DONNA STOPPED AT THE coffee cart where Sameer, a cheerful young Yemeni man, stood in a plexiglass box steaming milk and buttering bagels.
“Make it a double today, Sameer,” she told him.
“Coming right up.” He poured her a latte with an extra shot of espresso. “Here you go. Now go catch those bad guys,” he said, as he did every day.
“I’ll try,” Donna said, clipping her ID to her jacket as she headed toward the entrance to the Federal Building. She too said that every morning, though she rarely thought she’d have the chance to actually chase one. But that morning, before she even got to her office door, a passing colleague told her Tom was looking for her, so she knocked on his door instead.
“Yeah!” he yelled, turning from the window as she entered. Once again the endless parade of civilians was passing across the square, constantly threatening to ruin his day by getting killed. “Sit,” he said. Donna felt like he was talking to a dog but she sat, swallowing her annoyance with a long sip of coffee.
“Well you’re in luck,” he told her.
“Really?” She asked, skeptically hopeful. He didn’t sound happy about it.
“Yeah. As of last night we have a citywide drug war.”
“Oh . . . great?”
“Anyway enough noise got made that the police department is assigning their Major Case Unit. And since our lab made the connection with that last case, they’ve asked us for help. But I’ve already got every agent on full alert for 9/11 with all days off cancelled and overtime coming out my ass, so all the help they’re getting from me is you. Have fun,” he added, and turned back to the window.
Thanks to all his pushing, Fusco was now running the White Angel investigation, but the truth was, he wasn’t even sure what he was investigating. He’d begun nosing around White Angel because Gio told him to. Then his own cop instincts, which were much more reliable than his terrible gambler’s hunches, told him something was up, except no one but maybe his partner believed him. Now, with the FBI lab results and the half dozen bodies that had dropped all over town in one night, all of sudden everyone was sure there was a case, and that it was major as hell, but still no one, not even Fusco himself, knew what the fuck kind of case it was.
The FBI chick, Zamora her name was, came by just as he was pondering these heavy thoughts over a breakfast burrito with extra cheese. Parks was sipping some kind of tea that smelled like medicine.
“Detective Fusco?” she asked. A looker. The classy type, in one of those black power suits the feds favored.
“Yes, you found me, come on in.” He moved his burrito to his left hand, wiped his right on his pants and shook. She held her smile. “This is Parks,” he added.
“Nice to meet you,” she said and shook Parks’s hand too, transferring some of Fusco’s burrito grease.
“Welcome,” Parks said, grabbing a couple of deli napkins and handing her one. “Please sit down.”
“Yeah, have a seat,” Fusco said, taking another big bite. “We were just discussing the, uh, nature of this case. Maybe you’d like to give us the FBI’s read on it.”
“Well . . .” Donna looked down at the one empty seat and saw the greasy burrito wrapper. She leaned against a table. “We,” and by we she meant herself, “think that Zahir, up till now, has been smuggling dope into New York and using it to fund terror overseas. Now it looks like maybe he’s moved in. He’s distributing here directly, and we received a threat about a possible terror strike as well.”
“A threat?” Fusco asked. That was news to him.
“That’s classified.”
“Credible?”
She hesitated. “Semi.”
“And you do terror or drugs for the FBI?” he asked.
“A little of everything,” she said. “I handle information that comes in.”
“Comes in how? You mean CIs? Do you have one on this case?”
“Mostly via phone or email actually. Some tweets.”
“So like a receptionist?” Fusco asked, and Parks, like someone who sees another, metaphorical bottle of piss about to spill across the room, leapt in.
“Agent Zamora,” he said. “Do you have any evidence to link the drug activity, or last night’s violence, to Zahir? Or to terror at all? We’ve been watching this White Angel crew for a bit, and they just look like regular homegrown gangbangers to me.”
Fusco waved his burrito at Parks and a spray of juice dotted the files on his desk. “He’s got a point. No reports of guys in turbans and bathrobes slinging dope in the projects, yet.”
“So what do you make it as?” Donna asked.
Parks shrugged. “Turf war. White Angel has the best package in town, maybe because of your Persian connection, sure. They use that leverage to poach more territory until, last night, war finally breaks out. Bound to happen sooner or later.” He sat back and crossed his legs, revealing argyle socks and lovely brown wing tips. “And that’s if these incidents are even all connected. New York City is known to have more than one shooting in a night.”
“As you can see, Zamora,” Fusco said, “Parks has a brain, rare in the NYPD, which makes up, somewhat, for the hassle of trying to eat lunch with a vegan. You’re not vegan are you?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Of course not. What was I thinking? Your people love pork way too much, like mine. Sorry.”
Donna frowned, unsure of whether to be offended, or accept this apology, or what. Fusco marched on, running a thick, greasy finger over the pages spread on his desk. “But he is missing one curious aspect of last night’s parties. Crime scene reports suggest that the shootings by the bridge last night were done with a high-powered rifle from a rooftop. That means a sniper, with some skills rarely seen among uptown corner boys. The device in the Brooklyn stash-house, as well as what I’ve got on the car bomb in Jersey—they’re being very cooperative because it’s a small town department hoping like hell this is our mess—both are high-tech gear of the sort used by commandos and shit.”
“You’re thinking what, military?” Donna asked, as Parks leaned over the desk to read the reports.
Finished with his breakfast, Fusco belched into his fist, then reached for his coffee. He dumped in a sugar and stirred with a finger. “I’m thinking, whatever kind of war this is, for dope or for Allah, it’s being fought by soldiers.” He took a sip and sat back, resting the cup on his burrito-filled belly. “I just hope we don’t need an army to take them down.”
Joe called in the troops. But before he could take out the target, he needed to locate it, and the one spot where he knew they’d be was at work, selling dope. Or more precisely supplying it, since there was little chance the kids peddling bags of White Angel knew any more about their bosses than the kids who sold for Alonzo or Maria. It was like asking a gas station attendant the address of the CEO of Exxon’s house. So what he really wanted to catch was the re-up, the moment when the invisible power had to show its hand, even if it was just dropping off a package.
From what he’d learned at the meeting, White Angel’s busiest spot was in East New York, a largely ungentrified piece of Brooklyn where, in parts, a certain degree of lawlessness still prevailed: hookers walked streets, boozers huddled on corners, and junkies lined up for junk, especially when word was out that the quality was this high. Reggie and his driver, who knew the area well and drove with a Glock on the console, picked up Juno and Joe. Juno got in back with Reggie. Joe rode up front with the driver, and asked him to cruise past the spot, rolling slow so that Juno could take pictures from behind the tinted glass.
The block was derelict and abandoned at night: the back side of lots where bus and delivery companies parked their vehicles, a vacant space full of monster weeds reaching over the toppled fence, a boarded-up auto repair shop and an abandoned, crumbling tenement. At the corners there were bustling tenements, where regular people tried to live their lives, a bodega, and a bus stop, but the middle of the block was a no-man’s-land and that’s where White Angel was sold.
Joe clocked the lookouts on the corner, teenagers slouching against a wall or a car, who’d send up a signal if the cops rolled by, then the touts, who steered you toward the product while singing its praises. Then a ragged row of junkies, lined up against a fence, trying to look casual while shuffling impatiently, like passengers on a really crap airline waiting for a flight to oblivion. One by one, they’d be sent in the vestibule of the abandoned building, then emerge a second later, now hurrying away as the lookouts admonished them to walk not run. The setup was secure, if simple. If anybody suspicious came along, they just closed up shop and locked the front door. No one standing outside would have anything more incriminating than a bad attitude—except for a few unlucky dope fiends with their hands in their pockets. Even if the cops charged in, Joe knew from circling the block that this building had a rear entrance that led to the vacant lot behind, then to the neighboring yards or the street. Any stash would be tossed along the way. Whether in the deserts or at the borders or on the corners, trying to stop the flow of drugs was like grabbing a fistful of water from a rushing river: it ran right through your hand. Maybe you caught a minnow.
Reggie waved at the scene, dismissively. “I’ve been telling my brother for a couple years now, all this is the past, man. I got us a chain of vape shops and joints selling CBD. That shit moves like crazy and it’s legal. Sell it right out in the open, and no fear of drive-bys neither. I wanted to name it for Alonzo, like ALZ CBD or something, cash in on his profile but you know him, all secretive and shit, so I went with Doctor Vape and like a hip-hop vibe with graffiti for the packaging. And now, for the hipsters, we got the Brooklyn Sweet Oil Society.” Excited, he leaned up between the seats and tapped Joe’s shoulder. “Check it out, Joe, I got a factory making custom Doctor Vape Pens and I’m even designing my own vape juices. You should try some, like Mellow Fellow or Royal Crown Cream. Or I bet you’d dig my Professor Smooth Berry. I’ll send you some sample cartridges.”
“I don’t smoke,” Joe said, trying to be polite. He didn’t want to say that those things looked ridiculous to him and they stunk. Every time he saw someone hit one, he had an urge to slap it out of his mouth.
“It ain’t smoke,” Reggie explained. “It’s flavored steam with nicotine in it. And now CBD. And soon THC. All legal. That CBD stuff? We sell it in chocolate, oil, body lotion. White folks buy it for their fucking dogs! Soon it will be in their kids’ milk. And when they legalize weed, like any minute now, we are poised to dominate that shit. That’s what I told Alonzo, let them have the dope, dude. Let somebody else get shot up or blown up over this raggedy ass strip of dirt.”
“You’ve got a point,” Joe conceded. “Times change. There will probably be a Starbucks in that building soon. But addiction is addiction. There will always be dope.”
“King Heroin. You sound like my brother.” Reggie lowered his voice in imitation of Alonzo: “Change the names but the game remains . . .” He shook his head. “Yeah, he’s old school like you. But now he’s in a coma.” He lapsed into silence as they turned a corner. They passed another bodega, a flat tire repair place, and a corner restaurant whose sign read Chinese-Burger-Chicken-Donuts. Reggie went on. “I say be more like your man, Gio. Now that’s a cat I’d like to just study for a minute.”
“I’ll recommend you for an internship,” Joe said.
“I worked for the man,” Juno piped in, taking his face from the camera.
“Word?” Reggie regarded his skinny young seatmate with new interest.
“Yeah.” He chose his words carefully, glancing at Joe up front. “I mean he’s cool and he pays right but, all due respect, he ain’t exactly some softy running a start-up, like riding a scooter around the conference room and shit. New suit and an MBA but you can’t hide those cold-as-fuck shark eyes. Give me the willies.”
Reggie sighed. “Guess that’s why him and my bro are friends. Even stone killers get lonesome sometimes, need someone to talk to.”
Juno cleared his throat, and when Reggie glanced over, he nodded his head toward the back of Joe’s head. Reggie hastily added: “Not that being a stone killer is automatically a bad thing.” But Joe’s mind was elsewhere.
“You get what you need Juno?” he asked.
“Yes sir.”
He pulled out his phone. “Okay, then let’s get going. I need you, Cash, Liam, and Josh all together to explain what we’re going to do. I’ll call Yelena. And stop if you see a Salvation Army on the way. I need some clothes.”
They met in the back room at Club Rendezvous. It was convenient, safe, and—crowded and loud as it was—a random assortment of criminals wandering in one at a time drew no special notice. They just walked by past Sunny, the enormous African bouncer who was on duty when Joe was off, and who got that name because of the wide, gold-capped grin he gave the world—and also past the discreet extra muscle Gio had added since the attacks, a silent white guy in a suit, with a gun under the table—then crossed the busy room full of patrons, around the stage where the dancers played, and down the rear hall toward the restrooms, the dressing rooms, and the manager’s office door. The manager, a pot-bellied, white-bearded dude they called Santa politely pointed them all to the couch and chairs, then got up from his desk and left, shutting the door behind him. Liam and Josh were next to each other on the couch, self-consciously keeping a few inches apart, which no one else noticed. Juno was at the end of the couch, arranging the street photos he’d printed on the coffee table. Cash sat backward on a kitchen chair, leaning it forward on two legs to see the pictures. Yelena curled in the armchair. Joe rolled the manager’s desk chair out and sat.
“Thanks for getting here so quick,” Joe told them. “I don’t have to explain why.”
“Take out these bastards before they get us,” Liam said.
“That’s the goal, yeah,” Joe said. “But the first step is identifying them. So tonight we follow the dope, see where it takes us, and learn as much as we can.”
“Recon,” Josh said, “like the army.”
“Or like cops,” Cash added.
“Funny you should mention that,” Joe said. “We’re going to need two cars. One I don’t care, as long as it’s clean enough not to get you pulled over. The other one, we need a Chevy Impala, like an unmarked cop car.”
“Done,” Cash said, nodding.
“And you two clean-cut, handsome young fellows,” Joe said to Josh and Liam, “try to look like cops look when they’re trying not to look like cops.”
Liam laughed. “You’re just saying that because I’m Irish.”
“Well white anyway,” Juno pointed out.
“You mean I have to shave?” Josh asked. Since leaving the military he had made a point to grow out his hair and beard.
Joe shrugged. “Well the mustache is good. Just trim it and tuck your hair up under a cap or something. Think Serpico.”
Josh frowned. “You mean the sign?”
“That’s Scorpio,” Cash told him. “Serpico is an old movie with Al Pacino playing a cop. Pretty good though.”
“Don’t worry, Joe. We get it,” Liam told him.
“Juno, you know what I need from you. The cars will be parked here and here.” He pointed to the spots on the photos, then stood and went to the manager’s desk. “And does this printer do color copies?”
“Shitty ones,” Juno told him.
“Good,” he said, pulling out a twenty-dollar bill. “Make me four shitty copies of this, both sides.”
“And what about me?” Yelena asked, after listening to all this in silence.
“You are going to be my guardian angel, perched right here.” He leaned over and tapped a photo. “But first I need your help with makeup and costume. And I need a clean syringe.”
A couple hours later, Juno and Cash were sitting in the Chinese-Burger-Chicken-Donut place, with a selection of those items on the table between them.
“The problem with this kind of place,” Juno was saying as he fiddled with his phone. “The donuts taste like chicken. The chicken tastes like an old burger. The burgers taste like stale donuts.”
“And the Chinese food just tastes like shit,” Cash agreed. “It’s cause they use the same oil for everything.”
“That’s what comes from trying to give people everything they want. You end up not wanting any of it.”
Cash sat up, his head tilting slightly toward the window. “Check the Benz.”
Juno turned casually, still holding his phone. Sure enough, a black Benz had stopped up the block, in front of the vacant lot that backed onto the White Angel cop spot. A kid slipped like a rat from a crack in the corrugated metal fence. He ran to the car and a hand came out, passing him a black plastic bag. He scurried back and disappeared. The car rolled.
“Get it?” Cash asked.
“Got it,” Juno said. The high-quality lens he’d used to replace the one on his phone’s camera had captured the car and its license. “Let’s dip.” They stood, leaving their plates untouched. “All this talk about food is making me hungry.”
Meanwhile, Yelena was in Joe’s room, doing his makeup. First she skillfully used blush, powder, and pencil to do the opposite of what they were sold to do: make him look worse—paler and with dark circles under his eyes. She even used some of the stage makeup she’d bought to add a sore to the corner of his mouth.
“Perfect,” she said, showing him in her hand mirror. “Now I won’t worry about the other girls kissing you.”
He laughed, trying to get used to the odd feeling of it. “Now what other girl would do my makeup and then hit me when I asked her?”
“Hit you?” Yelena gave him a searching look. “For real?”
“Yeah, here . . .” He held out his arm and pointed to the crook of his elbow.
“How hard?”
“Hard enough to bruise.”
She shrugged. “If you say so . . .” and gave him a walloping slap.
“Good,” he said. “Again. A bit harder.”
She laughed and gave him a couple more.
“Ow, good, that stung . . .” he said, wrapping a belt around his bicep as he watched the redness swell on his skin. “Though you could pretend to enjoy it less. Now hand me the needle.”
At that she frowned, watching as Joe broke the seal on the fresh syringe (Cash had obtained it from a diabetic neighbor). He found a vein and expertly eased it in, then pulled back, drawing a little blood, then booting it back in. He pulled it out, then repeated the process a couple times.
“You’re very good at that. Too good,” Yelena told him.
“Some things you don’t forget,” he said with a grin, but she was no longer in the mood to laugh. In fact, he was pretty creeped out himself. He had butterflies in his stomach, an edgy, empty feeling that had nothing to do with missing lunch. A little blood remained around the punctures and he let it dry.