Jersey.”
“Where a lot of Cubans live.”
“Yes. Well, René gets to Brooklyn, but at the last minute Blind Man changes his mind. He tells René there’s no run today, no package, go back to Manhattan. This priest comes over around that time, and René figures the priest is there to get money from Blind Man for this special deal that’s goin’ down, I don’t know when. René figures Blind Man canceled the Union City run because he has to give money to the priest.”
Neil nodded. “Makes sense.” He watched a bus pull out from behind his car. Parked in darkness on Central Park West and Sixty-eighth Street. Lydia had come down from her Washington Heights apartment by subway to meet him and take him to an after-hours club on West Eighty-first Street and Broadway.
Bad Red wanted to talk with Neil about another buy. Before that, Lydia had plenty to tell Neil, and he was more than interested in what she had to say.
“So while my cousin René is getting ready to leave Blind Man, he hears the priest make a telephone call. René hears him say, ‘Hello, Barbara? Tell our friend everything is fine, I have what I came for.’ Then the priest said something about airport, like maybe he and Barbara were going to meet at the airport tonight to go somewhere.”
Neil said, “If the priest is collecting money for a deal of this size, the money is to pay for the dope in advance. Nobody’s fronting a deal this size, but Jesus, how big is it? Damn, I’d like to know. Sweet Jesus, I’d like to know.”
“René said something else, too. Said the priest said to Blind Man, ‘Barbara wants to talk with you.’ ”
Neil shrugged. “Doesn’t mean it’s Barbara Pomal. Understand, I’m not saying you’re wrong, but Barbara could mean any Barbara.”
Lydia disagreed. “Blind Man would not come to the telephone to speak to just any Barbara. You have to understand Cuban men. Believe me, I know them. They are very, very macho, very much a man, too much masculine. For someone like Blind Man to come to a telephone to speak to a woman, she must be important. Barbara Pomal is important, because everybody knows she works for Mas Betancourt.”
“Everybody knows. You’re right about that. We know the identity of every Latin, black, Italian importer in town. But getting next to these people is something else again. They’re so goddamn insulated, you can’t catch ’em with dirty underwear or a button missing.”
Neil knew who Mas Betancourt was. One of the four biggest Cuban importers in Manhattan, doing millions of dollars in dope every year without ever going near the stuff. Intelligence had files on everybody in narcotics, but that was far from bringing the man down.
Mas Betancourt, the cripple. Yes, he was heavy enough to put together a super deal, but why? Why was he working with blacks when he’d done all right on his own? Why was he reaching out ? Was the deal that big?
Neil Shire’s mouth watered at the thought of it, at the thought of bringing down Mas Betancourt. Importers didn’t fall every day. In fact, they almost never fell at all. You needed a truckload of luck to bring one down. Neil would give anything in the world to be the one to do it to somebody as big as Mas Betancourt.
When he and Lydia finished talking, it was just after ten o’clock. Despite the October chill, a few homosexuals were cruising the park side of Central Park West, stopping to sit and shiver on the concrete-and-wooden benches, their busy eyes, continuing to accost, examine, lure.
Lydia waited for Neil’s approval, her face expectant.
He knew his role; he was learning fast. Stroke your snitch. Make him purr. Make him do the right thing your way.
“Sounds good, Lydia. What’s that you’re wearing, a new dress?”
She smiled. “René gave it to me today. That’s when he told me about Barbara. Friend of his got hold of some dresses, and René’s helping him to sell them. You like it? You really like it?” She was a puppy
“Where a lot of Cubans live.”
“Yes. Well, René gets to Brooklyn, but at the last minute Blind Man changes his mind. He tells René there’s no run today, no package, go back to Manhattan. This priest comes over around that time, and René figures the priest is there to get money from Blind Man for this special deal that’s goin’ down, I don’t know when. René figures Blind Man canceled the Union City run because he has to give money to the priest.”
Neil nodded. “Makes sense.” He watched a bus pull out from behind his car. Parked in darkness on Central Park West and Sixty-eighth Street. Lydia had come down from her Washington Heights apartment by subway to meet him and take him to an after-hours club on West Eighty-first Street and Broadway.
Bad Red wanted to talk with Neil about another buy. Before that, Lydia had plenty to tell Neil, and he was more than interested in what she had to say.
“So while my cousin René is getting ready to leave Blind Man, he hears the priest make a telephone call. René hears him say, ‘Hello, Barbara? Tell our friend everything is fine, I have what I came for.’ Then the priest said something about airport, like maybe he and Barbara were going to meet at the airport tonight to go somewhere.”
Neil said, “If the priest is collecting money for a deal of this size, the money is to pay for the dope in advance. Nobody’s fronting a deal this size, but Jesus, how big is it? Damn, I’d like to know. Sweet Jesus, I’d like to know.”
“René said something else, too. Said the priest said to Blind Man, ‘Barbara wants to talk with you.’ ”
Neil shrugged. “Doesn’t mean it’s Barbara Pomal. Understand, I’m not saying you’re wrong, but Barbara could mean any Barbara.”
Lydia disagreed. “Blind Man would not come to the telephone to speak to just any Barbara. You have to understand Cuban men. Believe me, I know them. They are very, very macho, very much a man, too much masculine. For someone like Blind Man to come to a telephone to speak to a woman, she must be important. Barbara Pomal is important, because everybody knows she works for Mas Betancourt.”
“Everybody knows. You’re right about that. We know the identity of every Latin, black, Italian importer in town. But getting next to these people is something else again. They’re so goddamn insulated, you can’t catch ’em with dirty underwear or a button missing.”
Neil knew who Mas Betancourt was. One of the four biggest Cuban importers in Manhattan, doing millions of dollars in dope every year without ever going near the stuff. Intelligence had files on everybody in narcotics, but that was far from bringing the man down.
Mas Betancourt, the cripple. Yes, he was heavy enough to put together a super deal, but why? Why was he working with blacks when he’d done all right on his own? Why was he reaching out ? Was the deal that big?
Neil Shire’s mouth watered at the thought of it, at the thought of bringing down Mas Betancourt. Importers didn’t fall every day. In fact, they almost never fell at all. You needed a truckload of luck to bring one down. Neil would give anything in the world to be the one to do it to somebody as big as Mas Betancourt.
When he and Lydia finished talking, it was just after ten o’clock. Despite the October chill, a few homosexuals were cruising the park side of Central Park West, stopping to sit and shiver on the concrete-and-wooden benches, their busy eyes, continuing to accost, examine, lure.
Lydia waited for Neil’s approval, her face expectant.
He knew his role; he was learning fast. Stroke your snitch. Make him purr. Make him do the right thing your way.
“Sounds good, Lydia. What’s that you’re wearing, a new dress?”
She smiled. “René gave it to me today. That’s when he told me about Barbara. Friend of his got hold of some dresses, and René’s helping him to sell them. You like it? You really like it?” She was a puppy
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