The Lotus Crew (10 page)

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 Flatbush 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.

He spotted Ya Ya's wheels, which meant he could pick up and kick in. The meter read twelve, so he dropped a twenty on the gypsy driver and went to work. The action peaked in moments. His regular customers had been waiting.

Furman stood under the stairs by his candle, switching bags for dinero frantically. Before mid-afternoon, he was sold out, standing on Chrystie and Riv trying to hail a cab over to his cash drop.

It was cool and windy, and Furman was anxious to get back to his Brooklyn crib. Maybe he'd have the cab wait while he made his drop, then whisk him home. But first he'd have to catch one. No gypsies worked the area. The Yellows got yellow when it came to picking up blacks. Only afraid they'd end up in Harlem or East New York. Furman tightened the silk aviator's scarf around his neck and zipped his brown leather jacket all the way up. The cold pissed him off. He was due a vacation. He dreamed about kicking his Jones in the tropics.

Furman was about to toss it in and strut when an old, rust-calico, battered MG with Jersey plates pulled up a few feet away. He recognized the driver. One of his PR customers whose name he didn't know. The guy was a steady face, buying half-bundles every other day or so.

“M'man, yo' too late. Sold out early today,” Furman said, putting his scarf down just enough to uncover his mouth.

The PR was sucking a reefer and motioned for him to get in.

“Sho', B.” He needed to get out of the cold. “But ain' no way I c'n sco' f'you now.”

“Don' worry 'bou 'eet. I yus' wanna rap wi'j. Wanna ride somewhere?”

Furman exhaled dense reefer smoke through his nostrils as an idea popped in on him. ‘Tell you what, m'man. Gimme a lif' back to Brooklyn an' I throws y'all m'own cura. Two bags.”

“J'got eet. Furman's j'name, B. Ri'?”

“Yeah. Yours?”

“Flaco. Leesen, man, I gotta bery cool deal f'j't'hear. J'in'rested een makey mucho dinero?”

Furman smiled. “I be makin' mucho dinero, B. But I got ears.”

“I scorin' fum j'now f'months, Furman. I see j'bery slick an' down. I show j'some'sing j'swear don' tell nobody.”

“Do it. No, hey, wait. Pull up an' let me take care o' somethin'. I come back an' heah you out.”

“Cool.”

Furman had Flaco pull up over a block away from the drop, so the guy couldn't check where he was ducking in.

Upstairs, Chu counted the cake with lightning speed, then threw Furman his take. Six hundred bucks in fifties. “Need some small bills for the taxi?”

“No, I be cool.”

Furman smiled and pocketed his coin. He made more than any of the other workers because he sold more bags. He was the only Triad ready to hassle with Rivington Street. Of course Furman was afraid, just like the others, of the heat and the danger. He carried iron and hoped for the best.

When Furman returned to the MG, Flaco fired another reefer.

“Okay, man, take the Manhattan Bridge, then Flatbush Avenue to Linden and left into East New York.”

“Tha'z hebby turf, Furman. I know eet. Got frien's roun'.”

“So, what's on yo' min', B?”

Flaco reached over and opened the tiny glove box. His fingers riffled under baggies full of reefer until he came to what he was looking for. It was a rubber stamp:
Triad
!

“Hey, where in fuck did j'git that?”

Flaco showed him a stamped piece of paper. It was a perfect copy of the Triad logo. The early mark, that is. During the first few weeks of operation, all bags were stamped
Triad.
Then one day two Chinese went to Chu and were taken to T and Alvira. The Chinks were pissed because they were real Triads. They were afraid the police would put heat on them because of T's choice of a name. To Alvira's complete amazement, T apologized and promised to use the word
Rainbow
on future bags. It evolved into
Triad/Rainbow
for a while. Then they started putting
Triad
on one side and
Rainbow Society
on the other.

“I yus' got it.”

Furman felt his heart accelerate. He'd heard the gang that ripped off Chu on Rivington Street in the early days might've made off with a stamp. That was the only explanation. If Flaco was in with the Comancheros he might be setting off a bad play. Furman put his hand in his jacket pocket, slid the safety off his iron.

“What're you gonna do with it, man?”

Flaco shrugged. “I donno. Maybe make some muny. Wanna hear how?”

“Dummies?”

Flaco nodded. “Dummies, man. How'd j'know?”

Furman frowned grimly. “M'people catch you an' you daid.”

Fear did not appear to be one of Flaco's concerns.

“People trust Triad 'cause the bag come stamped an' sealed. Straight from the factory. M'people work hard t'give their bag a smokin' rep. Fuck it up, Flaco, an they
got
t'waste yo' ass.”

“Hmm. They no catch me, Furman. I gota heat-seal machine. Wanna sell an extra hunred bags a day? Extra grand a day, man!”

“Until they—”

“Fibe hunred each! Take thee shot!”

“Yeah, you take the shot, man. Pull this bucket up. I'z gittin' out o' heah now!”

Flaco pulled up, turned a suspicious look on Furman.

“I figure j'
down,
Furman.”

“Shit! I ain't
that
down, fool. Fuck wi' Triad an' you gonna get killed. I don' wan' nothin' t'do wi'you an' yo' crazy play.”

“Don' tell thee bosses, Furman. Ri'?” Flaco's eyes took on a cold glitter. A warning.

“Don' threaten me, you punked-out asshole.” Furman opened the door and started getting out. “Tell y'all what, Flaco. I don' know yo' ass from shit, but what the hell, if I c'n keeps y'all from gittin' hurt … gimme the stamp. T'morrow I give you a bundle an' we forget—”

“No sanks.”

“Shit! I'm payin' t'save yo' life! Damn chump I am. Do what you want to, Jack. Fuck yo'seff.”

Flaco's face said he was going on with his plan with or without Furman. “Change j'min', Furman, I be roun'.”

“Hey, do me a solid, Jim.
Don'
be aroun'. You bad company. I ain't sellin' you no bags no mo'. Don't come on Rivington t'sco' no way from me. I be clean w'm'people, man. Dat be dat!”

Flaco smirked wide. “Scared, man. Let j'boss make thee muny an' j'get chump change f'hebby chances.”

“I said fuck yo'seff
please.
”
Furman slammed the door and walked into the wind, eyes peeled for a gypsy cab.