where he had fallen, lying on his side by the wall.
Then a thorough frisking, the Latino throwing mobile phones, wallets, car keys, pistols, and pistol magazines onto the bed.
“I want my lawyer!” barked one Maracone brother, lying red-faced on his big belly. “And a motherfucking receipt!”
“Who here blabbed?” said the other Maracone. “Who was it?”
The Venezuelan was trying to protest through his gag.
The rrriiippp they heard was the blond tearing off lengths of duct tape.
“What the fu—?” was all the Maracone brother could get out, as the tape wrapped around his mouth to the back of his head. Another strip covered his eyes to his ears. Leaving only his nose.
The same was done to all of them.
A couple thrashed afterward, making a racket on the floor, until the black guy went around kicking each one in the ribs until they stopped.
The blond took the clock radio from the nightstand and placed it on the floor in the center of the ring of taped heads. He found a hip-hop station and turned up the volume.
Maven, fascinated by all the activity, heard a thumping and turned just in time to see the muscle stagger to his feet against the wall. He came at Maven head-down, bull-style. Maven sidestepped him and dropped the heel of his hand down onto the back of his head, flattening the guy, dropping him hard.
The black guy tossed over a roll of silver duct tape with an approving look.
The blond unfolded a medium-size white paper bag and picked up each confiscated weapon from the bed, releasing ammo clips and clearing the firing chambers. He deposited all ammunition in the bag, dropping the empty guns back onto the bed. He then removed each mobile phone battery and dumped both pieces separately into the bag. Then both room phones, including the bathroom extension.
Royce gave a low whistle, summoning Maven to the bathroom. It was spacious, with a separate interior door to the toilet, and one of those bidet things. Royce shoved the complimentary toiletries aside, making counter room for the Venezuelan’s suitcase. He ran the zipper along the sides, opening the cover to reveal a layer of plush white towels.
Beneath the towels lay tightly packed parcels wrapped in green-tinted plastic, bound with tape. Royce removed one with his gloved hand, the parcel roughly the size of a hardcover book. With a small folding knife, he opened up a three-inch gash lengthwise in the plastic wrap.
The dope inside was caked and chunky, dull white with a yellowish tinge.
“Cocaine hydrochloride,” said Royce, picking at the drug with the tip of the blade. “One metric kilogram. About thirty grand worth, wholesale. Or a ten-to-life stretch, depending on which way you look at it. Five or more kilos means possession with intent to distribute, jumping it up to forty to life. If real cops busted in here right now, our next lunch in the outside world would be in about 2050. A science-fiction stretch. Just to put this into perspective.”
He handed over the parcel, slit side up, and Maven was holding a kilo of uncut cocaine. It was lighter than he had imagined, like a flat loaf of unleavened bread.
Royce grabbed a second kilo and slit its green plastic, this timebisecting the sealing tape. He carried it to the open toilet, dumping the coke into the bowl, kneading the clumps until the package was empty.
He pushed the handle, the mixture swirling until it was swallowed down the drain, the bowl refilling with clear water.
Royce said, “The sewer rats dance tonight.”
He had Maven dispose of the one in his hand, and they switched off flushing away the rest. The cocaine didn’t dissolve well, sinking slowly into the water like cake mix. Maven lost count, but there were fewer than twenty flushes.
When they were done, Royce mashed up the wrappers and brought them out to the white paper bag on the bed. He dumped them in, then his white-dusted gloves.
Maven followed suit. Then they returned to the bathroom and removed their jackets
Then a thorough frisking, the Latino throwing mobile phones, wallets, car keys, pistols, and pistol magazines onto the bed.
“I want my lawyer!” barked one Maracone brother, lying red-faced on his big belly. “And a motherfucking receipt!”
“Who here blabbed?” said the other Maracone. “Who was it?”
The Venezuelan was trying to protest through his gag.
The rrriiippp they heard was the blond tearing off lengths of duct tape.
“What the fu—?” was all the Maracone brother could get out, as the tape wrapped around his mouth to the back of his head. Another strip covered his eyes to his ears. Leaving only his nose.
The same was done to all of them.
A couple thrashed afterward, making a racket on the floor, until the black guy went around kicking each one in the ribs until they stopped.
The blond took the clock radio from the nightstand and placed it on the floor in the center of the ring of taped heads. He found a hip-hop station and turned up the volume.
Maven, fascinated by all the activity, heard a thumping and turned just in time to see the muscle stagger to his feet against the wall. He came at Maven head-down, bull-style. Maven sidestepped him and dropped the heel of his hand down onto the back of his head, flattening the guy, dropping him hard.
The black guy tossed over a roll of silver duct tape with an approving look.
The blond unfolded a medium-size white paper bag and picked up each confiscated weapon from the bed, releasing ammo clips and clearing the firing chambers. He deposited all ammunition in the bag, dropping the empty guns back onto the bed. He then removed each mobile phone battery and dumped both pieces separately into the bag. Then both room phones, including the bathroom extension.
Royce gave a low whistle, summoning Maven to the bathroom. It was spacious, with a separate interior door to the toilet, and one of those bidet things. Royce shoved the complimentary toiletries aside, making counter room for the Venezuelan’s suitcase. He ran the zipper along the sides, opening the cover to reveal a layer of plush white towels.
Beneath the towels lay tightly packed parcels wrapped in green-tinted plastic, bound with tape. Royce removed one with his gloved hand, the parcel roughly the size of a hardcover book. With a small folding knife, he opened up a three-inch gash lengthwise in the plastic wrap.
The dope inside was caked and chunky, dull white with a yellowish tinge.
“Cocaine hydrochloride,” said Royce, picking at the drug with the tip of the blade. “One metric kilogram. About thirty grand worth, wholesale. Or a ten-to-life stretch, depending on which way you look at it. Five or more kilos means possession with intent to distribute, jumping it up to forty to life. If real cops busted in here right now, our next lunch in the outside world would be in about 2050. A science-fiction stretch. Just to put this into perspective.”
He handed over the parcel, slit side up, and Maven was holding a kilo of uncut cocaine. It was lighter than he had imagined, like a flat loaf of unleavened bread.
Royce grabbed a second kilo and slit its green plastic, this timebisecting the sealing tape. He carried it to the open toilet, dumping the coke into the bowl, kneading the clumps until the package was empty.
He pushed the handle, the mixture swirling until it was swallowed down the drain, the bowl refilling with clear water.
Royce said, “The sewer rats dance tonight.”
He had Maven dispose of the one in his hand, and they switched off flushing away the rest. The cocaine didn’t dissolve well, sinking slowly into the water like cake mix. Maven lost count, but there were fewer than twenty flushes.
When they were done, Royce mashed up the wrappers and brought them out to the white paper bag on the bed. He dumped them in, then his white-dusted gloves.
Maven followed suit. Then they returned to the bathroom and removed their jackets
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