The Lotus Crew

by Stewart Meyer

  He spotted Ya Ya’s wheels, which meant he could pick up and kick in. The meter read twelve, so he dropped a twenty on the gypsy driver and went to work. The action peaked in moments. His regular customers had been waiting.

  Furman stood under the stairs by his candle, switching bags for dinero frantically. Before mid-afternoon, he was sold out, standing on Chrystie and Riv trying to hail a cab over to his cash drop.

  It was cool and windy, and Furman was anxious to get back to his Brooklyn crib. Maybe he’d have the cab wait while he made his drop, then whisk him home. But first he’d have to catch one. No gypsies worked the area. The Yellows got yellow when it came to picking up blacks. Only afraid they’d end up in Harlem or East New York. Furman tightened the silk aviator’s scarf around his neck and zipped his brown leather jacket all the way up. The cold pissed him off. He was due a vacation. He dreamed about kicking his Jones in the tropics.

  Furman was about to toss it in and strut when an old, rust-calico, battered MG with Jersey plates pulled up a few feet away. He recognized the driver. One of his PR customers whose name he didn’t know. The guy was a steady face, buying half-bundles every other day or so.

  “M’man, yo’ too late. Sold out early today,” Furman said, putting his scarf down just enough to uncover his mouth.

  The PR was sucking a reefer and motioned for him to get in.

  “Sho’, B.” He needed to get out of the cold. “But ain’ no way I c’n sco’ f’you now.”

  “Don’ worry ’bou ’eet. I yus’ wanna rap wi’j. Wanna ride somewhere?”

  Furman exhaled dense reefer smoke through his nostrils as an idea popped in on him. ‘Tell you what, m’man. Gimme a lif’ back to Brooklyn an’ I throws y’all m’own cura. Two bags.”

  “J’got eet. Furman’s j’name, B. Ri’?”

  “Yeah. Yours?”

  “Flaco. Leesen, man, I gotta bery cool deal f’j’t’hear. J’in’rested een makey mucho dinero?”

  Furman smiled. “I be makin’ mucho dinero, B. But I got ears.”

  “I scorin’ fum j’now f’months, Furman. I see j’bery slick an’ down. I show j’some’sing j’swear don’ tell nobody.”

  “Do it. No, hey, wait. Pull up an’ let me take care o’ somethin’. I come back an’ heah you out.”

  “Cool.”

  Furman had Flaco pull up over a block away from the drop, so the guy couldn’t check where he was ducking in.

  Upstairs, Chu counted the cake with lightning speed, then threw Furman his take. Six hundred bucks in fifties. “Need some small bills for the taxi?”

  “No, I be cool.”

  Furman smiled and pocketed his coin. He made more than any of the other workers because he sold more bags. He was the only Triad ready to hassle with Rivington Street. Of course Furman was afraid, just like the others, of the heat and the danger. He carried iron and hoped for the best.

  When Furman returned to the MG, Flaco fired another reefer.

  “Okay, man, take the Manhattan Bridge, then Flatbush Avenue to Linden and left into East New York.”

  “Tha’z hebby turf, Furman. I know eet. Got frien’s roun’.”

  “So, what’s on yo’ min’, B?”

  Flaco reached over and opened the tiny glove box. His fingers riffled under baggies full of reefer until he came to what he was looking for. It was a rubber stamp: Triad!

  “Hey, where in fuck did j’git that?”

  Flaco showed him a stamped piece of paper. It was a perfect copy of the Triad logo. The early mark, that is. During the first few weeks of operation, all bags were stamped Triad. Then one day two Chinese went to Chu and were taken to T and Alvira. The Chinks were pissed because they were real Triads. They were afraid the police would put heat on them because of T’s choice of a name. To Alvira’s complete amazement, T apologized and promised to use the word Rainbow on future bags. It evolved into Triad/Rainbow for a while. Then they started putting Triad on one side and Rainbow Society on the other.

  “I yus’ got it.”

  Furman felt his heart accelerate. He’d heard the gang that ripped off Chu on Rivington Street in the early days might’ve made off with a stamp. That was the only explanation. If Flaco was in with the Comancheros he might be setting off a bad play. Furman put his hand in his jacket pocket, slid the safety off his iron.

  “What’re you gonna do with it, man?”

  Flaco shrugged. “I donno. Maybe make some muny. Wanna hear how?”

  “Dummies?”

  Flaco nodded. “Dummies, man. How’d j’know?”

  Furman frowned grimly. “M’people catch you an’ you daid.”

  Fear did not appear to be one of Flaco’s concerns.

  “People trust Triad ’cause the bag come stamped an’ sealed. Straight from the factory. M’people work hard t’give their bag a smokin’ rep. Fuck it up, Flaco, an they got t’waste yo’ ass.”

  “Hmm. They no catch me, Furman. I gota heat-seal machine. Wanna sell an extra hunred bags a day? Extra grand a day, man!”

  “Until they—”

  “Fibe hunred each! Take thee shot!”

  “Yeah, you take the shot, man. Pull this bucket up. I’z gittin’ out o’ heah now!”

  Flaco pulled up, turned a suspicious look on Furman.

  “I figure j’down, Furman.”

  “Shit! I ain’t that down, fool. Fuck wi’ Triad an’ you gonna get killed. I don’ wan’ nothin’ t’do wi’you an’ yo’ crazy play.”

  “Don’ tell thee bosses, Furman. Ri’?” Flaco’s eyes took on a cold glitter. A warning.

  “Don’ threaten me, you punked-out asshole.” Furman opened the door and started getting out. “Tell y’all what, Flaco. I don’ know yo’ ass from shit, but what the hell, if I c’n keeps y’all from gittin’ hurt … gimme the stamp. T’morrow I give you a bundle an’ we forget—”

  “No sanks.”

  “Shit! I’m payin’ t’save yo’ life! Damn chump I am. Do what you want to, Jack. Fuck yo’seff.”

  Flaco’s face said he was going on with his plan with or without Furman. “Change j’min’, Furman, I be roun’.”

  “Hey, do me a solid, Jim. Don’ be aroun’. You bad company. I ain’t sellin’ you no bags no mo’. Don’t come on Rivington t’sco’ no way from me. I be clean w’m’people, man. Dat be dat!”

  Flaco smirked wide. “Scared, man. Let j’boss make thee muny an’ j’get chump change f’hebby chances.”

  “I said fuck yo’seff please.” Furman slammed the door and walked into the wind, eyes peeled for a gypsy cab.

  Blue Notes

  THE OLD ELDO PAUSED on the corner of Avenue A and Sixth Street. Kathy jumped over into the back seat as JJ got in the front next to Chu. Chu resumed driving.

  “I can’t hab it no more, JJ. Talk t’you firs’, den t’Tommy an’ Alvira.”

  “I ’preciate dat.”

  “J’gotto sound him right! Furman fuckin’ up bad, an’ eet look bad f’me, B. All of a sudden las’ few days he makin’ his drops like he sleepwalkin’.”

  “I did sound him, Chu. Furman be a thick fucka, specially when it come t’his Jones. He be layin’ a bad numba on hisseff. All dat cake slidin’ through his fìngas. He helpin’ his family, man. His little bro’ be a winna. Bu’ must be a bad gorilla he ridin’ now, ’cause no matta how much he make, it gone.”

  “Furman j’hombre, JJ. Tha’s what got him into Triad. He owe it t’j’t’straight it out!”

  “I’m gonna lay it on him again.”

  “J’don’ wanna blow shit w’Triad.”

  “No way, man. No complaints. I neva live so high. Be puttin’ cake in a deposit e’ry day. Helpin’ m’folks git by. Buyin’ new vines alla time. Y’all been solid w’me, Chu. I ain’ gonna let m’man down.”

  Chu winked at JJ. “J’awri’, JJ. Straight it
out. Drop on me ebery day ’til we work it out’n tell me wha’z happnin’.”

  “That be cool.”

  Chu had driven in a circle. Now he pulled up only a half-block from where he’d picked JJ up.

  “Git on Furman now, B. He awready pushin’ our luck.”

  Foul Ball

  FURMAN’S LUCK WENT from bad to deplorable. An attempted recovery from economic pressures got him in deeper, and he was feeling the twist. The number was a reefer run. Furman put up twenty grand—half the cake necessary to load up a car trunk with private-garden California green. Some of the cash was from his emergency stash, but most of it was borrowed from a couple of black shylocks. Tig promised to hold down the vig if Furman cut him in nice. He also made it clear that if anything went wrong he did not want to be cut in on the loss. Furman’s ass was one hundred percent on the line. The risk factor sat entirely on his head.

  In Furman’s haste, this seemed agreeable. He crossed his fingers and rented the car, hired a trusted driver, arranged to warehouse and distribute the product, and prayed for Allah’s assistance.

  On the way back from Calif the vehicle was spot-checked by highway patrol. The driver took a fall. The car and contents were confiscated. Furman had to borrow five grand from a third shylock to make bail on the driver, so he wouldn’t inform. Vig alone was a few grand weekly, and that didn’t lower the debt. Without being graphic about details, he confided to John Jacob that “Allah throwed me a foul ball.”

  On the bright side, he’d gotten Jones under control somewhat, and was once again considered a good crew worker. There was talk of promoting him to boss of the new Triad spot opening uptown. But for the moment he was working his spot on Riv and scuffling to make vig and keep his ass out of the frying pan. Sometimes a man has to hold on and wait for change.

  Flaco brought his rust-bucket MG to a halt outside the Triad building. It was a cold afternoon, but the sun was out and he had the top down. He jumped over the car door and bopped to Dr. Nova, which was a few feet away. Jabber jabber. Finally he detached himself from the crew huddled around the oil drum fire and walked into Triad.

  “Furman, m’man! How j’doin’?”

  “Buy yo’ bags’n split, Flaco. I’m a busy man.”

  “Gimme fi’ bags.”

  Furman counted bags into Flaco’s open palm and took the crisp new fifty.

  “So j’still don’ wanna makey muny?”

  “Nope. Git lost.”

  “Thick-headed fool. Yus’ uno dummy in ebery bundle an’ j’makin’ extra fibe hunred a day.”

  “I pass.”

  “Be coo’, B.”

  As Flaco got back in his car he heard his name. He turned. It was Furman. Flaco went back under the stairs.

  “Wha’z up, Furman?”

  “I need mo’ bucks, Flaco. Bring me some dummies tomorrow. We see what happen.”

  Flaco smiled. “Why wait ’til moonyana. Be ri’ back.” He chicken-bopped back to his short, lifted the boot and extracted a small package, bopped back to Furman.

  Prepared dummies.

  Furman held one up to a Triad bag. They were indistinguishable. “We give it a shot, Flaco. Jus’ keep yo’ face shut tight.”

  “M’man, I don’ wan’ no fuckin’ body t’know either.”

  Furman frowned. It was a bad idea whose time had come.

  “Anybody breeng eet up, say sometime dee powder ain’ mix,” Flaco suggested helpfully.

  “Flaco, I don’ like to be doin’ this shit a’tall, an’ you is a smelly bag o’douche in my opinion. We straight on ’at shit?”

  Flaco smiled broadly. “I ’preciate j’honesty, hombre.”

  “Cool. Now split.”

  “Gimme fi’ more Triad, Furman.”

  Furman counted out five, held out his hand for cake.

  Flaco slipped him skin instead. “Yus’ write me down f’fibe. Settle when j’pay me off.”

  Furman flinched, realizing instantly the ramifications of Flaco’s game. No one to blame now but himself. “Five bags, Flaco. I gonna write it down.”

  Flaco smiled. “Bes’ t’write down a transaction between partners.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Zit-faced twerp. Split row!”

  Flaco turned gracefully and walked out of the stairwell. He rapped on Carlos’ door and bought some coke sludge before chicken-strutting triumphantly back to his MG.

  Furman took off his boot and wiggled his toes in front of the heater. His socks were soaking wet, and he concentrated on drying them. Sanity depended on not thinking about what he had just done.

  The Fall

  FURMAN WAS MAKING his vig and then some, but Jones crawled right up on his back and sat there triumphant, an unshakable entity determined to call at least some of the shots. With all the pressure on him lately, relapse was inevitable. He was closing high, as if to make up for clean time. Oddly, working comforted him lately. Since the shylocks were unlikely to go near junk turf, it was the only place he felt safe. Furman traded his small pistol for a .38 and hoped for the best.

  A few weeks of passing dummies slid by more or less without incident. People occasionally complained, but as Flaco predicted, he lost few customers. Even with one beat bag in a bundle, Triad was a better buy than anything else.

  The dummy cash went to paying vig and principal on his debts. Yet all problems appeared trivial if he tried to short-count Jones. The monkey kicked him in the nerves, where it hurt!

  The day started heavy and stayed that way, customers not giving his ass a chance to breathe. He didn’t have time to place dummies in the bundles. Close to six o’clock and he hadn’t passed one dummy yet. Shit. Couldn’t afford to lose the cake. It was already spent.

  Soon there was a break in action. Furman was about to start placing dummies when he realized he was almost sold out of real bags. Fuck! It was Friday, and he was just a few bags away from calling it a day.

  A white girl stumbled in sleepily dazed and wanted two bundles. He recognized her as an occasional customer and almost told her he was selling out. He stopped himself with a terrible thought.

  “Lemme see’f I c’n help you, sis. Jus’ do me a favor an’ walk out the door. See if the man is on the street. I be right out w’yo’ bags.”

  The girl looked slightly suspicious, but Triad had the best rep around. She did what she was told, saying, “You should throw me a play for watchin’ your back,” as she walked out.

  Furman smirked. Everyone tried to hustle his poor ass. Triad/Rainbow don’t do no play. Bes’ bag around. They can’t be expected to give’m away. The girl’s attempt to wiggle an extra bag out of him put an end to his hesitation about beating her. He put a rubber band around a beat bundle. Irony caused him to take a real Triad out of his pocket and add it to the package. Sure … he’d give her a play for keeping lookout two minutes.

  “Heah y’go, sugah,” Furman said. “You got ch’play. Now take off an’ lay.” He pocketed her cash.

  “Hey, thanks, m’man,” Sleepy Eyes said, almost brightening.

  Her sniffling junk-sick mannerisms made him nervous. He watched through inebriated eyes as she walked away. Hell.

  Furman had never done anything nearly as nasty on the street. But shit, people tried to hustle him all the time, and he needed those bucks now. She was just a junkie cunt. Just have to trick some more money and try again. What the fuck could she do about it?

  Layin’ beat powder on people was not his style … but damn, Jim. The show must go on. Havin’ some dumb shylock blow his ass away was a lot worse for business than offing a beat bundle on some white trash.

  The Horror

  MONDAY MORNING STARTED with a bang … of speedball. Equal parts cocaine and dope gave Furman the kind of wake-up charge Farmer Gray got out of bacon, pancakes, and poontang. He met JJ and Ya Ya on time and rode into Manhattan feeling fine on cloud nine.r />
  The weekend had gone well. Furman was up on his vig thanks to a lucky poker hand staked by none other than Flaco’s beat bags. He didn’t feel good about it but …

  The action began at once and continued until just after three o’clock, when he took a break. He sat down close to Carlos’ heater and slid dummies into the remaining bundles.

  Around five Flaco dropped by to cop and picked up his cash. Furman attempted to act friendly, but he couldn’t help feeling that Flaco was a worthless slum rodent. His association with Flaco was contemptible, but Flaco was helping him at the moment. He had to be cool. Since he was cooperating, it would not be wise to piss the dude off. He paid him off in cash and real Triad bags and took the next day’s dummies.

  Furman sold out by six. He stepped into Carlos’ crib for a cup of El Pico and to count the day’s cash. Alvira was easygoing about trivia, but T made a big stink if the cake wasn’t wrapped in thousands with each bill facing the same way. T and Alvira had a bank-style counting machine in their office. Once or twice a week it went full blast twenty-four hours.

  Carlos was frying pork chops on the stove and offered Furman a bite. But Furman’s appetite was for dope. He booted two before packing the cash in his leather case, putting on his jacket, and hitting the street. He felt loose and light.

  Furman’s attention was on an approaching taxi, but he caught a glimpse of motion out of the corner of his eye and turned to check it out. On the street motion is menace. There was no time to duck or make cover, or even flinch.

  Whommmp!!

  The baseball bat descended, clipping his ear and hitting with full impact on his right shoulder. He was stunned, hand frozen inches from his iron. The attacker was wearing a black ski mask and leather jacket. He was big, powerful, determined to brain Furman with his bat.

  Seeing the heavy wood being lifted over him, Furman recovered his animation instinctively. He moved as the bat came down. It hit the brick wall behind him. Furman stumbled, trying to sidestep the man. Another man stood on his other side, unnoticed. Furman whipped out iron, but too late.