Chapter 6

May 8, 1997
12:00 p.m.
Juan smiled to himself as he pulled into a parking space, which conveniently opened up right on the corner of Vermilyea Avenue and West 204th Street. He glided the gearshift of the BMW 750 iL he’d paid cash for, registering it in a girlfriend’s name, into Park and reached down with his left hand to the base of his seat. He gently caressed the seat controls until the back reclined to about forty-five degrees, looked at his watch, compared it against the LED display in the vehicle’s hi-tech dash, and then drummed his fingers on the Beemer’s soft leather steering wheel. He slid his StarTac from its belt clip, checked that it was indeed on, and then replaced it on his belt.
Finally, one of the Lincolns pulled up. Juan looked at the license plate: it was Enrico. Juan pulled his StarTac and flipped it open, without taking his eyes off the Lincoln. By memory and feel, he selected Casper’s cell number from the speed-dial menu and hit “Send”.
Casper picked up on half a ring. “Hello.”
“He’s here; where you at?”
“I had the drivers split up like you said. I took the Van Wyck, and the package stayed on the Grand Central. I thought you’d want him to take the more direct route.”
“How far out are you?”
“I just got off the Tri-Boro. Seven minutes.”
“Forget it, dawg. Go straight to 165th, I’ll send it down.” Juan hit End. He got out of the BMW and approached the Lincoln.
He circled the car and opened the street side rear door. “Señor Delarosa?”
Inside the car, a man in his fifties, reclining stiffly across the back seat, nodded feebly—his pallid, clammy complexion contrasted by the car’s cool black leather interior gave him a ghost-like appearance.
“I’m Juan,” Juan began, speaking in Spanish. “Do you speak English?”
“Not right now,” Enrico managed through his agony.
“Okay,” Juan said. He always preferred speaking English over Spanish. He felt speaking English was what separated hicks from Hispanic-Americans, if you were not comfortable speaking English, you were doomed never to be successful in this country. You could make a little money, open a store on 175th Street, hell, you could even open a chain of Teleparandas from 181st Street to Kingsbridge Avenue, but that wouldn’t make you successful. Not in this country. As a prisoner of Latin culture—rather than a master of it—you would never have the freedom to branch out. Juan felt true success in America derived from the ability to flourish within an American environment—not an ethnic subculture. He had no time for those who lived in this country and did not bother to learn English, but he put that aside for now. He continued speaking to Enrico in Spanish. “It’s good to have you here, I’ve heard a lot about you. I hope your flight wasn’t too . . . uncomfortable.”
Enrico held a “Fuck you” on a tight leash and said only that it was uncomfortable, but he was grateful nonetheless. Juan helped Enrico out of the car and led him to the door of 68 Vermilyea Avenue. As they approached the entrance, Enrico noticed a large street level advertisement on the side of the building for a family doctor named Escobar, who accepted every health plan known to man.
Guarding the front of the lobby entrance were two men in their twenties. Both immaculately groomed and outfitted; one wearing a red white and blue Tommy Hilfiger nylon running suit, the other a bright yellow-and-black sport fleece and baggy black Boss jeans with matching yellow vertical stripes down both legs. Tommy Hilfiger said something to the man in the fleece, who then withdrew a key from his pocket and opened the lobby door to admit Juan and Enrico. Before the door closed behind Enrico, Tommy Hilfiger removed a small yellow two-way radio and keyed the handset. “The package is coming in,” he said.
His arm around Enrico’s shoulders, Juan led the staggering older man toward a door at the far left of the lobby. Before they reached it, the door opened. And the most fear-provoking man Enrico had ever seen was standing in the doorway. He wasn’t overly tall or muscle-bound, or clad in leather and spikes. In fact, the man was of a very average height and build, over forty, and was attired in casual slacks and a knit shirt. What so terrified Enrico, terrified him so completely that he momentarily forgot about the pain in his legs, were the man’s eyes. They were totally soulless. Remorseless. Possessing the apathy of a predator.
They made Enrico feel like meat.
The man gave Juan a streety two-step handshake that ended in a hug-simulating touching of shoulders and said, “So, this is Enrico.”
“This’s him,” Juan replied. Enrico just stared at the man, at his terrible eyes.
“My name is Jiram,” the man said putting a wide, calloused hand on his heart, and then extending it to Enrico—palm down, pinkie forward. “I work for Juanito but I know him since he was just a little man.” He smiled and said, “Annilda, she talks about . . .”
Enrico perked up and looked around. “Esta Annilda aqui?”
“Nah,” Juan answered right away. “I didn’t think it’d be a good idea that she see you till after.”
Enrico’s shoulders slumped. He hesitantly took Jiram’s proffered hand, the skin was rough and scarred, but Jiram was surprisingly gentle as he helped him make his way through what was revealed to be a large residential apartment converted into an unpolished doctor’s office. Judging from the wear on the furniture, the office saw a lot of neighborhood business, but today the office was closed—that is to say it was reserved.
Fernando Escobar was waiting for them in a small examining room in the back smoking a cigarette. He was nervous. Jiram had been in his office for over an hour, and this had Escobar at his wit’s end. Being alone with Jiram could prove unsettling for anyone, but Escobar had had the honor of pulling handgun slugs out of him on three separate occasions—two of those times, he should have died. As far as Escobar was concerned, Jiram was a freak of nature. A dangerous freak of nature.
When the three entered the cramped room with its pale field-hospital green walls, bilingual prescription ad posters, and other various medical clutter, Escobar smiled with forced brightness and said, “Welcome, Tio Juan! Good day! How are you, my friend?” and extended a hand to Juan.
He was speaking Spanish. Juan took the offered hand, held it firmly, looked straight into Escobar’s eyes and said in English, “I’m fine.”
“Oh, well . . . good,” Escobar said, switching to his accent-laced English while attempting to free his hand from Juan’s powerful grip. “So thees must be Mister . . . ?”
“Mr. None-of-your-fuckin’-business,” Juan said with sudden ferocity, clamping down extremely hard on Escobar’s hand before releasing it. He looked right into Escobar’s eyes.
Escobar’s heart began to race. He had said something wrong, and that was a dangerous thing to do around a couple of thugs like Tio Juan and Jiram. It was that simple to get killed in these dealings, and for a moment he was sure the infamous young gangster was going to kill him—but a few seconds ticked by, and though Tio Juan had not broken his murderous stare, he hadn’t shot him either. Escobar decided he had survived his misstep. Barely. He disliked dealing with the likes of Tio Juan—who may have only been twenty-two, but was undisputedly at the top echelon of the food chain in the Washington Heights narcotics trade. Tio Juan was notorious for his ruthlessness and violent temper, but he paid Escobar very well—and in cash—so the middle-aged doctor continued the risky business relationship. With a trembling hand, he stamped out his butt and pointed to a cream-colored counter with an orange-brown leather upholstered cushion in the middle of the room. “If you friend wouldn’t mind . . .”
Juan and Jiram helped Enrico up onto the counter and laid him down.
“Jou can cut the pant,” Escobar said, making a scissors motion with his fingers. “But jou be careful, yes?”
“Yes, be careful,” Enrico rasped in Spanish. His heart thumped loudly in his chest as Jiram produced a pair of EMS clothing shears, reached forward and cut the corduroys from ankle to hip on each leg. Then, Jiram peeled the panels of fabric away from one another, very slowly so that any pus or blood that had leaked through the gauze covering and stuck to the fabric would not rupture the stitching. The leakage was minor on Enrico’s left leg, but substantial on his right. While Juan helped Jiram delicately separate the pants from the soiled right-thigh bandage, Escobar wheeled a tray table from the corner next to the counter. A sterile paper covering lay across the slim table.
When the pants were off and Enrico had caught his breath, Escobar removed the white covering from the tray table, unveiling a set of neatly arranged surgical utensils. They looked serious and deadly, and gleamed with precision. Enrico couldn’t take his eyes off of them. A terrible wave of nausea washed over him, and he laid his head back, holding the sickness at bay. From the table, Escobar removed a set of scissors with disproportionately small, rounded blades. He slipped the bottom blade of the scissors under the dressing of Enrico’s left leg and cut straight down along the length of his leg until he had bisected the bandage. He then gently pulled the wrap away, revealing a purple swollen laceration, below which two pronounced bulges appeared to overlap.
Escobar sucked his teeth. “Ees not so good job they did, Tio Juan. Ees jag.” He moved his finger in a jagged motion along the line of the incision. “An’ they steech too wide.” He pointed out the uneven, wide stitching along the wound’s length.
Juan nodded. “So, what you sayin’? We have a problem?”
“No-no-no, Tio-Juan. Ees no problem,” Escobar said quickly, fearing Juan would rent the poor man open right there himself. “I just thin’ jou want to know, okay?”
“Aight,” Juan said. “So let’s do this.”
Escobar donned a pair of powdery latex gloves and retrieved a pre-prepared syringe from the tray table, tweaking it to get the air bubbles to the top. He depressed the plunger a millimeter or so until the clear liquid inside balled at the end of the needle.
Enrico gasped with tightly shut eyes when Escobar sank the needle into the engorged, discolored tissue. He depressed the plunger part way, withdrew the needle and stuck needle back in a few inches down along the ragged row of stitches. He repeated this two more times, until the syringe was empty. Then Escobar replaced the syringe on the tray table and pushed on the long puckered wound in several places with a latex-sheathed finger. Blood-streaked pus oozed from between the unruly sutures, but Enrico didn’t even wince. Numb. Escobar made a tight little smile, turned back to the table, and picked the scissors up again. He slipped the lower blade of the scissors under the thick black suture thread at one end of the messy laceration and began cutting, moving along the canal between the joined swells of skin.
Once all the top threads were cut, Escobar put the scissors down, placed his hands on either side of the canal and spread it open. This caused the ends of the top threads to slip back through the holes where they penetrated the skin. Then, holding the fissure open with two fingers, he plucked out the bottom threads, throwing them into a crescent-shaped metal bowl. That done, he reached into the opening with his left hand and pushed in between the two bulges with his right hand. With a little effort, he managed to separate the two bulges, and work one up toward the opening. He lifted the flap of skin and accompanying layer of fat away from the quadriceps muscle of Enrico’s leg and stretched the opening until he could see the corner of the package. Massaging and squeezing, Escobar got the package to where he could grasp it with his hand. He pulled and tugged it until the wound gave up the package.
Once it was out, Escobar placed the package on a white enamel plate on the tray table, and went after the second package. Juan quickly put on a pair of latex gloves and picked up the package. It was a 1.1-pound, rectangular bundle with rounded edges wrapped tightly in white plastic that was now streaked pink and red like used butcher’s paper. He walked it over to a sink in the corner and washed off the blood and slime. Once the package was clean, he handed it off to Jiram—who took it into the adjacent room—and went back to watch Escobar work on the second package. Escobar was having a little trouble getting the second bundle out, as it was in much deeper than the first, almost down by Enrico’s knee, far beyond the reach of the anesthetic.
Juan held Enrico down, keeping one hand over his mouth to muffle his screams, while Escobar worked. Soon enough, however, Enrico issued a feeble wheeze, and passed out. Being unconscious, Enrico’s muscles relaxed, and Escobar’s job became a little easier.
Meanwhile, in the next room, Jiram had placed the package down on a counter next to a tape dispenser, a scalpel, and two glass beakers containing a small amount of clear liquid. He put on a white carpenter’s filter mask and made a little incision in one end of the package. He carefully removed a small quantity of white powder from within the bundle on the tip of the scalpel and dumped it into the first beaker. The beaker contained sulfuric acid. He stirred the mixture with the back end of the scalpel for ten seconds, put the scalpel down and then poured the mixture into the second beaker, which contained selenious acid. Almost immediately the solution turned a pale green. The shit smelled. He agitated the acrid mixture until it turned a darker, arbor green and then put the beaker down.
Heroin. Excellent quality.
Jiram poured the green liquid into a sink, ran the water and fanned the air. Removing his mask, he walked back into the other room just as Juan and Escobar wiggled the second bundle free. Juan looked up and Jiram gave him a slight nod.
A smile spread across Juan’s face like glass cracking in slow motion. Pinning the unconscious Enrico’s shoulders down, while Escobar worked, Juan allowed his mind to drift. He thought math. He’d always been good at math. When all four bags were out, the combined two kilos of near-pure heroin would fetch him a cool three hundred and twenty thousand on the street—after it had been stepped on a couple of times, of course. Figure the initial investment of one hundred thousand—what a motherfuckin’ bargain!—plus seven-eighty for Enrico’s one-way airfare, two hundred for Enrico’s new birth certificate and social security number, five hundred for Enrico’s New York State driver’s license, five thousand to Escobar, three hundred each to the two drivers, five hundred to Audobon Car Service for the Lincolns, the five hundred he’d have to give Casper to pay for “bagging night,” where people were hired to package the heroin into glassine envelopes and stamp it for street sale. The two thousand total he would have to pay out in “muling fees” as the product was shipped out to the sale spots by “mules,” the ninety-six hundred for the line sellers and managers, roughly three hundred lost to skimming, and another forty-five hundred in arrest and seizure overhead. When all was said and done, Juan stood to profit a hundred ninety-five thousand five hundred and twenty bucks. That plus the new Columbian contact, General Sandoval, and the take from Reynaldo’s apartment . . . and it was only 12:30 p.m. This was shaping up to be a good day.
Juan’s smiled broadened. Nothing beat good math, and a well-executed plan.