The Informant (3 page)

“Yes or no,” said Neil. “My ass is getting numb sitting here.”

Zarzuela sighed, shrugged. “You got it. A thousand.”

No shit, Dick Tracy, thought Neil. But he was excited. Man, you always got turned on when the buy went down and you had lied so beautifully. He said, “Tell me again how good it is.”

“White. Fifty percent. Stepped on just once.”

“You sure about that?”

“Talking straight, man. Dynamite package, nothin’ but dynamite.”

Neil knew better. Street pushers were the end of the line in dope, creeps selling leftovers, buying last and getting dope that had been hit so many times it was usually one percent heroin and ninety-nine percent baking soda, lactose, dextrose, procaine, quinine, mannite. Street pushers sold the weakest dope and were the most dangerous people to deal with.

That was one of the strange things about dope. Buy a lot, buy kilos, and you dealt with people you could almost always trust. Big guys kept their word, stayed away from violence most of the time, and were dependable, cool, together.

But God help your ass when you bought small. These were the people quick to use a gun, to rip you off, to play games. The small guys, the ones selling ounces, eighths, quarters, nickel and dime bags. They were the ones you had to watch out for, the ones who would blow you away in a second.

Fifty percent pure. Sure, Zarzu. And the bear has signed a paper never to shit in the woods anymore.

Neil Shire passed him the envelope. Ten one-hundred-dollar bills, and that had also been a problem today, one of several. Upstairs had been unable to give Neil smaller bills, and he’d bitched, but the broad with a face as long as a broom handle had said it wasn’t her fault, take it or leave it.

So he took it, filling out the forms, hating having to carry around hundreds. But it had shortened his paperwork, since he had to list only ten serial numbers. The bills weren’t marked; listing the serial numbers was enough. Just keep an eye peeled for those numbers, and check out anybody who shows up with one. Chances are, whoever showed up with one of the bills was associated with Zarzuela, which Neil knew was a phony name.

Nobody in dope ever used a righteous name. Nobody. Nicknames, aliases. That’s all you ever got, and law enforcement went crazy wading through ten or more names to get their hands on one man. Cubans tended to use the names of hometowns and provinces back in Cuba. Zarzuela was the name of a popular fish stew.

Zarzuela looked up from counting the money, smiling as though a coat hanger was stuck in his mouth sideways. “All C’s. Nothing but hundreds. Goddamn, my man. All C’s.” He was impressed. “Mr. C Man. That’s you. Mr. C Man.”

A name is born, thought Neil. Why not? He said, “I’m waiting.”

The fat man in the pink shirt walked by the booth again, eyes on the ball game and no folded newspaper under his arm this time.

Zarzuela stood up, pocketing the envelope, a satisfied man. “Men’s room. Trashcan. Side facing you as you come in. Anytime you need another package, Mr. C, I’m ready.”

Let’s see what the lab tells me about this one, Zarzu. Neil said, “If you’re righteous, anything can happen.” For some reason, Zarzuela had gotten the idea in his head that Neil was buying dope for young Italians on Long Island, some crazy guineas breaking away from the old-time Mustache Petes in the Mafia and going into business for themselves.

Neil had gone along with it, letting Zarzuela think whatever he wanted to. Lydia’s idea probably, since she’d done all the talking with the Cuban. Not a bad idea. Maybe she wasn’t the useless spic that Katey kept calling her behind her back. Katey was Edward Merle Kates, detective sergeant, New York Police Department, assigned to work with Neil and Lydia.

Katey didn’t like Lydia, which might turn out to be a problem in the future. A snitch had to be treated right, if you wanted him to work for you, and for God’s sake, don’t ever say “snitch” to their face.

In the small, dimly lit, piss-smelling john, Neil found the folded newspaper. His heart was beating faster, and that’s how it was in narcotics. When you were going to score dope, or the bust was about to go down, you got excited, you couldn’t help it. The juice practically ran down your leg. Neil felt the lump inside the folded paper. It’s here, goddamn it, Lord, it’s here.

Clear plastic bag. The kind sold in supermarkets. A fourth of a cup of white powder in the bottom, the bag folded over several times.
Yes.
Neil closed his eyes, exhaled, counted to ten.

Outside on the street, he shivered in the cool darkness, eyes on Lydia.

“Went down fine. Laboratory will tell us what we just copped. Zarzuela says it’s fifty-percent pure.”

“He’s lying.” Lydia drew the gray fur collar on her cheap coat closer around her throat. Under the yellow streetlight, her green fingernail polish was black. “He’s small. He knows people, but he’s not that well connected to be gettin’ that kind of pure. It’s probably twenty percent or less.”

Neil nodded, smiled at her. She understood the street, give her that much. “Twenty’s good. We’ll accept that.” A cab stopped for them, was ignored, then speeded up. A white man out walking slowed down as if to cruise Lydia, saw Neil, and walked away faster.

She shivered with cold. “That’s it for tonight, right?”

“For you. I’ve got to run this through the lab, then do a report.”

“Report on me, too, right?”

“Yeah. One on you, then my own activity report. Half my time’s spent at a goddamn typewriter.”

“When do I get paid?”

“When the lab tells me what I just scored from your friend Mr. Z.”

“You people are careful, aren’t you?”

“Hurts when you’re not. There’s only winners and losers, and my people don’t go much for losing.”

“Zarzuela will try hard to keep you as a customer. Good customers are hard to find.”

Neil watched a bus slow down for a red light. Behind him somewhere someone bounced a garbage-can top off a car hood. Lydia jumped, Neil didn’t. His mind was working. Twenty percent, she’d said. Was she being straight with him, or was she protecting her own ass against what the lab might find? If Neil had a pocketful of milk sugar, Lydia was jammed up, in trouble up to her purple lipstick. Hell, if he was holding milk sugar, he was jammed up, too. His group supervisor would want the thousand back, or good dope in its place, and he wouldn’t care how Neil did it so long as he did it. Losing buy money was a black mark on the agent who’d been taken, on the superior who’d sent him out on the street, on the regional office they both worked in. Better to lose your left ball than lose buy money.

Lydia said, “You gonna call Katey?” She was afraid of Katey. Katey could be mean. Lydia knew cops, and even without having seen Katey kick somebody in the face, she knew the man was a bastard.

Tonight Neil had no backup, no gun. Just him and Lydia. Had there been more buy money involved, Neil would have had at least two, possibly ten men behind him. A thousand dollars was chump change on the street. Nothing at all.

Neil wasn’t sure what he felt about Lydia Constanza. Liking her wasn’t necessary, when you got down to it. Better for him and her if he didn’t like her too much. All Neil knew for certain was that he planned to use her.

Remembering he still needed her, he patted her shoulder, giving her the big smile. “You did fine. If we pop Zarzuela, you won’t have to testify. You saw nothing.”

“ ’Cept a toilet that wouldn’t flush. Next time, I bring somethin’ to read.” She started to grin, then stopped.

Neil said, “Call you tomorrow. How’s Olga?”

Olga was Lydia’s five-year-old daughter.

Lydia hugged herself for warmth, shoulders up around her ears. “Taking Olga to the zoo tomorrow.”

“Polar bears are nice.” Neil didn’t want to talk to her any more tonight. He’d used her, and now he didn’t want to see her until he had to use her again. Besides, he had a daughter of his own. Courtenaye, four, with snaggle teeth, hair the color of ripe wheat and what Neil thought was a real talent for art. Neil had a wife, too. Elaine. Their relationship was strained these days.

Lydia said, “See you,” and turned, walking into darkness.

Distance, thought Neil, clinging to that thought, because he had to be right,
had
to. Don’t get close to an informant. You’ll only get hurt. It’s dangerous, it’s dumb, and you’ll get burned as sure as the sky is up and water is wet. Keep that distance, especially if your snitch is a woman.

But he
could
have put her in a cab. He hadn’t, because he wanted that distance between them, wanted that edge, wanted her to know that he’d go only so far with her and no farther. Wanted her to know that
she
was being worked, that Neil was in control, in charge.

He wasn’t in charge of his own wife, but why think about that when he’d just scored some white in his first time on the street in five months? Neil Shire had something to take to the lab. Lydia had disappeared, and the September wind was knifing him in the face, neck, crotch.

Think about the future, my man. Think about Lydia being right and Neil Shire moving up, turning over dudes, and maybe,
maybe
grabbing Kelly Lorenzo, maybe,
maybe
finding out about the super deal the Cubans and blacks were putting together. Pray Lydia’s right, and if she is, work her until she melts, until you can walk away looking good. Last chance, Neil. Check her out and hope the future’s lollipops and roses.

He sat in a cab going downtown to the lab, head back on the seat, his mind trying to deal with his future.

I
N THE WORLD OF
dope, the importer stands at the top.

He alone has the overseas connections, allowing him to deal directly with heroin sources in Europe and cocaine sources in South America. An importer has money to buy hundreds of kilos at a time, often an investment of millions of dollars. He’s shrewd enough to smuggle his dope into America past law enforcement that is ruthless and relentless in its determination to stop him.

An importer never holds a large supply of drugs for long; he arranges for buyers
before
contacting his overseas connections. The faster a large shipment of narcotics is sold, the less chance of seizure by law enforcement or a ripoff by competitors.

The loss of a shipment is more than just the loss of money; when a load is confiscated, valuable men are usually arrested. More important, a smuggling route is lost, representing millions of dollars to an importer.

Importers are the most feared men in narcotics, shadowy figures far removed from street-level dealing, men who never touch or see the dope that brings them millions. They insulate themselves, keeping lieutenants out front to deal with customers.

An importer discusses dope only with those three or four trusted lieutenants, men and women he has personally known for a long time, people who are often blood relatives. An outsider has absolutely no chance of talking with an importer or of dealing dope with him.

Because of his extreme caution and suspicion, because he has the money to remain insulated, an importer is rarely arrested. Only a few people are ever in a position to inform on him, and these people are so carefully selected that, through either loyalty or fear, they almost never betray him.

Because an importer “does weight”—deals in large amounts of dope—and because he sells his shipment as soon as he brings it in, he rarely cuts his narcotics. He sells pure to distributors, who will cut the narcotics at least once.

Distributors sell fifty percent pure to dealers. Dealers cut the dope three times or more, rarely selling anything more than ten percent pure. While cutting increases profits, it weakens the quality, but such is the demand that no matter how diluted the drug, there is always a buyer.

Dealers sell to pushers, who again cut the dope. Here the dangers of arrest are greatest, since the pusher is the most exposed man in the dope sales chain. He must go public in order to make a profit, because the dope he sells (which
he’s
also cut) is barely one percent pure, and he needs the largest turnover possible in order to stay in business.

Pushers, who are often addicts, sell on street corners, rooftops, in hallways and schoolyards, which increases their visibility and accounts for their frequent arrests. While the public concerns itself with the pusher as obvious culprit, and pressures for his arrest and conviction, it remains ignorant of the importer, the true source of illicit narcotics.

Without the importer, there would be no dope.

And so long as dope is available, there are people who will do anything to get it.

Until recently, most importers were Italian. The Mafia had enjoyed the only overseas connections, bringing in dope, then selling it to blacks and Latins. With changing times, Cubans and a handful of blacks now had money and intelligence enough to deal directly with overseas sources. Cubans, along with a few blacks, now became major importers of narcotics.

Blacks, because American inner cities were becoming increasingly black, were able to control this particular drug market and thus force their way into the upper levels of dope dealing.

Cubans were a special success story. By sheer intelligence, by a total reliance on each other and a distrust of outsiders, by an outstanding talent for organizing, which surpasses even that of the Mafia, Cubans rose to the top of drug dealing in New York City and Miami, the two largest markets for illicit narcotics in America.

When Fidel Castro took over Cuba in 1959, he expelled criminals as well as ideological opponents, all of whom were received in America as political refugees. Those criminals who had been drug dealers in Cuba resumed dealing in America, particularly in New York, Miami, New Jersey, areas where the majority of Cubans settled.

Cubans trained by the military, by their own secret police, by the American CIA, used that experience and background to put together efficient dope rings, as always, relying on each other rather than other ethnic groups. Since the 1960’s, no one has worked harder at dope dealing than Cubans, and no one has had greater success.

Mas Betancourt, Cuban, fifty-six, and crippled in both legs, was the second largest importer of heroin and cocaine in New York. He planned to quit the business, to leave dope dealing behind, to retire to Spain, where he owned property. But first there would be one last deal,
la última
, the biggest deal of his life. After that, he and his wife, Pilar, would leave New York, dividing their time between Madrid and Málaga.