The Lotus Crew

by Stewart Meyer

  They parked around the corner from their destination. This scene was considerably more dangerous because they had to get out of the car and walk into a deserted building. One of the LaTuna guards recognized T, and they got in with no trouble.

  “That guy knows my face from the joint.”

  Inside, a practiced crew kept traffic organized.

  “LaTuna has the best communications system in Alphabet City,” T said as they labored up the narrow, unlit, crumbly staircase. “Guys on the rooftops watching the man. Long before heat arrives the bagman’s ditched his stash and may be whipping out a pack of cards or a Bible, or tryin’ to beat it out of the building. Very hard to catch’m with the bags. It happens sometimes, but . . .”

  The building was an old abandoned red-brick jumping with shadows. Steerers organized the flow of junkies with precision. A theater of ghosts.

  “I don’t like this, T. Wish I had my piece.”

  T had insisted Alvira leave his .25 automatic in the car. Alvira had the rep of being less than discreet when it came to pulling iron. T kept his own .22 strapped flat to his tight belly. A loose beige unconstructed jacket hid the print of the piece under his shirt.

  “Just get the cake fanned out and make the buy, Alvira. Don’t look hard at the bagman. Makes’m nervous. Act preoccupied with the bags he’s counting out.”

  “Shouldn’t be too hard.”

  They both engaged in a chilly laugh from another lifetime.

  On the fourth floor another worker stood in the corridor, blocking the stairway. The thick young Latin eyed them suspiciously under a pulled-down navy watch cap, then pointed towards an apartment at the end of a dark passageway. The hall was lined with blanco customers standing one behind the other, pressed against the wall. Occasionally, a few went into the apartment, and the line moved up. Then a few came out, obviously having scored, and more entered. Everything seemed rehearsed and perfected. Aside from the bagman inside the apartment, there was a worker at the door regulating traffic, and another walking the length of the line over and over, checking faces, saying, “Hab j’money ready. Fan it out face up. Hey, shuddup on line, I gotta hea’ w’z goin’ down. Dinero fanned out o’ j’loose j’turn! Cop’n split! Don’ run!”

  Alvira fanned out tens like a poker hand. When it was their turn the door worker tried to break them up. “We’re buyin’ together, B,” he told the man, slipping him a deuce.

  “Cool.”

  The apartment windows were caked with dirt or lined with ripped paper. Two flickering candles provided the only light. As Alvira approached the bagman he became aware of another crew worker. The apartment had a foyer off the main room, and in it sat a huge honcho with what looked like an Uzi draped across his lap. The candles flickered, and soon all Alvira could see was the glow of the man’s cigarette.

  “Gimme six,” Alvira said, passing the fanned-out bills to the bagman.

  “Five! J’payin’ f five,” the bagman said, almost looking up over the rim of his hat, catching himself before he made eye contact.

  “Gimme six f’five, baby. Don’t I get a play when I score half a bundle?”

  The bagman’s teeth glinted in the dark as he smirked at the dumb blanco. “Where you been, poppa? No mo’ play no way. Buy nine hundred ninety-nine bags, I gib j’one free.”

  “Damn, you people used to give me a nice play back—”

  “Nobody git no play. It’s better shit. Cos’ more t’operate. I yus’ a workin’ man, poppa. M’boss say no play. Now split. I gotta keep thee line movin’.”

  “Sure,” Alvira said as he closed his fist around the half-bundle, turned, and marched indignantly out the door.

  There was a shooting gallery on the floor below, and on their way down someone asked if they wanted to get off. Three bucks if they had their own works. Otherwise six. It was a hard sell. The man said his friend inside could hit so professional there’d be no marks.

  “O’ how’z ’bout a jugular hit, m’man?”

  “Thanks. We pass.”

  “You know, sometimes they raze one of these buildings and find corpses stuffed all over the fuckin’ place,” T said. “In the basements, apartments, just about anywhere.”

  “Makes sense. That jugular dude must make a fortune with skills like that.”

  “Alvira, this scene is too frantic for the likes of me, but this is where the real money is. I mean, you can set up as a house connection, and if you’re lucky and establish the right clientele you’ll sporadically make out. You know, middle-class customers always cleaning up on you when you’re holding. But the street spells infinite demand and limited supply. It’s nothing for a good crew to turn eighty grand a day. LaTuna is sold out before the sun goes down. They start the morning heavy and sell out before the noon drop. The afternoon stuff is gone by seven or eight.”

  “What about Green Tape?”

  “Goes all night. Also Black Mark. Twenty-four hours of goodness. That whole corner is non-stop no matter what. If they run out of one there’s the other. Run out of both, they just tell you to wait or walk around and come back. That’s bad because customers accumulate and make the vendadors nervous. The heat knows what’s happenin’ when they see a swarm of floating blanco flotsam hanging around. So the crew workers don’t like the wait any more than the customers. They try to facilitate fluid in-and-out traffic. If they’re well organized there’s an extra stashman to pick up the next batch while the bagman works what he’s got. I know one of the bosses, a guy named Chu. He was just fired from LaTuna. Chu’s Dominican, and the Puerto Ricans in LaTuna gave him a hard time. He’s the dude who’s going to take us to the ShyWun. The crew leaders are supplied by the owners, who are supplied by the Cuban mobs and others. Lots of independents these days. Run it a week, get rich, cool out. Longer action requires connections. Chu knows a major player who’s going to do us a lot of good. Not on the supply end. I have my uncle’s people for that. But the ShyWun can see to it that we don’t step on toes or draw excessive heat. Forget about us selling to existing crews. The cash in this business is in retail. What we need is protected space where we can run our crews. These brandname scores are run like conservative businesses; workers get a commission on a per-bag basis, except for touters and lookouts, who’re on salary. Green Tape comes out of the basement our man René ran into on Eighth Street, although sometimes it shifts to a doorway, a van parked on the street. Sometimes you see the bagman sitting in a parked car in broad daylight feeding the runners as if he had a license. No one seems to notice. They rarely get busted, never ripped off.”

  “And Black Mark?”

  “One of our people told me the Mark walks over in a baby carriage. Never the same girl pushin’ it, and no idea with who or where it’s dropped off. Seems to change. A tight ever-evolving system. Very complex; procedurally repetitive but confusingly unpredictable. Obviously the work of a highly developed criminal computer of some sort.”

  “Jumpin’ Jesuits!” Alvira said. “Order one for me!”

  Shy Wun

  THE SHYWUN don’t go near the street, babies,” Chu said, looking at his blanco associates with a smug sparkle. “Bu’ I see wh’ I c’n do.”

  The meet was made for that evening, in Hartford, Connecticut. T drove them out in the Jag, enjoying the erotic feeling of commanding the car’s awesome weight and power with one finger and one toe.

  Chu directed them to the cemetery, where a huge black van was waiting to take them to the ShyWun.

  The van’s smoked glass afforded no view, so when they were finally unloaded they had no idea where. A small private estate, thick hedges on all sides. A huge imposing wooden house with a wide verandah stood before them. It looked more like a sea-resort rooming house fallen from juicy times than a New England dwelling.

  They were led into a large room lined with oak, and sat down near a coffee table piled with Remy, cocaine, reefers, and even coffee
.

  Chu introduced them to Valentino and Israel Martaan. The ShyWun’s private guard.

  Finally, the big man himself walked in. His entrance was a shock, as he wore a black silk mask over his face. He greeted the blancos with a stoic nod.

  Alvira found himself focusing on the only man in the room he could not see. He could tell from the shape of the mask that the man had a huge head. Below the black silk he wore Type A trappings of feudal dominance: a conservative, dark vested suit with a beige silk shirt and dark tie, soft brown wing-tipped shoes. The hands were covered by white gloves. As he leaned forward, a platinum and diamond stickpin could be observed glistening upon his tie just above the huge belly line. Opulence effervesced in that overstated way one expects from royalty; a man born to a throne in some nether region, but that does not detract from his absolute rule. Alvira had the feeling he was observing a highly evolved voluptuary. A score of buttered virgins must accompany this quiet masked man to bed each night.

  The man spoke softly, in clear English. “Chu tells us you are thinking of selling heroin in Alphabet City.” Amazing how the voice came through the mask with such distinction. “If this is so, it is good that you come to us. Others have moved in without consulting us. But you have the wisdom, the respect. For that alone, you can consider yourselves among friends.”

  “A friend would show his face,” Tommy blurted impulsively.

  “A friend would not ask to see. I have made fortunes for men who have never seen my face.”

  “Sorry,” T said. “I’m not used to—”

  “No harm is taken. You are playing a game with no rules but ours, mine. If you don’t wish to play, feel free to leave. You don’t need us … do you?”

  T shrugged. “We’re staying. Go on, please.”

  “Who will supply your material?”

  “We have sources set up,” T said.

  “Why not sell directly to us? We pay top dollar for pure.”

  “We want to get retail for it. We’ll play it as you call it. We’re prepared to give you a fair price to operate. All you have to do is—”

  “All we have to do is see that you are not killed or arrested instantly.”

  “Correct.”

  The masked man turned to Alvira. “The Alvira Kid. Your reputation on the street is straight up. You are a junkie, but unlike most, you would not betray a friend for a fix. You would rather be sick. Is that so?”

  “Yes,” Alvira said. How could he know about the incident last year, when the police tried to force Alvira to drop a dime on a connection by holding him sick in a cell?

  “And you, Tommy Sparks. You could have worked with the heat and walked away from that kilo bust. Instead you did your time. These are not virtues we take lightly. Many come to us, every day, every month. Usually we say no, and they do it anyway. They are killed by their own crewmen or quickly ruined by the police. In your case—only because I feel you might succeed—we are prepared to help. If you agree to our terms, you will be given two points of activity. A storefront and an abandoned building. You will be permitted to run your crews without complications, unless you yourself draw heat or create conflict. Our fee for this will be one thousand dollars a day for the first week, two for the second, up to ten. If you are still alive and operating in ten weeks, we will stabilize the number for a while.”

  T shrugged. He didn’t want to bicker. The offer was workable, and it was time to show class. No telling when he’d see this man again. Maybe only if something went wrong.

  “Sounds good to me,” he said, looking from ShyWun to Alvira.

  Alvira shrugged. “Your play, T.” T’s cash and credit were providing seed action, so he had final say.

  “Chu will be your crew boss,” ShyWun said. “You can contact me through him.”

  “Very good.”

  “Your limit on material is ten percent heroin. Anything over and the deal is off. Have you been doing your market research?”

  “Yes,” Tommy said. “Your people are putting out the best bag around right now. Real dope. Seven to ten percent. Most of the others are putting out three percent laced with powdered barbiturate, injectable methadone, powdered Valium.”

  “Correct. We give people what they pay for. I trust you will do the same.”

  “Of course.”

  “You have my best wishes,” ShyWun said, getting to his feet. “And now, if you will excuse me . . .”

  They were ushered back into the van, deposited at the Jaguar. On the way home they blew reefers and listened to the Persuasions on me tape deck.

  Alvira had an uncomfortable feeling. Something told him to back out now before it was too late. But that was impossible. How would he get by? He was flat broke. Jones was upon him. For better or worse, he was in. He sniffled. Soon as they got back he’d hit T’s stash and straighten out the bends and chills Jones was laying on him.

  “What do you think, Alvira?” T asked.

  “I think we’re going to be in a whole lot of trouble soon, or we’re going to be rich.” Alvira drew on a freebased reefer and closed his eyes.

  Chu laughed in the back seat. “Don’ worry,” he said. “Eb’ry’sing bery bery cooool.”

  The Job Interview

  JJ HAD NO FIRSTHAND experience with smoking opium, so he and Furman turned to the resources of their drug library. They found the healing ritual described in a book called Flowers in the Blood and proceeded to invoke what Alexander Trocchi would call “the chemistry of alienation.” Flowers was a sort of history book by a guy named Jeff Goldberg. Bless ol’ Jeff, wherever and whoever, for layin’ it out. The little glass alcohol burner would serve as a peanut oil lamp. And hell, the coal bin was as good as any tent. They cooked the three grams of Chinaman JJ made in a deal, using a pristine shoe-polish can and the burner. With a long knitting needle JJ stirred the softening tar, watching it lighten slightly in color. He lifted a glob of it on the needle and placed it in the bowl of their converted hashish pipe. JJ held the pipe upside down so that the flame from the burner almost touched the opium pill. It crackled and bubbled, spreading out and sending up the sweet smoke.

  “Das’ri’, JJ! Git it up!”

  JJ sucked until his eyes almost crossed. He repeated the process four times before he felt a soothing calm spread through his wired frame. He passed the pipe.

  “I donno, Furman, dis shit pack a hit … but will it hold ya’?”

  “Shit, JJ, I don’ wanna eat it, man, no way. Dat shit look like mule mucus, B. Smokin’s mo’ fun. Lemme catch up w’y’all.” Furman went at it with all his might.

  By the time the O was almost gone both of them had a righteous buzz, although JJ suspected it wouldn’t last long. Just a tinkle of the bell. Pushin’ no gone gong aroun’.

  They heard footsteps. Furman leaned over and blew out the burner. “Mus’ be ol’ Frank. Shit, there be plenny coal out there.”

  “Shhh. Le’s be sure.” JJ drew a tiny .22 automatic.

  “JJ, j’down there?”

  “Who’z’at?”

  “Shit, I don’ know. Hol’ on quiet.”

  “JJ! It’s Chu! Hey, B!”

  “Chu!” JJ stood up, allowing Chu to see his shadowed form. “I be ova heah, m’man!” He tucked the iron away.

  “Wha’z shakin’, nigga? M’main B!”

  Chu chicken-bopped into the coal bin and greeted his young friend.

  “Chu! Y’all’z lookin’ gooood! Yo’ a lean marine, jelly bean.”

  Chu’s respect for JJ was due to an incident on the street years ago. Chu’d been tight with JJ’s older bro’, and the two of them were running a dime bag op in the South Bronx. JJ was a natural leader and was soon the youngest crew boss in unrecorded history. The Pennington brothers bought their momma a new Lincoln and rented her a huge spread in the black ’burbs, so she could stow it. The number lasted five months before th
e lid blew. When the smoke cleared Chu saw it like this: JJ, walking with a number twenty brown paper bag full of bundle packages, was spotted by some heat on stakeout. They told him to freeze. Instead he bolted into an abandoned building, ditched the material, and surrendered indignantly. He was released. The bust was part of a sweep. Their headquarters and main stash were hit. Everyone was popped holding evidence, and they were almost cleaned out. But little JJ had his own cash stash as well as the bags he hid. That night he showed at the precinct with a lawyer and bondsman, bailed out his brother and Chu, and saved the day. So momma had to move back to the old pad, and bye-bye Lincoln. Still, JJ had proved his mettle.

  “W’z happnin’ w’chu, Chu?”

  “I’m cool, JJ. Here to discuss a touch o’ bizz. Who’z’at behin’ j’?”

  “’At’s m’man. C’m ova heah, Furman, so Chu c’n check yo’ face. Don’ worry ’bou’ m’baaad frien’. Me’n Furman eats off dee same plate!”

  Furman stood up with a sheepish grin. “Hey, m’man, I heah all ’bout y’all fum JJ. Wanna suck on some o’ dis Chinaman wi’ me’n JJ? Got enough leff—”

  “I got some’sin’ fix you quicker than thee black smoke, B. Check it!” Chu dropped a bundle of Triad bags on the milk-crate-cum-table. Glassine flickered in candle light.

  “Yowwweee! Santa Claus be comin’ on a pound’a snow!”

  “M’man Chu! Wha’z’at ch’all bringin’ us heah?”

  Chu pulled out a tiny tray, opened two bags dramatically with his spring knife, spilled the powder on the tray. He peeled a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill from a thick roll. He made lines with the blade, snorted two, passed the tray to JJ.

  “J’dudes hab clean arms?”

  “Sho’nuff!” JJ sniffed two lines and passed it on. ’Tase gooood, Chu. Wha’z Triad mean?” He pointed to the logo stamped on the glassine bags.

  “Tha’z m’new number, JJ. Like it?”

  Furman hoofed his lines, rolled his eyes, and excused himself. He went to the far back corner, and they heard him puke.