28
Morgan held the metal bar as the train sped uptown. He was standing next to Theo Goggins, the two of them carrying briefcases with enough narcotics to last Scarface until the sequel.
Morgan admired Theo’s suit, and his blue tie was bold and bright.
“You were right about the tie,” Morgan said. “It works.”
“You think I’d lie about something as important as that? I started off making cold calls. First time I got a fish to bite on a stock, I was wearing a blue tie. First time I closed an account-blue tie.”
“First time you sold stuff that would get you jail time.”
Theo smiled. “Blue tie. But I ain’t never going to jail.
Only way I go to jail is if you rat on me, and I ain’t never going to give you cause to do that. So you make up a story, it’s your ass they find broken into itty-bitty pieces floating in the East River.”
“Same to you, my friend.”
“See,” Theo said, smiling, “we’re going to get along just fine.”
Morgan’s palms were sweaty. His legs shook from time to time, as he waited for somebody to come up to him-maybe a cop or one of those transit workers-grab him by the collar, rip open the briefcase spilling pills and dope all over the dirty car floor.
But that didn’t happen.
Nobody batted an eye at them.
It was about eight-thirty in the morning, and Morgan and Theo were on their way to meet their first customer of the day. Morgan wondered who ordered drugs along with their morning cup of joe, but he figured there were enough people in this city who either worked from home or were unemployed that there was a 24/7 market for their wares.
Theo was whistling something softly. Morgan couldn’t tell what it was, but he figured trying to guess would keep his mind off the legal ramifications of being caught with his goods.
Guessing the tune was impossible. First of all, Theo didn’t seem like a particularly good whistler. Instead of a clean, high-pitched noise coming from his lips, it was more like a low rattle punctuated by occasional bursts of spit.
Theo paused to wipe his mouth, then he said to Morgan,
“You need something?” Morgan hadn’t realized that he’d likely been staring at his partner for nearly five minutes.
“Just wondered what you’re whistling,” he said.
“A little Jay-Z.”
“Cool.”
Theo resumed his “whistling.” Morgan held the rails, his mind beginning to wander.
“So what’s your story?” Theo said, snapping Morgan out of it.
“My story?”
“Yeah. How’d you end up in the basement of some nightclub loading up on this stuff. Not exactly the kind of job you find on Monster. com.”
“I got laid off,” Morgan said. “A few months ago.”
“How much you owe?”
“Excuse me?”
“Come on,” Theo said, smiling. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have debts pouring out your eyeballs.
So how much?”
“In total?”
“No, itemize it for me, asshole.”
Morgan smiled back. He liked Theo.
“All in all? A little over nine hundred thousand.”
Theo whistled. For whatever reason, this time the sound came through clean.
“Let me guess, most of that tied up in your pad.”
“Most of it. Still have almost a million on my mortgage.”
“You try to sell it?”
“Yeah. No takers. What about you?”
“Same shit. Only I got laid off a year ago.”
“How much do you owe?” Morgan asked.
“Three million.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Uh-uh,” Theo said. “I bought up half a dozen properties in the city. Made the down payments, figured I could rent them out, have other people pay my carrying costs and then I’d just sell them down the road and make a killing.”
“Man, talk about bad timing.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. My credit is shot. I couldn’t get a loan for a pack of gum right now.”
“So who’d you know that got you in?” Morgan asked.
“My uncle,” he said. “Used to use. Never dealt, but got friendly with one of his dealers. I used to be a major pothead, and I started buying from his guy after my uncle quit. Pretty soon I couldn’t afford to buy, so my man asked if I was going through tough times. I told him what had happened, and he offered to make an introduction for me. I’m not above this. To me, it’s all the same whether you’re selling junk, real estate or stocks. In the end you’re giving something to somebody that they think will make them happier. And whether it’s financial, emotional or chemical happiness, who the hell are we to judge? Are the people who get strung out on dope any worse than people like me who lose everything on some bad bets? I figure if I can do something to get myself out of this mess and make some coin, why not?”
“I know what you mean,” Morgan said.
“I bet you do.”
Theo and Morgan got off the train at Twenty-third and
Park and headed east. The Manhattan neighborhood of
Gramercy tended to be full of young professionals who enjoyed the area’s local bars (both dive and trendy).
Morgan used to come here often for the movie theater at
Kips Bay, and noticed that over the last few years the population appeared to grow a little more affluent, likely due to doctors working at Bellevue and small business owners who moved into vacated storefronts.
They walked side by side, matching briefcases slung over their shoulders. If anybody looked at them, it was only because they might have been slightly jealous that two younger guys had weathered the economic storm, as that could be the only explanation for their attire and accessories.
Morgan took out the cell phone from his coat pocket.
It was old, nearly an antique, and he was amazed that this piece of junk still even worked. Still, Leonard had given it to them for a reason.
Right after they’d packed up their briefcases with specific quantities of various drugs, Leonard had given them each a cell phone. And this was how it worked.
Before they left the warehouse/club, they’d be given an address. The address was of their first customer of the day. The customer had called somebody, probably some sort of switchboard at another location, and placed an order. That order was relayed to one of the courier teams, who were then dispatched to the location. The customer would also have placed an order and they were also quoted a price. Once arriving at the location, Leonard said, they would make the transaction with the customer.
Once leaving the customer’s address, they would call the number programmed in the cell phone as Home.
After confirming the deal, they would be sent a text message with the address of their next transaction, as well as the price quoted to the customer for whatever they’d requested.
Obviously there would be a little flexibility, as sometimes the customer would buy more than they’d initially requested. And sometimes, of course, they would buy less, often because the customer didn’t have enough money
