The Force. Don Winslow
satisfied swagger of a man who just got his rocks off.
Then he sees his tire. “Mothuh-fuckuh.”
Fat Teddy opens the trunk, gets out the jack and bends over to start taking off the lug nuts.
He doesn’t hear it coming.
Malone puts his pistol barrel behind Fat Teddy’s ear. “Merry Christmas, Teddy. Ho, ho, motherfucking ho.”
Russo holds his shotgun on the dealer as Monty starts to search the Caddy.
“Y’all some thirsty motherfuckers,” Fat Teddy says. “Ain’t you ever take a day off?”
“Does cancer take days off?” Malone pushes Fat Teddy up against the car and searches through the thick padding of the dealer’s coat, relieving him of a .25 ACP. The dope slingers do love these weird-caliber weapons.
“Uh-oh,” Malone says. “Convicted felon in possession of a concealed firearm. That’s a pound zip-bit right there.”
Five-year minimum sentence.
“It ain’t mine,” Fat Teddy says. “Why you stop me for? Walking while black?”
“Walking while Teddy,” Malone says. “I distinctly saw a bulge in your jacket that appeared to be a handgun.”
“You checkin’ out my bulge?” Fat Teddy asks. “You gone faggot on me right now, son?”
In response, Malone finds Fat Teddy’s cell phone, tosses it to the sidewalk and stomps on it.
“C’mon, son, that was a Six. You OD’d.”
“You have twenty of them,” Malone says. “Hands behind your back.”
“You ain’t takin’ me in,” Fat Teddy says tiredly, complying. “You ain’t gonna sit there filling out no DD-5’s on no Christmas fucking Eve. You got drinking to do, Irish. You got ‘ackahol’ to get to.”
Malone asks Monty, “Why is it your people cannot pronounce ‘alcohol’?”
“Don’t ‘acks’ me.” Monty reaches under the passenger seat and comes out with a sleeve of smack—a hundred glassine envelopes grouped in tens. “Oh, what have we here? Christmas at Rikers. You better bring mistletoe, Teddy, hope they let you kiss them on the mouth.”
“You flaked me.”
“I flaked your ass,” Malone says. “This is DeVon Carter’s heroin. He ain’t gonna be happy you lost it.”
“You need to talk to your people,” Fat Teddy says.
“Which people?” Malone slaps him in the face. “Who?”
Fat Teddy shuts up.
Malone says, “I’ll hang a snitch tag on you at Central Booking. You won’t make it out of Rikers.”
“You do that to me, man?” Fat Teddy asks.
“You’re either on my bus or under it.”
“All I know,” Fat Teddy says, “is that Carter said he had protection in Manhattan North. I thought it was you guys.”
“Well, it ain’t.”
Malone is pissed. Either Teddy is blowing smoke or someone in Manhattan North is on Carter’s pad. “What else you got on you?”
“Nothin’.”
Malone digs into his coat and comes out with rolls of cash wrapped in elastic bands. “This nothin’? Has to be thirty grand here, that’s some serious guap. Loyal customer rebate from Mickey D’s?”
“I eat Five Guys, motherfucker. Mickey D’s.”
“Well, you’re eating bologna tonight.”
“Come on, Malone,” Fat Teddy says.
“Tell you what,” Malone says, “we’ll just confiscate the contraband, cut you loose. Call it a Christmas present.”
It ain’t an offer, it’s a threat.
Teddy says, “You take my shit, you gotta arrest me, give me a five!”
Fat Teddy needs the arrest report to show Carter as proof the cops took it and he didn’t just rip him off. SOP—you get busted, you better have a DD-5 to show or you’re gonna get your fingers cut off.
Carter has done it.
The legend is he has one of those office paper cutters, and slingers who don’t have his dope, his money or a 5 get their hand laid in there and then whomp—no fingers.
Except it ain’t a rumor.
Malone found a guy staggering on the street one night, dripping blood all over the sidewalk. Carter left him with his thumb, though, so when he pointed the blame, he had no one to point at but himself.
They leave Teddy sitting against his car and go back to the Crown Vic. Malone cuts the cash up five ways, one for each of them, one share for expenses, and one piece for Billy O. Each guy puts his cash in a self-addressed envelope they always carry.
Then they go back and get Teddy.
“What about my ride, man?” Fat Teddy asks as they haul him to his feet. “You ain’t gonna take that, are you?”
“You had smack in it, asshole,” Russo says. “It is now property of the NYPD.”
“You mean property of Russo,” Fat Teddy says. “You ain’t drivin’ my Caddy out the Jersey Shore with that smelly guinea fish in it.”
“I wouldn’t be caught dead in this coonmobile,” Russo says. “It’s going to the pound.”
“It’s Christmas!” Fat Teddy whines.
Malone juts his chin toward the building. “What’s her number?”
Fat Teddy tells him. Malone punches the number and holds his phone up to Fat Teddy’s mouth.
“Baby, get down here,” Fat Teddy says. “Take care my car. And it better be here when I get out. And detailed.”
Russo leaves Fat Teddy’s keys on the hood and they haul him toward their car.
“Who dimed me?” Fat Teddy asks. “It was that grimy little bitch Nasty Ass?”
“You wanna be one of those Christmas Eve suicides?” Malone asks. “Jumps off the GW Bridge? Because we can make that happen for you.”
Fat Teddy starts in on Monty. “Workin’ for the man, brothuh? You they house nigger?”
Monty slaps him across the face. Fat Teddy is big, but his head snaps back like a tetherball. “I’m a black man, you grape-soda-drinking, bitch-beating, smack-slinging projects monkey.”
“Motherfucker, I didn’t have these cuffs on—”
“You want to take it there?” Monty says. He drops his cigar in the street and grinds it with his heel. “Come on, just you and me.”
Fat Teddy don’t say nothin’.
“That’s what I thought,” Monty says.
On the way to the Three-Two they stop at a mailbox and put in the envelopes. Then they take Fat Teddy in and book him on the gun and the heroin. The desk sergeant is less than thrilled. “It’s Christmas Eve. Task Force assholes.”
“May Da Force be with you,” Malone says.
I’m dreaming of a white Christmas,
Just like the ones I used to know …
Russo drives down Broadway toward the Upper West Side.
“Who was Fat Teddy talking about?” Russo asks. “Was he just mouthing, or does Carter have someone on