The Lotus Crew by Stewart Meyer Page A

could hear activity above them. Baba turned on a water faucet, and Skully started to prepare. The cylinder of his gimmick was cracked. He borrowed Baba’s dirty weeper and started to probe for a line. He was shaking too badly, and Baba had to hit him. Baba’s long thin fingers moved deftly, fluidly. He had a practiced doctor’s touch.
    The eyelids came down lightly before the point was out of Skully’s arm. He felt his muscles losing tension and pain. His breathing cleared. Baba lit a fresh butt and put it to Skully’s lips. The blanco poked hungrily.
    â€œThat Green is gooood today,” said lazy lips.
    â€œDa’ shit’s good ’cause Triad come out wi’ a smoker! Gotta keep up.”
    Skully was starting to feel like himself again.
    â€œHey, Baba, m’name’s Skully.”
    Baba nodded. Calm eyes said, “So what?”
    â€œYou helped me, hombre. I wanna pay you back. I know that blade’s no bargain. Listen, if you take the subway up to the Bronx tonight and bring me a bundle, I’ll tip you two bags and you’ll drink for free. I’m a bartender.”
    Baba brightened. “Soun’ good, man. Where j’bar?”
    â€œTake the train to Two Twenty-fifth. Walk over to the Concourse. Ask anybody for Mimm’s Cafe. I go on in a few hours, so make it.”
    â€œCool,” Baba said, handing Skully change for a subway token.

Comancheros!
    THE RIVINGTON STREET spot drew heat due to gunplay on Chu’s part, squashing a holdup attempt. It stayed closed for three weeks. The partners were pushing to reopen. The ShyWun thought it premature, but when T sounded the fact that they were turning seventy to eighty grand a day there, the masked man softened. And raised his tax.
    Four days after the grand opening a wide four-door pitted Plymouth—looked like a fallen gypsy cab—pulled up outside. Chu saw it from inside and wondered about the four men sitting in it. Latins, mid-thirties, too hefty to be junkies and too sloppy to be heat. He turned to his assistant.
    â€œGet thee las’ customers out an’ lock thee door, Pepe!”
    Pepe’d just barely touched the tumbler on the big steel door when it was thrown open from outside. The force knocked Pepe to the ground. He turned over, blade flashing, screaming, “Chu! Chu!”
    One of the intruders leveled a silenced pistol in his extended arms, lifting it to eye level as Pepe flung his blade. The handle hit the man’s shoulder, just offsetting his aim enough to save the Triad’s life. A bullet spit into the wood wall beside him.
    Chu appeared with his silenced .32, ducked behind a garbage can, and assumed firing position. He opened up in the narrow hallway. The closest intruder caught lead in the belly as Pepe ran behind Chu.
    â€œChu, man, day gonna keel us. C’mon. I know a ways outa heah.”
    â€œWe gonna hold’m.”
    â€œWe gonna die!”
    One of the men set off a gas canister, ending the conversation. They were equipped with masks and charging.
    â€œGit us outa heah!”
    Pepe led Chu up to the third floor, pointing out the fishing wire strung across assorted stairs to trip up anyone in pursuit who didn’t know the layout. Silent bullets whizzed around as they leaped out a window, down a ledge to the second floor, dropping from there down into a lot full of broken glass and debris. They left behind over six grand in cake, twenty bundles of Triad material, and a Comanchero corpse.
    The stiff’s wallet told tales but in fragments. Its owner was Comanchero, at any rate. References to a Rafael permeated the scribbled notes and lists. Questions float out onto the street.

Final Nod
    JJ WATCHED THE prowlers turn the corner of Stanton Street off the Bowery. As soon as they were out of sight he walked over to Rivington. Triad’d been opening on and off on Riv due to excessive heat. But Furman was covering the Avenue D spot, and JJ only