The Lotus Crew (5 page)

In the Great Serenade of things,
Am I the most cancelled passage?
—Gregory Corso

ERIC SHOMBERG HAD
been driving around in circles through the rain-splashed seedy streets of Alphabet City. Rows of war-torn buildings, broken dirty concrete, open smoking sewers. Oil drum fires were speckled around, bearing signatures of the lotus crews. He made a face from LaTuna. Maybe. Things changed quickly on the street. It was worth a quick sound. He parked the cab on Avenue B and walked a few blocks to Third and C. It was a red-brick tenement teeming with shadows and junkie life. Eric watched from the corner for a few minutes. Every so often a cluster of junkies would waft out and split up, peering around nervously. Other customers walked around the block over and over, hearing, “Red light! Keep walkin',” from the lookout until he told them to enter. Clearly he was instructed to avoid a large buildup in front of the tenement. It wasn't working. At least fifteen blancos were hovering around outside, rubbing their noses, walking in place, jabbering, scratching, sniffling.

Eric couldn't invest the time—at least a half-hour by his take—necessary to cop. But he couldn't not cop either.

He'd only put fifty bucks on the meter, and it was almost three in the afternoon. He had to hustle or the dispatcher would be giving him the standard reprimand, maybe even cutting his workdays. All he needed was a nice cooker full of the Rx and he would be able to sit calmly on that seat and watch the cake roll in as the city rolled by like a loony tune. Without it he was fucked. He'd have to go home early and wrap himself up in blankets to offset the chills that were gaining on him. He'd not be able to venture far from the porcelain lest his stomach drop out. And how could he be expected to negotiate midtown traffic with his nerves exposed? He'd had a wake-up ready for the morning but banged it last night to come off some speedy C a fellow cabbie sold him.

Fuckin' taxi shit. Gotta have eyes all over. Bozos cuttin' in front of you. Buses don't give a flyin' shit. You have to watch the turkey sittin' behind you. He'd been taken at gunpoint twice since the beginning of his involuntary career as a Manhattan hack. Arbitrary picking up was sheer kamikaze shit, and he didn't intend to place himself in that situation again. He wasn't prejudiced against blacks or PRs. Not even slightly. Any preconditioning he might've had that instinctified bigotry was quickly negated in the 'Nam jungles, where he learned that if blood from a black man's arm could save you, you took the donation and thanked him. But rolling a taxi through Harlem or East New York made him ten times more nervous than combat in the tropics. Fact is, in 'Nam he learned for the first time how to really relax. Thanks to Mr. Jones, son of Somnus, the Father of Sleep. No kinder, more understanding gentleman walked the face of the earth. There'd been an opium den not more than a few blocks from base in Saigon. Regal and illegal. A dreamlike interior insulated the little sleepy hollow from outside realities. Pappa-san was only too happy to take his money, escort him to a cot, and summon the chef. The chef was a thin Vietnamese sleepwalker of about forty with the smooth face of a sedated baby, wearing a tattered U.S. Army shirt that said “Goldstein” on the name tag, red P.F. Flyers sneakers, and loose-fitting cotton trousers. He would appear with a brass tray and begin the ritual.

Due to metabolics and temperament, Eric quickly went from six to twenty pipes at a sitting. This was necessary to achieve the relief and exquisite suspension of ego he'd come to expect. He could not resist the sweet ambiguity of opium, the way it softened the real world without negating it altogether like booze did. It was an aesthetic, getting high, and it pleased him beyond petty feelings of accomplishment and all that other tribal com. Eric had no fixed idea of what constituted contentment, but he sensed the factors to be internal, subjective, decentralized. Before he was shipped back to the States, Eric was up to fifty pipes at a nightly lay. He and the Chinaman were partners in paradise. Bunk mates.

He hit the street and found out quickly that those little bags barely touched him. Weak excuse for dope in the States. In order to maximize profits, the bosses cut it to shit and back. It took a bundle just to give him a buzz. He found a doctor who wrote him a standard script for Percodans, so he went on to think of other things. He worked as a carpenter. When properly medicated Eric could be fastidious. He'd started college before 'Nam, so returned on the GI bill. Majored in psychology and did well. Then the DEA fixed it so a doctor couldn't write for Percs anymore without going through mucho red tape and pressure to keep it down. Illegal to treat addicts. A police, not a medical problem. Ol' Doc threw him over. Back to the street. High prices and poor quality. He took a gig—the taxi—but barely got by. Then the Shah of Iran was deposed by the Ayatollah Khomeini, and the streets of New York filled up with some very fine and cheap Persian heroin. The competition from the Golden Triangle had to raise quality and lower prices to maintain market. For the first time in a dozen years, street dope was on the money and scoring was wide open. Eldridge Street off Houston was lined with working PR social clubs, just like the black clubs uptown. Eric could fix for twenty bucks, and another ten got him high. At first. Now it took him five bags. Half a bundle. Fifty bucks. The shit was good, and it was easy to get a nasty Jones with prices so reasonable. With his gig and a little dealing he could do it, usually. When things got bad his Jones kicked him right in the nervous system. But when things were right Eric Shomberg felt good about life. He didn't have time for college anymore but stayed informed with reading lists.

“Red light! Come back in twenny minutes,” the lookout hissed.

“I can't come back, man, I'm workin'. But I'll slip you a dime for express.”

The lookout smiled. They can smell it. He held out his hand, and Eric laid a ten on the palm. “Go buy it. Walk the stairs up to the third floor.”

As soon as Eric entered the building he could sense that something wasn't right. When LaTuna worked a building they allowed only their own people to loiter in the lobby. These dark conduits were stuffed with vagrants. How come they weren't kicked out? Okay, so it wasn't LaTuna. That didn't mean there wasn't good dope to be scored. Maybe this was a new op putting their best foot forward. He resisted an impulse to bolt and walked past the lobby crowd. Going up the stairs, he met a few impalpable forms coming down.

“How's it running?”

“What d'y'expect?”

Eric shrugged. Not exactly encouraging, but if people were buying it must be decent. He continued up. On the third floor there was a line and a bagman, but no one working the line, no one keeping things orderly. A fly-by-night op if ever. He caught a glimpse of one of the bags as a guy stuffed a bundle in his pocket. They had dark brown tape sealing them. LaTuna bags were always sealed with clear tape. Eric got on line and waited, hoping for the best.

A few moments later, he copped his half-bundle and headed out. It was on the second landing that he realized it hadn't been wise to cop this way, good dope or not. He saw a scuffle in an abandoned apartment, probably a customer being taken off. Eric sped up. LaTuna buildings were protected. That is, the crews would see to your safety while you were in their area. Muggings were bad for bizz, and the rodents knew that taking off a LaTuna customer, even a blanco, could get your ass handed to you. This crew had no such provisions. He was on his own.

On the ground floor he passed a few desperados seemingly on their way up. They surrounded him and sprang blades suddenly. He felt cold steel up against his neck. Without turning, he knew what would be there.

“Come wi' me o' j'get cut,” the man said.

There were three of them, one looking nastier than the next. They were sick, crazed, not to be played with. They led him under the stairwell, took his half-bundle, money, subway tokens, cigarettes, ring. One of them spilled the contents of his wallet on the floor, another took off his watch. The third admired his sneakers for a second before suggesting he take them off.

“Just leave me one bag, please. I'm sick,” he pleaded.

The man with the knife looked at his tracks, frowned, dropped one bag into Eric's sweaty palm. “Here, dope fien'.”

There were two sealed gimmicks in his denim jacket, and mercifully they only took one.

“Stay here, m'fucka, o' we keel jou!”

They walked out of the building. Eric looked around in the near darkness. The man who'd stolen his sneakers had left behind a very badly worn pair of archaic sixties “Beatles boots.” Eric put them on. Despite what was happening he felt impending relief …

He clutched the bag in his sweating fist. He had to do it now! Eric dropped water from his kit into the bent spoon. He opened the bag and watched the powder break up in the cooker. God pointed the weeper's sharp tip into the mainline on the first attempt.

Sweeeet jizz of Jesus! Jumpin' Jesuits! That fly-by-night was a smoker! No wonder the muggers were workin' it. The relief came immediately, and he felt a wave of optimism inappropriate to his condition. He tapped his pocket for a cigarette and looked at his watch, remembered both were gone. Didn't seem to matter terribly. The boots stopped pinching his feet … it seemed.

He waited awhile and walked out of the building. He saw the three jerks who took him leaning on a car. Probably just split up his cash and bags. One smiled at him, and Jones made him smile back before catching himself. Big joke. It was their street, and they feared no one. Surely not some pale-eyed blanco punk dope fiend.

Eric limped back to the taxi and got in. With a little luck he could work up the price of a few more bags of that great shit. For the moment he was cool. He could swing with it! No stopping him. He could drive barefoot!

The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heav'n of hell, a hell of heav'n …
—Lucifer in Milton's Paradise Lost

DAVE SKULLY EMERGED
from the subway on Delancey Street and blinked in the light of day. He walked over to Rivington Street and the Bowery, where he'd copped a bundle of splendid Triad goodness the other day. Hope they're still on. Best bee-zag on the street.

The door to the building was open, but no one around. Inside, the big steel door—new and incongruous with the dilapidated texture of the old building—was locked. He rapped, but there was no answer. Shit! When a brand really swings they sell out early. Triad was becoming a famous smoker.

Skully was a few hours away from severe withdrawal but determined not to panic. He didn't have to show at his bartending gig in the Bronx for another few hours. Plenty of cake in his pockets, and after all this
was
New York City and it shouldn't be too hard to locate another score. Skully bopped over to Chinatown and into a teahouse near Chatham Square looking out on the old Five Points. He contemplated the next move over hot tea and a taste of dim sum. Shit! Have to track through Alphabet City.

Walking out onto the sunny pavement, he flicked his butt into the gutter. Started tasting harsh. That meant his system was in dire need of the Sacred Substance. In a matter of an hour he'd be sweating, shivering, nervous, raw, and his bowels would begin to explode. In the restaurant, he'd split his cake so that one hundred was in his pocket and another in his sock. He carried no wallet or keys. He put his spring knife in the waistband of his jeans where the denim jacket would cover it and began the hike.

Seemed to be more la hara than vendadors. Shit. A bad day. Dave rapped to a few faces who looked familiar. No one knew where the Triad people might be until he asked a young tattooed dude he'd first mistaken for someone else. The cat looked familiar and said he knew where to score.

“Gotta take a walk.”

A light sun shower fell as they turned the corner of Eighth and C. They were walking towards Avenue D.

“This is Green Tape around here,” Dave said, getting suspicious. Tattoo had asked for a bag commission, and Dave had agreed. But he didn't want to pay if the guy was taking him to Green Tape. Everyone knew where they were and could score without any expensive outside help.

“Triad here too,” the man said.

That was strange. Not run by the same people, and it would take three bags of Green to put you where one Triad put you. Unlikely the Green Tape crew would tolerate that sort of competition under their noses.

Skully got the distinct feeling he didn't like what was goin' down. He began scanning nervously for a graceful exit. “Shit, man, I think I'm gonna sound on that dude over there,” he told Tattoo. “I know that cat and maybe—”

“Come wi' me,” the man insisted, his voice soft but menacing.

Skully hedged. If he started to walk the man might jump him, even knife him, and no one would interfere. He was white, and they'd just step over his corpse and do bizz as usual until the ambulance arrived.

Skully became aware of another dude who'd been following them. The first dude rapped to a few loitering PRs in Spanish.

Skully could see the equation, the dudes looking him over. Time to book.

“Yo, poppa! Where in fuckin' hell j'goin'?”

Two arms came around his back, holding him tight. He was spun around. Tattoo pointed to the shell of a building.

“In there, man. Moob' it”

No weapons visible, but Skully stood in the center of too many mean-looking honchos to mess around.

“No need to get tough,” he said, amazed at his own resignation. He pulled the wad out of his pocket. “Here's m'money. Just leave me alone.”

Tattoo snapped Skully's roll but still insisted he enter the building.

“Jacket off,” one of them said, showing a cheap pistol.

“Hey, you got m'fuckin' money!”

“Shut up. Git it off!”

The sleazoid picked up Skully's jacket, took a pack of butts out of the breast pocket, divided them with his associates.

“Now pants, man.”

“What?”

The shiv fell to the floor, and soon the rest of Skully's cake was in their hands.

“Rapido! Green gonna sell out. Le's split!”

One stayed behind long enough to tie Skully's jeans into knots. When he was satisfied that his victim would need ten minutes to untie the legs, he dropped the jeans on the garbage carpeted floor and stalked out.

Yen chills ran up and down Skully's spine, distracting him. He tried to undo one of the tighter knots, but his hands shook uncontrollably. A coughing fit gripped him, and he held his chest. Weak, he sat on garbage and broken glass, shielded only by his skivvies. He could hear a Crazy Eddie commercial roaring out of a ghetto blaster somewhere close by, and the harshness irritated him unbearably. One of the jerks had left a burning cigarette—his—on the floor. He lifted it to his quivering lips.

They'd cleaned him. How the fuck could he smile and mix drinks in this condition? He thought about a book he'd' read in the joint, by Kafka, called
The Metamorphosis.
Gregor Samsa wakes up one morning and discovers he's a cockroach. The superlative problem is:
How can I put my human clothes on this body, so I can go to work?

He didn't even have a dime to call the bar and offer an excuse. Didn't have the price of a subway token. Now, ain't Fate a fucking? Too bad Gregor couldn't join him at the moment. It took awhile, but he got the knots out, put on his jeans, and hit the street.

“How many j'want? Las' call on Green Tape.”

He turned and faced a green-capped crew worker.

“None,” he said. “I just got taken off.”

The worker shrugged. “Betta git some money, poppa. J'lookin' seeek.”

“Yeah! Got a smoke?”

The worker told him to stop shaking as he lit the cigarette. “Cop some dinero an' come back aks f' Baba. I make sure j'don' git taken again.”

Skully took the spring knife out of his pocket and showed it to Baba. “Hey, B, I know it's a bit tarnished, but the spring is good. Clean an' sharpen it. Wanna give me two bags for it?”

“That no open from thee front, poppa. I no like—”

“One bag! Man, I'm sick as shit. That's all I have. I gotta go to work!”

“So come back lata.”

“Can't. I work in the Bronx. If I don't show I'm fucked. Gimme one bag and a token for the train and it's yours.”

Baba clicked the blade out and examined it. It was dull and dirty but would take an edge.

“Wai' here. I get j'uno bag Green Tape. J'gotta gimmick?”

“Yeah,” Skully said, feeling the anticipation of relief.

“Green run good today. J'be fine,” Baba said. He ducked out and slid down the basement where the Green Tape crew stored their material. He came back and led Skully into the building he'd been mugged in. “There's a gallery upstairs, poppa, bu' dey charge three bucks. We go in here. Nobody in this dump.”

They walked up one flight and into a rank empty apartment. Skully could hear activity above them. Baba turned on a water faucet, and Skully started to prepare. The cylinder of his gimmick was cracked. He borrowed Baba's dirty weeper and started to probe for a line. He was shaking too badly, and Baba had to hit him. Baba's long thin fingers moved deftly, fluidly. He had a practiced doctor's touch.

The eyelids came down lightly before the point was out of Skully's arm. He felt his muscles losing tension and pain. His breathing cleared. Baba lit a fresh butt and put it to Skully's lips. The blanco poked hungrily.

“That Green is gooood today,” said lazy lips.

“Da' shit's good 'cause Triad come out wi' a smoker! Gotta keep up.”

Skully was starting to feel like himself again.

“Hey, Baba, m'name's Skully.”

Baba nodded. Calm eyes said, “So what?”

“You helped me, hombre. I wanna pay you back. I know that blade's no bargain. Listen, if you take the subway up to the Bronx tonight and bring me a bundle, I'll tip you two bags and you'll drink for free. I'm a bartender.”

Baba brightened. “Soun' good, man. Where j'bar?”

“Take the train to Two Twenty-fifth. Walk over to the Concourse. Ask anybody for Mimm's Cafe. I go on in a few hours, so make it.”

“Cool,” Baba said, handing Skully change for a subway token.