The Lotus Crew by Stewart Meyer

won’t be tellin’ what an evil nigga you be. But ch’betta chill out o’ yo’ gonna fall.”
    Furman yanked a thin smile out of the remnants of himself. “I knows you concern. You m’ daddy .”
    â€œYou shitfucka!”
    Furman stepped out, throwing the leather bag over the shoulder of his London Fog tan raincoat.
    â€œYou m ’main ,”Furman said, bending to stare straight into JJ’s eyes. JJ stared right back, seeing through him. Furman found himself saying, “. . . an’ I ain’ lookin’ t’bullshit you, JJ.” Furman’s eyes suddenly gave up, panicking a split-second to reveal deep anxiety. “I be tryin’ t’straighten shit out.”
    JJ exhaled in relief. Once someone admits they’re out of control they might turn it around.
    Furman’s customers were beginning to pile up, and JJ knew he only had seconds to be convincing. “Listen, Furman, tonight we gonna sit’n rap ’bout yo’ habit. Nobody gotta know. We bring it down slow, like maybe a bag less a day down to one o’ half. Then you gotta take a vacation, m’man. Chu give us time to chill out upstate.”
    â€œSoun’ good,” Furman said, his voice exhausted, defeated. The kind of habit he’d worked up was going to be painful to break. A nutcracker.
    For Furman, the worst symptoms were the mental quirks and fears, the raw nerves and eternal restlessness. Furman could contend with the trots, sweats, stomachaches, congestion, chills, nausea, and disorientation inherent in evicting the Chinaman. But the sheer hopelessness that crept into his soul scorched him bitterly. He was afraid of suicide, insanity, loss of control, of that helpless mindset. He’d been chipping for years, once in a while going too far for comfort. But this was a dealer’s habit. It would take something beyond courage to contend with the matter, to bear it without trembling.
    â€œYou gonna make it, Furman. You ain’ alone.”
    â€œYeah.” Furman flicked his butt at the curb and put on his RayBans. “Hey, m’people’re gettin’ itchy t’take off.”
    â€œSure. Go ’head.”
    Furman straightened up and walked into the hallway of the tenement near the bodega. The building was open but only a few of the cribs were lived in. His spot was under the stairs, right near the rear doorway. He could split out the back or make the stairs to a maze of connected rooftops if things got nasty. And word was out on Triad, so he didn’t need a touter on the street anymore. Only thing he shelled out for was the cooperation of a customer of his who lived in the building. For six bags a day, Carlos provided a small but powerful kerosene heater for Furman to huddle close to or leave at his feet to fight off the long hours. The deal also included lunch—usually hot Spanish rice, beans, and spiced fried chicken wrapped in aluminum foil and heated—and the understanding that if shit fell Carlos would be there. If it was heat, he might have to stash material—or Furman. If it was a holdup, Carlos was bound by a handshake to cover Furman. No contracts were signed, but the two appeared to understand each other.
    Furman dealt quickly with the buildup of customers. Any cluster of blancos on Rivington Street would eventually draw heat. He set up the kerosene heater and had Carlos bring him coffee as soon as there was a break. He noticed Carlos was in a good mood and soon discovered the reason. He’d just received a substantial package of sludge. Sludge is an unshootable but very smokable yellowish-brown material similar in texture to moistened sugar. The high is similar to freebasing, a popular Hollywood and New York method of smoking cocaine. When Carlos first saw the blancos freebasing, it dawned on him that they were sort of taking the coke back a step. Since basing was relatively new, there was no commercial,