Police Special with bullets he’d loaded himself—extra powder, and the points hollowed out—had been in a white cloth napkin on his lap under the table. Neil was carrying a two-thousand-dollar flash roll. Katey gently patted the napkin as though it were a newborn kitten. You and me against the world, good buddy.
Bad Red held up a hand, signaling he’d heard enough. “Later,” he mumbled to the stocky black, who backed off, making a clenched fist over his heart, turned, and stepped onto a dance floor packed and writhing with sweating, contorted bodies. Katey held his breath, wondering if somebody had just laid the news on Bad Red that his good friend Lydia had brought the heat into his life. In dope, anything could happen.
Bad Red frowned, shaking his head. “Niggers. Man, you do business with niggers, and sometime or other, you get burned, Jim. Brothers don’t do their own right, you understand?”
Katey understood and relaxed. Bad Red was having trouble with spades, and that’s what all the whispering had been about.
Bad Red leaned across the table, confiding. “I front somethin’ to some cat, see, ’cause he suppose to be a friend of mine. He a gambler, always hurtin’ for bread, always with people axin’ him to pay up. He say he gon’ turn my package over, pay me, and keep a little taste for hisself. That’s cool, but …”
Bad Red took off his shiny red leather hat. He was thirty, paunchy, dressed in tomato red: suit, open-neck silk shirt, shiny leather boots to match his hat. Katey thought the black dealer had the nostrils of a gorilla.
Show and tell with black dealers, thought Katey, hand still resting on the white cloth napkin and the hard lump beneath it. They always brag about the amount of dope they deal, the money they make. Always broadcasting, yakking in public, blowing coke in bars and on street corners. Big mouths, these spades. Not like Cubans or Italians, who do it and keep quiet. Spooks have to let you know they’re in the game.
Bad Red couldn’t be that smart if he was fronting stuff and not getting his money. Dealers would front—hand over the dope and wait for their money—in order to avoid holding onto the dope for any length of time. Fronting, or selling on consignment, was all right if you knew who you were dealing with. Bad Red seemed to have a problem.
Bad Red said, “Now, my man there, he just come up and tell me that my friend turned it over, and the bread’s gone, Jack, I mean it is gone. Gamblin’. Cat just can’t stay ’way from them horses. Some of dem horses run like an elephant with two legs.”
Katey finished lighting a cigarette, shaking the match out. “How good a friend is your friend?”
Bad Red snorted, ignoring Katey and reaching across the small table for Lydia’s hand. His smile was wet, tiny yellow teeth ringing a thick pink-white tongue. “Cuban momma here, now she my friend, ain’t you, sweet thing? Man, one of these days I jes’ wanna put you between two pieces of bread and eat—”
Lydia playfully smacked his wrist. “Now, Red, be nice.”
“Woman, that would be nice.”
Katey took a drag on his Winston. Old home week is what we got here, folks. She rips off credit cards from johns, sells them to Bad Red for a couple hundred, and he buys like hell before the card’s reported stolen. Oh, yes, Detective Edward Merle Kates had read Lydia Constanza’s yellow sheet.
Katey knew all about the lady. And he didn’t believe she was going to lead him and Neil Shire to anybody except chumps like herself. But what the hell, go along with the program, and in a few days everybody would be hip to Lydia’s act and she’d go down for sure. For goddamn sure.
Neil Shire ordered drinks for the table, tipping the waitress five dollars. That’s flash , that’s how you do it. But these days, only the feds had that kind of money.
Katey, a lean, sharp-faced man with a long nose and small mouth, lit another Winston, blowing three perfect pale blue
Bad Red held up a hand, signaling he’d heard enough. “Later,” he mumbled to the stocky black, who backed off, making a clenched fist over his heart, turned, and stepped onto a dance floor packed and writhing with sweating, contorted bodies. Katey held his breath, wondering if somebody had just laid the news on Bad Red that his good friend Lydia had brought the heat into his life. In dope, anything could happen.
Bad Red frowned, shaking his head. “Niggers. Man, you do business with niggers, and sometime or other, you get burned, Jim. Brothers don’t do their own right, you understand?”
Katey understood and relaxed. Bad Red was having trouble with spades, and that’s what all the whispering had been about.
Bad Red leaned across the table, confiding. “I front somethin’ to some cat, see, ’cause he suppose to be a friend of mine. He a gambler, always hurtin’ for bread, always with people axin’ him to pay up. He say he gon’ turn my package over, pay me, and keep a little taste for hisself. That’s cool, but …”
Bad Red took off his shiny red leather hat. He was thirty, paunchy, dressed in tomato red: suit, open-neck silk shirt, shiny leather boots to match his hat. Katey thought the black dealer had the nostrils of a gorilla.
Show and tell with black dealers, thought Katey, hand still resting on the white cloth napkin and the hard lump beneath it. They always brag about the amount of dope they deal, the money they make. Always broadcasting, yakking in public, blowing coke in bars and on street corners. Big mouths, these spades. Not like Cubans or Italians, who do it and keep quiet. Spooks have to let you know they’re in the game.
Bad Red couldn’t be that smart if he was fronting stuff and not getting his money. Dealers would front—hand over the dope and wait for their money—in order to avoid holding onto the dope for any length of time. Fronting, or selling on consignment, was all right if you knew who you were dealing with. Bad Red seemed to have a problem.
Bad Red said, “Now, my man there, he just come up and tell me that my friend turned it over, and the bread’s gone, Jack, I mean it is gone. Gamblin’. Cat just can’t stay ’way from them horses. Some of dem horses run like an elephant with two legs.”
Katey finished lighting a cigarette, shaking the match out. “How good a friend is your friend?”
Bad Red snorted, ignoring Katey and reaching across the small table for Lydia’s hand. His smile was wet, tiny yellow teeth ringing a thick pink-white tongue. “Cuban momma here, now she my friend, ain’t you, sweet thing? Man, one of these days I jes’ wanna put you between two pieces of bread and eat—”
Lydia playfully smacked his wrist. “Now, Red, be nice.”
“Woman, that would be nice.”
Katey took a drag on his Winston. Old home week is what we got here, folks. She rips off credit cards from johns, sells them to Bad Red for a couple hundred, and he buys like hell before the card’s reported stolen. Oh, yes, Detective Edward Merle Kates had read Lydia Constanza’s yellow sheet.
Katey knew all about the lady. And he didn’t believe she was going to lead him and Neil Shire to anybody except chumps like herself. But what the hell, go along with the program, and in a few days everybody would be hip to Lydia’s act and she’d go down for sure. For goddamn sure.
Neil Shire ordered drinks for the table, tipping the waitress five dollars. That’s flash , that’s how you do it. But these days, only the feds had that kind of money.
Katey, a lean, sharp-faced man with a long nose and small mouth, lit another Winston, blowing three perfect pale blue
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