Free The Lotus Crew by Stewart Meyer Page A

vicious regime kicked in. He drifted into a Pachuco crime family and quickly rose through the ranks. He was paranoid, unpredictable, and ruthless. Not a good man to disagree with unless prepared to kill or die instantly. But the Pachucos themselves were afraid of him. They kept secrets. Paranoia caused him to move on. Manhattan seemed likely because the heat knew so much about him. It’s a cinch to evaporate into the New York Hispanic community. Bang! Another Rodriguez or Gonzales on an apartment house bell cluster full of ’em. New York would cover him. Just like it covered the owners of all those Chinese restaurants. Maybe he’d hire a Chinese accountant and turn his books over to IRS for a laugh.
    It took some doing, but eventually Manhattan got too hot. Not police heat. The man seemed to have no time for Rafael. He’d learned from his lawyers that the New York prisons were stuffed to the max. It was hard to put a man away if they wanted to. Let alone keep him there. But Rafael had joined a gang, a crew of pirates called the Comancheros. This association brought with it some very excessive heat indeed. From the many people they ripped off.
    They were in the trade the mean way. A mix of PRs, solo Mexicans, a few vagabonds from the Cuban coke trade, they were a solid army of nasty !
    Rafael quickly showed his mettle and took the lead. A fierce gang grew fiercer still. Two berserk Pachucos from the West Coast days arrived, and Rafael employed them as his private guard.
    The Comancheros would hit anyone if the cash flow was steep enough, but they specialized in bookie joints and drug retailers. They were feared and hated, and in return feared nothing that moved. Not even the Italians. At first they’d stayed clear of the Rasta ganja shops, but their unpopularity in Manhattan led them into East New York, where they began hitting the downtown Brooklyn Rasta ops. Rastafarians generally fight back, and Rafael had to be prepared to lose a man or two if he wanted to hit them. And what general is not prepared? Fact is, he had too many men. As far as he could see there was no end to the spoils of terrorism. But it was hard keeping them all happy, and dangerous not to. He had a rucking army to feed.
    So it was by sheer coincidence that Rafael set up headquarters near what had once been Alvira’s Embryo Plaza. Wyona Street. Years ago it had been a mix of newly arrived ethnic workers and housekeepers. Now it was desolation personified with Rafael providing the only exception to the dead stillness of urban ruins.
    Around them the Rastas had their areas, as did the blacks and other Latins. But Wyona Street itself was strictly Comanchero. Even the streets directly nearby were dead, belonging to no one. No one wanted them. They offered nothing but menace and death.
    There’d been no opposition when the Comancheros moved in. Moreover, they’d stepped into a virtual fortress, an embassy situation. No one would go near this turf. These were not streets on which men passed each other casually. Confrontations were the rule, like in a war zone.
    Packs of wild wolfish dogs and young desperate human rat packs, swarming, hanging around in condemned buildings, turning on anything in sight. Each other.
    Even JJ and Furman, who lived just a few blocks away on Miller Avenue and Dumont, hadn’t gone near Wyona Street in years.
    Surrounded by rooftop guards, changing buildings every few days, keeping the area looking like it was under military occupation, Rafael was able to feel safe.
    His cruelty had led him to the rank of general. He’d killed and risked death repeatedly for the spot. It was his !

Jones Took the Wheel
    ERIC SHOMBERG PARKED the taxi and got out, lighting a ciggy and scanning Rivington Street through his dark RayBans. He’d booked high all day and was about to bring the yellow beast back to the garage when he decided he’d give himself a little itty-bitty treat.
    He’d been tapering off