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I knew people. Some through favors and some through fear. Both seemed to work well. My biggest issue was that whoever gave Brian that shit was somewhere near Holy Name. At least that’s where he was operating. I had to be discreet.
My first stop was at a deli—or, more precisely, behind a deli—off La Salle Street. I ditched the van and walked to the alley behind the North Side Deli. After just a few minutes, a skinny white guy with a shaved head and tats up and down both arms stepped out for a smoke.
He didn’t notice me until I said, “Hello, Walter.” It was satisfying to see him jump. “You could pass for either a skinhead or a chemo patient. You need to eat a little more while you’re at work.”
The young man turned and said, “No labels, man. I just like short hair now. Besides, some of my beliefs don’t go over so well inside.”
I didn’t have time to waste. I said, “I need information.”
“I’m clean. You got nothing on me.”
“I don’t need anything on you. The statute hasn’t run out on the guy you stabbed over near Riverside Park.”
“That was self-defense. You even said he was just a dope dealer. I already paid that debt. I told you about the West Side gang’s gun stash.”
“You paid part of your debt. Now I need more. Unless you want the judge to decide what, exactly, is self-defense and what’s just a senseless attack.”
“But the guy wasn’t even hurt bad. A few stitches, a little blood. Who cares?”
I looked down at my bandaged hand and said, “I bet he cares. And I still have his contact info.”
Walter looked resigned as his head dipped. He mumbled, “What do you need to know?”
“Who’s giving meth and X to local kids to sell?”
“Man, this ain’t my neighborhood. It’s none of my business.”
“Make it your business.”
Walter caught my tone and looked up at me. “This means something to you, doesn’t it?”
I gave him a silent stare.
He said, “You’ll owe me.”
I just nodded.
“Big-time.”
I said, “Don’t push it, Walter, or some of your white supremacist asshole buddies might find out that your real last name is Nussbaum.”
I knew he’d do as I said.
Chapter 7
I spread the love for ten blocks in every direction. By midnight I’d be a curse on the tongue of every dealer and informant on the Upper West Side.
I spoke with Lenny Whitehead, a black crack dealer whose daughter I once rescued from a gang he owed money to. Back then he’d offered to kill anyone I wanted him to. I thought it was a joke, but I didn’t want to push it.
Manny Garcia, a slick former Latin King, talked to me because I’d helped him when he was fingered for a homicide he didn’t commit. I found the real killer, and Manny had been my best friend ever since.
Billy Haskins, a former set designer I put away for selling coke to Broadway actors, talked because he didn’t want any trouble. The little Bostonian had no use for New Yorkers other than as drug customers or producers willing to pay union scale.
Everyone was part of the program. I’d have answers soon.
All the social interaction with lowlifes had made me late to pick up the kids. When I pulled the van into the pickup lane, I saw my brood lined up along the fence talking with Sister Sheilah. That was never a good sign.
