Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [72]
“What’s your name?” he said to the startled boy.
“Joshua,” the kid said.
Boomer pulled the service revolver from his hip holster and handed it to Joshua. “Make sure they don’t move” was all he said, pointing to the two teens over by the wall.
“What if they do?” Joshua said, holding the gun toward the pair, both hands shaking.
“Then shoot ’em,” Boomer said, limping off to the corner phone booth to call the local precinct.
The rescue of Jennifer Santori had brought Boomer back to life. He was angered and repulsed by all that he had witnessed, but it also made him feel like a cop again. His mind was back on red alert, and the adrenaline rush was nearly strong enough to drown out the pain of his wounds. The eventual capture was worth the risk of being hit with a fatal bullet. He knew now that was all he had to keep him going.
The risk.
After finding her card in Malcolm’s pocket, Boomer spent three full days gathering information on Lucia Carney. His first meeting was with DEA Special Agent Tony Malazante, a head banger from his days working buys and busts in Alphabet City. Over two cups of coffee in a downtown diner, Malazante told him about a new brand of cocaine that was just hitting the streets. The dealers called it crack, the junkies called it heaven, and the narcs called it their biggest problem since the Golden Triangle glory days of heroin. New York got its first taste in late 1981. Since then, arrests had multiplied and demand for the drug quadrupled.
“What’s the difference between that and regular blow?” Boomer asked.
“The hits are cheaper,” Malazante said. “Five bucks gets you high for five minutes. Don’t need a lot of cash to stay on the wire all day. You can pick it up stealing petty.”
“Who’s in on it?”
“Everybody so far but the Italians,” Malazante said, sipping from a large cup of mocha. “The demand’s so high that a street dealer can set up shop on a Monday and have a full crew of twenty working for him by Friday.”
“Where’s it coming from?” Boomer wanted to know, holding Lucia’s card in his right hand.
“Same place all this shit comes from,” Malazante said. “South America. Southeast Asia. And it’s landing heavy on the streets. The rock comes in and the cash goes out, usually on the same day.”
“That’s where Lucia comes in,” Boomer said. “How big a hitter is she?”
“She started out small-time.” Malazante leaned his large frame against the back of a torn plastic booth. “Now I’d say she’s in the top three, easy. She’s got a big outfit that’s well run and, I guess you could say, unique.”
“What’s unique about it?”
Malazante finished the rest of his coffee and leaned closer to his friend. “I can help you with this, Boomer,” he said. “But only up to a point. I don’t know what you’re thinking and I don’t want to know. You and me didn’t talk about this and I didn’t leave this folder behind on my seat. If anybody asks, we met, had coffee, and talked about my kids.”
“You don’t have any kids,” Boomer said.
“Then we didn’t talk,” Malazante said, squeezing his girth out of the booth.
An old girlfriend from the FBI gave Boomer the statistics he needed about crack and a confidential printout on Lucia Carney. She promised to help in the future as well, in return for anonymity and the occasional dinner at Nunzio’s. He spent a day working the computers at One Police Plaza, cross-referencing