Condemned (12 page)

“Can I get you folks anything?” asked the waiter, walking up behind them silently. “Ma'am?”

“Long Guy-land Ice Tea,” the young woman said. She, too, had a Russian accent.

“One ice tea?”

“Not ice tea,” the woman said. “Long Guy-land Ice Tea—with wodka, tequila, lots of things, all white.”

Nichols and Taylor glanced at each other. Uri shrugged. “A little—” he made a circle with a finger at his temple. “She wanted to see Har-leem?”

“Harlem, man. Harlem,” Taylor corrected.

Uri shrugged again. “Har-lem.”

“I take rum with the coke,” the bald Russian with silent, serious eyes, said to the waiter.

“Same,” said Uri. “With the green lemon.”

“I never heard of that Long Island ice tea,” Nichols smiled at Anna, his eyes roving over her. “Got all kinds of stuff in it?”

“Yas. Wodka, tequila, other white drinks, and a little coke to make it look tea.” She took out a pack of Virginia Slims.

“There's no smoking in this section, Miss,” said the waiter.

“It's okay, Matthew, there's nobody back here. Let the lady smoke,” Nichols said, taking a book of matches from his pocket. “How's that ice tea taste?” he said as he lit the woman's cigarette.

“Good. Very good.”

“Sounds like it'll put hair on your chest?” He glanced at her bursting buttons.

“Why I want hair on my breast?”

Nichols forced a loud laugh. “You're right, we wouldn't want hair on that breast.”

The woman gave Awgust a coy look, shrugged, blew a plume of smoke to the ceiling. “Might as well give us another round, too, Matthew,” said Nichols.

“Long Island Ice Tea, two rum and coke, another round,” repeated the waiter, pointing his pencil at each person as he did. “I'll ask the bartender if she knows how to make that ice tea drink. I'll be right back, folks.”

When the waiter brought everyone their drink—Anna had to go to the bar to show the barmaid how to make Long Island ice tea—they raised their glasses, drank, chatted aimlessly for a few minutes, then fell into an awkward silence. Anna took out her cigarette pack again.

“Why don't you go outside for smoke, okay?” said Uri.

“What for I have to go outside?”

“We have something private to talk.”

The woman said something harsh in Russian, stood, took her drink, and with an exaggerated swivel to her hips, moved toward the front, stopped, turned, swivelled back to the table, picked up her cigarettes, gave Uri another hard look, and walked out.

Uri looked at Nichols and shrugged. “Good for …” he made a plunging motion with a closed fist, “but, we don't need pu-cy when we talk.”

Nichols smiled. “You got any of that Russian pu-cy for friends, Uri?”

“Why not? First we talk business, while we have the chance,” said Uri, leaning closer to Nichols. “Sascha said you got something very interesting? We have not much … you know?” He jabbed at his nose with a thumb, indicating that he meant cocaine.

“We'll get you some,” nodded Nichols. “Can we talk?” he said, looking toward the bald man.

“Yes, sure. Don't worry. This is my friend for a long time.”

“Okay, listen. We all are getting pretty tight—” Uri frowned—“working together pretty good.” Uri nodded. About a month before, when Sascha, and then Uri, told Anton Taylor that they were short of funds for the cocaine, Nichols told Anton to suggest a barter arrangement: cocaine for strong-arm, collection work. It wasn't that Taylor and his cohorts couldn't easily take care of that kind of work, but Nichols thought it would be a great cover to have the strong-arming done by whites with Russian accents.

“I know you and Sascha have some connections in Russia or someplace, to get some other stuff,” Nichols continued, “starts with ‘H', from the east there—you understand?” Uri looked at Nichols blankly. “Anton and me, we're like you and Sascha: partners. He explained everything to me, about your connections in Russia or Ukrania, or wherever. White powder from over there, you dig?” Uri pouted his lower lip. “It's okay. We're all tight—close—here.” Uri looked at Taylor while decoding what Nichols was saying, then half-nodded, half shrugged. “Cool,” said Nichols. “Now there's a lot of money to be made with your stuff, it's been making a comeback, but because it hasn't been too popular lately, there's not much supply, dig?”

“Dig?”

“Understand, dig?” Uri nodded. “What I've been thinking is this. Instead of you guys going places to get that stuff—”

“Not me. I can't go no place,” Uri said firmly. “I got no papers.”

“Okay, okay, you get other guys to go someplace, wherever, to pick up stuff for other people. But, you only get paid chump-change being couriers.”

“What's chump change?”

“Not much money, small change. We all—” Nichols circled them with his fingers, “we all could make a lot more money, together, for ourselves, if we did business for ourselves. We know a lot of people here in New York, understand, that would be interested in the stuff you can get. We could move it, sell it—all the stuff that you now pick up for other people—for ourselves.”

“I don't like my stuff for myself,” said Uri, “makes people stupid. I like your stuff—” he jabbed his thumb at his nose again “—better.” He looked at the bald Russian, who nodded in agreement. “Your stuff,” smiled Uri, “a little every day keeps the doctor in his office, da?”

“That means yes?” said Nichols.

“Da.”

“Da,” laughed Nichols. “Hey, man, I'm speakin' Russian,” Taylor chuckled. “Myself, I don't like any of the stuff,” said Nichols. “But I sure like the money, the rubles, the Montezuma.”

“Me, too.” Uri laughed loudly.

“You gentlemen need anything?” said the old waiter who had walked to the table silently.

Nichols, surprised by the waiter's presence, turned quickly. “No, no. We'll call you if we need anything, Matthew—”

“I can use another,” said Uri, draining his glass. The bald Russian nodded for the same.

“Yeah, okay, get them another round,” said Nichols. “We're good.”

“Yes, sir.” the waiter walked off slowly.

“Waiter's like a freakin' ghost,” said Nichols, his eyes following Matthew. He leaned forward toward Uri again. “Like I said, we could find a lot, I mean
a lot
, of people to buy that stuff. So, if you could get that stuff, not for other people, but for us, us—as partners,” Nichols made a gesture from himself to Uri, “we could make a lot of money together. A lot. You wouldn't just be a bunch of couriers. You'd—we'd be partners. Make the money ourselves.”

“But! But!” Uri raised one of his fingers. “One very big problem. You must pay big money each time. You carry the money, come back with
that stuff.
Who pays for this?”

“I'll bankroll it at the beginning.”

“You put the money?”

“Yeah. After a couple of trips, we'll make so much dough, we'll be buying it together, as partners.”

They stopped talking as the waiter arrived. Uri studied Nichols carefully as the waiter placed the drinks on the table, then departed.

“You will pay all the bankroll, until we make the money to pay together?” said Uri.

“That's it.”

Uri looked at his friend. They studied each others' eyes. Uri shrugged slightly. The bald Russian nodded. “Not bad,” said Uri, his face warming into a laugh. “Not bad.”

“You like it?” Nichols said, joining the laughter.

“I like it very much,” said Uri. “Da?” he said to his friend, who nodded again.

Nichols leaned close to Uri. “You think the people that you get this stuff from, wherever it is—I don't even want to know—you think they'll sell it directly to you, you know, since you been buying it for other people up to now?”

“All things are available for this—” Uri rubbed the thumb and forefinger of his right hand together. “We pay for it, we got it. I got—” Uri stopped talking as the young woman wearing the biker's cap swivelled back to the table. The Long Island ice tea was obviously having its effect on her. He said something to her in Russian. She said something back, harshly, pointing to the bar.

“Just a minute, okay,” Uri smiled toward Nichols. “I take care of this. She don't like staying by herself at the bar.” Uri rose, and, taking the woman by the elbow, started walking toward the front. She pulled her arm out of his grasp, turning on him, snarling loudly in Russian. Uri slapped the woman across the face. Her biker's cap flew across the room. He brought his hand back across the other side of her face. She lunged to scratch at him with both hands. He grabbed her two wrists. She kneed at his groin. The bald Russian quickly put his arms around her waist and lifted her in the air, pulling her back from Uri, who was shouting something at her in Russian.

The old waiter rushed to the entrance to the dining room, staring at the people and the table.

“It's okay, Matthew,” said Nichols.

The waiter hesitated, walked back toward the front, his eyes on the woman who now had her hands to her face, shuddering in soft sobs.

Uri made a motion with his head toward the door. The bald man said something to her. She nodded. He put her down, so her feet touched the floor. Saying something else to her, he released her and, holding her by one elbow, walked with her toward the front of the restaurant.

Uri glanced at Nichols as he sat. “Stupid pu-cy. Too much ice tea.”

“Hey, man, shit happens.”

The waiter peered out from the partition that separated the bar from the dining room. He walked a few steps. “Is everything all right, gentlemen? Can I get anyone another drink?”

“Everything's fine, Matthew,” said Nichols. “We'll call you if we need you.”

“I'm sorry this happens in your place,” Uri said to Nichols.

Nichols shrugged. “Not my place, and nothin' happened.”

“I don't want this fucking up what we talk about.”

“Man, money, rubles, that talks,” said Nichols. “This bullshit, this walks.”

Uri laughed. “Da, bullshit is walking.”

“Da,” agreed Nichols, laughing.

“I want you to know we have a tight boat Everyone is, like you say, cool.”

“It's gotta be that way,” said Nichols. “I just want us to make money, a lot of money.” Nichols leaned closer to whisper to Uri. “This thing around here, the stuff that you like”—he winked at Uri—“is going to dry up like a desert.” He winked.

“We get no more?”

“Don't worry, we'll have enough for you,” said Nichols. Uri nodded. “When the supply for the thing we have now dries up, and we have the new stuff, your stuff—man-oh-man! We are going to be swimming in money.”

“I like it,” said Uri.

“Me, too.”

“You can rely on me, believe me,” said Uri. “My people are not assholes. This don't happen again.” He nodded toward the door. “Don't worry about anything.”

“Start to work on this right away?” Nichols said. He stood. “Got to get to the game. I got a meeting downtown later on.”

“You are a very busy man,” said Uri.

“Got to put things together so we can make a bunch of money.”

“I like it,” said Uri, gulping down the rest of his drink. Uri shook hands with Nichols, then Taylor, and turned to walk toward the front of the restaurant.

“Asshole,” Taylor whispered as he watched Uri leave.

“As long as he can make arrangements to get the stuff,” said Nichols.

Taylor shook his head, not convinced. “We actually going to be partners with these guys?”

“Just let them set the thing up. Trust me,” said Nichols.

“I hear that ‘trust me' is the way Jewish people say ‘fuck you'.”

“I ain't Jewish.”

They high-fived each other.

Cali : June 18, 1996 : 6:45 P.M.

‘Cali Viejo', the former
hacienda
of an old vinca on the outskirts of the present city, was now a restaurant featuring traditional Colombian fare. A cobble-stoned road, over which more than a hundred years of carts and beef cattle had coursed, rose from the entrance. A cow grate of parallel iron bars as wide as the road permitted wagons and cars to pass easily onto the property while containing the cattle. The road coursed through tall trees and lush growth toward the long rectangular hacienda. A cooling stream burbled out of the vegetation, channeled into a stone swale between the road and the side of the hacienda.

Part of the restaurant was enclosed dining rooms where some of the tables were in use. Around the outside of the dining rooms was a wide, open dining terrace, where tables were set with white cloths under slowly turning fans that stirred the shaded air. Dark-skinned Spanish-speaking waitresses, in white dresses, with colorful bandanas around their heads, smiled and milled between the tables. The road and the clear flowing stream were now bathed in early evening sunlight.

Adalberto Tarajano, a tall, heavy-set man, snidely known as the White Whale, because of his penchant for dressing in white, today wore white slacks and shoes, and a white guayabera top accented with intricate crocheting. He sat at one of the open air tables with two other men, one thin, young, with a moustache; the other, older, clean shaven. The three of them gave a young waitress their order. Both of the other men, over the shoulders of Berto—which is what the White Whale was called to his face—watched the waitress as she walked toward the kitchen.

“Berto, you will check with Espinosa in Florida tonight?” said the older man at the table. “I want to be sure everything is correct.”

“Si!, si!” The White Whale drank a Lulu—a tall glass of vodka poured over crushed citrus fruits.

“You told him two and a half million?” the older man said softly, “
correcto
?”