Chapter 21

A few days after visiting his son in Baja Leai, Winston found himself back in Chicago.

Bronzeville was an Italian neighborhood adjacent to the White Sox stadium, and Winston was in another well-furnished apartment of Leroy’s Chicago contact, an old school Italian cokehead named Frankie.

Frankie’s idea of good business included having a huge, bald black man armed with an M14 stationed in the corner of the room at all times, just under what looked to be about a two-thirds scale oil painting of Napoleon Bonaparte. Had the movie Blade been released prior to that meeting, Winston would have noticed a striking resemblance between the bodyguard character and actor Wesley Snipes.

Frankie himself looked more like a diabetic goblin. His stout, round body was grossly overweight, and barely over 5’2”. He wore a blue bath robe and a heavy gold chain. Winston admired the style. His head was waxed shiny bald.

“This is how you treat business partners of your associate Leroy?”

“This is how I treat anyone that comes into my home to do business. I don’t know you from Adam when you’re here on business. If my own mother wanted to make a transaction here, I’d have Robbie hold her fuckin’ dentures,” Frankie delivered in a native Chicago accent.

“You ask me, that’s no way to do business. There has to be an element of trust.”

“I didn’t ask you, and I trust you just fine. It’s just that I trust Robbie here more.”

Winston eyed the intimidating dark skinned fellow.

Amazing, I don’t think he’s moved since I got here. I can barely see him breathe.

“Does he talk?” Winston said, then he turned to the bodyguard, “Robbie buddy, do you talk?” “No, he doesn’t talk,” Frankie said definitively. Winston readjusted himself to face the Italian. “I mean how am I supposed to trust you with all this? This is not how I like to do business.”

“Listen, I don’t give a fuck if you trust me or not-”

“Yeah, well it’s a two way street man-”Winston interrupted.

“This is how the fuck I operate so get used to it or fucking walk, chump. I got more business than I can fuckin’ handle the way it is, so you got something for me or not?”

Winston narrowed his eyes and paused before responding, “I mean, where do you even find guys like that? The rifle isn’t even that practical in a close quarters situation.”

“I found him at the goddamn barber shop when I was getting a perm, now you got something for me or not?” Frankie was beginning to get the edge of his patience. It was time to keep moving. Winston tossed a plastic wrapped package of pearly white cocaine onto the glass table in front of Frankie. Frankie regarded the product with feigned disgust, as if someone had tossed an aged bologna sandwich in front of him. He leaned forward and split the bag open with a folding knife he produced from the breast pocket of his robe. He shoveled a bit of the substance onto the tip of the knife and held it up to his face to study it closely. He inspected the substance for a dramatically long time, examining it from different angles as if it was a rare insect. Finally, satisfied with its visual appearance, he set the knife down to begin the next stage of testing.

Winston looked around. There wasn’t a chair to sit down on. He remained standing. Frankie spit on the outside of his own wrist and rubbed a bit of the powder onto the wet spot, then blew on his wrist. Then, taking his knife, he tested the flesh where he had applied the cocaine, prodding and poking it until it nearly drew blood. He did this because cocaine is a topical anesthetic. If it was good coke, his wrist would be as numb as a double amputee’s toes. Coincidentally, Stric 9 rat poison, a common adulterant, had the same effect.

Next, he put some of the powder on his gums and in his mouth. He rubbed them with his index finger. Winston imagined that he was savoring the taste, comparing it against the treasure trove of years of cocaine testing experience. Robbie shifted his weight slightly on his feet. It was the first time he had moved since Winston had arrived. Winston was impressed.

Frankie split the bag open further and poured some of the contents out on the glass table in front of him. He divided off a portion of the product into a smaller pile, which he began cutting and crushing up, to ensure that the product was as finely ground as possible. When he was done, he fashioned the pile into two horizontal lines, about two-and-a-half inches long and a healthy thickness. Then, he motioned Winston to snort one.

“Got a bill?” Winston said.

“What, you don’t?” Frankie said, “Besides we’re not savages. That shit is disgusting,” Frankie produced a metallic straw from his robe pocket and handed it to Winston.

What else does he have in there?

“None for Robbie?” Winston asked.

“You’re pushing it.”

Winston covered his right nostril and inhaled hard. His left nostril lit on fire as pure cocaine went straight to his brain, lighting him up like The Times Square Christmas tree. He didn’t react, instead just standing up and handing the straw back. By the time he was standing up straight again, the drip in the back of his throat had already began. It tasted like gasoline. Frankie watched his reaction like a hawk, noting his stoic nonchalance. Then, he bent over and did the other line. He railed the whole thing in one fast go, then threw his head back like he had been punched in the nose.

“Fuck man!” He said, “Godamn.”

“I trust you enjoy the product,” Winston said.

“This is some grade A fucking shit, I mean really primo,” He was talking fast as a jackrabbit, “Robbie, come try some of this,” He portioned off another two lines, did one of them, and gave the other to his bodyguard.

“What do you think, Robbie? Is that some good shit or what?” Frankie said. Robbie responded only with a calm, controlled nod. Winston noted that sweat had begun to glisten on his forehead.

“Well, you heard the man,” Frankie said, “Or, at least saw him. I’ll cop this bit,” He pulled out a billfold from his robe pocket and counted off a stack of hundreds, “And I’ll tell you what: I like this so much that I’m placing another order. I’ll pay this price for up to fifteen pounds of this shit. This product is fucking stellar, man. People are gonna go crazy for this.”

Fifteen pounds? Is this guy nuts? Does he even have that much scratch? I’d definitely better call Leroy from a payphone.

Winston smiled a wide, wolf-like grin, the same one he had used when closing a deal in the corporate world. He collected his payment and shook Frankie’s hand firmly. Frankie had shot up from his seat to meet his handshake.

“You’re welcome here anytime, pal. Anyone with coke like that is a friend of mine,” Frankie said.

“It’s a pleasure doing business with you,” Winston said, “Barring any unforeseen circumstances, I should be back here with your product in three or four weeks.”

“I look forward to it.”

“As do I.”

Winston walked to a nearby payphone and placed the call.

“It’s me. Everything’s good. Client wants another five tables by next month,” Winston said.

The line was silent for a few moments.

“That’s going to have to be a rush order. I’m going to call Clemmons,” Leroy said.

“I can handle it by myself. We won’t need Clemmons.”

“For an order like that, we will. Call me in three days.”

“Alright.”

Winston hung up the phone and considered what Leroy had told him. Clemmons-the code name for the Diaz brothers- were bad news. Wherever they went, a trail of death followed. It began to rain softly as he dialed an international call to Baja Leai.

“Hello?” A female voice answered on the third ring.

“Hello, Layla.”