Read Online The Lotus Crew by Stewart Meyer - Free Book Online Page B

didn’t hurt, either.
    As they sat, a man came in, bought bags, and slipped out. Chu placed the cake in a box full of money.
    â€œWow!” Kathy said.
    â€œHmm. Mucho dinero. Not mines though, baby. Me yus’ a workin’ man.”
    â€œDoin’ better than most, I’d say.”
    He took the compliment gracefully, with a broad smile.
    Another man walked in. He slapped Chu’s palm and said, “Wha’z happnin’?”
    â€œGo roun’ t’D an’ pick up a weeper f’m’frien’,” Chu said.
    Kathy tried to hand the man a five, but Chu waved her down.
    â€œOn me, baby, f’brightnin’ m’day.”
    â€œBe ri’ back,” the man said.
    The heroin they’d smoked was hitting nicely, so she sat down feeling calm, watching Chu deal with the assortment of customers walking in and out. An old Dylan record—from the preholy days—was playing on the radio. “They stone you just like they said they would.” Chu, as far as she could see, was emotionally immune to the fact that he was risking prison, a holdup, or any number of things that can and do go wrong in the dope business.
    She admired his fluid style and animation. His act was very together. Crisp. He took cake and doled out bags with a true economy of energy. All the while his eyes and ears were tuned for trouble. Sometimes, when he leaned over to reach for something, she could see the print of a pistol through his thin brown leather jacket. He was a strong contrast to her preppy friends from another lifetime. Also from her trendy musician types. He was right there !On the money like a good bang of Triad.
    Kathy hung out until Chu sold his last bag and closed up shop, by which time he was getting a strong intuition that she found him desirable. He swept her into his newly purchased five-year-old Eldo, left her in the double-parked car as he made his cash drop at the Tompkins Square crib.
    Kathy slid a Bush Tetras cassette out of her handbag and into the slot on the dashboard. She sat back smoking a joint, feeling the butter-soft leather under her sharp ass. It was the first time since Terry she felt at ease with a man.

The Demented Bullfighter
    RAFAEL WAS NOT BORN the mean son of a bitch he was. It was something he learned. Something he picked up in the early years of his criminal career. Born in Juarez but raised in Mexico City and later L.A., he found in his early teens that he was a capable businessman in a very unique position. He had blanco associates in and around L.A. who would pay highball cake for good opium and heroin. He had Mexican hombres in the trade on the supply end who thought nothing of giving him material on credit. He was bilingual, bi-coastal, and well connected on both sides.
    Rafael opened up a quickly expanding op: strong brown Mexican junk cut with Nestlé’s Quik. The money gushed in. Karl Marx woulda puked.
    But the heroin business has always been a lesson in nastiness, and even with his close Mex hombres there were problems. If they scored a ki and were used to putting a six hit on it, they threw the six, even if it killed the quality. Pure can be hit maybe ten times. But commercial material has already been hit. The way the trade works is: How cheap can I get it, and how many times can I cut it? Score in Mexico or L.A. and you’re lucky if you can step on it one to one. Score in Persia, Burma, Thailand, and you can dance on it. No one will complain.
    Rafael’s faith in human behavior disintegrated like ice in the sun. Moreover, it seemed to the up-and-coming young pirate that the more wicked one’s behavior the greater the take. On upper levels of disgustingness the rewards were mind-staggering. He knew from watching his suppliers. Power, privilege, force, flash. Whatever could be bought … whatever was wittingly or otherwise for sale. Since Rafael was for sale, he assumed everyone was. The assumption was rarely inappropriate.