The general had the kind of diamond-hard eyes that had seen everything (including lots of cash) before; and those eyes spent as much time examining Frank as they had the papers.
“How,” the general asked, as if inquiring about the weather, “would you get it into the States?”
Frank’s kept his face as unreadable as the general’s. “What do you care?”
The general responded with a question of his own: “Who do you work for where you come from?”
“Again,” Frank said, nonconfrontational but giving nothing, “why do you care?”
The general shifted his chair. His mouth tightened; his eyes, too. “Who are you... really?”
Frank nodded toward the passport and visa on the desk between them. “You read it. Says right there: Frank Lucas.”
The general drew in a sharp breath. “I mean, who do you represent?”
“Frank Lucas.”
The general studied Frank some more, seemed to understand that he wouldn’t accomplish anything down this road, and let it go.
The general said, “You think you’re going to take a hundred kilos of heroin into the United States, and you don’t work for anyone? You expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t care what you believe.”
“Someone is going to allow you to do this?”
Frank shrugged.
The general glanced at one of his bodyguards, and said in Chinese, “I don’t believe a word of this.” Then he said to Frank, “After this first purchase, if you’re not killed by Marseilles importers — or the Italians in the States — then what?”
Frank flipped a hand. “Then there’ll be more — and on a regular basis... though I’d rather not have to drag my ass all the way up here every time.”
The general thought about that. Then, after a glance at the various papers (including the cash), he said, “Of course not.”
Frank did not smile, outwardly; but inwardly he was grinning.
The tough old general was ready to do business.
Two days later, at an army landing zone in Vietnam with monsoon rains pounding down, Frank climbed out of a UH-1 helicopter having traded his bandolier for the necklace of a press card. Nate, in uniform, climbed out of the Huey, too.
Nate alone was led by black enlisted men to an LZ tent where a black colonel was waiting. Frank cooled his heels under some dripping camouflage, hanging out with some other brothers in uniform. He could not hear the conversation that Nate and the colonel were having, but he knew what was going down.
The colonel said to Nate, “Jesus — that’s a lot of powder. Where’s it now?”
“Bangkok,” Nate said. He shrugged. “I can bring it here. Or anywhere in between. Your call.”
The colonel shook his head. “A hundred damn kilos... I never seen that much dope in one place, have you?”
Nate grinned. “I just did. You ever see one of them Amana refrigerator-freezers?”
“Sure.”
“Bigger than that.”
“... Let me talk to your partner.”
Nate nodded out to Frank, who joined them in the tent and did some negotiating. Then they watched the colonel exiting the tent, rain still coming down like God machine-gunning, to cross the torrent on duck-boards to another tent, where a white officer, a two-star general, waited.
This negotiation was brief: fifty grand in advance, covering the pilots and the guys on the other end, as well.
But Frank told Nate, “No.”
Nate goggled at him. “No? Frank, we—”
“Give them one hundred.”
“What? Give ’em more than we negotiated?”
Frank nodded. “A hundred. That’s all I’ve got left, anyway. So if that dope doesn’t arrive, for whatever reason, I won’t need it, the extra. We’ll buy a little good will.”
“If you say so, cousin.”
Then, suddenly, Frank embraced Nate and whispered in his ear, “Cousin or no cousin — don’t let me down.”
The words weren’t overtly a threat, but as he handed the fat envelope of cash to Nate, Frank knew that Nate knew.
Knew that Frank would kill him, if things didn’t go to plan.
Nate said, “Don’t sweat this a second. I’m all over it. And I’ll let you know when the shit’s in the air... Anybody ever tell you you’re a kind of genius?”
“No. I been called a fool before.”
Nate grinned. “Well, you’re that, too. But aren’t we all?”
6. Dick Down
Richie Roberts had never meant to hurt his wife. He had loved Laurie, and he still did love her, he supposed, in a mother-of-his-child kind of way. He’d never had an affair on her; he wouldn’t do that to her, he wasn’t some disloyal prick.
But he would knock off a piece here and there, strictly one-night-stand stuff, and yet the times she’d found out, Laurie reacted like he’d been seeing somebody behind her back.
He’d never bothered trying to explain it to her. That his job was high stress, max pressure, life or fucking death, and the only things that took the edge off, that took him out of his crowded head and into someplace free of thought, were the roll of a joint or a roll in the hay.
And that didn’t count making love to your wife, with the kid in the next room and bills to pay and inlaws and PTA meetings and all the issues that made a bad habit of coming into the bedroom with you.
Yesterday was a (literal) textbook case of high stress and max pressure, and even in its way of life or death: he’d taken his law board exams. Maybe that anonymous chamber with its fifty or sixty student-type desks and as many asses dropped down in them, and the pinched-puss exam proctors prowling their beat, wasn’t as literally dangerous as going down a dark alley or busting into some junkie shooting gallery.
But Richie’s life did depend on it.
He felt he’d done okay, and anyway it was over. So he’d celebrated by calling up that sexy little brunette paramedic who’d stitched up his mitt last week. He took her out for steaks and a show (M*A*S*H) and they hung out in a bar a while, and his place was closer, so that was fine, and she hadn’t even minded his overgrown closet of an apartment. They’d done it twice last night, once a fast frantic hump on the floor with their clothes half-hanging off, and then in bed, slow and sensual and romantic.
She’d stayed over and they rubbed against each other all through the night and at dawn he was balls deep in her again — what was her name? — and she was making so much noise, he was worried his neighbors might call the cops, and when the phone rang, it was almost a relief.
He reached for the receiver, but she slapped his hand, panting, looking up at him with big demanding eyes and orgasm-flushed cheeks; but the ringing wouldn’t stop.
Neither would the paramedic, and he answered the phone in action and out of breath.
The voice on the other end was exploding words so fast, Richie wouldn’t have had a chance to respond right away even if he could have.
Javy Rivera was saying, “Richie? Richie, man, I’m in trouble. This guy, this fuckin’guy, I don’t know how, but he made me. And he went for his piece, Rich, Jesus Christ, he went for it like John Fuckin’ Wayne and what choice did I have? I had to do it, swear to God. Now they’re gonna kill me.”
The paramedic was looking frustrated and annoyed, because she had lost Richie’s full attention; and she didn’t even protest, when he rolled off her and sat on the edge of the bed and got intense with the phone.