you’re going to surprise us one of these days, make us real proud.”
“I’m gonna do my best.”
Nana closes her eyes, and for a moment Russell thinks she may have died. But then she opens them.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I jes get tired.” It seems everyone can read Russell’s thoughts these days.
“That’s okay,” Russell says. “I gotta go, anyway.” He bends over to give her a kiss. It’s hard to find a place for his lips, there are so many tubes and wires.
“I love you, Nana,” he says.
“I love you, too, baby.”
He will not see her again.
Manny tells Goodman to knock off around a quarter to five.
“So how’d Marlene leave the books?” he asks.
Goodman wants to be both honest and diplomatic. For all he knows, Manny could be Marlene’s father, or the father of the child Marlene’s expecting, or even both. He settles for, “Let’s just say she had her own interesting style of doing things.”
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