Shoot the Moon (11 page)

“I got something I want to show you,” he tells Russell, “but . . .” He lets his voice trail off. Russell doesn’t say anything. Goodman wishes he’d take some initiative, help out a little here. But he knows Russell has no clue about what he has in mind.

“Got a few minutes to take a walk?” Goodman asks him.

Russell looks at Goodman warily, as though maybe he suspects that a sexual proposition of some sort is coming next.

“Don’t worry,” Goodman assures him. “I’m not like that.”

Russell only looks more confused, but he says, “I ain’t worried.”

Goodman leads the way as Russell falls in half a step behind him. They zigzag south and east until they reach the upper tip of Carl Schurz Park. They walk in silence, these two strangers to small talk.

Once in the park, they continue to the wrought-iron fence at the edge of the East River. There are a few people in sight, but no one really close by them. Goodman moves up to the railing and stands there as though he’s looking out over the water. Russell takes a similar stance at his side. Goodman reaches into his back pocket and retrieves the sandwich bag. He holds it in his palm so that Russell can see it.

“Please don’t be offended,” he says, “but I figured you might possibly know more about this than I do.”

Russell stares at the baggie. For a minute, Goodman fears that he
has
offended him, has been wrong to leap to the conclusion that just because he’s black, he must be a drug user. Then he reminds himself that there
was
the little matter of the mugging attempt.

Russell continues to study the baggie. “What is it?” he asks.

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

Russell looks around furtively before reaching for the baggie. He gives it a shake, holds it up to the light, and squints at it. He opens it and looks inside. Then he moistens the tip of his little finger, dips it into the powder, and withdraws it. A surprising amount of the powder clings to his fingertip. This he first smells, then touches to the tip of his tongue. He gives it a few seconds, appears to swallow the powder.

He dips his fingertip into the baggie a second time, extracting even more of the powder. He hands the baggie back to Goodman in order to free it to hold one nostril closed while he moves his fingertip directly beneath the other nostril. There is a sudden single sniffing sound, and the powder is gone.

For a moment, Russell just stands there as though waiting for some reaction, and the thought occurs to Goodman that the forty pounds he’s lugged all the way from Florida is going to turn out to be talcum powder, or baking soda. Then he sees Russell reach out with both hands and grasp the rail in front of him. At the same time, he hears a low noise that sounds like “Ooooooooh.” It takes him a second to realize it’s coming from Russell.

A full minute goes by before either of them moves or makes another sound. Then Russell turns to face Goodman, who can see that the pupils of Russell’s eyes have contracted to something approaching pinpoints.

“Wowwwww,” Russell says.

Between
ooooooooh
and
wowwwww,
it’s pretty clear to Goodman that we’re not talking talcum powder or baking soda here. “What is it?” he asks.

“It’s
dynamite,
man. That’s what it is.” He seems to be speaking in slow motion, or like when the batteries of a tape deck are real low.

“No,” Goodman says. “What is it
really?”

“It’s heroin.” (Only Russell pronounces
heroin
in a way that Goodman’s never heard before -
her’oyne,
is how he says it.) “An’ it’s fuckin’ outa sight.”

It takes a moment for the news to sink in. Not that the stuff is potent - Goodman figured as much, seeing as it had been packaged in bulk containers, and also knowing that it comes from southern Florida, which he figures must be a place where it comes into the country. No, the news he tries to digest now is that it’s heroin. For some reason, he’s assumed up to this moment that it was cocaine. That seemed easier to live with somehow.

“You’re sure it’s heroin?” he asks Russell. “It’s not cocaine?”

Russell smiles. “Yeah, man,” he says. “Lemme show you.” He opens his hand, and Goodman hands the baggie back to him.

“First thing is,” begins Russell the teacher, “it’s heavy. Coke is feathery stuff, real light and fluffylike. Sneeze on it an’ it’s gone. Heroin (again he pronounces it her’oyne) is more like a powder. See how this packs down real nice?” And he demonstrates by shaking the bag back and forth gently. Though to Goodman, it still could be grayish talcum powder he’s looking at.

“Any idea what it’s worth?” Goodman asks him.

“This right here?”

Goodman hesitates. He’s reluctant to tell Russell how much he has.

“I’d say you maybe got a half an ounce here,” Russell says. “I’d also bet my butt it’s
pure.
” He says the word
pure
almost reverently. “On the street, this little bit here be goin’ for over $500.”

Goodman is aware that his own mouth has opened but that no sound is forthcoming.

“Course, we
really
wanna make money,” Russell continues, “we whack it up.”

Goodman notices the “we,” realizes that they’ve suddenly become partners. He finds his voice. “Whack it up?”

“Step on it. Cut it. This shit should take a six, maybe even a seven.”

This is all new to Goodman, who can only ask, dumbly, “What does that mean?”

“Means we get aholda some milk sugar. Mix this up with it. One parta this stuff with like six partsa sugar. Then we bag it up.”

“Bag it up?”

“Yeah. Put a little bit into lotsa little bags, the kind you then buy on the street for like five bucks each. This here half ounce, you could take right now - before even steppin’ on it - and make three bundles outa it.”

“What’s a bundle?” Goodman needs to know.

“Twenny-five nickle bags, five-dollar bags,” Russell explains. “Course you don’t wanna do that.”

“Don’t want to do what?”

“Bag it up pure.”

“Why not?”

“First thing is, you’d be givin’ up the chance to make
real
money, six or seven times as much. But on topa that, you’d be killin’ people.”

“Killing people?” All of this is too fast for Goodman.

“Yeah, man.” Russell slows it down, as though he realizes he’s dealing with someone who has no clue. “You put pure shit inta nickle bags, guys that’re useta sniffin’ or shootin’ street stuff, they getta holda one a your bags and don’ know the diffrince, they gonna do the whole bag unsuspectin’ like. Next thing you know, you gonna have people OD’in’ all over the place.”

“OD’ing?”

“OD’in’, as in overdosin’,” Russell says. “As in
dead?”
he adds, as though maybe Goodman can understand
that.

Goodman stares out over the water. It’s gray and flat, but from his navy days he can sense that there are treacherous currents at play here.

If the terminology is all new to him, the numbers come easily to Michael Goodman’s accountant’s brain. If the half ounce would make three bundles of twenty-five of these “nickle” bags each, that’s seventy-five bags. An ounce would make twice as much, 150 bags. With sixteen ounces to a pound, that means each pound would make 2,400 bags. If each of the blue plastic bags from the spare tire weighs two pounds, it means you could make close to 5,000 bags. Multiply that by twenty - since there are twenty blue bags - and you’ve got 100,000 bags. At $5 a bag, that’s $500,000.

But that’s without cutting it. Dilute the pure powder first so that you end up with six times as much - as Russell says you’ve got to do - and you’re talking about $3 million.

A tugboat pulls a string of barges downriver. The barges are piled high with garbage, and seagulls follow it, making occasional dives at the load. Goodman watches in silence, as does Russell, who’s apparently talked out, unaccustomed to the role of teacher.

Michael Goodman has no need of $3 million. All he wants is enough money to pay for his daughter’s tests, so they’ll release the results to her doctor. Nor does he want to go into the business of diluting drugs and putting it into little bags for poor souls like Russell to sniff or inject into their bodies. He wants no part of that.

“Suppose,” he breaks the silence, “suppose I just wanted to sell what I’ve got, as it is.”

“Pure?”

“Yes.”

Russell seems to think a minute. It strikes Goodman that, in a way, this is all as new to Russell as it is to him.

“How much you got?” Russell asks tentatively.

“A lot.”

“More than a few of those?” Russell glances at Goodman’s pocket, to where the baggie has returned.

“Yes.”

“As much as a
pound?”
As though he’s almost afraid to say the word.

“As much as a pound,” Goodman confirms.

“
A
key?”

Goodman’s stumped again. “What’s a key?”

“A
kilo,
man.” There is a touch of reverence in his voice. “That’s how it usually comes inta the country.”

“How big is a kilo?”

“Two point two pounds,” Russell explains with a touch of pride. Goodman has the feeling he may have tapped into the only math lesson Russell ever paid attention to in school. But he also realizes he’s going to have to revise his own calculations slightly upward: That’s what the blue plastic bags must be, kilos. He’s going to have to add 10 percent to everything.

“Okay,” he says to Russell. “Let’s say I have a kilo.”

Russell whistles softly. Goodman notices that his pupils have returned to more or less normal size.

“An’ you’re lookin’ to sell it?”

“Let’s say I am.”

“Kilo a pure, right here in New York.” Russell seems to be figuring out the numbers for a minute. “You could prob’ly get fifty thou for it, just like it is. Course you’d have to know how to unload it.”

Goodman says nothing. He figures the partnership pitch is about to surface again.

Russell doesn’t disappoint him. “You gonna need some help here, man.” It isn’t a question. They both seem to know it’s a fact.

“What kind of help?” Goodman asks.

“Help findin’ a buyer, a customer.”

“You could do that?”

“Shit, yeah.”

Goodman looks at Russell’s pupils again. He wouldn’t be too surprised to see them change into dollar signs.

“I’m gonna need a sample,” says Russell, his eyes traveling once again toward Goodman’s pocket.

Goodman reaches for the baggie. He hesitates a moment, realizing that, just like arranging the meeting with Russell, giving him a “sample” will constitute an affirmative step forward in this business. But he hands the baggie over.

“Gimme a day or two to get this checked out,” Russell says, placing the baggie down the front of his pants.

Goodman nods. “How about we meet back here Friday, twelve o’clock noon?”

“That’s cool,” Russell says. He looks around. “We should leave here separate. Some cop is gonna see the two of us together, me black an’ you Caucasian, an’ decide he wants to search us.”

That seems to make sense to Goodman. “Okay,” he agrees. “Go ahead.”

He watches Russell walk away, notices a little bounce to Russell’s walk that wasn’t there before. Then the accountant in Goodman goes to work again. Sixteen ounces to a pound means there’re thirty-two ounces in two pounds. Add 10 percent and it means there’re about thirty-five ounces to a kilo. If a kilo’s really worth $50,000, then the half ounce he’s just handed Russell is worth a little over $700.

He hopes he hasn’t seen the last of Russell Bradford.

Even though Goodman doesn’t have to report for work at the Bronx Tire Exchange until one o’clock in the afternoon, he’s up early Thursday morning, sharpening pencils, gathering pens and ledgers and pads of paper, changing the little battery in his pocket calculator. He’s decided not to bring his solar-powered one; he figures there’s probably not enough light in Manny’s office to operate it.

He arranges and rearranges his supplies, not knowing if he’s packing too much or too little. Manny never did get around to telling him just what it is he wants Goodman to do, so Goodman figures it’ll be the books - payroll, taxes, checks, whatever needs doing.

He lays out some clothes to choose from. He decides against a jacket and tie - Manny is definitely an informal kind of guy. But no jacket means no large pockets. So he retrieves an attaché case - he’s accumulated four of them over the years - from his closet. He picks a Samsonite one a client gave him a few years back. It’s the nicest one of the four. It’s vinyl, but it could pass for real leather, and it’s lightweight. He once saw it advertised in an Innovation Luggage catalog for $29.95.

While he breakfasts on an apple Pop-Tart and a glass of grapefruit Tang, he wonders what Russell Bradford is doing.

* * *

What Russell Bradford is doing is sleeping. Russell didn’t go home after leaving Goodman in Carl Schurz Park yesterday afternoon. He went and found Robbie McCray, and together they went to the rooftop of the building on 145th Street. There, Russell showed Robbie the half ounce of heroin he’d gotten from Goodman. They’d sniffed some of it, but Russell wouldn’t let Robbie cook any of it up to shoot; he was afraid that Robbie’d OD if he mainlined it. And after sniffing it, Robbie’d had to agree - the stuff was pure dynamite.

They’d come back downstairs, found Big Red, and traded a small amount of the heroin for a half a dozen vials of crack. Then they’d gone back up to the roof, where they’d spent the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening, alternately sniffing the heroin to get wasted and smoking the crack to keep from nodding off. It had been dark by the time Russell got home, and in the condition he was in, he’d had a hard time convincing his mother he’d been out interviewing for a job. Too strung out to eat, he’d lain down on the sofa and was soon in a deep sleep, dreaming of huge mountains of white powder.

Around ten, Russell is awakened by a noise that he finally realizes is someone banging on the front door. He has no idea how long the banging’s been going on, but he figures long enough to mean that he’s the only one home. He pulls himself up from the sofa and makes his way to the door. His head aches and his entire body feels sore.

“Who is it?” he calls.

The banging stops.

“Robbie.”

Russell unlocks the door and staggers back to the sofa. Robbie comes in, closing the door behind him.

“‘Sup, man?” Russell asks him.

“Shit,” Robbie says. “I thought you was dead or somethin’.”

“I ain’t dead.”

“I seen Big Red lass night,” Robbie says. “He wantsa see us.”

“What about?”

“I dunno. But he says it’s real important like.”

Big Red is something of a legend in the South Bronx. In addition to being the man to see if you’re looking to buy crack on 140th Street, Big Red has a reputation as someone who’s
endured.
The story is that back in the seventies he was one of Nicky Barnes’s lieutenants, that he killed a cop in a shoot-out in the early eighties, for which he got sentenced to twenty-five to life, but that the case was reversed when a later investigation revealed that the bullet removed from the cop’s head had been fired from his own partner’s gun. The DA then tried to get Big Red to turn state’s evidence against the cop’s partner, but Big Red refused. Because of that, the word is that Big Red now has what they call a “license” - meaning the cops pretty much look the other way when they see him. He may get picked up now and then for something minor, like driving his Bentley without proof of insurance or something like that. But he always seems to get out the same night.

Russell zips up his jeans and slips into his Nikes. If Big Red wants to see him, that’s good enough for him.

Around the same time as Russell Bradford slips into his Nikes, Ray Abbruzzo slips into the meeting room on the second floor of a gray stone building on Alexander Avenue at 138th Street. Abbruzzo slips in because he’s late, exactly twelve minutes late by his own watch. But the truth is, he hasn’t missed anything. The briefing that’s under way is virtually identical to dozens of others Abbruzzo’s attended over the past eight months, and his role in what’s being planned is the same as it always is. Abbruzzo will act as a member of the backup team on what’s known as a “buy and bust” operation.

Ray Abbruzzo is a detective, and the gray stone building is the 40th Precinct station house - or, to Ray Abbruzzo and every other cop in the Bronx, the Four-O.

A buy-and-bust operation is the principal tool used by the New York Police Department in combating street-level narcotics trafficking. First, a geographical area is targeted, usually a block known to be filled with small-time dealers. Occasionally, civilian complaints will determine the location.

An undercover officer, often black or Hispanic, will be provided with money in small denominations. The money is “prerecorded,” meaning that it’s been photocopied with the serial numbers showing. The undercover will drive an unmarked car to a spot near the targeted area, park, and proceed on foot to the designated block. There, he’ll walk the sidewalk, asking anyone he sees, “Who’s working?” In street parlance, that translates to “Who’s selling drugs?” Sometimes he’ll be followed by a second undercover, whose role is simply to observe. He’s called a “ghost.”

Because street selling has become such a competitive business, it’s not long before the undercover is told exactly who’s “working,” what he’s selling, and how much it’s going for. A deal is struck on the spot, and the person whom the undercover has encountered (the “steerer”) takes the undercover (“steers” him) to someone else to complete the transaction. That someone else (the “moneyman”) takes the undercover’s money and gives him change if necessary. He may give him the drugs right then and there (in which case he is not only the moneyman but the “hand-to-hand man,” as well) or send him to yet a different hand-to-hand man. Or he may direct him to a phone booth, a car bumper, or a vacant lot where the drugs are hidden. There may be one more member of the selling group, a “lookout,” who scans the block for signs of the police.

Once he has the drugs, the undercover leaves the area, heads back to his car, and radios the backup team. He tells them where he’s made the buy and gives them a brief description of the cast of characters involved - the steerer, the moneyman, the hand-to-hand man, and the lookout. He’ll refer to a suspect by his most identifying feature: J. D. Sideburns, J. D. Boots, or J. D. Tattoo. J.D. stands for John Doe, a suspect whose true identity is not yet known.

Within minutes, the backup team swoops into the block, grabbing as many of the group as they can find. Once they’ve done this, they radio the undercover and tell him to drive by the spot where they’re holding the suspects. This the undercover does (in what’s come to be called a “drive-by ID”), following which he uses the radio once more to inform the backup team whether they’ve picked up the right individuals.

The suspects are arrested and searched for money and drugs - “cash and stash.” Money seized from them is checked for serial-number matches against the photocopies of the money with which the undercover started out; drugs are compared with the drugs bought by the undercover. Either will provide powerful corroborative evidence at trial.

Because he’s neither black nor Hispanic, Ray Abbruzzo is invariably relegated to being a member of the backup team, which is okay with him. The team works on a rotating basis, meaning they take turns “taking the collars.” In other words, they alternate being the officially designated arresting officer.

Today, by virtue of the fact that he arrived late to the meeting, Ray Abbruzzo will be “batting cleanup.” That means he’ll have to wait until the fourth and final buy the undercover makes to be the arresting officer. Whoever gets grabbed for participating in that buy will become his prisoners.

Russell Bradford and Robbie McCray spot Big Red as soon as they turn the corner from Walton Avenue into 140th Street. Robbie’s for walking right up to Big Red, but Russell knows better and holds him back: You don’t just walk up on a man like Big Red. Better to hang back a half a block away and wait.

It doesn’t take long for Big Red to spot them. He signals one of his men to take his place, then heads their way.

Big Red stops directly in front of Russell and greets him with a broad smile. Russell is tall, just under six feet, but Big Red towers over him and outweighs him by 100 pounds.

“‘Sup, Russell?” Big Red says. He says nothing to Robbie, acts as if he’s not even there.

“Not much, Red.”

“How’s your grandmama?”

“Okay, I guess.” Russell wonders how Big Red’s heard about her, but he doesn’t ask.

“Take a walk with me?” It’s spoken like a question, but Russell knows it really isn’t. He falls in step with Big Red as they head east. When Robbie begins to follow, Big Red finally seems to notice him. He stops and addresses him for the first time.

“You wanna work?” he asks him.

“Sure,” Robbie says.

Big Red seems to think for a minute, tugging at the brim of his red baseball cap. “Go see Tito on Thirty-Eighth Street. Tell him I said to put you to work.”

Robbie looks surprised, as though he’s disappointed he’s not going to be part of whatever business Big Red wants to talk over with Russell. But he’s not about to pass up a chance to work for Big Red. So he hesitates only a moment before nodding and heading off toward Thirty-Eighth Street, which is, of course, really 138th Street.

Big Red resumes walking, Russell alongside him. They cover a full block before Big Red says anything.

“Your friend back there be messin’ around with needles, huh?”

Russell shrugs. “I dunno,” he says.

“You know. You jus don’t wanna say.”

It seems Big Red knows just about everything there is to know.

“You know what I want to talk with you about?” he asks Russell.

Russell has a pretty good idea, but he shakes his head as though he doesn’t.

“You don’t talk much, do you? That’s good.”

They keep walking, past storefronts and boarded-up brownstones. Five or six Puerto Ricans standing in front of a bodega make way for them to pass, something Russell knows wouldn’t happen if it was just him who was walking by.

Big Red waits till they’re alone before he gets to the point. “That shit you traded yesterday,” is what he says.

“Yeah?”

“Your buddy says there’s a lot more where that came from.”

“My buddy’s got a big mouth.”

“That he does,” laughs Big Red, “that he does. But he seemed to know what he was talkin’ about.”

Russell doesn’t say anything. He’s trying to figure out if this is good or bad, Big Red getting involved in this. He knows it’s good in one respect, because Big Red has all sorts of money, can surely buy the whole kilo himself if he wants to. But it could be bad, too, because as soon as Big Red gets involved, it’ll become his show, and Russell will get squeezed out.

“How much are we talkin’ about here, Russell?”

“I dunno. Maybe a lot.”

“What’s a lot?”

Again, Russell says nothing. He doesn’t want to tell Big Red, but then again, he doesn’t want to lie to him, either.

“Unnastand, Russell, I don’t want to take this
away
from you,” Big Red says, as though he’s read Russell’s thoughts. “I want to work
with
you. See, you got the contact, right? But that’s only half of it. The other half of it is the money. And you
don’t
got the money.”

Here, Big Red abruptly stops walking and faces Russell. No more than a foot separates them. Russell feels forced to answer.

“Right,” he says.

“Me,” Big Red says softly,
“I
got the money.”

Russell wants to think it over, but he suddenly feels so crowded by the bigger man that he finds thinking all but impossible.

“How would this work?” he manages to ask.

“Like magic,” Big Red smiles.

“Partners?”

“Absolutely. You get what’s called a ‘finder’s fee.’ All you gotta do is cut me into the source. I do the rest. My money my people, my risk. Whatever I make on it, you get 10 percent.”

Russell’s not sure. He’s not too good at percentages. He thinks Big Red may be taking advantage of him. But he’s not sure what choice he has.

“What kinda weight we talking about here?” Big Red asks him. The smile is gone; this is all business now.

“I think the guy’s got a key.”

“Same quality as yesterday?”

“I think so.”

“We’re talkin’ big money here, Russell. We pay him maybe thirty grand, turn it into a
hundred
and thirty! You’re looking at
$10,000, partner. For makin’ one little introduction. You gonna beat that for an hour’s work?”