The Lotus Crew by Stewart Meyer

around his back, holding him tight. He was spun around. Tattoo pointed to the shell of a building.
    â€œIn there, man. Moob’ it”
    No weapons visible, but Skully stood in the center of too many mean-looking honchos to mess around.
    â€œNo need to get tough,” he said, amazed at his own resignation. He pulled the wad out of his pocket. “Here’s m’money. Just leave me alone.”
    Tattoo snapped Skully’s roll but still insisted he enter the building.
    â€œJacket off,” one of them said, showing a cheap pistol.
    â€œHey, you got m’fuckin’ money!”
    â€œShut up. Git it off!”
    The sleazoid picked up Skully’s jacket, took a pack of butts out of the breast pocket, divided them with his associates.
    â€œNow pants, man.”
    â€œWhat?”
    The shiv fell to the floor, and soon the rest of Skully’s cake was in their hands.
    â€œRapido! Green gonna sell out. Le’s split!”
    One stayed behind long enough to tie Skully’s jeans into knots. When he was satisfied that his victim would need ten minutes to untie the legs, he dropped the jeans on the garbage carpeted floor and stalked out.
    Yen chills ran up and down Skully’s spine, distracting him. He tried to undo one of the tighter knots, but his hands shook uncontrollably. A coughing fit gripped him, and he held his chest. Weak, he sat on garbage and broken glass, shielded only by his skivvies. He could hear a Crazy Eddie commercial roaring out of a ghetto blaster somewhere close by, and the harshness irritated him unbearably. One of the jerks had left a burning cigarette—his—on the floor. He lifted it to his quivering lips.
    They’d cleaned him. How the fuck could he smile and mix drinks in this condition? He thought about a book he’d’ read in the joint, by Kafka, called The Metamorphosis. Gregor Samsa wakes up one morning and discovers he’s a cockroach. The superlative problem is: How can I put my human clothes on this body, so I can go to work?
    He didn’t even have a dime to call the bar and offer an excuse. Didn’t have the price of a subway token. Now, ain’t Fate a fucking? Too bad Gregor couldn’t join him at the moment. It took awhile, but he got the knots out, put on his jeans, and hit the street.
    â€œHow many j’want? Las’ call on Green Tape.”
    He turned and faced a green-capped crew worker.
    â€œNone,” he said. “I just got taken off.”
    The worker shrugged. “Betta git some money, poppa. J’lookin’ seeek.”
    â€œYeah! Got a smoke?”
    The worker told him to stop shaking as he lit the cigarette. “Cop some dinero an’ come back aks f’ Baba. I make sure j’don’ git taken again.”
    Skully took the spring knife out of his pocket and showed it to Baba. “Hey, B, I know it’s a bit tarnished, but the spring is good. Clean an’ sharpen it. Wanna give me two bags for it?”
    â€œThat no open from thee front, poppa. I no like—”
    â€œOne bag! Man, I’m sick as shit. That’s all I have. I gotta go to work!”
    â€œSo come back lata.”
    â€œCan’t. I work in the Bronx. If I don’t show I’m fucked. Gimme one bag and a token for the train and it’s yours.”
    Baba clicked the blade out and examined it. It was dull and dirty but would take an edge.
    â€œWai’ here. I get j’uno bag Green Tape. J’gotta gimmick?”
    â€œYeah,” Skully said, feeling the anticipation of relief.
    â€œGreen run good today. J’be fine,” Baba said. He ducked out and slid down the basement where the Green Tape crew stored their material. He came back and led Skully into the building he’d been mugged in. “There’s a gallery upstairs, poppa, bu’ dey charge three bucks. We go in here. Nobody in this dump.”
    They walked up one flight and into a rank empty apartment. Skully