The Lotus Crew (12 page)

Necropolis

THE YOUNG JUNKIE'S
eyes were old, sagacious, torn by the life. He sat under the stairwell of the Triad op on Rivington, opening up the two bags he'd found stashed in a crack.

Furman wouldn't be needing them now. He thought about popping the lock on Carlos' door and scooping up coke sludge and anything else that might be there. Maybe some more Triad bags.

Tico drew the liquid into his gimmick and made the line on first try. It was an old weeper, and the dull point stung like the sting of an insect. Seconds later that familiar warmth was traveling up his spine, through the belly, soothing his mind like the touch of a tender lover. Instantly, the hunger subsided.

Tico didn't have to pop any lock. The door swung open at his touch. He locked it behind him and went to work. Dime bags of coke sludge sat piled on the kitchen table. Hundreds of them! While looking for a big bag to put them in, he found four pounds of reefer under the sink. He jammed everything into a huge garbage bag, men continued to search. Carlos was an industrious m'fucka. There were a loaded pistol and twelve Triad bags in the dresser next to the bed. Score! Box of .38 ammo in the bottom drawer. Six hundred bucks in tens under a pile of Spanish porno magazines. Box of subway slugs. A dozen sealed number twenty-five gimmicks. Throw away that old dull weeper. Few grams of powder … hmm, la coka, in a snow seal folded into the junkie tuck. A full jar of milk sugar for cut. Brass knuckles. A front-opening German spring knife with some strange assassin's mark. There was a remote control Sony Trinitron on the dresser that would fetch nice cake, but he decided not to go for it. No need to get greedy and weigh himself down. The drugs were better than hard cash. There was a rap on the door. Couldn't be Carlos. He'd be in the hospital at least a few days. Probably another scavenger smelling the score. Tico hefted the plastic garbage bag onto his skinny shoulder. A pistol was in his jacket pocket, just in case. He raised the rear window and slid out as the front door burst open.

My Brother's Weeper

JOHN JACOB PENNINGTON
sat in the dark grimy bowels of the coal bin in Brooklyn, chalk of childhood on the dim walls, smell of early mischief. He drew nervously on a fat reefer, eyeing his Mickey Mouse every few minutes. Diddly-damn! The nigga's always late! JJ'd arranged for Furman to be picked up at his crib and driven to the old coal bin. What was happening? What was keeping his ass?

'Z'if this business wasn't messy enough.

JJ did not want to execute Furman, even though the rewards would be dazzling. But Furman had betrayed Triad, and it was JJ who had brought him into the circle. T saw it as JJ's responsibility. He had to display loyalty now or step away from the picture.

JJ's nerves were unsteady as he looked around the old familiar basement bin. This was where things started for them—he remembered Chu's visit when recruiting them for Triad—and for Furman, this cold dingy coal bin was where it had to end … tonight. Don't the fool know he threw his cards that way? Nobody else. Throw'd hisseff an ace o' spades.

He opened his flight bag and extracted gimmicks. He'd told himself no dope until after mission accomplished, but this action was intolerable, man. Hard
doin'
it, let alone doin' it
straight.
JJ drew a strong hit from the cooker and popped into a muscle. A line shot would twist him too much. Best just to be calm.

His eyes fell on the books he and Furman had collected. The old days. He'd been broke, scuffling to get by, but without a care in the world. Furman was blind now from lye thrown in his face. Shylocks were on him, Triad was on him. Damn, even his old friend JJ was on him … although Furman didn't know that yet.

JJ slid the Raven .25 automatic out of his raincoat pocket and pulled back the slide, causing a round to click into the chamber. He pulled out the clip and inserted another round, men wiped off a touch of excess oil with a small chamois. With one in the chamber he had seven shots. Two or three for Furman, the rest for getting away. It was more than likely, given the neighborhood, that no one would interfere with his exit. Few honest citizens, and a complete absence of police for miles in any direction. Shadows, mostly, inhabited the dank arteries of East New York.

JJ peered out of a tiny basement window, breathless as he waited. A half-hour crept by before he saw Ya Ya's car pull across the alley. Ya Ya helped Furman out of the back seat. Furman's black raincoat looked like a cloak of doom. Enveloped in this dismal drape his old friend looked bony and unstable as he hobbled behind his cane, eyes covered by dense, almost black sunglasses, mouth tight and drawn permanently down. Furman was a young man but not a kid anymore.

Ya Ya led him down into the recesses, sat him beside JJ.

“Furman, man, I'm heah.”

“JJ?” he let out tentatively. Furman sat perched against a cold cement wall, back rigid, hands on his cane. “Wish I could see y'all, JJ.”

JJ laughed. “Shit, Furman, I ain't lookin' so hot now anyways.”

“Oh? Got problems?” Furman grinned, the scar tissue on his face distorting his expression hideously.

“Man, Furman, you got m'ass in a lot o' trouble, dig? It's a wonda I ain't mad at you. Passin' dummies a nasty—”

“Aww, man, I fuck up, JJ. I was jus' tryin' t'stay high, m'man.”

“I know, Furman—”

“F'I'z born a gennelman I'da been a fuckin'
saint.
Shit wen' wrong f'me. M'Jones got so nasty. You don' have t'tell me what a fool … I be sorry you got trouble fum me.”

“Furman, listen …” JJ held the cocked automatic in his hand, aiming it at the blind junkie.

“Wha'z'at, JJ?”

JJ's hand was on the trigger, but he couldn't squeeze. A full thirty seconds before he forced himself to squeeze the trigger. Nothing happened. The safety was on. JJ put the iron down. Fuck it! He broke open a disposable weeper. “Furman, m'main man, 'm gonna rap hard with y'all, but first'm gonna give you some
goodness.
”

“Gonna get me real high, JJ?” Furman's voice was soft and crackly, like something that came from way beneath the distorted surface. His cheek twitched slightly and he breathed laboriously. The bones were set blank except for a tiny bittersweet smile that froze JJ out because it suggested that to Furman life was already becoming a distant memory, a detached reflection. Furman coughed into his fist.

“Make yo' play.” His voice was husky, imploring.

Does he know? Does he realize what's shakin' here?

“Gonna git you high as you ever been, Furman.”

“Gooood, B. I been sufferin', m'main. Not jus' m'face … m'eyes … I mean
inside
where you cain't see even if you got eyes … I feelin' terrible bad.” Furman almost choked on his effort. He ripped a sleeve open. “So hit me good, JJ. I don' wanna feel nothin' no mo'. Make fuckin' sho' you hit a
line.
”
He was begging now, proffering his arm. “
Make yo' play.
”

“I gotta aks you somethin' first, Furman.”

“Wazzat?”

“Who's wigwork was passin' dummies?”

Furman winced at that awful word. He flinched and exhaled in resignation. There was no end to it. “Oh, man, some foo'. I hope de fucka choke on a bone. His name be Flaco. Donno where he from. Drive an ol' MG.”

JJ knew him. Before leaving town he'd settle that score. JJ hadn't planned this, but … he dropped a tenth-gram of pure heroin into his cooker, dissolved it in water, placed a cotton. He drew liquid up into the weeper and accomplished a register on the first try. As he began to plunge he heard Furman moan.

“Lord, that
is
some dope you got there, JJ!”

“That's only half the cylinder, m'man.”

“Half?” Furman's lids drooped, shoulders rounding as he slumped. “M'be betta jus' stop, JJ. F'get the otha' half'a this shot.” He exhaled, head loose on a roll, voice husky. “Aww … what the fuck …
Make yo' play!
”

JJ plunged the other half and looked at his watch. He knew within minutes Furman would be a cool blue corpse.

“Go with it, Furman. Jus' let it take you where it's gonna take you.”

“Yeah … away.” His limp body sagged. The skin glistened with cold sweat, eyes shut. A hand moving slowly to scratch his nose never made it and dropped onto his lap.

JJ eased him into a reclining position. This was the only merciful way to handle it, but the mess was not over. His instructions from Tommy were to shoot Furman. That would have to be done. Nobody need know that he gave him a hotshot first, that as Furman slipped into the beyond his head was all regal with lotus.

The lips popped open, dry, purplish, imperceptibly inhaling. The lids were parted, eyes rolled up white. His muscle tone approached a realm of relaxation that negated all effort.

“Furman, you'z a pile o' mush, B. You hea' me?”

“Shhh … JJ. Y'shrinkin' m'haid. Talkin' loud like whitey.”

“Furman! You still heah, man? Feelin' fine?”

“Oh, real real fine.” The words were an incoherent mumble … the last few words he said.

JJ checked the chamber. He'd seen enough bullets in his life, but knowing this one would soon be in Furman's head made him look at it close. Hard to tell what's comin' at a man next … what he might have to do … what he will actually do compared to what he tells himself.

JJ got up close. Furman was either dead or so close it didn't matter. JJ held the pistol steady in two hands and fired almost point-blank into Furman's forehead.

The body jerked for a flash, then resumed complete slump. For a short iron that Raven sho' spit spark and thunder. T had specified precisely how 14-K assassinations were to take place. This one might make the papers. Best to stick with what had been prescribed.

Blam!

The second bullet went through Furman's throat. The sound of dripping blood was the first thing JJ heard when the ringing in his ears stopped.

JJ wanted to prop me corpse into a more comfortable position, but he had to be movin' on. No resistance. The sound of gunfire was not enough to alarm anyone. He thought of ditching the Raven, but it felt good in his hand. Save it for Flaco.

He walked casually over to the old shoe factory, outside of which sat Ya Ya's car. The tune “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” was in his head as he got in the back seat and told Ya Ya to roll it over to T's crib. JJ looked blankly out the window as the car slid along. He'd never forget Furman's muffled, agonized voice.
Make yo' play …

Tommy shook JJ's hand firmly and beamed. “John Jacob, you've shown unflinching allegiance to your Triad brothers. If we were all ginzos you'd be a
made man,
a
buttoned
membrane … ahh, member. But I ain't no fake Pope, and this is
now
!
You are the first of a special Triad force. The 14-K is your baby. You're a boss now. On salary. Three grand a week. No street time. No handling material. If you need something, see me directly. Inside the 14-K all things are possible.”

JJ nodded silently. That was heady! His wildest dreams were materializing.

“First thing, JJ, get your ass out of the East Coast for a month. Way the cops've been, there just might be an investigation.” He handed JJ a thick manila envelope. “Thirty grand for the road. Just don't go start a banana republic somewhere and forget to come back. I need you, JJ.”

“Can't go anywhere yet.”

“What? What's wrong?”

“Flaco.”

“Who the fuck is Flaco?”

“The wig behind Furman's dummies. Ah'm gonna nail'm an' then split.”

T exhaled. The matter was just a complication, of no importance. Unless it was a dramatic hit and strengthened the legend of the 14-K.

“Ah'm gonna give half this cake to Furman's mom, go nail Flaco, an' split.”

“JJ, you're too much. Hold your cake. I'll drop fifteen grand on Furman's mother. As for Flaco, he could be Comanchero. We did lose a Triad rubber stamp when they hit Chu on Rivington Street. Those schmucks were weakened when they lost Rafael, but they're still a force to be—”

“I don' care who the fuck he is.”

Tommy shrugged. “Nail the scumbag. Be swift. Murder's against the law, JJ. But do it on the street if you can. I want people to see what happens when they fuck with us.”