Tattoo snapped Skully’s roll but still insisted he enter the building.
“Jacket off,” one of them said, showing a cheap pistol.
“Hey, you got m’fuckin’ money!”
“Shut up. Git it off!”
The sleazoid picked up Skully’s jacket, took a pack of butts out of the breast pocket, divided them with his associates.
“Now pants, man.”
“What?”
The shiv fell to the floor, and soon the rest of Skully’s cake was in their hands.
“Rapido! Green gonna sell out. Le’s split!”
One stayed behind long enough to tie Skully’s jeans into knots. When he was satisfied that his victim would need ten minutes to untie the legs, he dropped the jeans on the garbage carpeted floor and stalked out.
Yen chills ran up and down Skully’s spine, distracting him. He tried to undo one of the tighter knots, but his hands shook uncontrollably. A coughing fit gripped him, and he held his chest. Weak, he sat on garbage and broken glass, shielded only by his skivvies. He could hear a Crazy Eddie commercial roaring out of a ghetto blaster somewhere close by, and the harshness irritated him unbearably. One of the jerks had left a burning cigarette—his—on the floor. He lifted it to his quivering lips.
They’d cleaned him. How the fuck could he smile and mix drinks in this condition? He thought about a book he’d’ read in the joint, by Kafka, called The Metamorphosis. Gregor Samsa wakes up one morning and discovers he’s a cockroach. The superlative problem is: How can I put my human clothes on this body, so I can go to work?
He didn’t even have a dime to call the bar and offer an excuse. Didn’t have the price of a subway token. Now, ain’t Fate a fucking? Too bad Gregor couldn’t join him at the moment. It took awhile, but he got the knots out, put on his jeans, and hit the street.
“How many j’want? Las’ call on Green Tape.”
He turned and faced a green-capped crew worker.
“None,” he said. “I just got taken off.”
The worker shrugged. “Betta git some money, poppa. J’lookin’ seeek.”
“Yeah! Got a smoke?”
The worker told him to stop shaking as he lit the cigarette. “Cop some dinero an’ come back aks f’ Baba. I make sure j’don’ git taken again.”
Skully took the spring knife out of his pocket and showed it to Baba. “Hey, B, I know it’s a bit tarnished, but the spring is good. Clean an’ sharpen it. Wanna give me two bags for it?”
“That no open from thee front, poppa. I no like—”
“One bag! Man, I’m sick as shit. That’s all I have. I gotta go to work!”
“So come back lata.”
“Can’t. I work in the Bronx. If I don’t show I’m fucked. Gimme one bag and a token for the train and it’s yours.”
Baba clicked the blade out and examined it. It was dull and dirty but would take an edge.
“Wai’ here. I get j’uno bag Green Tape. J’gotta gimmick?”
“Yeah,” Skully said, feeling the anticipation of relief.
“Green run good today. J’be fine,” Baba said. He ducked out and slid down the basement where the Green Tape crew stored their material. He came back and led Skully into the building he’d been mugged in. “There’s a gallery upstairs, poppa, bu’ dey charge three bucks. We go in here. Nobody in this dump.”
They walked up one flight and into a rank empty apartment. Skully could hear activity above them. Baba turned on a water faucet, and Skully started to prepare. The cylinder of his gimmick was cracked. He borrowed Baba’s dirty weeper and started to probe for a line. He was shaking too badly, and Baba had to hit him. Baba’s long thin fingers moved deftly, fluidly. He had a practiced doctor’s touch.
The eyelids came down lightly before the point was out of Skully’s arm. He felt his muscles losing tension and pain. His breathing cleared. Baba lit a fresh butt and put it to Skully’s lips. The blanco poked hungrily.
“That Green is gooood today,” said lazy lips.
“Da’ shit’s good ’cause Triad come out wi’ a smoker! Gotta keep up.”
Skully was starting to feel like himself again.
“Hey, Baba, m’name’s Skully.”
Baba nodded. Calm eyes said, “So what?”
“You helped me, hombre. I wanna pay you back. I know that blade’s no bargain. Listen, if you take the subway up to the Bronx tonight and bring me a bundle, I’ll tip you two bags and you’ll drink for free. I’m a bartender.”
Baba brightened. “Soun’ good, man. Where j’bar?”
“Take the train to Two Twenty-fifth. Walk over to the Concourse. Ask anybody for Mimm’s Cafe. I go on in a few hours, so make it.”
“Cool,” Baba said, handing Skully change for a subway token.
Comancheros!
THE RIVINGTON STREET spot drew heat due to gunplay on Chu’s part, squashing a holdup attempt. It stayed closed for three weeks. The partners were pushing to reopen. The ShyWun thought it premature, but when T sounded the fact that they were turning seventy to eighty grand a day there, the masked man softened. And raised his tax.
Four days after the grand opening a wide four-door pitted Plymouth—looked like a fallen gypsy cab—pulled up outside. Chu saw it from inside and wondered about the four men sitting in it. Latins, mid-thirties, too hefty to be junkies and too sloppy to be heat. He turned to his assistant.
“Get thee las’ customers out an’ lock thee door, Pepe!”
Pepe’d just barely touched the tumbler on the big steel door when it was thrown open from outside. The force knocked Pepe to the ground. He turned over, blade flashing, screaming, “Chu! Chu!”
One of the intruders leveled a silenced pistol in his extended arms, lifting it to eye level as Pepe flung his blade. The handle hit the man’s shoulder, just offsetting his aim enough to save the Triad’s life. A bullet spit into the wood wall beside him.
Chu appeared with his silenced .32, ducked behind a garbage can, and assumed firing position. He opened up in the narrow hallway. The closest intruder caught lead in the belly as Pepe ran behind Chu.
“Chu, man, day gonna keel us. C’mon. I know a ways outa heah.”
“We gonna hold’m.”
“We gonna die!”
One of the men set off a gas canister, ending the conversation. They were equipped with masks and charging.
“Git us outa heah!”
Pepe led Chu up to the third floor, pointing out the fishing wire strung across assorted stairs to trip up anyone in pursuit who didn’t know the layout. Silent bullets whizzed around as they leaped out a window, down a ledge to the second floor, dropping from there down into a lot full of broken glass and debris. They left behind over six grand in cake, twenty bundles of Triad material, and a Comanchero corpse.
The stiff’s wallet told tales but in fragments. Its owner was Comanchero, at any rate. References to a Rafael permeated the scribbled notes and lists. Questions float out onto the street.
Final Nod
JJ WATCHED THE prowlers turn the corner of Stanton Street off the Bowery. As soon as they were out of sight he walked over to Rivington. Triad’d been opening on and off on Riv due to excessive heat. But Furman was covering the Avenue D spot, and JJ only had a few bundles to sell. Things looked open on Rivington, so he set up and began to tout.
A familiar blanco wearing dark shades bopped over and bought a bag, then returned ten minutes later and took a bundle. “Shit’s still on the money,” he said. “Amazing.”
JJ said, “Triad always the same smokin’ bag,” without looking at the blanco. He was preoccupied with selling out and makin’ it back to Brooklyn to enjoy his evening cura.
The prowler returned, moving slowly down Rivington and stopping outside the storefront Dr. Nova sometimes worked. JJ was across the street in the doorway of a punk club. He m
ade Chico the Cop in the front seat of the car. Chico was born on these streets and had the rep of a man who did not play. Looked like they were sticking around, so JJ ascended a long creaky flight of stairs, paid three bucks, entered the punk club.
There was a band playing loud, unmelodious music. Blanco girls with tight jeans, makeup, and spiked hair nodded metronomically to the beat. The guys were mostly greased and leathered. An occasional Mohawk. JJ was one of the few dark faces in the loft, but no one looked twice.
He stationed himself by the window, so he could watch the man across the street. Their presence would scare away customers. Shit.
“Looks like they’re gonna hang out.”
He turned to face the voice. It belonged to a blanco, maybe twenty, wearing a black satin shirt, white duck pants, black engineer boots, and a Roseland d.a. “Fuckin’ cops. How’s a man supposed to turn a buck?”
JJ shrugged. “I donno.”
The guy got closer. JJ could smell his sweat and chewing gum. “Listen, I know the score. I buy bags on the street all the time.”
“Zat so?”
“Yeah. I’ve seen you aroun’ too.” The punk’s eyes glistened with inebriation, from the smell JJ guessed alcohol.
“Naww. I ain’t fum rou’ heah.”
“You know where I can score some D, don’t you?”
“I donno nothin’ like that.”
“Hey, I’m not heat. Loosen up, baby, nobody gonna bother you here. Tell you what, I’ll give you thirty bucks for two.”
JJ shrugged, looked around, checked the punk’s face. What the hell. “Meet me in that corner over there,” he said, turning and walking off.
The punk assumed position. JJ took the thirty and dropped two bags into his hand.
“These ain’t dummies, are they?”
“No way. They sealed an’ stamped Triad, man. Where you been?” Almost everyone knew those bags.
“Do me a favor. Wait ’til I get off. If I like it I’ll buy all you have on you.”
“Can’t stick aroun’ too long, Jim.”
“Gimme five. Just got to borrow a spike and get off in the bathroom.”
“Hurry.”
JJ went back to his vigil by the window. Damn, that band was bad. Not good-baaad but evil. Rank! Desecration of Soul!
The band stopped finally, and the room lost its jump. JJ was grateful, toking on a butt and watching the cops just hanging out like they had nothing to do. No wonder so much crime goes down in this city.
A sudden shriek caused JJ to turn around. There was a spike-haired girl in the middle of the floor, howling her brains out. Some guys were trying to cool her, but she just kept it up. What the fuck was she howling about? Something about “Dead!” “He’s dead!” Shit. Probably somebody checked out from listening to that evil rock band. Well, at least they’re not playing.
A crowd was forming near the bathroom. JJ wondered if … nawwww. Couldn’t be. He walked over to see what was happening.
There, on the dance floor, was his new customer. The punk was stone blue, mouth and neck covered with vomit. A dude was pounding his heart but after awhile gave up. “Dead,” he said softly.
“Call the cops!” someone let out.
“The cops are on the street outside,” another dude said. “I’ll go get’m!”
“No, I’ll go!” JJ huffed. He bolted out the door and didn’t stop running ’til he was back in Alphabet City.
A Nonpreppy Type
KATHY MCQUEEN HAD to sell a few more bags of reefer before calling it a day. She was down for five but needed six bags of Triad to soothe the monkey. If Triad was sold out she’d have to go for a lesser bag, maybe not even get really straight. Nothing came near Triad. Straight-up goodness! If bad news fell she’d need a full bundle of anything else.
Her clear blue eyes were alive, darting across Washington Square Park. One for the police and the other for customers. Pressure was on. It was getting late, and she had the shorts. Mercy!
A dark man looked at her flirtatiously, commenting on her blonde hair. He pursed his lips and made pussy-sucking noises. Kathy snarled and gave him the thumbs-down sign.
He was persistent.
“What ch’doin’, momma? Y’all sellin’ them long pretty legs?”
“Beat it, pig-ugly turd!”
“What’z’a matta, baby, got somethin’ agin’ black men?”
“No, just ugly men.”
The toothy, self-confident smile faded, along with the shoulder-shifting strut. “Bitch!” he spat.
“Eat shit, turkey.”
She lit a joint and sat on the bench, smirking as he walked off muttering to himself. Kathy was getting sicker by the moment. She had no time to waste with obnoxious jerks. Her stomach fluttered. The surface of her skin was coated with a film of sticky sweat. She had to sell her reefer and go pick up quick.
Almost the second she gave up she spotted an NYU student, who often scored nickel bags off her. He approached and bought ten nickels. Enough cake for the night and a generous wake-up! Now tell me there ain’t a God.
It was a clear blue twilight, and Kathy’s spirits rose as she walked east towards Sixth and C. It was still early enough, if she was lucky. Her bones ached, and she considered a taxi, but that would cut severely into her scoring funds.
On Sixth and B she caught her reflection in a store window. Tight blue sweater over her trim, small-breasted form, faded blue jeans hugging around the hips and long legs. She examined her short dirty-blonde hair. A year on heroin had done nothing negative to her looks. She’d lost weight and looked tight and lean. It was inside that the price had been paid to Mr. Jones. Inside, where her whole being ached for Lotus Land.
A year ago Kathy had been a second-year art student at Cooper Union. She was fascinated by the punk scene and had a weakness for musicians. When she met Terry one night at CBGB, she couldn’t get over his trashy cool.
Terry was a skinny fallen Catholic angel. He was naughty as sin and liked loud rock music and strong heroin. Kathy had a deep affinity for people who don’t do what they’re told. Terry was the very manifestation of this attitude. He moved in with her a few days after they met. A week of fucking their brains out didn’t diminish the fire. Her crib turned into a teacup scene for his friends, many of them celebrities on the punk music scene. They got along fine with Kathy. Everyone thought she was cool and dug her paintings.
But two months into the scene Terry took a fall for possession. It took three days to raise bail. When she picked him up she hardly recognized him. The eyes were dead, dull, defeated. He’d been junk-sick to the max and was almost crippled with pain. He smelled of death.
They returned to the crib, and Kathy fixed him promptly. But Terry’s tolerance had diminished, and he o.d.’d on his usual dose. Kathy had never seen an o.d. She didn’t have the first idea how to help.
Terry was dead when the ambulance arrived, leaving behind his highly addicted girlfriend to fend for herself. But she was smart and street wise. She found a girl dealer, who gave her bagged nickels of reefer up front and hipped her how to pass it and score dope with the proceeds. It was a real education. Much more demanding and rewarding than Cooper Union, where consequence was less immediate and dense with abstraction. Everything else became petty in the face of heroin. Simply nothing in the world like it. It liberated her from the tribal madnesses of competitiveness, inherent hostilities, even sex. She found her point of view shifting in what seemed like a practical, even pleasant way.
Weekly phone calls to her parents in Jersey had always been painful and frustrating. But on the goodness she could call and babble cheerfully. It mattered little that she couldn’t relate to her market-analyst father and secretary mother. Empty-headed suburban mystics. That’s what she thought of them. Their fancy props and hysterical inevitability made her ill. But on dope she could sound loving for ten minute
s. Without the slightest effort she could dream up intricate explanations for how she was spending her time. No, she was not attending classes. Her faculty adviser fully approved of an independent study program, and of course she would receive credits after completing a series of paintings. And she was supplementing the income Daddy sent her by selling an occasional painting. That part of her tale was true. A few of Terry’s musician friends were making money. She’d offered three paintings for a total of seven hundred bucks. That’s seventy bags! No small score! She was still painting sometimes, when she had enough stashed to sit still.
The glowing phone calls to Jersey paid off. Daddy upped the ante from fifty to a hundred bucks per week. Kathy had her own room in a pad she shared with two other Cooper students, and her portion of the rent was small. She ate like a bird, particularly on heroin. A mere twenty bucks weekly took care of food.
Kathy had style enough to look hip without spending money. She rarely had to pay admission or buy her own drinks at the punk clubs. She was a long way from desperation. Except for dope. It put pressure on her. Made her count pennies. It forced her to deal reefer and risk not only arrest but her ass as well.
Kathy looked up. She wondered if the three young PRs bopping her way were going to surround her and take her off.
Her hand slid into her jacket pocket and closed around a can of Mace. But they were content to make sucking noises as she passed.
“OOOooOoO mometta!”
“Flacita! Petita!”
Kathy ignored them. The Triad spot on C was in a building and kept no touters on the street, so it was hard to tell if they were open. She walked up to the storefront and rapped on the door. An eyeball peered back at her through the peephole. The door swung open. Kathy was a regular, and her face was well known.
“Hey, Chu! Got a bundle for me?”
He smiled and dropped the package in her hand.
She paid him. “You have a gimmick, Chu? I’m really feelin’ like shit tonight.”
“Don’ sell gimmicks. Go roun’ t’Third an’ D.”
The Lotus Crew Page 5
