The Lotus Crew by Stewart Meyer Page B

around nervously. If he took his gimmick in the bathroom, Carlos would know exactly what he was doing. He thought of the four bags tucked in the lining of his jacket and could contain himself no further. He knew his actions would prove Carlos’ words, but …
    â€œIf you had to stand there all day takin’ chances maybe you’d be blown out yo’seff, shitface,” Furman spat, pumping up his line and applying a tie.
    â€œI takin’ chances, Furman. An’ I gettin’ high to cool. Bu’ j’gotta put a limit, man. I ain’ tellin’ it no more ’cause j’don wanna hear. Foook it! Do what j’gonna do.”
    â€œI’ll get a grip on it, Carlos … when the time’s right. F’now’m unda the gun.”
    Furman finished fixing and split to make his cash drop. He knew people were getting disgusted with him. Somehow he’d have to chill out his gorilla.

Starlight
    THE PARK AND STREETS were empty. El zoocho. A few vendadors were stalking around, but no one was holding or would risk going near his stash.
    Eric saw a dude he knew from Black Mark, but as he approached, the crew worker said, “Red light! Keep walkin’.” The oil drum fire used by Black Sunday was blazing away, but no workers huddled around it.
    On Allen Street near the bathhouse he found out why. Star was standing there, but before he could ask her what was happening, the man approached on wheels. Metal intercom voice: “You! I’m gonna put my fist up your ass if you’re not out of here in ten seconds!”
    â€œKinky devil,” Eric said to Star, peering into the police car. Three uniforms and a detective. Shit. He and Star walked towards Delancey.
    â€œThat’s Chico the Cop,” Star said, “an’ he don’t play. That’s why the street’s like this. Do yourself a favor an’ go home. Betta be sick at home than in jail.” Star sniffled, sick herself. Her tall thin black body moved awkwardly, painfully as she walked. Jones in the bones.
    â€œIf I don’t score soon’m gonna jump clear outa m’skin,” Eric groaned.
    Star smirked. “Got cho’ wheels?”
    â€œAroun’ the corner.”
    â€œLet’s go over to Second Street. Maybe the Toilet is open.”
    Eric told Star to sit in the back of the taxi, and he threw the meter. Too many uniforms around to look at all unusual. He’d have to pay off the meter from his own pocket and slip Star a bee-zag for her expertise. But without her, his odds of scoring were blank.
    Second Street was infested with young ambitious rookies walking in packs of four, caressing their phallic nightsticks and aching to crack heads. A cruiser sat outside the hole that was the new Triad spot. And the Toilet was not open. Everything was understandably closed.
    â€œThere’s a new Triad op across the bridge, baby. Over in Brooklyn where LaTuna used to work. Got the time?”
    â€œDon’t have much choice.”
    â€œLe’s go. But you gotta git me back to Rivington Street after we sco’, m’man.”
    â€œCool.”
    They rolled off the Manhattan Bridge onto Flatbush Avenue, turned left, penetrated one of the most forbidding mixed ghettos in the New York area. Puerto Ricans, Rastafarians, and Yankee Doodle blacks do not like to share turf. Problems tend to simmer. An outsider can smell the tension.
    â€œDamn, Star, I ain’t gonna get out of m’cab around here. These folks cook pale-eyed muthafuckas f’dinner.”
    Star chuckled. “Naww. White devil meat’s too stringy, m’man. But cho’ right ’bout dat. You ain’t gitten out aroun’ here. You’d be daid f’sho. This’z one time m’black ass is a serious social asset.”
    No cops visible. Perhaps they were all on the Lower East Side. Star had Eric pull up outside the old LaTuna club. The hole was boarded up. Ten feet away, another