Free American Gangster by Max Allan Collins

now, for Frank to make out the silhouettes of the driver and two passengers, and their M-16s at the ready. Frank took a few steps toward them and the silhouettes became three black servicemen, one of whom—the driver—was a captain.
    Frank noted the peculiarity of a captain driving a couple of privates around, but said nothing.
    The captain, accustomed to giving orders, gave one to Frank: “Open your trunk.”
    Frank nodded curtly and went around and opened his trunk, then stood to one side as the two privates—this is why the captain was driving, Frank decided—did the hauling, dragging four large taped-up duffel bags from in back of the jeep, tossing them in the junker Chevy’s trunk, slamming it shut.
    Then the privates rejoined the captain in the jeep and, without so much as a salute, took their leave, vehicle growling as it made a U-turn and headed back over the firing range.
    Fitting,
Frank thought.
We’ll all be targets now. . . .
    In the relative safety and security of his apartment, Frank sat at his kitchen table with the four duffel bags—still taped and cinched up—slung there like big fat sausages, breakfast for a giant. Frank, nursing a glass of bourbon, kept staring at the bags, as if expecting them to speak.
    He sat there a long time—going on an hour—putting off a moment of discovery that would mean one of two things: he would be a Harlem-based businessman (the word “gangster” did not cross his mind) at a level Bumpy Johnson had never dreamed of; or he had just squandered his life savings on four bags of nothing at all.
    The German shepherd—which Frank had taken to calling “Bumpy” (in honor of a master who’d never bothered to name the animal)—was sitting nearby. The animal had finished his dishes of water and kibble and was staring at Frank with soulful eyes that meant he needed a walk.
    Then the dog got interested in what Frank was doing—maybe thinking more food was in those duffel bags, the dog was always up for more food—as his new master tore the tape from one of the duffels, and loosened its cinching.
    Frank let out a big breath that he hadn’t realized he was holding in when he saw the multitude of brick-like packages within.
    The other three duffels were similarly stuffed, brimming with oversized decks of No. 4 heroin wrapped in paper bearing Chinese characters and stamped with a label that was better than the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval: two lions, up on their hind legs, paws pushing a globe.
    And in English were the words DOUBLE UOGLOBE BRAND 100% .
    By dawn Frank had found a better home for the enormous supply of dope than his own goddamn apartment, though that was where he was again sitting, and at the same table. The only evidence of any drugs on the premises was a small powder pile on a small slip of paper.
    Sitting at the table with Frank was a slender, studious-looking young man with the wire-rimmed glasses and casual attire of a college student, who had just tested the powder and was about to tell Frank the good or bad (or in-between) news.
    The young chemist said, “Typically what I see, before anybody on this end has stepped on it? Is twenty-five to forty-five percent pure.”
    Good news, then.
    The kid’s voice was businesslike but his eyes were glittering, like a woman studying a huge diamond some chump had given her. “No alkaloids, no adulterants, no dilutants. It’s one hundred percent—holy grail of shit, Frank.”
    Frank nodded, flicked a smile, stood. “Thanks for coming around so early, such short notice.”
    The chemist flipped open a leather travel syringe kit, which the kid had set on the table along with his testing gear. The glittery eyes gazed up at him. “You mind, Frank?”
    â€œTake it with you,” Frank said. “Better cut it, some. Or your roomies’ll be calling the coroner.”
    Nodding, the chemist quickly