“How?” T-Bone asked.
“It's Simple. Our chemicals attach to the cocaine molecules, in effect creating a new substance.”
“So, why do you need the coke then?” asked T-Bone. “Can't you make this shit from whatever you got in there?”
“We tried that,” said the Professor. “The result was something that was nasty and gave the user a headache. But when cocaine reacts with it, the result gives the user an intense, short high. The user's head gets lighter and he feels more uninhibited, but he gets less coke and when it's over, he wants it again, right away.”
“And the money rolls in, my brotha, “ said the Prince. Mayo watched Donna. She took a deep breath and her chest strained the dress. She looked good, he thought, real good.
“What is the shit made of?” asked T-Bone, keeping himself in the shadows.
“Various chemicals,” said the Professor. “I was fired from the Ladley Research Corporation several years ago. I was working with a team to invent a new, cheap pain reliever. We failed. What we came up with got you high and didn't last nearly as long as needed. We tried to modify it, but it still wasn't right. The company scrapped the project. I was fired later, but I took the formula with me.”
T-Bone didn't have to guess why the guy was fired. He was a drug addict and probably got caught taking his work home with him.
“After that,” the Professor continued, “I tried to find a use for it. One day I just decided to see what the chemical would do to cocaine. I mixed it with some raw coke, cooked it, and gave some to a friend. He told me a week later that he had been high for four straight days and needed some more, the high was better than coke and he needed it badly. Then I knew I was on to something.”
“So, you cut down on the amount of coke,” T-Bone said.
“Right,” said the Professor. “I found that you needed very little cocaine to produce the desired effect.”
“Which is to get plenty fucked up,” the Prince laughed again.
T-Bone looked coldly at the Prince. He was too goddamned happy for a drug dealer. T-Bone just wanted him to be quiet and let the white man talk.
“We called the chemical Syndoxyl,” said the Professor. “It was never approved by the FDA, but Ladley tested it and it was safe.” The Professor held up a quart jar with a bluish liquid in it.
“And when you mix it with coke,” said the Prince, “it'll fire you up, like funky cold medina.”
''I'm not sure about chemicals,” said T-Bone. “Who knows what this shit is.”
“No,” said the Professor. “This is just a booster, a glorified cutting substance.”
“Like baking soda with an attitude,” said the Prince.
“Medina,” said T-Bone softly. “Just like that rap song. I like the name. It'll play good on the street.”
“If it didn't need cocaine to work, it wouldn't even be illegal under current FDA rules,” said the Professor. “We are offering you our formula. We can make several bottles of it to get you started. I will also train one of your men to make it on your own. It's really very simple. I'd like to show you briefly how easily we make it.” The Professor pulled out a small bag of cocaine.
T-Bone went cold, as if he only just realized that a crime was taking place. He never liked to be near drugs if at all possible. Mayo knew what he had to do. 'I’ll go watch out for the cops,” he said.
“Cool.” said T-Bone. He relaxed a little.
Mayo moved away from the gathering and took out his gun.
The Professor looked at the Prince who looked at Donna. “I'll go, too,” she said flatly.
The Professor began to talk about the ingredients while Mayo and Donna went off together.
Mayo couldn't take his eyes off her. Her face was plain-looking. Her skin was poor, features dull and common. Her hair was cropped short and dyed a sad blond. Her green eyes had red around them which suggested she wore colored contacts. But her body. It was as if an artist had drawn her.
The dress tantalizingly suggested her nudity underneath and when she moved, the fabric was pushed and pulled tighter hugging her and showing even more. She walked ahead of Mayo and he enjoyed every moment of it.
“You really look good in that dress, baby,” he said finally.
“I know,” she said.
“Oh, I dig. You know you got it, right?”
“I know you want it, that's for sure.”
“You got that right.” Mayo almost stumbled in the dark.
“Well, you can't have everything.”
“So, you his woman?”
“Who? The Prince?”
“Yeah.”
“I guess. “
“You ain't for sure though, huh?”
“No, I'm sure.”
“So, why was you lickin' yo tongue at me?”
“Oh, I always do that. It don't mean nothing.”
“Yeah, well maybe--”
“Hold it,” Donna said, stopping. “I came here to do some business with my man. I'm lookin' out for the cops with you 'cause we don't trust nobody. That's all. None of this is yours.” She passed her hand over her body. “So just cool yo shit out before I cool it out for you.” She pointed her finger in his face.
“OK, baby, OK,” said Mayo a little embarrassed.
Donna walked ahead and up a flight of stairs.
Mayo watched her legs flex as she climbed the stairs. Too bad, he thought. Too bad.
They stopped in a large room at the front of the building. They could see the street from their position but it was probably difficult for anyone outside to see in. Old counters and displays surrounded them. Mannequin limbs littered the floor, spotted with burned patches that looked like sick, unattended wounds.
Mayo put his gun back into his waistband and watched the street. Donna looked at the street too, unaware of his presence.
He tried to keep his eyes away from Donna but it was hard. There was something about her face on that fabulous body that made him crazy. She was like that statue of the lady with no arms. He'd seen it on TV once. It was a beautiful statue but it was flawed.
Donna walked slowly past Mayo reaching for something in her purse. She moved across the room, her black pumps making crunching noises. She stopped at a scorched counter and leaned back against it, facing Mayo.
He tried not to watch, but it was useless. The woman commanded attention.
Donna parted her legs, stretching the short dress between them. The dress rose to the top of her thighs and created hills and valleys in the shape of a triangle. She ran her hand over her middle, down the front of her dress to the hem. She looked at Mayo and grinned, poking out her tongue. Then she pulled the dress up and over the back of her head. She was, as Mayo had suspected, completely naked underneath.
Her body was exquisite. Her legs were long and trim, moving smoothly into the slight flare of her hips. She had a flat, muscular stomach, and her breasts were high and firm, each nipple coarse from her excitement. She braced one hand along the edge of the counter. In the other, she held a condom.
“Come get it,” she said.
**********
The Professor took the tray out of the battery-operated oven. The smoking contents formed a dry, hard plane with crevices in it. He sat it on the top of the trunk to cool.
“Looks almost like crack, but it's blue,” said T-Bone.
“But you use less coke,” said the Professor.
“A lot less, my brotha,” said the Prince.
“If you give a little away at first,” said the Professor, “The people will get hooked and eat the stuff up.” He reached into the trunk again and pulled out a bottle of gin and took a long swig. His hand shook slightly as he did and he never bothered to offer anyone else a drink.
He was indeed an addict, T-Bone thought, an alcoholic.
“We chose you to try out our product on a big scale,” said the Prince. “We done it in some small towns, but this is the first big one.” He laughed nervously. He had told the Professor not to drink until
after the sale was made.
“Looks like your man here is nervous,” said T-Bone.
“That's enough, man,” said the Prince. “We got bizness.”
“No problem.” The Professor wiped his mouth.
''I'll give you twenty-five on faith and the rest when the product starts working on the street,” said T-Bone. “If it don't, you won't get shit and I'll be looking for you, understand?”
“We dig, my brotha.”
“When it works,” said the Professor, “Then we get the rest of the money right? Three hundred thousand.”
“Yeah,” said T-Bone looking at the tray. “But it'll take time. That kind of cash is not just lying around. I've got a lot of people to pay. Is it ready now?”
“Yes, just about,” said the Professor who took the tray and covered it with a lid. “You should break it before it cools completely. That way, you don't get a lot of small crystals. There will be some tiny ones, however, but they can be sold and smoked, too.” 'The Professor took the covered tray and slammed it into the top of the trunk's lid twice. When he opened it up, there were a hundred or so crystals about the size of a dime.
“We made this for less than a tenth of what it costs to make this much crack,” said the Prince. “You could sell a nickel bag for fifty cents.”
T-Bone had already done the math earlier with K-9. A nickel was a five dollar bag of crack. With Medina, he could sell a half-dollar's worth for that much. Hell, with the shortage, he could get seven dollars.
“What does the stuff cost to make?” T-Bone asked.
“Each batch makes about a hundred crystals. For each, you need a few dollars worth of the chemicals. It's made from things that can be obtained easily.”
“By five finger discount if necessary,” said the Prince. “This is the real shit, my brotha, all the way.”
''I'll try it if you want me to, Bone,” said Chick.
“No,” said T-Bone. “I don't want my folks fuckin' with this shit until it's tested out.” T-Bone was excited. Crack had innovated the drug trade as the poor man's cocaine. He would do it again with Medina.
When crack came on the scene, many got rich and many died in its wake. Ideally, he would like to wait until this
Handyman business was settled, but he couldn't afford to let someone else get the jump on this.
The drug game was risky, and at some point you couldn't know everything. You had to rely on instinct. He was rolling the dice again-- and he felt lucky.
6
The Crew Strikes Back
The black Chevy Grand National rolled down Cullen Street, the driver careful not to follow the camper ahead too closely. It was the fastest production car made in the U.S. They needed speed. They had been following the dirty white man for several hours. He was the Union's new deliveryman. This was not his lucky day.
John Jefferson sat in the passenger seat of the car. He wore a Tiger baseball cap and cradled a small machine gun in his arms. He was silent, keeping his eyes on the small camper.
“Turn down the music, Doc,” said Jefferson.
Doc, a heavy-set man with round glasses and tiny dreadlocks turned down the pulsating rap tune in the CD player.
John “Cut” Jefferson was the leader of the Southend Crew. He was about twenty-six, thin, and very dark. He was called Cut because he had a reputation for being a expert at diluting or cutting drugs.
Cut isolated his own territory and started small. Soon, most of the users in the city and near suburbs on the southwest side bought exclusively from him. The town belonged to the Union, but he made the Southend Crew a force to deal with.
Until lately. The Union hit was on his best house. And they were sloppy. They killed a baby, and not even a drug dealer was that fuckin' evil. He would show them how it was done.
The camper stopped at a corner and picked up a roller who looked about eighteen or so. The driver was a white man about forty.
They were going to make deliveries; at least they thought they were, Cut said to himself.
“Hey, Cut, what about the other guy?” asked Doc.
“Fuck him. He busted, too. You think I give a shit 'bout some nappy-headed roller?” Cut's southern accent was whisper thin under his anger.
''All right,” said Doc. “No prisoners.”
The camper stopped at a house. Cut kept his distance, but watched carefully. The white man pulled up and blew the horn a short blast. A young girl ran out of the house and took a grocery bag from the young roller. Quickly, she was back in the house.
“Smooth,” said Doc. “Groceries. I can dig it. People might think it's one of the churches with that free food for the shut-ins shit.”
''Ain't that a bitch,” said Cut. He pulled up the machine gun.
“This is the move, Cut,” said Doc. “The Union ain't the only ones who can make a hit.”
“Shut the fuck up and drive the car. Get ready to pull in front of his ass.”
They waited until the camper was away from the house. Cut understood that the Union had rollers with guns on this block. If you fucked up, a shot might catch you from any window.
The camper left the block and entered the next. Cut had Doc speed up. The black Chevy swerved around the camper and stopped suddenly.
The scruffy-looking white man inside hit the brakes and the old camper screeched to a stop. Cut jumped out of the car and quickly sprayed bullets into the windshield, shattering it. He saw a red spray lift into the compartment. The white man's body jumped as each shot slammed into him. The young black roller's bright blue shirt became purple as the blood spread. Cut yelled as he walked toward the camper, still shooting.
After the clip was spent, Cut stopped shooting and ran to the camper. He had to get the cocaine and leave before someone saw him. This was still Union territory. He opened the door and the roller fell out onto the pavement. He saw the white man, his head tilted into the window as if were looking for someone. He wore a bloodied shirt that read, SHIT HAPPENS.
7
The Rookies
Tony pumped harder. It had been a while and he was out of shape. Sweat rolled from his body as he changed positions on the Universal machine at the gym. He needed to blow off some steam and decided to do it at the officers’ gym.
The investigation was moving slowly and the cops were busting heads all over town but getting nowhere. Putting the rollers in jail was of no use. Most were too young to be kept in prison and were released and back to work selling poison within hours.
“Gotta keep your mind on the weights, buddy,” said Jim, wiping sweat from his face. He had come to work out with Tony to help ease the tension.
“Don't you know it's dangerous to talk to a man while he's lifting?” Tony kept working.
“Sorry.” Jim sat down.
Tony finished and sat on the machine's orange seat, breathing heavily. Tony was ready to start another circuit when he saw two young men, one black, one white, coming their way. The black man was tall, good-looking, and muscular. The white guy was pale with short blond hair and light blue eyes. They were both dressed in crisp uniform blues and carried new department gym bags.
“Hello, Inspector Hill, sir,” said the tall black man.
“Do I know you?” Tony asked.
“We're rookies,” said the tall black man. ''I'm Fred Hampton. This is my partner, Pete Carter.” He pointed to the white guy.
“Good,” Tony said. “This is my partner-”
“Oh, we know who he is,” said Hampton, smiling. “James Cole, cited for bravery five times, wounded in the line of duty twice, three times officer of the year.”
“OK,” said Jim. “Now tell me what my blood type is.”
The young officers laughed again. Jim did too, but seemed uneasy that they knew so much about his record.
“You have to excuse him,” said Carter. “He has a good memory and he likes to show off.”
“I know you guys,” said Tony. “You guys graduated at the top of the last academy class, right?”
> “Yes, sir,” said Hampton. “I was fourth, Pete here was number two.”
Tony nodded. He'd seen these law-and-order cadet types before. A few years on the streets would kill that shit, he thought.
“Yeah, but Fred was the top marksman in our class,” said Carter.
“We're first-team uniform backup on the Handyman case,” said Hampton.
“I know. I requested you,” said Tony.
“We were just on our way back to duty, but I thought we'd come by and say hello and thanks for requesting us,” said Hampton.
“No problem,” said Tony. “I need all the help I can get catching the Handyman”
“Well, we really don't want to catch him,” said Carter. “He's doing a fine job.” The rookies laughed.
“You're kidding, right?” Jim asked.
“Oh, no,” said Carter. “The guy is cleaning up the streets for us.” He high-fived Hampton, who echoed his opinion.
“So, you guys think it's OK for a man to just kill someone 'cause he's a criminal?” Tony asked.
“No,” said Hampton. “But if he's a vigilante, maybe he's trying to bypass our slow and fallible legal system by dishing out a measure of justice.”
“What if a cop is in the way the next time he kills?” Tony stood up. “Is it OK to kill him, too?”
“Of course not,” said Carter. “But no one cares about these dealers, they're--”
“I don't believe I'm hearin' this,” said Jim. “A dealer is a citizen, too.”
“Calm down, Jim,” Tony said. “I think they're right.”
“What?” said Jim.
The rookies seemed surprised, too.
“Well, we see it differently, but I agree that the Handyman has done some good. He's got the dealers scared, but he's also causing the death of innocent people. And I know,” Tony cut Carter off, “that if a few innocent lives are lost in the process of getting rid of drugs, it's a good trade-off. And haven't we all dreamed of just popping a dealer? But tell me fellas, where does it end? We get rid of the drug dealers by just killing them, then what? Shoot drunk drivers? Income tax cheats? Cut off the hands of shoplifters?”
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