American Gangster (14 page)

Quietly Richie said, “Those bills are sequenced and registered with the Essex County Prosecutors Office. All begin with CF3500. Appreciate it if you'd check it out.”

A frowning SIU dick got in the black bag and thumbed through a few.

“I'll be damned,” he said. He grinned good-naturedly, a rapist offering his victim a post-coital smoke. “Here I thought we had a score. Figured I had a fuckin' Chris-Craft sitting in my driveway, for sure.”

“Honest mistake,” Richie said. “Just hand it on back.”

Another of the detectives wasn't smiling. “
This
time we will.”

Then this dick smiled, too; and all of the cops, except top dog Trupo, laughed, one even patting Richie on the back. An affable lot of thieves.

But Trupo still had Richie's ID, and was studying it like a clue at a crime scene. “When's the last time I was in New Jersey,” he said. He had a pleasant baritone. “Let me think . . . a week ago never.”

His guys smiled.

Trupo smiled, too, but it was nothing to write home about. “What're you doin', Detective Roberts, coming over here without letting anybody know? Don't you know you can get hurt doing that, overlooking the niceties?”

Richie returned Trupo's smile. “Sorry. We followed that mechanic over here from a stakeout in Newark. We were kinda doing things on the fly.”

“That's the way cases get kicked out of court,” Trupo advised, “doin' things on the fly. . . . Now you got your money. And we're cool with that. Aren't we guys, cool with that?”

Nods all around.

Trupo kept smiling; Richie would have preferred a frown. “Now never, Detective Roberts,
ever
come in our city again, unannounced. You come in to catch a fuckin' Broadway show, you call ahead first and clear it with me.”

Then Trupo gave Richie a pat on the back, and the lead SIU detective and his fellow servants of the people went off, still hauling their bag of confiscated heroin.

Which somehow Richie doubted would ever find its way to an evidence locker. . . .

At night the narcotics
squad HQ still felt like a church; but the unholy quartet Richie had encountered that afternoon didn't do much for encouraging him that God was in His Heaven and all was right with the world.

Toback, who was sitting with Richie at the banquet table by the bulletin boards, was waxing philosophical.

“What do we hate most?” his boss asked. “Isn't it the transgressions of others that we fear we're capable of ourselves?”

Richie said nothing.

“Thing is,” Toback said with an easy shrug, “cops are just people. They're like—”

“Everybody else,” Richie finished, “yeah, I know. And some of 'em will steal no matter what. There can be a camera on 'em and they'll still do it. And some'll never do it.”

“Right,” Toback said. “But a lot of 'em are in between, Richie.”

Richie nodded. “Capable of doing either, depending on which way the wind blows, and how their department leans. Only these SIU guys—their department isn't leaning, it's falling down. Patrol cars don't even
stop
in Harlem—just slow up and roll down the window so the dealers can toss the money in. Man, I've seen drops go down on precinct
steps
. . . .”

“I know, I know.” Toback sighed, his eyes searching his new prosecutor. “What the hell were you doing on their side of the world?”

Richie shrugged elaborately. “That's where the dope is coming from—Blue Magic. Out of New York. What am I supposed to do, ignore it? You think a narcotics squad can make it, busting two-bit dealers?”

“No. But can a narcotics squad
leader
make it, when a cab driver files aggravated assault and grand theft charges?”

Richie scowled. “Prick wouldn't give up his ride!
Motherfucker rolled his window up on me, would've dragged me from here to Kingdom Come.”

“Well, that'll be handy, because Kingdom Come is where he's suing the State of New Jersey to, unless he reconsiders when a settlement amount is offered.”

“I told him I was a cop. I showed him ID.”

“You stole his cab and broke his arm.”

“That was an accident.”

“Stealing his cab?”

“Breaking his arm! Hey, I was chasing
your
twenty thousand bucks!”

Toback's face was unreadable, utterly bland, as he said, “I don't want to hear about you going into New York anymore.”

Richie shook his head glumly. “Then this investigation is over. Might as well dismantle the team and go home.”

Toback smiled and something almost evil was in it. “You're not
listening,
Richie—I said, I don't want to
hear
about it.”

“Oh.”

Toback folded his arms, leaned back in his cheap swivel chair and rocked a little. “You do whatever you have to do, go wherever you have to go, to find out who's bringing this nasty shit into our country. . . .
Just don't tell me.”

“. . . Thanks, boss.”

Toback got up, stretched and yawned, and said, “I think I'll get some sleep. Why don't you do the same?”

And that was just what Richie did.

The domination of Blue
Magic on inner city streets, both sides of the river, was complete within months. On this typical August afternoon, hot enough to fry eggs on the sidewalk, kids were wrenching open a fire hydrant to cool off, inadvertently splashing the beat-up Chevy parked down the street and across from the 23rd Precinct in Harlem.

Frank Lucas was in casual clothes, sitting in the junker he called Nellybelle. He owned one hundred custom-made suits, and his automobiles included a Mercedes, a Corvette Sting Ray, a 427 muscle job for kicks, and of course his Lincoln Town Car. But for keeping an eye on things, looking like just another homeboy, loafing in a T-shirt and slacks in a three-hundred-buck piece-of-shit car, was just the thing.

He was like a ghost haunting the domain he owned—116th Street, between Seventh and Eighth
Avenues—a shadow, what back home they called a “haint.” He would sit there in Nellybelle, invisible, and just watch the money roll in.

Right now, inside that dingy gray stone precinct house, a clock in the locker room would be reading 3:58 . . . two minutes till shift change. Cops, in the synthetic breeze of fans sending humid air around, would be getting a jump on quitting time, exchanging uniforms for street clothes. Other guys were reversing the process, as outside blue-and-white squad cars came and went.

A minute later, a bus moving down 116th Street would turn down an almost empty Eighth Avenue. Nothing shaking. A haunted house of a street.

And the haint haunting that house sat in his clunker with its windows up and its top-dollar air conditioner blowing full blast, listening to the wicked Wilson Pickett wrapping up “Mustang Sally” so an announcer could mark the arrival of 4
P.M
.

With quiet, even smug pleasure, Frank watched out a window smeared with hydrant juice as 116th Street transformed into Times fucking Square. From alleys, storefronts, tenements and around corners came junkies and dealers, flooding the sidewalks and the street with black faces.

“ 'Nuff niggers to make a Tarzan movie,” his brother Huey had said on first seeing this phenomenon, prompting Frank to scold him for his negative language—he would not suffer that kind of self-denigrating talk from his family and employees.

Taking his product out for sale at cop shift change was another of Frank's innovations. He knew it would
take a couple of hours for those lazy bastards to get their uniforms on and their asses in gear and out of the break room and onto the pavement.

And his buyers, man, you could set your watch by them. Word was the Transit Authority was planning to reroute the Eighth Avenue bus, 'cause of all the congestion, cars and delivery trucks getting snarled up by the stream of customers and sellers.

Small blue cellophane packets changed hands for the ten-buck-per-bag fee Frank insisted upon. Within minutes, in alleyways and dank, grim rooms, the contents of those packets would be cooked up and sucked into syringes, and plunged into eager veins.

Within the hour, decks of rubber-banded tens and twenties would be stuffed in envelopes and runners would deliver them to the Lucas brothers: Melvin at his metal shop; Dexter at the dry cleaners; Turner at a tire service shop; Terrence at an electrical shop; Huey at his body shop—hardworking souls, the Lucas boys.

Later, at Red Top's apartment, the brothers would converge with their envelopes of cash, which became piles of cash, which initially had been a problem. Those boys, with their backwoods math skills, could simply not deal with all that paper money. First time they tried, Huey shook his head and said, “We're gonna be here all night, if we count every bill.”

So Frank had bought them a money-counting machine, a mechanical marvel that would flip through the bills with its counter rolling up impressive numbers, while the brothers rubber-banded it all into new decks of $100,000. Huey jotted down the numbers, and his
brothers stuffed the money into cardboard file-type boxes, which were then taped shut.

From these boxes, the 100G stacks would be transferred by Frank into safety-deposit boxes at the -Chemical Bank in the Bronx. He was alone in the safety-deposit vault, of course, but the vice president who'd been so helpful was now a friend, who even got invited to parties at Frank's penthouse.

The banker and Frank were sipping drinks in the middle of a shindig that Hugh Hefner couldn't have topped, which was fitting since the penthouse was now beautifully furnished in a modern
Playboy
pad kind of way.

This was an office party of sorts, celebrating Blue Magic's success, with Frank's brothers, cousins, wives and girlfriends partying alongside certain business associates, including distributors like mob-guy Rossi, trusted old-timer Charlie Williams and assorted East Harlemites, plus a scattering of plainclothes cops on the payroll.

The stereo hi-fi system was pounding out soul tunes, and right now Marvin Gaye's “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” had guests dancing in Frank's living room—which had more space for the activity than Small's Paradise's dance floor, anyway.

The banker was asking, “You got a stockbroker, Frank?”

Why did these white people insist on doing business at parties?

But Frank, the perfect host, merely said, “I deal with enough crooks as it is.”

Juggling his drink, the banker managed to get a business card out and jot down a name and phone number on the back.

Working to be heard over Marvin Gaye, the banker said, “This broker is as honest as he is discreet. Just ask around. He's got a list of clients in your field.”

“Yeah, well, thanks, but—”

The banker shook a finger. “No ‘buts,' Frank—you can't go around leaving all of your money in safety deposit boxes. Promise me you'll give him a call.”

Frank took the card and nodded and the banker went off to look for food or maybe a spare female—Frank always pumped a few high-class working girls into a bash like this.

Sipping his drink, Frank was happy to see his family, friends and business associates having a good time; but the truth was, this level of noise and this degree of rowdiness made him uncomfortable. He would rather be spending the evening alone with Eva, listening to jazz or watching TV.

Eva was playing hostess, charming everybody with her smile and bright eyes and lilting accent; and the way she filled an evening gown didn't hurt, either.

Charlie, the veteran affable dope dealer, came ambling over with his arm around a balding, mustached white guy in a black suit and white shirt and no tie, who looked like he might've been an athlete half a lifetime ago or so.

With a wink and a grin, Charlie said, “Frank, this is Mike Sibota.”

Frank recognized the name: this was a former Yankee
player who was now scouting for the team. Right now Sibota seemed to be working hard not to look nervous.

“Mr. Sibota, a pleasure,” Frank said, and extended a hand. They shook, and Frank asked, “What can I get you?”

“From what Charlie tells me,” Sibota said, “a lefthander. Your nephew?”

“My nephew,” Frank confirmed. He tilted his head and risked a grin. “Got an arm on him.”

“Any experience?”

“Just sandlot. Didn't graduate junior high. But I bet you're not in the market for a scholar.”

Sibota, relaxing, said, “I'm in the market for a
lefthander
.”

Frank gave him his patented easy smile. “Well, it's been Stevie's dream, all his life, to play for the Yankees.”

Sibota laughed. “A Southern boy likes the Yankees?”

“He has good taste, Mr. Sibota. Plus, he's good enough to start tomorrow.”

“So I hear.” The scout handed Frank a business card. “You have your nephew come see me. And we'll give him a tryout.”

“Just a chance. All he asks.”

The conversation continued, about baseball and how the Yankees were doing (not that great—playing .500 ball), but Frank was only listening with one ear. He was picking up on a noisy conversation ten or so feet away, and glancing over there as well.

His brother Huey, in tinted goggle glasses and a polyester pantsuit, was holding court with his wild-ass
driver Jimmy Zee, and their fine-looking if coked-up girlfriends, as well as a white cop, a detective whose name Frank couldn't recall.

The little group was gathered around a glass-top coffee table with a pile of coke on it that hadn't been among the appetizers Frank's caterers set out. The brazenness of it irritated Frank, and the grab-ass game Jimmy and the dick were playing made the back of his neck tingle.

The dick was play-acting, flashing his gold shield and patting Jimmy down for a frisk.

“What's this?” The cop yanked a .45 automatic from under Zee's jacket. “Oh, that's
it
, man, I am takin' you down for this, I'm takin' your black ass in.”