Avenue D

Davey Blue Eyes is almost singlehandedly responsible for the consolidation of dope sales in lower Manhattan. If other people try to set up shop elsewhere, they either pay back to Davey, or suffer the consequences. As more snitches open up about Davey, I hear more about his keen interest in the other members of the greater New York narcotics rackets.

The name Miguel Lopez is rarely spoken above a whisper by those who know what it means. Lopez is the poster child for the new Colombian drug gangs that operated on the fringe of the city’s drug trade in the seventies. The Colombians move into the criminal mainstream when cocaine surges in popularity and Nicky Barnes turns state’s evidence and wipes out the remains of Frank Lucas’s Harlem smack trade. Lopez’s cocaine mini-empire is made possible by connections with Medellin Cartel kingpin Pablo Escobar. And his sovereignty is symbolized by his trademark—a small glass jar full of human molars and eyeteeth that his associates take from the mouths of the guys Lopez orders killed for transgressions and slights of any kind. Lopez flashes the jar like a badge, gently clicking the contents like a voodoo rattle.

Halloween 1985 in Douglaston, Queens. When one of his street runners is discovered skimming, Lopez makes a call. The doorbell rings at a mid-block Cape. George Reyes and his wife Celia open the door. A punch bowl full of candy rests on an end table that’s been moved into the hallway behind them.

“Trick or treat!” a half-dozen kids all shriek at once. There’s a princess, a Batman, a vampire, a ghost, a Frankenstein, a mermaid, a Hulk, and a pirate. Behind the little kids stand three bigger, older kids. Two Batman masks and a Spider-man—just masks, their costumes are everyday work clothes and a jogging suit. Celia hands out the candy and the two big Batmans and Spider-man shove the kids into the entryway. Celia falls backward onto the carpeting and five of the kids tumble over her. The Batmen grab the other three kids by the pants and wrangle them into the living room. Spider-man shuts the door and locks it. Some of the kids are screaming. Some think it’s funny and laugh. Nobody’s hurt yet. Celia scrambles to get up. She and George are very scared.

George turns and runs. There’s a shotgun in the bedroom and a pistol in the kitchen. Spider-man walks a spray of bullets from a silenced nine-millimeter MAC-10 up George’s spine and George spins and pitches forward into the hallway. Spider-man takes off his mask to see better and hands his gun to a Batman who herds the kids into the living room. All the furniture is covered in plastic. The television blares the news. The other Batman holds Celia’s right arm behind her back at an awkward angle, with a revolver pressed to her forehead. The muzzle makes a red ringed dent on her skin. She isn’t making a sound. Just shaking. Some of the kids are sobbing.

Spider-man comes out of the kitchen with a black-handled butcher’s knife. George is still alive, spinal cord cut, legs useless, pulling himself down the hall. Spider-man grabs him by his slack ankles and drags him into the bedroom. He closes the door.

Celia starts to struggle as George disappears into the bedroom leaving a trail of blood and spit on the hallway runner. Batman hits her across the face with his pistol. She falls to her knees bleeding from her mouth and nose. The kids start to scream and the other Batman shoots out the television. The kids quiet.

Spider-man pulls George’s body back out of the bedroom and the kids scream again. George’s throat is slit and his tongue, impossibly long if you’ve only ever seen the part you lick and talk with, pulled through the gash. It’s obscene. Blood is everywhere. Spider-man reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out a pair of pliers. He puts his foot on George’s forehead, seizes a molar and adjusting for the salty slippery blood pooling in George’s mouth, yanks as hard as he can, tearing out a full tooth, roots and all. Sweat drips from Spidey’s nose. Tears run down the faces of the kids. Several of them put their faces on the wall and cover their eyes.

Spider-man motions to Batman. He fires the revolver. Celia’s body jumps once and then she lays still on the carpet she vacuumed that morning. Spider-man sinks the knife into her throat and gives her a necktie. It’s easier with women—no adam’s apple. He rolls her lifeless head to one side and extracts a tooth from her as well. The three assassins leave the children alive. They’ll never be able to describe the killers to the cops and probably never be able to watch Spider-man or Batman cartoons again. Anyway Lopez paid for two teeth, not ten.

The Batmans drag the bodies down the steps, over the sidewalk and into a waiting van. There are still groups of kids in costume going from house to house. The three men get into a Mercedes-Benz and slowly drive out of the neighborhood. The van vanishes in the direction of Long Island.

The message isn’t lost on anyone Lopez deals with. But for Davey, it’s a throwdown. A few weeks after the anonymous Halloween “gangland slaying” the papers described, Davey Blue Eyes decides to make Miguel Lopez his bitch. Lopez is selling in Manhattan, and Davey wants a piece. Through channels, Lopez tells Davey to go fuck himself. Davey sends his own trio to Roosevelt Avenue in Queens. They position themselves outside an after-hours joint run by one of Lopez’s associates and gun the man down, leaving him to bleed out in front of his own bar. Lopez gets the message—have a sit-down with Davey Blue Eyes and settle the dispute.

A sit-down is arranged in the VIP section of an uptown nightclub. Lopez bribes the bouncers to disconnect the club’s metal detector but Davey does the same thing and arrives with twice as many gunmen two hours earlier. No shots were fired, but a deal was cut. Lopez keeps the terms to himself. Nobody in his crew that was there ever mentions it again. It’s left up to Davey to remind anyone working for Lopez who they answer to now. A couple of months later, Davey Blue Eyes is driving down Essex Street, when he sees a few of Lopez’s crew leaving Castillo de Jagua burping garlic and cerveza Bavaria. Davey slows down, comes alongside, rolls down his window, and nods. Lopez’s three gunmen make a point of ignoring him. Davey drives around the block and stops in front of them. He reaches his hand out the window and shows them Lopez’s trademark jar of teeth. One of the three traquetos he’s accosted is responsible for pulling at least a half dozen of them. Davey looks through the glass at the three men and shakes it. They hear the shake loud and clear and get the meaning even clearer—“You may work for Lopez, but he works for me now. Respect that or you’ll be making this jar louder next time.”