The Lotus Crew by Stewart Meyer Page A

ready-prepared material. Carlos hit on his contact in the Dominican Republic, who promptly opened up a line of sludge at extremely reasonable numbers. Carlos put out fives, tens, twenties, and fifties tinfoil packets of primo smokable coke with an airplane logo stamped on them, and below it the title B-52. Soon there were B-52s buzzing all over the street. The lotus ghosts all agreed it was the pause that refreshes. Having a hot item like that in the building helped Furman sell his own hot item. A customer could score Triad and B-52 in the same spot and speedball his ass off.
    Business was brisk, but Rivington Street was no breeze. Heat frequently patrolled on foot, which they rarely did in Alphabet City. No end to the harassment, and while they rarely caught anyone pants-down, their presence could tie up the game for a whole afternoon. Also, Riv was where Chu got taken by Comancheros.
    Carlos returned with more El Pico, this time laced with a touch of methedrine crystal to potentialize the caffeine. He also brought Furman a banana con cuso, a thick joint of reefer and sludge. Furman needed both.
    Two nervous blancos stumbled noisily into the hallway with fists full of tens. Furman threw out their bags and swept up the green.
    â€œMira!” It was Carlos. “La hara!”
    â€œYo, m’man, close ’at do’,” Furman hissed to one of the blancos. The customer looked confused but obeyed.
    â€œAhmmmm … Don’ leave yet, y’all. Step down behin’ d’stairs f’one sec.”
    Furman blew out the candle and stashed his bags in a deep gaping wall hole. His ears were cocked for Carlos’ instructions because Carlos could watch the street from his window. A full five minutes stretched painfully along. They could sit there all day. The blancos were getting jittery, and Furman was about to tell them to walk a flight up, staying away from the windows facing the front, and let themselves out through a vacant rear apartment. Just then …
    â€œEsta bien!”
    Furman exhaled sludge in relief, opened the door, and excommunicated the blancos. He looked up and down the street as they split. His heart was pulsing, hands sweaty. Damn thrill a minute on Rivington. The man had blown any action that might’ve made the place jump. Hopefully in a few minutes the customers and crews would pop out of a million different shadows and go back into action.
    It took a few hours, but Furman sold his bags. He went into Carlos’ crib, where he could count the cake and get off in peace. He needed that after-work cura more than usual. Maybe he’d throw an extra bag in the cooker to calm his nerves.
    â€œMuchas gracias,” Carlos said, nodding at the two bags Furman dropped on the kitchen table for him. “I hab t’go t’New Yersey toni’, so I boot one an’ sabe uno f’moonyana.”
    â€œBe back befo’ I opens?”
    â€œMos’ likely, ’less m’Cheby blow up.”
    â€œWell, fill the heater an’ leave it under the stairs. I’ll bring m’own lunch. Damn if I ain’ sick’a rice an’ beans nohow!” Furman grinned, challenging.
    â€œHey, m’fucka’, don’ like m’cheecken?”
    â€œYeah, big smash on yo’ chicken, Jim.”
    â€œJ’don’ care ’bou’ food no more w’dee dope.”
    â€œHey, I ain’t doin’ that much!” His voice went into excited falsetto. “Shit, man, why’re people behin’ buggin’ me today? I be cool, Carlos. An’f you catch m’man JJ, you be tellin’m that, too. Furman is a down nigga an’ is in slick operation!”
    â€œNo’sing fool me. People come here t’buy e’ry day … c’n see j’slippin’ away. Dey see j’get weak an’ j’ fucked, man.”
    Furman had been about to cook and shoot his cura when Carlos opened the superego assault on him. He looked