The Lotus Crew

The Lotus Crew by Stewart Meyer

Book: The Lotus Crew by Stewart Meyer Read Free Book Online
Authors: Stewart Meyer
maybe, but not a smokin’ bag.
    â€œThanks, man, you’re all right,” Eric said.
    Chu put his fingers to his lips and kissed the tips, blowing the kiss to the wind. “Gooood dew in those bags, B.”
    â€œLegend has it.”
    â€œWe don’ got no shootin’ goin’ on here, bu’ eff j’wanna I c’n get j’off.”
    â€œSure,” Eric said, wondering, curious.
    Chu led the white junkie down to a small room at the foot of the stairs. They sat on wood fruit crates around a makeshift table. There were soda bottle tops, a bottle of water, and weepers soaking in alcohol.
    Chu smiled. “I gib j’uno mo’ bag. J’shoulda seen j’face when I pull m’iron, man. Shit! Sorry ’bou’ da’ shit!”
    Eric relaxed. The guy was actually apologetic, trying to make it up to him. He opened a bag with his blade and dumped the powder into a bottle cap. He took a weeper out of the glass alcohol jar, drew in some water, and shot it into the cooker. Eric struck a match, but before he placed it to the candle he was going to cook with, the powder had broken up. He heated it anyway, out of habit.
    â€œMan, that shit broke up nice.” It was rare for street material to dissolve so clear.
    â€œDon’ need heat,” Chu said.
    Eric placed a piece of cotton on the spoon and drew the mix up through it. He poked around for a second, then caught a line and watched the cylinder fill with blood. He booted half the shot, then sat back and drew on his cigarette. He left the point sticking in the line, the weeper resting on his arm. He felt the warm rush instantly, and it was some mean goodness he was getting behind. Far superior to what he’d come to expect on the street. He wondered if he should push in the other half of the shot.
    Extended moments later Eric completed his shot, dabbed the red dot with alcohol on cotton. Sliding down his sleeve, he began to feel the waves take hold of him. His head rolled slowly as the blankness of Nod drew near.
    â€œMan, j’ain’ been behin’ no Triad bags, I c’n see. Godda gib j’some coke t’level it out.”
    Chu administered a massive bang of cocaine in the mainline, bringing Eric back at once.
    â€œM’man Carlos gots coke sludge, hombre. Cook like freebase. Check’m on’a way out.”
    Cocaine brings an addict back from being too schmoozed. And it doesn’t bring you down. Most lotus enthusiasts speedball—equal parts C and D—every chance they get.
    Eric thanked Chu gratefully. On his way out he did buy coke sludge off Carlos, and he hit the street feeling smashed but in control. Fact is, he hadn’t been so high since ’Nam. Even the cab looked friendly as he got behind the wheel and started the engine. He put the off-duty sign on and switched on the cassette deck. Modern Jazz Quartet. He was in a B-movie as he rolled the yellow monster out onto the road.
    The Triad bags seemed to glow in his pocket. Such gooood shit! So much for shaking Jones, he reflected dreamily, this time entering the ramp that led onto the Brooklyn Bridge. Jones told him not to sweat it. What’s five bags one way or the other? But Jones was full of shit. Eric knew he was on the verge of addiction at all times. The five bags would just be a little blowout to a new or occasional user. With Eric’s metabolism, it was enough to reestablish full addiction.
    Jones said, “Well, don’t worry right now. Wait an’ see. Lay back an’ . . .”

Vamoose, Vendador
    A TACTICAL FORCE squad car sat outside the Dr. Nova building with four hefty peace officers in it aching to crack heads. Across Chrystie Street a blue police van was centered in the park. A display of might! Big smash.
    Furman asked the cabdriver to wait a minute or two and sat back in the rear of the gypsy rig. He had to figure his next move before they made his face. He was sure the police

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