down the long dark hallway—most of the bulbs had been removed or never replaced—and put his hand in his pocket, clasping his new switchblade. For many years, the Bronx’s notorious Soundview section had been dubbed “the murder capital of New York” by the media; more than half the population of seventy-five thousand residents livedbelow the poverty level, and crime was a way of life for many of them. The knife made him feel safer.
He walked to the apartment on the far end of the hallway and knocked on the door.
“Quien es?”
a gruff voice behind the door demanded. “Who’s there?”
“The police, open up,” Kadyrov said. He could feel the occupant looking at him through the peephole. “It’s Ahmed. Who the fuck do you think it is? I know you’re looking at me, you dumb fuck.”
The sound of bolts sliding and chains being unhooked came from the other side of the door. The door opened and a tall white man with a large protruding forehead rimmed by long stringy gray hair peered out. He was wearing a stained long-underwear top and frayed boxer shorts from which his long bony legs protruded like those of an ostrich.
“Watch your mouth, asshole, or next time I won’t open the door, and you can buy some of that rat poison they’re selling on the sidewalk,” the man growled. “You got cash? No money, no honey, son.”
Kadyrov held up the wad of bills he’d taken from his victim in Bed-Stuy. “Here’s your honey, muthafugga.”
The dealer glanced at the cash and then nodded. He turned and led the way into the one-bedroom apartment. He was carrying a big .357 Magnum revolver, which he now laid on the counter that separated the tiny kitchen from the living room.
The apartment was a filthy mess that smelled of mold, urine, and rotting food. The stained and threadbare carpeting was littered with trash and dirty clothes that looked like they’d been jettisoned on the spot and left to rot by their former occupants.Dirty dishes, glasses, and porn magazines seemed to cover every usable space, and cockroaches roamed freely in and out of various food containers. The only art on the walls was a torn black-light poster of Elvis Presley.
The room was only nominally lighter than the hallway. The sole illumination was provided by a small window that was so dirty it might as well have been a gauze curtain. A heavyset woman with long gray hair sat in a sagging orange chair near the window, reading a magazine. She wore an old blue bathrobe over men’s pajama bottoms and didn’t even bother to look up when he came in.
“Hi, Lydia,” he said without expecting much of a response. He didn’t like her, and she didn’t like him. She looked over her magazine at him and grunted.
“What can I do you for?” the man asked as he sank down into a large overstuffed recliner that appeared to have been salvaged from some alley Dumpster.
Kadyrov noted the pump-action shotgun within easy reach of the chair. When it came to methamphetamines, whose users tended to be violent, dealers didn’t trust their customers any more than strangers on the streets.
Vinnie and Lydia Cassino were two of the only whites still living in the Soundview neighborhood, which was mostly populated by blacks, Puerto Ricans, and Dominicans. Most of the other whites had long since fled, but the Cassinos had been there since the 1970s and stubbornly refused to move—even when Vinnie went to prison in the 1980s and ’90s. They were both tough and known to carry, and if necessary use, guns. That along with Vinnie’s connection to a good cheap source of crank,which the smaller dealers below him could cut with strychnine to increase profits, meant no one bothered them much.
Kadyrov sat down on the couch next to Vinnie’s chair and tossed his money on the coffee table in front of them. “Two hundred worth,” he said. “I should get a good deal too for that much cash.”
“Two hundred bucks is shit,” Vinnie said. “I’ll give you a deal when
He walked to the apartment on the far end of the hallway and knocked on the door.
“Quien es?”
a gruff voice behind the door demanded. “Who’s there?”
“The police, open up,” Kadyrov said. He could feel the occupant looking at him through the peephole. “It’s Ahmed. Who the fuck do you think it is? I know you’re looking at me, you dumb fuck.”
The sound of bolts sliding and chains being unhooked came from the other side of the door. The door opened and a tall white man with a large protruding forehead rimmed by long stringy gray hair peered out. He was wearing a stained long-underwear top and frayed boxer shorts from which his long bony legs protruded like those of an ostrich.
“Watch your mouth, asshole, or next time I won’t open the door, and you can buy some of that rat poison they’re selling on the sidewalk,” the man growled. “You got cash? No money, no honey, son.”
Kadyrov held up the wad of bills he’d taken from his victim in Bed-Stuy. “Here’s your honey, muthafugga.”
The dealer glanced at the cash and then nodded. He turned and led the way into the one-bedroom apartment. He was carrying a big .357 Magnum revolver, which he now laid on the counter that separated the tiny kitchen from the living room.
The apartment was a filthy mess that smelled of mold, urine, and rotting food. The stained and threadbare carpeting was littered with trash and dirty clothes that looked like they’d been jettisoned on the spot and left to rot by their former occupants.Dirty dishes, glasses, and porn magazines seemed to cover every usable space, and cockroaches roamed freely in and out of various food containers. The only art on the walls was a torn black-light poster of Elvis Presley.
The room was only nominally lighter than the hallway. The sole illumination was provided by a small window that was so dirty it might as well have been a gauze curtain. A heavyset woman with long gray hair sat in a sagging orange chair near the window, reading a magazine. She wore an old blue bathrobe over men’s pajama bottoms and didn’t even bother to look up when he came in.
“Hi, Lydia,” he said without expecting much of a response. He didn’t like her, and she didn’t like him. She looked over her magazine at him and grunted.
“What can I do you for?” the man asked as he sank down into a large overstuffed recliner that appeared to have been salvaged from some alley Dumpster.
Kadyrov noted the pump-action shotgun within easy reach of the chair. When it came to methamphetamines, whose users tended to be violent, dealers didn’t trust their customers any more than strangers on the streets.
Vinnie and Lydia Cassino were two of the only whites still living in the Soundview neighborhood, which was mostly populated by blacks, Puerto Ricans, and Dominicans. Most of the other whites had long since fled, but the Cassinos had been there since the 1970s and stubbornly refused to move—even when Vinnie went to prison in the 1980s and ’90s. They were both tough and known to carry, and if necessary use, guns. That along with Vinnie’s connection to a good cheap source of crank,which the smaller dealers below him could cut with strychnine to increase profits, meant no one bothered them much.
Kadyrov sat down on the couch next to Vinnie’s chair and tossed his money on the coffee table in front of them. “Two hundred worth,” he said. “I should get a good deal too for that much cash.”
“Two hundred bucks is shit,” Vinnie said. “I’ll give you a deal when
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