The Lotus Crew

by Stewart Meyer

  “Thanks,” she said, “but I don’t like goin’ near those guys.”

  “I know what j’mean. Pretty girl gots no business on that street. When m’frien’ come back I send him t’get a weeper. Yus’ si’down’n hang out.”

  “How nice of you.” She flashed her man-melter smile at him.

  Kathy was impatient to get straight and was about to open and sniff a bag when Chu handed her a tinfoil pipe and told her to draw on the tip when he lit it. The acrid smell of burning goodness filled her lungs at once. She’d never smoked before and was amazed at how quickly it went to her head.

  After a few deep, satisfying hits, Chu lit a joint of strong Thai reefer sprinkled liberally with heroin. A far cry from the harsh commercial ’lumbo reefer she was used to. And the dope didn’t hurt, either.

  As they sat, a man came in, bought bags, and slipped out. Chu placed the cake in a box full of money.

  “Wow!” Kathy said.

  “Hmm. Mucho dinero. Not mines though, baby. Me yus’ a workin’ man.”

  “Doin’ better than most, I’d say.”

  He took the compliment gracefully, with a broad smile.

  Another man walked in. He slapped Chu’s palm and said, “Wha’z happnin’?”

  “Go roun’ t’D an’ pick up a weeper f’m’frien’,” Chu said.

  Kathy tried to hand the man a five, but Chu waved her down.

  “On me, baby, f’brightnin’ m’day.”

  “Be ri’ back,” the man said.

  The heroin they’d smoked was hitting nicely, so she sat down feeling calm, watching Chu deal with the assortment of customers walking in and out. An old Dylan record—from the preholy days—was playing on the radio. “They stone you just like they said they would.” Chu, as far as she could see, was emotionally immune to the fact that he was risking prison, a holdup, or any number of things that can and do go wrong in the dope business.

  She admired his fluid style and animation. His act was very together. Crisp. He took cake and doled out bags with a true economy of energy. All the while his eyes and ears were tuned for trouble. Sometimes, when he leaned over to reach for something, she could see the print of a pistol through his thin brown leather jacket. He was a strong contrast to her preppy friends from another lifetime. Also from her trendy musician types. He was right there! On the money like a good bang of Triad.

  Kathy hung out until Chu sold his last bag and closed up shop, by which time he was getting a strong intuition that she found him desirable. He swept her into his newly purchased five-year-old Eldo, left her in the double-parked car as he made his cash drop at the Tompkins Square crib.

  Kathy slid a Bush Tetras cassette out of her handbag and into the slot on the dashboard. She sat back smoking a joint, feeling the butter-soft leather under her sharp ass. It was the first time since Terry she felt at ease with a man.

  The Demented Bullfighter

  RAFAEL WAS NOT BORN the mean son of a bitch he was. It was something he learned. Something he picked up in the early years of his criminal career. Born in Juarez but raised in Mexico City and later L.A., he found in his early teens that he was a capable businessman in a very unique position. He had blanco associates in and around L.A. who would pay highball cake for good opium and heroin. He had Mexican hombres in the trade on the supply end who thought nothing of giving him material on credit. He was bilingual, bi-coastal, and well connected on both sides.

  Rafael opened up a quickly expanding op: strong brown Mexican junk cut with Nestlé’s Quik. The money gushed in. Karl Marx woulda puked.

  But the heroin business has always been a lesson in nastiness, and even with his close Mex hombres there were problems. If they scored a ki and were used to putting a six hit on it, they threw the six, even if it killed the quality. Pure can be hit maybe ten times. But commercial material has already been hit. The way the trade works is: How cheap can I get it, and how many times can I cut it? Score in Mexico or L.A. and you’re lucky if you can step on it one to one. Score in Persia, Burma, Thailand, and you can dance on it. No one will complain.

  Rafael’s faith in human behavior disintegrated like ice in the sun. Moreover, it seemed to the up-and-coming young pirate that the more wicked one’s behavior the greater the take. On upper levels of disgustingness the rewards were mind-staggering. He knew from watching his suppliers. Power, privilege, force, flash. Whatever could be bought … whatever was wittingly or otherwise for sale. Since Rafael was for sale, he assumed everyone was. The assumption was rarely inappropriate. The year he went to prison he read that President Nixon had granted executive clemency to a racketeer named Jimmy Hoffa. Later Nixon was granted clemency in turn by President Ford. Rafael felt himself to be in good company as a criminal. Crime makes the world go round. Perhaps one day he too would make history and be granted executive clemency.

  Rafael had another gift besides subjective observation. He had presence. He could speak, smile, glare, frown, and strut with an air of absolute power, of graceful and naive self-confidence. He had life by the balls. Even if he was occasionally shot at. His hard face exuded command.

  The L.A. blancos ate it up. Had they been familiar with Manhattan pimps, they might’ve snickered. Instead they mythologized him and his dope. He was Sportin’ Life, and his stash was Happy Dust. His veneered presence fit right into the Hollywood Hills, Venice, Westwood scenes. These people did not distinguish between graceful and slick. They hardly distinguished between honest and lookin’ good.

  Rafael moved as much heroin and cocaine as he could get his highly financed and hyperconnected hands on. He took a small but well-placed estate in the Hollywood Hills, doing business from a living room looking out on miles of lights, landscape, and lesser players down there running around like ants: rows of blue-collar bedrooms fenced in by highways and arteries. Conduits of electricity pulsing away actively, in sharp contrast to Rafael’s languid inertia as he sat back on the sofa to nod with his head full of heroin and his ears full of Chicano bebop. He mirrored the walls, commissioned a rosewood table with platinum inlay, and placed upon it a solid gold antique gunpowder scale. It was the shrine of his religious worship, turning brown powder into green dinero.

  He made his own special bags. Nonporous papers, a painfully fancy fold, covered with plastic and shrink-sealed. Each package had a red sombrero logo and the word Siesta stamped on it. Fifties, hundreds, two-hundreds, four-hundreds. But he wasn’t dealing in no school yard, poppa. The fours went fastest.

  Then suddenly things got weird. It started with small details, but soon affected everything. A distant associate got busted. No one Rafael did steady bizz with, but his name was in the dude’s address book. There was much talk of heat. Rafael’s heroin chippy flared into a raging Jones from worry. One of his steady sources lost a shipment. They made up their losses by selling weaker dope. Rafael refused to buy it; he became an unreliable dealer because he often had no stock. When his suppliers re-upped strong shit they refused to front him because he hadn’t helped them recoup. The strong material went to those who did, on credit. Rafael had to pay cash for weaker shit.

  He lost customers. They cleaned up or found other scores. One by one the props went. Cars, motorcycles. The house was next. A few accounts owed him cash—people he’d partied with just a short while ago—but they weren’t coming through. He’d never bothered to save a nickel. Lots of cake passed through, but most of it went up his arm or through his nose. Ayyy caramba!

  Then he had a visitor, an Italian dude he dealt coke to. He knew the man only as “Dino.” One of the few who paid on delivery. The guy was having a cash-flow problem. Dino owed an Italian coke factor one hundred grand. The man told him if he didn’t pay up in one week he’d be dead. Since Rafael knew both men, maybe he could lay some reason on the matter.

  Rafael had a better idea.

  “Tell j’what, amigo. J’owe’m a hunred. I keel heem f’feefty.”


  The man smiled and told Rafael he’d have the cake for him in two days tops. Muchas gracias.

  It was Rafael’s first plunge into really quick money. Dealing was profitable, but you had to work, scheme, sweat, even socialize. Mayhem better suited his temperament.

  A new, vicious regime kicked in. He drifted into a Pachuco crime family and quickly rose through the ranks. He was paranoid, unpredictable, and ruthless. Not a good man to disagree with unless prepared to kill or die instantly. But the Pachucos themselves were afraid of him. They kept secrets. Paranoia caused him to move on. Manhattan seemed likely because the heat knew so much about him. It’s a cinch to evaporate into the New York Hispanic community. Bang! Another Rodriguez or Gonzales on an apartment house bell cluster full of ’em. New York would cover him. Just like it covered the owners of all those Chinese restaurants. Maybe he’d hire a Chinese accountant and turn his books over to IRS for a laugh.

  It took some doing, but eventually Manhattan got too hot. Not police heat. The man seemed to have no time for Rafael. He’d learned from his lawyers that the New York prisons were stuffed to the max. It was hard to put a man away if they wanted to. Let alone keep him there. But Rafael had joined a gang, a crew of pirates called the Comancheros. This association brought with it some very excessive heat indeed. From the many people they ripped off.

  They were in the trade the mean way. A mix of PRs, solo Mexicans, a few vagabonds from the Cuban coke trade, they were a solid army of nasty!

  Rafael quickly showed his mettle and took the lead. A fierce gang grew fiercer still. Two berserk Pachucos from the West Coast days arrived, and Rafael employed them as his private guard.

  The Comancheros would hit anyone if the cash flow was steep enough, but they specialized in bookie joints and drug retailers. They were feared and hated, and in return feared nothing that moved. Not even the Italians. At first they’d stayed clear of the Rasta ganja shops, but their unpopularity in Manhattan led them into East New York, where they began hitting the downtown Brooklyn Rasta ops. Rastafarians generally fight back, and Rafael had to be prepared to lose a man or two if he wanted to hit them. And what general is not prepared? Fact is, he had too many men. As far as he could see there was no end to the spoils of terrorism. But it was hard keeping them all happy, and dangerous not to. He had a rucking army to feed.

  So it was by sheer coincidence that Rafael set up headquarters near what had once been Alvira’s Embryo Plaza. Wyona Street. Years ago it had been a mix of newly arrived ethnic workers and housekeepers. Now it was desolation personified with Rafael providing the only exception to the dead stillness of urban ruins.

  Around them the Rastas had their areas, as did the blacks and other Latins. But Wyona Street itself was strictly Comanchero. Even the streets directly nearby were dead, belonging to no one. No one wanted them. They offered nothing but menace and death.

  There’d been no opposition when the Comancheros moved in. Moreover, they’d stepped into a virtual fortress, an embassy situation. No one would go near this turf. These were not streets on which men passed each other casually. Confrontations were the rule, like in a war zone.

  Packs of wild wolfish dogs and young desperate human rat packs, swarming, hanging around in condemned buildings, turning on anything in sight. Each other.

  Even JJ and Furman, who lived just a few blocks away on Miller Avenue and Dumont, hadn’t gone near Wyona Street in years.

  Surrounded by rooftop guards, changing buildings every few days, keeping the area looking like it was under military occupation, Rafael was able to feel safe.

  His cruelty had led him to the rank of general. He’d killed and risked death repeatedly for the spot. It was his!

  Jones Took the Wheel

  ERIC SHOMBERG PARKED the taxi and got out, lighting a ciggy and scanning Rivington Street through his dark RayBans. He’d booked high all day and was about to bring the yellow beast back to the garage when he decided he’d give himself a little itty-bitty treat.

  He’d been tapering off lately, due to the insanities of scoring on the street. But a passenger he’d picked up earlier, a sloppy sunglassed girl in a baggy leather jacket, showed signs of the lotus in her itching eyes and slow speech. He’d started a sound on her and learned that there was some very good schmooz to be had on Riv off Bowery. Dr. Nova’s old spot. No, Nova was not the smokin’ bag at the moment. Frequent busts had driven them deeper into the Lower East Side, back to Alphabet City, although they occasionally set up a two-man crew for a few hours on Riv. But fuck Nova. Check Triad. A smoker! The girl didn’t know who they were, but the bags were marked with the word Triad in red, or Rainbow in blue. Straight-up goodness! One bag should do it unless you’re a pig. Eric thanked her for the sound and went on with his day.

  He didn’t have to get high. He hadn’t turned on full-blast in a while and had no Jones at the moment. The past two weeks had been hideous for him; shitting and shivering, driving with frazzled nerves, barely doing anything but working and suffering. No sleep. Depressed most of the time. Spontaneous tears. The part of kicking that most bothered him was over, and if he let the shit be, he’d be fine soon. Be the first time in years he was really clean. If he pulled it off. All day long he struggled with the conflict. To score or not to score? That is the question. Shomberg was winning. He was almost on the ramp leading to the Brooklyn Bridge when Jones took the wheel!

  Well, shit. A man has to enjoy something in this here life.

  Rivington Street was hopping, and it was easy to see where the smoker was. A tenement building two doors down from the bodega. He walked up slowly, expecting one of the Latins lounging around to tout. No one came near. He lifted his shades and peered around. No steering, but plenty of in-out traffic. He could smell the score plain. He stopped a junkie coming out.

  “Yo, B. What’s the take on this place?”

  The man turned an angry face on him, lips drawn down on the weight of three days’ stubble, eyes dead. “You can score here. I’ll bring you in for a bag.”

  Eric waved the man away. “That’s fine. I’ll take m’chances.”

  He walked into the dark corridor, causing eyes to peer into his. Still no touter. Then he jumped as a door creaked open, flattening himself against the wall. It was the door to the basement.

  Chu peered into the darkness, saw the man against the wall, and assumed the worst. He drew his Charter Arms .38 and crouched in firing position.

  Two men loitering near the stairway ducked for cover.

  “Yo!” Eric let out. “Careful w’that iron. You c’n have m’money!”

  Chu smiled. “Oh, I ain’ rippin’ j’off, B. Thought j’waz gonna rip my ass.”

  Eric was befuddled. “What?”

  “J’was agains’ thee wall, man. I fig’ a cop o’ stickup. But I seen j’face befo’. Got tracks?”

  “Sure, plenty.” Eric showed his arm.

  “Sorry, man. C’mon in.”

  Eric was shaking but managed to regain his composure. He lit a cigarette and offered Chu one.

  “No, thanks. How many?”

  Eric bought five bags. They were stamped Triad, just like the girl said. He was about to leave when Chu apologized again.

  “Listen, B, we gotta be on ou’ toes. From now on yus’ walk in an’ rap two fast fives on thee do’.”

  “Sure, sorry.”

  “Don’ eber flatten agains’ thee wall.” Chu turned to the loiterers. “Out a heah, assholes. Fuck w’m’customers an’ j’git hurt!” He turned back to Eric. “Hey, I gib j’a hard time. Here a bee-zag on me.”

  Eric loosened. He exhaled smoke from his nostrils and looked at the crewman closely so he’d remember him. It was almost unheard of for anyone to give a free bag away. On promo maybe, but not a smokin’ bag.

  “Thanks, man, you’re all right,” Eric said.

  Chu put his fingers to his lips and kisse
d the tips, blowing the kiss to the wind. “Gooood dew in those bags, B.”

  “Legend has it.”

  “We don’ got no shootin’ goin’ on here, bu’ eff j’wanna I c’n get j’off.”

  “Sure,” Eric said, wondering, curious.

  Chu led the white junkie down to a small room at the foot of the stairs. They sat on wood fruit crates around a makeshift table. There were soda bottle tops, a bottle of water, and weepers soaking in alcohol.

  Chu smiled. “I gib j’uno mo’ bag. J’shoulda seen j’face when I pull m’iron, man. Shit! Sorry ’bou’ da’ shit!”

  Eric relaxed. The guy was actually apologetic, trying to make it up to him. He opened a bag with his blade and dumped the powder into a bottle cap. He took a weeper out of the glass alcohol jar, drew in some water, and shot it into the cooker. Eric struck a match, but before he placed it to the candle he was going to cook with, the powder had broken up. He heated it anyway, out of habit.

  “Man, that shit broke up nice.” It was rare for street material to dissolve so clear.

  “Don’ need heat,” Chu said.

  Eric placed a piece of cotton on the spoon and drew the mix up through it. He poked around for a second, then caught a line and watched the cylinder fill with blood. He booted half the shot, then sat back and drew on his cigarette. He left the point sticking in the line, the weeper resting on his arm. He felt the warm rush instantly, and it was some mean goodness he was getting behind. Far superior to what he’d come to expect on the street. He wondered if he should push in the other half of the shot.

  Extended moments later Eric completed his shot, dabbed the red dot with alcohol on cotton. Sliding down his sleeve, he began to feel the waves take hold of him. His head rolled slowly as the blankness of Nod drew near.

  “Man, j’ain’ been behin’ no Triad bags, I c’n see. Godda gib j’some coke t’level it out.”

  Chu administered a massive bang of cocaine in the mainline, bringing Eric back at once.