He had discovered another world-companionable, comfortable, warm.
“Anibal.” The familiar voice was behind him.
Startled, Juan turned. Oscar Caliente always dressed like a Brooks Brothers preppy: chinos, blue or gray blazer, button-down shirt. He was a handsome man who looked like a slightly darker version of George Clooney. He wore old-fashioned glasses with flesh-colored frames.
Juan, like everyone else who knew Oscar Caliente, was afraid of him. Oscar ran a crew of at least twenty men. It had taken less than a year for him to gain total control of the East Side of Manhattan from 86th Street to 125th Street between Fifth Avenue and the East River; his men wiped off the streets even the smallest competitor, including freelance punks who thought they could make a few bucks selling weed and cocaine for extra cash. Oscar Caliente had a zero tolerance policy about other drug dealers in his territory. In addition to the twenty full-time crew members, Oscar had at least thirty other men and women who had the contacts with customers-Oscar actually called them clients-in the territory. The runners delivered the cocaine, heroin, opium, weed, Vicodin, and any and all other drugs the clients wanted. Oscar was an entrepreneur: he ran a full-service business capable of filling any need any customer had, even for peyote and mushrooms.
Juan stood up. Oscar embraced him. Juan said in English, “Oscar, how are you, man?”
In Spanish, Oscar answered, “I’m always good, thank God.”
With his left hand Oscar gently guided Juan into his chair as he pulled a chair for himself from another table. The pretty girl already seated at the table didn’t even glance up. Juan felt a surge of fear: he had hoped never to see Oscar again. He had always been straight with Oscar. Because of fear, Juan had never skimmed a single dime from the cash the customers had given him even though at the end of a night that could be as much as four thousand dollars. Juan had heard that other runners who held back even small amounts of cash were beaten, stabbed, burned with cigarettes and kicked in the balls by the full-time members of Oscar’s crew.
“We miss you,” Oscar said in Spanish.
“I had trouble, man.”
“I heard. Why didn’t you come to me? I could have helped you. I don’t let anybody screw around with my people. You gave those guys who jumped you what they deserved. You kicked the shit out of them. I’m proud of you, man.”
“The cops were looking for me all over the place. I didn’t want to get arrested. If I got arrested I’d be gone.”
“You know better than that. Fucking cops. I could have made a call to get them to stop. You’re one of my best boys. I take care of my boys.” Juan had heard that Oscar Caliente controlled the police commanders who supervised the two precincts in Oscar’s territory.
Oscar was leaning forward so close to Juan’s face that he could smell and feel Oscar’s breath. Oscar never smoked or drank. He had clean, mint-freshened breath. He never touched the millions of dollars in drugs that were distributed in his territory.
Oscar placed his right hand on the back of Juan’s neck and gently pulled him even further forward. Their faces were within inches of each other, as if they were brothers about to share secrets. Juan trembled: the tendons in his neck vibrated like cords drawn very tight.
“You’re working for a rich guy, right? I’ve been thinking about you. You see, you were a great worker and I asked around about you. And they told me you were meeting lots of rich guys out here. Really, really rich.”
The grip of the hand on his neck was not strong. It was not Oscar’s own strength that Juan feared. Oscar was not strong. His hands were small. He was vaguely effete. It was his ability and his willingness to get ruthless men to act for him that caused the fear. “I’m just raking leaves,” Juan said. “I washed dishes in New York, remember? Raking leaves and washing dishes. That’s all I know.”
“Bullshit, that’s not true, man. You’re special. Christ, I had you wash dishes so no one would figure out who you were and who you worked for. Very special, very good at what you do. And it isn’t washing dishes and raking leaves.”
In the months in New York when he worked for Oscar Caliente, Juan’s special assignment was to range late at night out of Oscar’s established territory on the Upper East Side and East Harlem to the downtown after-hours clubs. There were at least seven clubs throbbing with music and wild dancing on West 14th Street and West Houston Street and in the old warren of streets between them in the Meat Packing District near the Hudson River. The clubs were open from eleven at night until six or so in the morning. Juan was soon so well recognized by the bouncers at the velvet ropes at the entrances and the owners inside that he had free passage, like a Hollywood celebrity or the mythic Smooth Operator in the Sade song. He even brought with him an entourage of two or three men and women who carried what Oscar always called the “dry goods.”
“I rake leaves,” Juan said.
“Come on, Anibal, cut that shit. You look like Antonio Banderas, you know, that guy in the movies. It lets you get all over town. You love that, I know. The parties, the girls. You love it. I saw it in you.”
Staring at Oscar’s close face, Juan said, “Really, man, I don’t want to do it.”
Oscar smiled. “Sure you do. Think about it. You can get out of that shack in the fucking woods with all those Honduran and black guys. I saw your beautiful mama and her babies. She won’t have to work any more in the supermarket. Or you can dump her and play around.”
Juan stared at him. It was no surprise that Oscar knew where he lived, who Mariana was, that she worked at the grocery store, and how many kids she had. And it was no surprise that Oscar Caliente knew that Juan worked for the Richardsons. All that made Juan even more afraid and also angry at this small, well-dressed man who had grown up in Mexico City in a wealthy family, attended a private school in Massachusetts where he learned to speak flawless English, returned to Mexico, and sought out and within three years became one of the key leaders in the Sinaloa cartel. Oscar could move seamlessly between Mexico and New York. Dressed in his blazers and button-down shirts-the type of clothes he had worn at the school in Massachusetts-he quickly established Sinaloa in the city. His instructions now were to expand the Sinaloa domain to the Hamptons.
Still smiling, Oscar Caliente said, “I need you to come work for me again. But out here. I’m new here. Now we’re selling to the punks in the streets and the college kids. We don’t make any real money when our clients are punks and kids. You can get to the rich guys. They love you, I know it, I’ve heard all about it. I can start to sew it up out here. And we both get big.”
On the table in front of Juan was a sleek iPhone Brad Richardson had given him. The only other cell phones he ever had were the single-use disposable ones Oscar gave him each time Juan went downtown to the clubs.
Oscar picked up Juan’s iPhone. He manipulated it as rapidly and deftly as a teenage girl, found Juan’s number, and entered it in his own contacts list. Before standing, he said, “I’ll give you a call.”
Five days later Juan Suarez made his first delivery. It was to Trevor, the man who had held Brad Richardson’s hand at the party. Trevor lived in a pretty carriage house on a quiet back street in Southampton Village. Juan had no idea his first client would be Trevor. Oscar had simply given him an address, a large order, and a time for the delivery.
“Lordy,” Trevor said, embracing Juan at the door. “What a wonderful surprise.”
Juan hesitated. “You live in a nice place.”