The Lotus Crew

by Stewart Meyer

  As he turned onto Dumont Avenue he saw the big dark car with JJ’s impatient face in the rear window. He sprinted.

  “Furman, you baaad nigga. You gonna make us blow d’day. I aks you t’be on fuckin’ time, m’man. Fum now on we on’y be waitin’ on you ten minutes. Sheeet!”

  The problem was severe. Manhattan South and New York Tactical hit the street around eight o’clock. Between six-thirty and eight, shit was wide open. A Triad worker could sell out by noon with an early start. If the morning fucked up, it might take until seven at night to sell the day’s material.

  “I be sorry, JJ. Here, suck on some o’ dis fine reefa an’ be coo’.”

  “I suck on yo’ reefa,” JJ said, “but I don’ be cooled so easy. You be late every mornin’. It be nice o’Chu t’send wheels f’us, an’ you gonna fuck it up!”

  Ya Ya didn’t say a word but just cut expertly through morning traffic on the way to Manhattan.

  “It ain’ gonna happen again. I hadda he’p m’ma w’m’kid bro’. He be fuckin’ up at school again, and dey sent f’ha.”

  “You gonna have to tell it to Chu if it happen again. You be m’main blood, but you fuckin’ up. Sho’ you ain’ usin’ yo’seff blind?”

  “Shit, I ain’ usin’ but fou’ bags e’ry day,” Furman said softly.

  “Yo’ lids weighin’ in at a ton each, Jack, so don’ be layin’ yo’ lies on me. You gonna blow one high-payin’ ticket.”

  “Don’ say dat shit. I be cool!”

  “W’dat kinda usin’ folks be watchin’ you and you swea’ dey don’ see it. You think you cool, Furman. Don’ trust what you thinkin’. Jones thinkin’ f’you. Happnin’ t’ somebody else you see it plain.”

  Furman saw he couldn’t slide around JJ and sat trying to muster the passion to respond convincingly. It was gone. Jones had it. All he could invoke was an arrangement of facial features designed to communicate amusement, innocence, detachment from allegations. But JJ’s words stung into him. Furman’s mouth became tight, self-conscious. The eyes made his condition totally transparent. Barely slits, lids thick, very little eye contact or looking up. Those cold vacant orbs said Jones inside.

  “Furman, Jones makin’ yo’ moves. Look out!”

  The car pulled to the curb beside the park on Forsythe and Rivington.

  “JJ, you got ’magination up yo’ fool black ass.”

  “M’man, you fulla shit. Yo’ m’bro’n I won’t be tellin’ what an evil nigga you be. But ch’betta chill out o’ yo’ gonna fall.”

  Furman yanked a thin smile out of the remnants of himself. “I knows you concern. You m’daddy.”

  “You shitfucka!”

  Furman stepped out, throwing the leather bag over the shoulder of his London Fog tan raincoat.

  “You m’main,” Furman said, bending to stare straight into JJ’s eyes. JJ stared right back, seeing through him. Furman found himself saying, “. . . an’ I ain’ lookin’ t’bullshit you, JJ.” Furman’s eyes suddenly gave up, panicking a split-second to reveal deep anxiety. “I be tryin’ t’straighten shit out.”

  JJ exhaled in relief. Once someone admits they’re out of control they might turn it around.

  Furman’s customers were beginning to pile up, and JJ knew he only had seconds to be convincing. “Listen, Furman, tonight we gonna sit’n rap ’bout yo’ habit. Nobody gotta know. We bring it down slow, like maybe a bag less a day down to one o’ half. Then you gotta take a vacation, m’man. Chu give us time to chill out upstate.”

  “Soun’ good,” Furman said, his voice exhausted, defeated. The kind of habit he’d worked up was going to be painful to break. A nutcracker.

  For Furman, the worst symptoms were the mental quirks and fears, the raw nerves and eternal restlessness. Furman could contend with the trots, sweats, stomachaches, congestion, chills, nausea, and disorientation inherent in evicting the Chinaman. But the sheer hopelessness that crept into his soul scorched him bitterly. He was afraid of suicide, insanity, loss of control, of that helpless mindset. He’d been chipping for years, once in a while going too far for comfort. But this was a dealer’s habit. It would take something beyond courage to contend with the matter, to bear it without trembling.

  “You gonna make it, Furman. You ain’ alone.”

  “Yeah.” Furman flicked his butt at the curb and put on his RayBans. “Hey, m’people’re gettin’ itchy t’take off.”

  “Sure. Go ’head.”

  Furman straightened up and walked into the hallway of the tenement near the bodega. The building was open but only a few of the cribs were lived in. His spot was under the stairs, right near the rear doorway. He could split out the back or make the stairs to a maze of connected rooftops if things got nasty. And word was out on Triad, so he didn’t need a touter on the street anymore. Only thing he shelled out for was the cooperation of a customer of his who lived in the building. For six bags a day, Carlos provided a small but powerful kerosene heater for Furman to huddle close to or leave at his feet to fight off the long hours. The deal also included lunch—usually hot Spanish rice, beans, and spiced fried chicken wrapped in aluminum foil and heated—and the understanding that if shit fell Carlos would be there. If it was heat, he might have to stash material—or Furman. If it was a holdup, Carlos was bound by a handshake to cover Furman. No contracts were signed, but the two appeared to understand each other.

  Furman dealt quickly with the buildup of customers. Any cluster of blancos on Rivington Street would eventually draw heat. He set up the kerosene heater and had Carlos bring him coffee as soon as there was a break. He noticed Carlos was in a good mood and soon discovered the reason. He’d just received a substantial package of sludge. Sludge is an unshootable but very smokable yellowish-brown material similar in texture to moistened sugar. The high is similar to freebasing, a popular Hollywood and New York method of smoking cocaine. When Carlos first saw the blancos freebasing, it dawned on him that they were sort of taking the coke back a step. Since basing was relatively new, there was no commercial, ready-prepared material. Carlos hit on his contact in the Dominican Republic, who promptly opened up a line of sludge at extremely reasonable numbers. Carlos put out fives, tens, twenties, and fifties tinfoil packets of primo smokable coke with an airplane logo stamped on them, and below it the title B-52. Soon there were B-52s buzzing all over the street. The lotus ghosts all agreed it was the pause that refreshes. Having a hot item like that in the building helped Furman sell his own hot item. A customer could score Triad and B-52 in the same spot and speedball his ass off.

  Business was brisk, but Rivington Street was no breeze. Heat frequently patrolled on foot, which they rarely did in Alphabet City. No end to the harassment, and while they rarely caught anyone pants-down, their presence could tie up the game for a whole afternoon. Also, Riv was where Chu got taken by Comancheros.

  Carlos returned with more El Pico, this time laced with a touch of methedrine crystal to potentialize the caffeine. He also brought Furman a banana con cuso, a thick joint of reefer and sludge. Furman needed both.

  Two nervous blancos stumbled noisily into the hallway with fists full of tens. Furman threw out their bags and swept up the green.

  “Mira!” It was Carlos. “La hara!”

  “Yo, m’man, close ’at do’,” Furman hissed to one of the blancos. The customer looked confused but obeyed.

  “Ahmmmm … Don’ leave yet, y’all. Step down behin’ d’stairs f’one sec.”

  Furman blew out the candle and stashed his bags in a deep gaping wall hole. His ears were cocked for Carlos’ instructions because Carlos could watch the street from his window. A full five minutes stretched painfully along. They could sit there all day. The blancos were getting jittery, and Furman was about to tell them to walk a flight up, staying away from the windows facing the front, and let themselves out through a vacant rear apartment. Just then …

  “Es
ta bien!”

  Furman exhaled sludge in relief, opened the door, and excommunicated the blancos. He looked up and down the street as they split. His heart was pulsing, hands sweaty. Damn thrill a minute on Rivington. The man had blown any action that might’ve made the place jump. Hopefully in a few minutes the customers and crews would pop out of a million different shadows and go back into action.

  It took a few hours, but Furman sold his bags. He went into Carlos’ crib, where he could count the cake and get off in peace. He needed that after-work cura more than usual. Maybe he’d throw an extra bag in the cooker to calm his nerves.

  “Muchas gracias,” Carlos said, nodding at the two bags Furman dropped on the kitchen table for him. “I hab t’go t’New Yersey toni’, so I boot one an’ sabe uno f’moonyana.”

  “Be back befo’ I opens?”

  “Mos’ likely, ’less m’Cheby blow up.”

  “Well, fill the heater an’ leave it under the stairs. I’ll bring m’own lunch. Damn if I ain’ sick’a rice an’ beans nohow!” Furman grinned, challenging.

  “Hey, m’fucka’, don’ like m’cheecken?”

  “Yeah, big smash on yo’ chicken, Jim.”

  “J’don’ care ’bou’ food no more w’dee dope.”

  “Hey, I ain’t doin’ that much!” His voice went into excited falsetto. “Shit, man, why’re people behin’ buggin’ me today? I be cool, Carlos. An’f you catch m’man JJ, you be tellin’m that, too. Furman is a down nigga an’ is in slick operation!”

  “No’sing fool me. People come here t’buy e’ry day … c’n see j’slippin’ away. Dey see j’get weak an’ j’fucked, man.”

  Furman had been about to cook and shoot his cura when Carlos opened the superego assault on him. He looked around nervously. If he took his gimmick in the bathroom, Carlos would know exactly what he was doing. He thought of the four bags tucked in the lining of his jacket and could contain himself no further. He knew his actions would prove Carlos’ words, but …

  “If you had to stand there all day takin’ chances maybe you’d be blown out yo’seff, shitface,” Furman spat, pumping up his line and applying a tie.

  “I takin’ chances, Furman. An’ I gettin’ high to cool. Bu’ j’gotta put a limit, man. I ain’ tellin’ it no more ’cause j’don wanna hear. Foook it! Do what j’gonna do.”

  “I’ll get a grip on it, Carlos … when the time’s right. F’now’m unda the gun.”

  Furman finished fixing and split to make his cash drop. He knew people were getting disgusted with him. Somehow he’d have to chill out his gorilla.

  Starlight

  THE PARK AND STREETS were empty. El zoocho. A few vendadors were stalking around, but no one was holding or would risk going near his stash.

  Eric saw a dude he knew from Black Mark, but as he approached, the crew worker said, “Red light! Keep walkin’.” The oil drum fire used by Black Sunday was blazing away, but no workers huddled around it.

  On Allen Street near the bathhouse he found out why. Star was standing there, but before he could ask her what was happening, the man approached on wheels. Metal intercom voice: “You! I’m gonna put my fist up your ass if you’re not out of here in ten seconds!”

  “Kinky devil,” Eric said to Star, peering into the police car. Three uniforms and a detective. Shit. He and Star walked towards Delancey.

  “That’s Chico the Cop,” Star said, “an’ he don’t play. That’s why the street’s like this. Do yourself a favor an’ go home. Betta be sick at home than in jail.” Star sniffled, sick herself. Her tall thin black body moved awkwardly, painfully as she walked. Jones in the bones.

  “If I don’t score soon’m gonna jump clear outa m’skin,” Eric groaned.

  Star smirked. “Got cho’ wheels?”

  “Aroun’ the corner.”

  “Let’s go over to Second Street. Maybe the Toilet is open.”

  Eric told Star to sit in the back of the taxi, and he threw the meter. Too many uniforms around to look at all unusual. He’d have to pay off the meter from his own pocket and slip Star a bee-zag for her expertise. But without her, his odds of scoring were blank.

  Second Street was infested with young ambitious rookies walking in packs of four, caressing their phallic nightsticks and aching to crack heads. A cruiser sat outside the hole that was the new Triad spot. And the Toilet was not open. Everything was understandably closed.

  “There’s a new Triad op across the bridge, baby. Over in Brooklyn where LaTuna used to work. Got the time?”

  “Don’t have much choice.”

  “Le’s go. But you gotta git me back to Rivington Street after we sco’, m’man.”

  “Cool.”

  They rolled off the Manhattan Bridge onto Flatbush Avenue, turned left, penetrated one of the most forbidding mixed ghettos in the New York area. Puerto Ricans, Rastafarians, and Yankee Doodle blacks do not like to share turf. Problems tend to simmer. An outsider can smell the tension.

  “Damn, Star, I ain’t gonna get out of m’cab around here. These folks cook pale-eyed muthafuckas f’dinner.”

  Star chuckled. “Naww. White devil meat’s too stringy, m’man. But cho’ right ’bout dat. You ain’t gitten out aroun’ here. You’d be daid f’sho. This’z one time m’black ass is a serious social asset.”

  No cops visible. Perhaps they were all on the Lower East Side. Star had Eric pull up outside the old LaTuna club. The hole was boarded up. Ten feet away, another boarded-up wreck had a few cinderblocks missing from the front, and a touter hawked Triad loud and clear.

  “Awri’, Eric. Ah’m goin’ to sco’. Wha’ch’want?”

  “Bundle, Star. Get us a play.”

  “No promos on Triad, Eric. Good D. You be suckin’ yo’ toes on one bag.”

  A tap on the taxi window made Eric jump.

  “You! Git that cab outa heah!” an angry crew worker was fuming at them.

  Eric didn’t move quick enough, and the guy kicked the side of the cab with his boot.

  “C’mon! It’s hot out hea, fucka! Git me busted I kill you, fuckin’ white boy asshole!”

  Eric pulled away.

  “Lemme out!” Star shrieked. “Don’ make me walk!”

  Eric pulled across the street and let Star out after giving her an extra twenty to cop for herself. “I’ll be aroun’ the corner.”

  A stench of yen sweat permeated the taxi. Ten, twenty, thirty minutes. Damn, he was getting sicker, and things were looking evil. Like Starlight went for the easy buck and rifled him. Now he was not only sick but broke. And with close to fifteen bucks bogus on the clock. Piss and damn and shit!

  Just as he was about to give up and split, he turned and saw Star walking towards him. She made the thumbs-up, and a deep feeling of relief charged through Eric’s body.

  “Damn, Star. Thought you got busted or taken off.”

  “Or maybe decided t’take you off?” she challenged.

  Eric shrugged.

  “I had to wait for the bagman to re-up. Y’know how they fuckin’ stop everything an’ count the cake befo’ re-up. Drive y’crazy waitin’ but … Star don’t take her friends off, Eric. Now git us outa heah.”

  That was not entirely true. Fact was, Star made her daily Jones taking off junkies. For some reason, she’d always played straight with Eric. Maybe because he threw her a few bucks or a bag when he could and she didn’t have to ask. But Eric knew that Star, like any street junkie, would take anyone off if she was sick enough. Desperation was part of the game, and no matter how long you did bizz with someone, if you caught them at the wrong time you’d be chumped and scumbagged for every cent you had. Just a rule of the road, a piece of the code. Nothing personal. No grudges. You were stupid, and the turkey that took you off selling dummies was smart.

  Eric was too sick to drive. They parked outside a Greek luncheonette on Flatbus
h Avenue, and he took his bags and made the bathroom. He came out wearing a wide smile under the dark RayBans. In a good mood, he slid Star an extra bag.

  They ordered coffee and pastry. Then it was her turn to commandeer the porcelain facilities.

  Later, dropping her off on cop-thick Rivington, he felt a sharp sting of pain and pity while watching her walk into the desolate density of it. She had no place to go but the street, no matter how mean it might get. Since she slept and took her abbreviated meals and fixes in the park, the street was literally her home. Her indoor life consisted of infrequent visits to the bathhouse on Allen Street and occasional overnight residence in a shooting gallery. The street was her home … and she was always at home.

  Suddenly he wanted to help her. She didn’t deserve to suffer so. What was her crime? Being incongruous?

  Eric picked up a fare and found himself inching through midtown with a harried exec and his bimbo tsking away profoundly on the back seat. The goodness gave him patience and fortitude, and his instincts guided the taxi with unflinching expertise. What could he do about Star? He was hardly in a position to help anyone do anything. Best he could do was throw her a bag when he could and not get too pissed when, inevitably, the time came for her to get sick and beat him for a few measly bags of God’s goodness.

  Dummies?

  FURMAN D. WHITTLE sat back in the rear of the taxi and gazed out the window with lazy lotus eyes as the yellow dart swept over the Manhattan Bridge and onto downtown streets. He’d just had his morning medicino and was waking up slowly.

  “Take Bowery over to Rivington,” he told the driver with subdued authority.

  Lately, Furman rode in with JJ and they picked up together from Chu before going to work. But today was a break in routine. He’d told Chu yesterday he had to take the kid bro’ to school and Moms to Welfare. Chu had arranged for Ya Ya to drop the bags on Riv so Furman could still accomplish a day’s work. Chu was a good boss when it came to shit like that. He was flexible and easygoing. He had a lot of power but never used it to humiliate or crack the whip on anyone. Long as you sold your bags he was on your side. And Chu took chances, just like workers under him.