Narc Page 2

  Three men, two of them with upraised machetes catching the moonlight, running at him out of the darkness. His ears picked up the sound of a chain. At least one of the three was coming in fast, swinging a chain.

  Bolt shouted, “Watch it, Ray! I think they’re moving in from both sides!”

  Dropping the empty shotgun, Bolt quickly tore his Colt from his shoulder holster. He gripped it in both hands and did what he had done thousands of times on the department’s firing range. Bending his knees slightly, he brought the gun up even with his chest and fired at the man in the rear.

  The bullet caught the man in the stomach and drove him back six feet. If he wasn’t dead, he wasn’t moving around a lot. This was one time when Bolt knew why narcs were now packing heavier calibre guns.

  His next shot caught the second man in the chest, lifting him off his feet and into the air. He went down and stayed there.

  Then it turned bad for Bolt. That chain, that goddamn chain. The man threw it. Whether it was luck or skill, he connected. A good shot. The chain was long enough and heavy enough to make trouble.

  It came in high, hitting Bolt in the face and neck, causing him pain, and worse, making him close his eyes and duck. It was now wrapped around his face, neck and part of his chest. His next shot went high, hitting nothing and nobody. Another hard pull, left then right, and the narc dropped his gun.

  The man was fast. Apparently, he had made himself a reputation as a fighter, just with that chain, his hands, and feet. He was on Bolt, kneeing him hard and pulling on that chain.

  He jerked Bolt left, then right. Then more gunfire. From the back of the car. Ray’s heavy Colt was at work.

  Shouts in Spanish. Were the other attackers shooting at him? Had the second and third groups gotten there? Damn! Right now, Bolt couldn’t take time to check.

  The man with the chain was making Bolt bleed. He pulled the narc right, then left, then forward, never letting the narc get set. Each time he had the chance, the man with the chain would use his feet and his knees. He knew how.

  My luck, thought Bolt. South Americans are supposed to be poor, too poor to be anything but barefoot or in sandals. This guy’s giving me lumps and he’s wearing boots.

  The narc couldn’t take much more of this. The chain was cutting into his face and neck, and those kicks were hurting him.

  Down. Bolt was on the ground. Rolling over on his side, taking the kick in the back rather than in the groin. His hands dug into the earth. Both hands now filled with dirt. He stayed down precious seconds longer, gripping the earth, taking two more agonizing kicks in the back. Now he had two handfuls of dirt.

  With all of his strength, he willed himself to his feet and made it to his knees, facing the chain man. As the chain man brought his leg up to kick Bolt in the face, the narc brought both arms up in front for protection and took the kick on his forearms.

  The pain shot through his arms. Now or never. He tossed the dirt at the chain man’s face. Backing off, the chain man put his left hand to his face, frantically trying to scrape the dirt from his eyes.

  His right hand still held the chain. But he had let it go slack.

  Bolt’s right hand went down to his ankle holster and came up with the Beretta. His left hand quickly gripping his right wrist for support, the narc fired three shots.

  All three hit the chain man, two in the chest and the third through the left eye as he was falling.

  Unwinding the chain from himself, Bolt staggered to his feet.

  The decoy cars had arrived.

  Their headlights allowed Bolt to see the confusion. Newly arrived La Playa cops were chasing off in several directions. Bolt could make out one or two narcs. Even they weren’t sure what was going on or what to do. But everybody was shooting at somebody else.

  Peray!

  Bolt ran to the car. Peray, a small gun in his right hand, his left hand still handcuffed to Ray, was pushing Ray’s body out of the back seat. Another attacker, this one in fatigues, was pulling at Ray’s body, trying to clear the way for Peray to slip out.

  Bolt guessed where Peray had gotten the gun. Ten to one it had been hidden under the seat.

  Leaping into the car, Bolt grabbed the small gun from Peray, placing it against the dealer’s thigh, and pulled the trigger twice.

  Peray screamed in pain. He won’t be running anywhere now, Bolt thought. Dropping the small gun, Bolt shoved Peray hard, out of the back seat and into the man pulling him out of the car. Both Peray and the man hit the ground.

  Bolt was pissed. The other narcs should have reached the car by now. Unless they were being pinned down by gunfire. Which might be the case, Bolt thought, because the firing was still going on.

  “Senor Peray? Are you all right?” The voice came from behind Bolt, in Spanish and in a hurry. Throwing himself on the floor of the car, Bolt landed on his back, Beretta pointing at the voice.

  Two men, in fatigues. Obviously they had known the plan and were anxious to leave, now that reinforcements had arrived on the other side. And in the semi-darkness they had mistaken Bolt for Peray.

  A break for Bolt. He used it.

  He pulled the trigger on the Beretta three times. The last three shots. One shot went into an attacker’s right shoulder, making him drop his gun.

  The other two shots caught the second man in the head. Bolt scrambled out of the car and leaped on the wounded man. In pain himself, Bolt had no time or energy for subtlety. Seizing a nearby machete, he lifted the huge knife high and with both hands brought the blade down into the man’s neck.

  Footsteps behind him. Hurt and bleeding, Bolt got to his feet, the bloody machete in his hand. No time to look for a gun in the darkness. Gripping the handle hard, he waited.

  “Bolt!”

  The footsteps stopped. Harry was in the lead. Two more narcs and some La Playa cops.

  Through a haze of pain, Bolt tried to make out Harry’s face. Finally focusing on it, he realized that he himself must look like hell. Harry looked at him and said, “Oh man…”

  “Forget it,” said Bolt. “Find Peray! He’s around here. He can’t have gone far. Find him!”

  The narcs spread out, La Playa cops behind them. Bolt searched for his Colt and found it. Then he began looking in the darkness.

  “Over here.” One of the other agents was yelling. “Over here.”

  Bolt ran to the voice. He looked down at the body.

  Ray. Dead. His right arm bleeding where the hand had been chopped off.

  And not too far away, Peray. Abandoned by his would-be rescuer.

  Peray. Bleeding from two shots in his thigh. A heavy load to carry when another man is fleeing for his own life.

  The cuffs were still on Peray. Except that in one half of the handcuffs was Ray’s right hand and part of his forearm. They had been in a hurry, Bolt thought. So they had done this to Ray. Bolt hoped Ray was dead when it happened.

  Peray was pale. He had lost some blood and he wasn’t used to crawling around the jungle at night with a dead man’s hand hanging from his wrist. It had been a lot of exertion for him.

  He was muttering, seemingly to himself. In French.

  “I thought he spoke English,” said Harry.

  “He does,” said Bolt. “When he wants to.”

  “What’s he saying?” asked Harry.

  Bolt didn’t answer right away. Then he said softly, “He’s just made a vow to kill me.”

  Bolt looked down at Peray, their eyes meeting. Both stared at each other, as if sealing a pact, a deadly pact understood only by two men who hated each other.

  Bolt then turned his back on Peray and went over to Ray’s body. Bending over, he gently picked up the dead agent’s body and walked towards a car.

  CHAPTER 3

  ONE THOUSAND POUNDS OF heroin. Pure and uncut.

  Street value: $250,000,000.

  It had never been done before. St. James Livingston would do it now. He would bring 1,000 pounds of uncut heroin into the country and grow richer.

  He was already rich. Number one heroin dealer in New York and on the entire east coast. A thirty-five-year-old black who had made good in a changing society, one might say.

  St. James Livingston wore suits made especially for him on London’s Saville Row. His home in a New Jersey suburb cost $300,000, paid for in cash. At those prices, his all-white neighbors accepted him without kicking up a fuss.

  His five cars cost an average of $30,000 each. His women were almost as expensive. Camille, his black wife, loved horses. She owned three, all jumpers. St. James gave her what she wanted. It kept her quiet and occupied.

  His other woman was predictable in her tastes, as predictable as a mercenary woman could be. Lynda Hampton was a white call girl. She had met St. James while on the job. Now she had retired. At the age of 24. At St. James’ request. He gave her $500 a month for the apartment, $300 a month for assorted house expenses and $200 a week spending money.

  Her shopping bills, not to exceed $500 a month, were sent to St. James’ accountant, who kept the books on investments. Real estate, record companies, restaurants, a loan company.

  No books were kept on St. James’ heroin business. He kept those figures in his head. So did the accountant.

  Lynda earned the money St. James spent on her. She was an encyclopedia of sensuality. “Tricks?” she said to St. James, when he complimented her on her extensive sexual knowledge and willingness. “I don’t know any tricks. I’m a technician and if the mood hits me, I become sexually artistic. But tricks? Tricks are for high-school girls with their drawers down in the back seat of a Volkswagen. Doing it there is what I call a trick.”

  They were in bed then.

  St. James smiled, pulled her lean body over on top of him and said, “Show me something technical.”

  She did.

  But it was that 1,000 pounds of heroin that concerned him more than any woman. $250,000,000. He would be more than rich. He would be the biggest dealer since dealing began. He liked that idea.

  That’s why two months ago he had started a famine.

  St. James Livingston, the drug dealer, refused to sell heroin.

  No heroin was to be sold in Harlem, Manhattan, Bedford Stuyvesant, South Jamaica or Newark. A famine. Nobody to “get well” until St. James said so.

  He had help from the law in making the famine a success. Narcs had made some spectacular busts lately, seizing a lot of heroin. Those anonymous tips had helped them. St. James had furnished the tips.

  And it was an election year. Dealers didn’t want to be busted now. Politicians could ride to glory on a dealer’s behind, especially if that behind was coming up for trial and facing 30 years to life.

  So a few big dealers had listened to St. James and willingly gone along. Those were the ones who lived to learn how St. James had gotten to the top. By climbing higher and higher on a pile of dead bodies.

  Vacant lots and trunks of abandoned cars were soon occupied by dead dealers and pushers who had challenged St. James Livingston. They challenged him once. Never twice.

  He was careful. It had been years since he had done any killing. Like the white mobs before him, St. James had learned. Insulate yourself. Stay far from the crime. Don’t pull the trigger. Pay somebody to do it. Don’t accept the delivery when the heroin crosses the border.

  Let somebody else do that. Pick it up after it’s safely in the country.

  St. James had learned. And it was about to pay off. One thousand pounds of uncut heroin. Coming to him from South America, from “The French Man.” From Antoine Georges Peray.

  Price: $10,000,000. Half in advance, the rest on delivery. The advance payment had been tough. It had taken everything St. James owned. All of his profits, plus mortgages on some of his properties, all the cash he had in safety deposit boxes, the loot he had in his stash.

  But he had made it. The advance was to be done in ten payments.

  $500,000 each. Nine payments had been made, with one more remaining.

  Peray’s daughter, his most trusted courier, came to New York and personally collected the money.

  Like all drug dealers, Peray trusted nobody. Nobody. Except Line, his pretty twenty-five-year-old daughter. That gal had balls. Cool as a witch’s tit. Picking up the money, taking it to banks or to wherever her father told her. She idolized her father.

  She told that to St. James, who was smart enough not to mix business with pleasure. He didn’t come on with Line. Too much at stake. And besides, she seemed frozen. Her English was good, but she didn’t like long conversations. Just the money. It took her hours to count it, but she counted it each time. St. James watched her. He and four armed guards.

  Line never looked up. When she was through, she said, “Thank you, Monsieur,” and left for the airport. St. James’ guards saw that she made it without a rip off.

  Yesterday, St. James concluded a deal with the Mafia. He didn’t mind dealing with white mobs. He had done it before. Twice. And it worked out fine each time. Yesterday, through a big loan shark, the mob had agreed to lend him money.

  $5,000,000.

  The final payment to Peray, due on delivery of the 1,000 pounds of heroin. Ten days from now.

  Then the famine would be over. And the profits would be stacked from here to the moon. St. James Livingston would be a wealthy man. And money is power. He had a lot at stake, all riding on the delivery and the famine.

  Junkies were crying. Only one percent heroin in a fix, when you could get it. Tough, thought St. James. Keep hurting. In 10 days, the famine’s over, and everybody gets well. And he would get $250,000,000.

  At the moment, St. James was in a custom-made Rolls Royce. It had cost him $40,000 before he had added the improvements. Now the car was worth $55,000 and there wasn’t another one like it. Pearl-gray with white sidewall tires, television and a bar in the back seat. Stereo, plus tape deck and a miniature Tiffany lamp in the back. That lamp cost $2,000.

  The Rolls headed towards Lynda’s East 50th St. apartment in Manhattan. St. James pushed a button. The glass partition between him and the driver slid silently down. “Stop and get me a newspaper,” he said to the black chauffeur, Ahmed, also his bodyguard.

  Ahmed lifted his right hand slightly as a signal that he had heard, and continued driving. St. James pressed a button and the glass slid back up between them.

  Spotting a newsstand, Ahmed pulled the car over to the curb, stepped out, got the paper and handed it through the window to St. James.

  Back in the car and heading towards the ex-call girl’s apartment, Ahmed had his eyes on the road. In the back seat of the car, a sudden motion caught his eye. Striking out with his gloved fist, St. James smashed the small Tiffany lamp. His face was twisted and he was shouting.

  Ahmed slowed down, pulled near the curb, double parking, the motor running. The partition slid down. St. James was cursing, screaming, spit flying from his mouth.

  “Look! Goddamn it nigger, look!”

  Reaching behind him, Ahmed took the newspaper and read the headline. “ANTOINE PERAY EXTRADITED. HOSPITALIZED. ARRAIGNMENT SOON.”

  An enraged St. James was slamming his fist into the back seat. “Shit!” he shouted. “Shit!” It was more than rage.

  For the first time in a long while, St. James Livingston felt fear.

  Steve Sanchez, real name Esteban Nadvidad Sanchez, was the hottest piece of political merchandise in New York. It would take more than that, however, to get him elected Senator.

  He was thirty-eight, handsome and Spanish in a city where the Spanish population grabbed at anything to feel alive and proud. They were grabbing at Steve Sanchez. And he counted on them, and others, to make him the first Spanish-speaking Senator from New York State.

  But he needed money. A lot of it. More than he had ever needed before. Money was power, but it also took money to get power.

  Political campaigns were expensive. Staff workers had to be paid. Television spots, billboards, posters—they cost plenty. And the fat cats, the big money boys, weren’t ready to put money on Sanchez just now.

  Let him win a big one and the backing would be there. He wasn’t a loser. He just hadn’t won big enough yet. Having been on the city council, and currently being a representative in Congress weren’t enough to make him worth a big investment.

  Sanchez told himself he would shove it down their throats one day. Just let him win this election, let him become Senator and watch what happens. The money boys would then kiss his red-beans-and-rice ass.

  Getting nominated hadn’t been hard. He had used the media, making it work for him. Sanchez was an expert at that, growing up in the age of television, of imagery and promotion. True, it was only the Independent Party nomination, but he was in the race. Definitely.

  And Independents had won in the past. Right now he needed money, big money. He was using the press beautifully, staging events, setting up press conferences, arranging “news” to give himself the image of a hard-hitting, young and glamorous politician of the people.

  “An underdog whose time has come.” That went over big in this town. He got a lot of space with that line, and he had thought it up himself.

  Two years ago when he had needed money he had gone to St. James Livingston. Who but a nigger would help a spic? Several weeks ago, Sanchez went to him again, in secret and in desperation. They needed each other. Sanchez with his fever for fame and power. St. James with his fever for wealth.

  St. James had paid a lot of money to men whose faces he would never see and who would not want to be seen with him under any circumstances. But because his new association with Sanchez involved much more, the two had met and talked.

  It was agreed that Sanchez was to get $1,000,000. Dummy organizations would be formed to account for part of the money set to come in as “campaign contributions.” The rest of the money would be “donated” in the names of respectable people, who owed favors to St. James or to Sanchez.

  In return, Sanchez would help St. James. Again. This time, he would help the dealer bring something into the country. That something was worth $250,000,000. Sanchez had helped St. James before, and for a whole lot less.