The Lotus Crew (8 page)

Vamoose, Vendador

A TACTICAL FORCE
squad car sat outside the Dr. Nova building with four hefty peace officers in it aching to crack heads. Across Chrystie Street a blue police van was centered in the park. A display of might! Big smash.

Furman asked the cabdriver to wait a minute or two and sat back in the rear of the gypsy rig. He had to figure his next move before they made his face. He was sure the police knew faces, just from informers and hidden cameras. Too much heat here to make move one. His leather sack had the day's bundles, and his .22 was good for a year in the tank. Shit. Good day t'stay in bed.

But Furman was not easy to discourage. Sick nervous overdue junkies walked by in quivering swarms, aching for it so bad they'd rather cat-and-mouse the heat than come back later.

Too bad Furman couldn't work the bodega. That'd be best. People in and out without arousing suspicion. But the Puerto Rican who owned the store had already refused his offer of a hundred bucks a day to cover him.

“Vamoose, vendador,” the man'd spat.

“The meter's on, Jack. What're you gonna do?” the gypsy driver said impatiently.

The meter read sixteen bucks. Furman threw him a twenty and a five. “Jus' relax, m'man. We gonna sit a bit.”

Suddenly a flurry of activity kicked up next to the bodega. Two burly detectives came out of a building. A tall thin black man wearing jeans, a blue shirt, and a bandanna on his head was between them. It was the man from Black Mark, unwillingly on his way to the precinct.

Furman smirked. That dude had fired a few shots at him once awhile back, squabbling over turf. Still, hard to watch
anyone
in their evil hands.

The cops left, and Furman got out of the gypsy cab. He met Carlos on his way into the building.

“Que pasa?”

“Cops come bust Black Mark. Musta staked out good. Bad news. Fuckin' la hara.”

Furman wondered if he should open. No touters working Black Sunday or the new Dr. Cool. If he took the shot he could sell out in a few hours flat.

An anxious blanco scuttled up. “You open?”

Other eyes were on Furman to see what he'd do.

“Yeah. Jus' walk in behin' me, man.” He turned to Carlos. “I'z goin' t'work. Bring me some coffee, B.”

Furman sold out in two hours. A record. He sat in Carlos' kitchen at the big table, fixing, checking the street through the blinds. An old Spanish man, one of his regulars, pulled up in a battered heap and sensed heat. But he was sick, ready to take chances.

The old man walked up to one of the faces, scored, was on his way back to the car when a bearded blanco leapt out of the back of a battered van and tackled him.

Furman jumped to his feet and watched, horrified. The old man's head made a popping sound as it hit the pavement. The plainclothes who'd been in the driver's seat of the van latched onto the seller as the other pulled the stunned old man to his feet, spread and searched him. He found the bags, and both customer and vendador were cuffed. The entire incident took less than two minutes. Other crewboys just stood there, frozen. Nobody had bags on them because they all stashed in cracks and crevices until a buy came up.

One of the detectives radioed for a cruiser, and it arrived, swallowed the man and the boy. The cops glared around menacingly like bullies before getting in their van and splitting. A uniform got in the old man's now impounded heap and drove it away.

Furman felt like drawing his iron and blowing the muthafucka bastards to smithereens. Who in hell was that ol' man hurtin'? Jus' some poor ol' sick fuck who needed his medications t'keep from jumpin' out of his skin. Damn!

The street stayed thick with cops afterwards. Furman had to crib at Carlos'. “I ain't walkin' out there w'm'day's money, man.” He called Alvira and told him he was holed up for the night.

Furman couldn't sleep later, even with an extra bang of Triad. That was rare. He usually went out at will if properly dosed on goodness. But it seemed like nothing, not all the dope in the world, could make him forget the sound of that poor old guy's head hitting the pavement. Nothing could cool the knot of hate he felt in his gut for the big well-fed blanco la hara.

Rutting Gypsy Cunt

IN A DREAM ALVIRA
walks out of a modern red-brick high rise and scans suburban streets. He is in the middle of a tall hill. Above, the neighborhood is getting “nicer.” Mansions surrounded by stone walls, a winding rustic road landscaped into gardens. Below him is a shantytown, beyond which he sees water. Alvira starts downward. If there's lotus around it's down there. The waterfront. An elevated-train platform casts shadows and threatens to crumble onto the two-lane street that fronts the old wood docks. People are jammed in. Blacks, Latins, Chinese, an occasional Romany face. Alvira's eyes scan for lotus. The slow-moving apparitions are here.

Suddenly the ground shakes.

A cluster of Mexicans roars by on stripped motorcycles. He makes colors on the ones close to him. Ching'a'Lings. They are dressed in black leather and sombreros, with glistening chains around their waists. They hit the corner and fan out in all possible directions. Crackling sparks of thunder under an alien sky.

A lone rider darts ahead but then circles back. Peering through the shadows, Alvira sees the spitting iron racing directly at him. He has no time to make cover and freezes. As the cycle gets closer its rider peels off a leather mask. A flash of black silk as her long mane whips free and flaps behind her, the girl's wolfish-faced beauty crystallizing the blur of motion. In her right hand is a chain, which she swings like a lariat.

Is she his death?

Alvira tries to keep his eyes open. Like Orpheus he can feel her wind! At the last conceivable second she cuts the front wheel slightly.

“You'll need this!” she says, sliding in a circle around him, pivoting on a long black-leather leg. She roars off in the direction she came from, leaving Alvira with the smell of burnt gasoline, roar of thunder. Down at his feet he sees the chain glinting in the moonlight. He lifts it, runs a hand along its length, ties it around his waist. Alvira realizes that he will never forget her face whisking by, the skin so tight he could see the bones beneath. Insane jet-black lotus eyes burning into him like hot liquid sparks of iron thunder.

Suddenly he is standing on Dumont Avenue in East New York many years ago, where sirens wail and forecast the forbidden. Embryo Plaza! These are not streets on which people pass each other casually. Chalk of childhood and confrontation by the school yard. Red Mark on his arm. He ordered the Northern Lights and was given a pinch of powder to the wind for the souls who slipped off into Nod. Button on a peacoat pops. Sounds of distant thunder drawing near. The Robes of Forever blur around her face! A cluster of Mexicans on lean chrome and snorting iron. He stares. He will never forget them. Defying the wind. Oblivious to gravity. Colors whipping across the cityscape. Her skull before long black mane in a blur of speed. Her colors say Ching'a'Lings—Alvarado Street, L.A. The girl leaves the pack and is aimed straight at him. Eyes widen as he watches, confident that she will cut the wheel at the last second. Screech of rubber! Sound of thunder! Smell of rutting Gypsy cunt!

The front wheel misses him by fractions. He watches her roar off, still waving the chain. Alvira looks down at his feet. Between his boots, a small rectangular paper. He taps the folded bag with his thumb. It is transparent. There is powder inside. He knows what it is. Powdered cool. Just add water.

Alvira wakes alone with the paper in his hand. He blinks and reaches for his shades, checks the stamped logo on the bag:
Red Mark.
It is morning. He opens the bag with a small blade and lays thick lines onto a tray. As he snorts he recalls the demon girl's eyes. In them was a hunger clear as morning, real as thunder!

Poison Darts

THE EVENING WAS MOONLESS,
fluctuating between rain and dense mist.

The stolen van approached the white T-Bird. As Rafael bent slightly to unlock the driver's door, the first dart penetrated the flesh at the back of his neck.

“That'll do it,” John Jacob hissed to T. “Le's pull out!”

“Hit'm again. Make sure. Look at'm twitch, man. He don't look like a bullfighter now.”

“The darts are poisoned, Tommy. No need to—”

“Once more.”

JJ lifted the blowgun and aimed.

Wwwwwwwhooophh!

The dart struck deep in Rafael's shoulder. He fell to the gutter in convulsions, quivering and foaming.

“Good as dead, man. Haul it outa' heah 'fo' his people dig on us!”

“Mugs, pull this heap outa' here,” T ordered. He turned to JJ. “M'lad, you've just performed a public service of the highest caliber. Hard to reward such a lofty deed. And me blowgun was a stroke of genius. Silent, deadly, divine. You're an eeevil little bugger, John Jacob.”

JJ beamed. “Jus' get m'black ass outa heah is reward enough.”

The van slid past the Comanchero building, past the open T-Bird and its dying pilot. They made it out clean. Nobody'd noticed a thing. The poison dart was instantly paralyzing, and Rafael—being alone for a change—fell right into their play.

They transferred the more conventional weapons—an M16, two pistols, a Belgian-made sniper's carbine—into the trunk of T's Jag and left the van just a block from where they stole it. No sense inconveniencing the owner.

“JJ, you're the man of the hour,” T said as they piled into the Jag and settled down.

Muggles took the wheel. T and JJ spread out in the back. T took a small baggie full of beige powder out of a secret compartment.

“Now, you know I don't approve of excessive indulgence, JJ, but this is a very special occasion. We'll celebrate with this unmentionable substance. I don't encourage my close associates to fool with
shit,
but in the face of most recent events it behooves me—”

“Break it out awready, motha!” JJ shrieked. Given what he'd just accomplished, he felt a perfect right to be impatient with the Emperor.

T appeared not to notice, removing a mirror from the pocket of his gray unconstructed jacket. He slid a small wood-handled Golden Condor blade out of his boot. “Close the window, Muggles. Maybe pull over somewhere, so you can get behind some of this too.”

“Gotta roll, mon,” Muggles said.

“Got some coke to make you roll, Dreadhead. You deserve a nice buzz.”

Muggles shrugged and pulled over. He was a little miffed at JJ for showing up with that fucking blowgun and upstaging him. But it was solid wigwork to waste the Comanchero scumbag without noisy artillery. Muggles didn't like silencers. They affected accuracy, caused malfunctions, and were at best clumsy. The blowgun was perfect, and JJ was completely proficient with it. JJ was developing a flair for tickling the Emperor.

T spilled an ungodly huge pile of the beige powder onto the center of the mirror. He broke up the tiny pebbles and granulated what had to be a half-gram of uncut. Maybe five hundred bucks' worth of happy dust.

With the delicate blade he sculpted
14-K
in one bold lightnin' line.

“Lemme clean m'chambers,” JJ said. He honked into a silk hankie, then accepted a trimmed nose gimmick and vacuumed half the first number off the logo. He sat back limp on the cushy leather seat and closed his eyes. “Whewwwww … hold onnn.” His previously adrenalized system immediately shifted into lotus.

T retrieved the tray from JJ's tilting hand. While Muggles peered out nervously, trying to cover all points, T hoofed more of the sculpture. T handed the tray to Muggles. “You're gonna have to speedball long enough to wheel us on with the night, Mugsy.”

“Don' feel bad f'I an'I, bredrin,” Muggles whispered, his eyes fixed on the tray. The Rasta's wide built-fo'-action nostrils gunned as he cowboyed a solid inch of Lucifer's dandruff.

T took the tray back. Most of the sculpture was still on it. “Anybody wanna go again?”

“Fuck, no!” JJ mumbled.

“I an' I pass, mon.”

T slid the excess powder back into the baggie, stashed it, and materialized another baggie. “Uptown flake, Jake. Put the eyes back on Muggles' face.”

Muggles hoofed a generous bump of top flake, sat back to catch his breath a moment, pulled away from the curb. T luxuriated as the Jag rolled onto the Manhattan Bridge.

Safe, surrounded by his private guard. Buddha flanked by his priests.

“Mus' pick up money, T. Drop you off?” Muggles asked.

“We'll come along.” T's eyelids drooped lazily from the goodness.

They pulled up outside a reefer store on Tenth Street. Muggles bounced out and returned moments later with a paper bag stuffed with cash.

“Now T'ree Street'n C. Drop you?”

The upper echelon of Triad/Rainbow made it a rule never to step east of Avenue A. Visibility was highly undesirable in the heroin business. But T, having freshly disposed of Rafael, was in an expansive mood.

“We'll roll with ya'.”

Muggles slid through junk turf until he came to the reefer op. He got out and bounced into a seemingly abandoned red-brick. He was gone a few minutes too long. T locked cash and drugs in a special safe built under the rear seat and was about to go after him with JJ. The Rasta emerged, again hefting a sack of cake. Jah be praise, mon.

T felt a sweep of utter contentment as the Jaguar roared east to the Drive. Their new Morningside Heights crib—a retreat—afforded at least geographic detachment from their professional lives. Everyone knew the narcotics business was ass-tough. Even the best had their share of ripoffs, busts, informers, murders. Uncle Satano, skeptical old fucker at first, was boggled at how well T's op was doing. When line's circle of dons threw highball high-vig cash at T, they got it back quickly and then some. Usually full equity took less than three days. The profit shares—large chunks of cabbage—would trickle in for another three days. More of a gush than a trickle. Since at the abstract top, all factors ever handled was cash, the risk of arrest was minimal. Very clean. With cash flow
that
high, even an arrest could be regarded as mere business expense. An unlikely one at that.

Intense cake-out brought an inherent ability to negotiate the alleged real world effortlessly, fluidly. T felt the vibrance of it in his bones. A tingling, a taut electricity. He was picking up flashes, in his
own
presence, of the terrible magic he remembered so vividly in his father's presence.

He felt an odd flash of pity for Alvira. Too bad he had nothing to live up to. Oh, sure, he was
free
—as he always said—but would he ever achieve the insane heights T was feeling? It takes greatness of will to achieve earthly power. Greatness! Good or evil use of power is beside the fuckin' point! Power! Abstract to the goatherds! To the select few, a corporeal conquest over mortality!

Success also brought with it a strong status among high-placed buttoned members of Unc's family. T was well thought of among the Italian factors.

Tommy stopped at a pay phone to give Uncle Satano the good news about Rafael. What he got was: “Fer chrissakes, Tommy, you mighta triggered a fuckin' war. I hope you have some damn idea what you're doing!”