smoke rings one after another. They were here to score two ounces of cocaine from Bad Red, who seemed to know everybody in the discotheque.
Lydia, appearing to enjoy herself, clapped her hands once. “Red’s a good dancer, ’least when he’s not lazy, aren’t you, Red?”
Red grinned, thick purple lips pulled back from his tiny yellow teeth. “Got me some moves. Yeah, done always had me some moves.”
Lydia stood up, pulled Bad Red by the hand. “Come on, come on.”
The black cocaine dealer allowed himself to be dragged toward the floor, turning to grin at Neil and Katey.
Katey sipped a scotch and water. “We’re here for business, and she’s hot to work up a sweat.”
Neil swallowed part of an ice cube. “She’s working him her way.”
“You got a lot of faith in Miss Constanza. Me, I’m still wondering how a nickel-and-dime lady like her gets to know what top-level Cubans and spades are up to.”
Neil was watching Lydia and Bad Red dance to George Benson’s hip-grinding guitar work on “Breezin’.” The two were excellent dancers, getting the sensuality of disco dancing across, but keeping it under control and subordinate to the actual technique of dancing. Without looking at Katey, Neil said, “You heard it already. She’s got a cousin, and somebody asked him if he wanted to make twenty-five big ones as a mule. He was going to try to get Lydia in on it, but after her check-cashing bust, no way. She already told you that. How many more times you got to hear it?”
Katey made slow circles on the table with his scotch and water. “I know what’s heavy, and this lady ain’t. I worked some of Kelly’s people, remember? I was one of the people who busted Mr. Lorenzo, and I know what heavy is. You go by gut feelings, you ought to know that—”
Neil turned to him. “She’s delivered so far. That’s the name of the game.”
Katey nodded slowly, exaggerating the gesture. “Yeah, now that you mention it, she has delivered. Of course, we haven’t copped yet tonight, but I s’pose we will.” He stared at the ashtray, knowing Neil Shire was looking at him.
Neil said, “Give her a chance.”
“A chance? Yeah, sure. Why not? Why the fucking hell not? Since you’re buying, how about another hit on these?” Katey held up his empty glass.
Neil was cool, not bossy, not playing big-money Mr. Fed. But Neil was the agent in charge. Lydia was his snitch, wrapped up and delivered to him, and he was the one working her, paying her. There was Katey, representing the interests of the New York Police Department, and there were two other agents in on this, one white, one spade. The feds were careful with informants.
Three men worked a snitch at all times, and all three had to witness any money paid informants. The informant was assigned a number, a code name, and every buy, every contact with an informant went into a written report. When the feds walked into court, they were protected and prepared.
Neil was polite; nothing wrong with that. He listened to Katey, he listened to the other two agents assigned to work Lydia with him, but Neil was the controlling agent, the man making the decision. Maybe it was better that way. Let him be the one to go down when she does. Better him than Wile E. Coyote.
That was Katey’s nickname in the department, taken from the coyote character in the Road Runner cartoon, the one who never stopped scheming to get what he wanted. Katey had gotten the name because he was good at finding a suspect’s weak point, then using it to bring him down.
Bad Red and Lydia, holding hands, returned to the table.
Bad Red, perspiring heavily, sighed. “Ain’t as young as I used to be.” He waited until the waitress set drinks down on the table and removed empty glasses. Leaning across the table, he leered at Neil. “Man, git on up and git on out there with this woman. She got the motion that gives you the notion.”
A small white man in a dark business suit, gray hair combed
Lydia, appearing to enjoy herself, clapped her hands once. “Red’s a good dancer, ’least when he’s not lazy, aren’t you, Red?”
Red grinned, thick purple lips pulled back from his tiny yellow teeth. “Got me some moves. Yeah, done always had me some moves.”
Lydia stood up, pulled Bad Red by the hand. “Come on, come on.”
The black cocaine dealer allowed himself to be dragged toward the floor, turning to grin at Neil and Katey.
Katey sipped a scotch and water. “We’re here for business, and she’s hot to work up a sweat.”
Neil swallowed part of an ice cube. “She’s working him her way.”
“You got a lot of faith in Miss Constanza. Me, I’m still wondering how a nickel-and-dime lady like her gets to know what top-level Cubans and spades are up to.”
Neil was watching Lydia and Bad Red dance to George Benson’s hip-grinding guitar work on “Breezin’.” The two were excellent dancers, getting the sensuality of disco dancing across, but keeping it under control and subordinate to the actual technique of dancing. Without looking at Katey, Neil said, “You heard it already. She’s got a cousin, and somebody asked him if he wanted to make twenty-five big ones as a mule. He was going to try to get Lydia in on it, but after her check-cashing bust, no way. She already told you that. How many more times you got to hear it?”
Katey made slow circles on the table with his scotch and water. “I know what’s heavy, and this lady ain’t. I worked some of Kelly’s people, remember? I was one of the people who busted Mr. Lorenzo, and I know what heavy is. You go by gut feelings, you ought to know that—”
Neil turned to him. “She’s delivered so far. That’s the name of the game.”
Katey nodded slowly, exaggerating the gesture. “Yeah, now that you mention it, she has delivered. Of course, we haven’t copped yet tonight, but I s’pose we will.” He stared at the ashtray, knowing Neil Shire was looking at him.
Neil said, “Give her a chance.”
“A chance? Yeah, sure. Why not? Why the fucking hell not? Since you’re buying, how about another hit on these?” Katey held up his empty glass.
Neil was cool, not bossy, not playing big-money Mr. Fed. But Neil was the agent in charge. Lydia was his snitch, wrapped up and delivered to him, and he was the one working her, paying her. There was Katey, representing the interests of the New York Police Department, and there were two other agents in on this, one white, one spade. The feds were careful with informants.
Three men worked a snitch at all times, and all three had to witness any money paid informants. The informant was assigned a number, a code name, and every buy, every contact with an informant went into a written report. When the feds walked into court, they were protected and prepared.
Neil was polite; nothing wrong with that. He listened to Katey, he listened to the other two agents assigned to work Lydia with him, but Neil was the controlling agent, the man making the decision. Maybe it was better that way. Let him be the one to go down when she does. Better him than Wile E. Coyote.
That was Katey’s nickname in the department, taken from the coyote character in the Road Runner cartoon, the one who never stopped scheming to get what he wanted. Katey had gotten the name because he was good at finding a suspect’s weak point, then using it to bring him down.
Bad Red and Lydia, holding hands, returned to the table.
Bad Red, perspiring heavily, sighed. “Ain’t as young as I used to be.” He waited until the waitress set drinks down on the table and removed empty glasses. Leaning across the table, he leered at Neil. “Man, git on up and git on out there with this woman. She got the motion that gives you the notion.”
A small white man in a dark business suit, gray hair combed
Similar Books
