The Lotus Crew by Stewart Meyer Page B

had a few bundles to sell. Things looked open on Rivington, so he set up and began to tout.
    A familiar blanco wearing dark shades bopped over and bought a bag, then returned ten minutes later and took a bundle. “Shit’s still on the money,” he said. “Amazing.”
    JJ said, “Triad always the same smokin’ bag,” without looking at the blanco. He was preoccupied with selling out and makin’ it back to Brooklyn to enjoy his evening cura.
    The prowler returned, moving slowly down Rivington and stopping outside the storefront Dr. Nova sometimes worked. JJ was across the street in the doorway of a punk club. He made Chico the Cop in the front seat of the car. Chico was born on these streets and had the rep of a man who did not play. Looked like they were sticking around, so JJ ascended a long creaky flight of stairs, paid three bucks, entered the punk club.
    There was a band playing loud, unmelodious music. Blanco girls with tight jeans, makeup, and spiked hair nodded metronomically to the beat. The guys were mostly greased and leathered. An occasional Mohawk. JJ was one of the few dark faces in the loft, but no one looked twice.
    He stationed himself by the window, so he could watch the man across the street. Their presence would scare away customers. Shit.
    â€œLooks like they’re gonna hang out.”
    He turned to face the voice. It belonged to a blanco, maybe twenty, wearing a black satin shirt, white duck pants, black engineer boots, and a Roseland d.a. “Fuckin’ cops. How’s a man supposed to turn a buck?”
    JJ shrugged. “I donno.”
    The guy got closer. JJ could smell his sweat and chewing gum. “Listen, I know the score. I buy bags on the street all the time.”
    â€œZat so?”
    â€œYeah. I’ve seen you aroun’ too.” The punk’s eyes glistened with inebriation, from the smell JJ guessed alcohol.
    â€œNaww. I ain’t fum rou’ heah.”
    â€œYou know where I can score some D, don’t you?”
    â€œI donno nothin’ like that.”
    â€œHey, I’m not heat. Loosen up, baby, nobody gonna bother you here. Tell you what, I’ll give you thirty bucks for two.”
    JJ shrugged, looked around, checked the punk’s face. What the hell. “Meet me in that corner over there,” he said, turning and walking off.
    The punk assumed position. JJ took the thirty and dropped two bags into his hand.
    â€œThese ain’t dummies, are they?”
    â€œNo way. They sealed an’ stamped Triad, man. Where you been?” Almost everyone knew those bags.
    â€œDo me a favor. Wait ’til I get off. If I like it I’ll buy all you have on you.”
    â€œCan’t stick aroun’ too long, Jim.”
    â€œGimme five. Just got to borrow a spike and get off in the bathroom.”
    â€œHurry.”
    JJ went back to his vigil by the window. Damn, that band was bad. Not good-baaad but evil. Rank! Desecration of Soul!
    The band stopped finally, and the room lost its jump. JJ was grateful, toking on a butt and watching the cops just hanging out like they had nothing to do. No wonder so much crime goes down in this city.
    A sudden shriek caused JJ to turn around. There was a spike-haired girl in the middle of the floor, howling her brains out. Some guys were trying to cool her, but she just kept it up. What the fuck was she howling about? Something about “Dead!” “He’s dead ! ” Shit. Probably somebody checked out from listening to that evil rock band. Well, at least they’re not playing.
    A crowd was forming near the bathroom. JJ wondered if … nawwww. Couldn’t be. He walked over to see what was happening.
    There, on the dance floor, was his new customer. The punk was stone blue, mouth and neck covered with vomit. A dude was pounding his heart but after awhile gave up. “Dead,” he said softly.
    â€œCall the cops!” someone let