Carlito's Way: Rise to Power (8 page)

My man, Earl Bassey—good looking out. Took care of my bank and my crew plus his own all the time I was in. Gave me a good accounting with books and all too. Over hundred thou—I like to fall through my asshole. When you’re in the Joint, anybody holds five dollars for you is a miracle. Except some of the wops—there was one boss did a long bit in a dope pinch; when he come out his crew had made and saved for him close to a million dollars in cash—so what was their reward? He’s still going around checking to see if they beat him out of anything. If so, shame on them. They shoulda iced him
as soon as he come out and glommed the money—they take this mafia shit too serious.

But Earl is a special kind of guy. Like they say in Spanish,
servicial—
which is ready to help anytime, down for any action. Like if you need ten large right away, Earl was there, no questions asked. If you needed good advice, Earl was the man. If you was out of coke or needed some whores in a hurry, Earl could always come up with somethin’. And how many guys can you call at 5
A.M
. and tell ’em, I’m in Baldy’s after-hours joint and there’s three Detroit pimps here I’m gonna waste so get yo’ ass down here, and he be there in a minute with two pistols, no questions asked. Earl was the best.

Lot of people thought so too. While I was in the Joint, Earl was up to being one of the main guys in Harlem. He was into everything. Even real estate in St. Croix and St. Thomas. Mr. Bassey. Earl was good with figures and books and he wanted me back in the numbers with him, but I never had no head for accounting and shit. I was just biding my time ’til I got the word from Rocco, then I was gonna invest my hundred large in a big load of junk. That’s where it was at. Ain’t no money nowhere else. All them hoodlums out there, hijacking trucks, robbing hotels, cracking safes, ain’t shit. One connection, one move—you the man; then you can laugh up your sleeve ’cause you got the secret. So I was cool.

Meanwhile, I had me some fun. Me and a few of my boys flew down to San Juan. I paid for everything. Gambled and partied every night—had a luxury suite. Champagne breakfasts, filet mignon, hundred-dollar
hookers. By this time, I was a kind of boss—I enjoyed it, about time somebody catered to me. Like if we walked into a club, my boys would flank me; I sat down first, head of the table, first choice with the broads—and the party ain’t over until I say so. Whatever the topic, I was the authority; sometimes I’d cross ’em up, reverse my field, then watch the boys jerk around to get back to my new angle. Shit, I was picking up the tabs, I’m entitled.
Capo di tutti capi
. Da’sa me. Ha!

One night we ran into Llanero. Llanero was a thug from 102nd Street in Harlem, gorilla people ’cause he had a bad face with a rip on it, but inside he was a faggot and the boys would kick his ass regular. He’d go somewhere he wasn’t known like the West Side or the Bronx and he’d be bad. He was a beater: Like if you didn’t make a bail right away he’d be the first one on the fire escape to rob your apartment or if you had a good card game going he’d find some outside kids to stick up the joint. Me he caught with some bad candy at a party years back—“
Coño
, Carlito, this coke is special shit from the
altiplano
in Bolivia; only the chiefs snort this shit”—and an old cornet player like me like to O.D. I’d have killed the motherfucker but he was wily to find. Then he went uptown to black Harlem with a big carton of Central Park grass which he got off as Panama pot which he had sprinkled on the top. Them niggers tracked him all over the city, but when they caught up with him he talked them out of it, talking on his knees in a garbage dump in the Bronx with two pistols in his face. Llanero was tricky. We was gonna have fun with Llanero.

My man Lalin said, “Llanero, Carlito wants you to join us for dinner.”

“I can’t, Lalin, I got an appointment.”

Loud and clear for all to hear. “Motherfucker, get yo’ ass over here and sit down,” says me. This was a plush restaurant in Old San Juan where the maitre d’ cooks right alongside you, but I didn’t give a shit.

“Sit right here at the head of the table, Llanero, you look terrific. Who you with here?”

“I’m with Santito Gil, Carlito; been here two years— clean, no problems. I heard you was doing great, Carlito; everybody in the Barrio always said, Carlito’s going all the way, he’s—”

“Watcha mean, motherfucker, talking behind my back—you some kind of stool pigeon? Who told you you could talk about me?”

“You got it wrong, Carlito—”

“No, you pussy, you got it wrong. I got a napkin under this table, and under that napkin there’s a piece that says I’m gonna blow your stomach out your back.”

Ol’ scarface Llanero turned green inside his tan.

“But you look terrific, Llanero, terrific. Let’s see now, them kicks you’re wearing got to go for eighty dollars. Take ’em off—I mean both of them, motherfucker. That’s it, cool-like. Hey, that watch, Llanero, got to be a Piaget— let Colorado hold it a minute. Let’s see the label on that boss suit of yours—Louis Roth, California; I’ll be damn, you must be one of them executive cats. Tato, take the jacket off him, throw it under the table. Lalin, bring the maitre d’ over here.”

The maitre d’ had caught the action and he was all shook up.

“Waiter, what kind of ratjoint is this that a man can sit around without no jacket?”

“
Señor
, I thought he had a jacket when he came in.”

“Get his ass the hell out of my table.”

Llanero was in such a hurry he forgot all his gear. We slapped skin all around on the running of our little murder game.

Early that morning the Rican police hit our suite. No warrant, no nothing. Llanero to Santito to the bulls—they pull that shit over there. They give us twenty-four hours. We left standby that afternoon. I don’t ever want to be busted outside of home base; that’s a world of trouble.

B
ACK TO THE
A
PPLE
. T
HE JUNKIES WERE COMING OUT OF THE
woodwork by now—you’d see them on rooftops, fire escapes, in alleys—hauling TV sets, toasters, radios, clothes —you name it, they was selling. Grab your coat off a wall, your hat off your head—the junkies were scavenging; get off a one high, got to get movin’ to the next one; busy stealing, scheming, conning—a junkie is a busy cat, always walking fast. Watch them on 100th or 117th Street— skanky, dirty, always in pairs like faggots, never no pussy; don’t want to know about no pussy, just that spike. How they got that last bag, how they gonna score the next one— that’s their rap, how they’re conning the world.

“Dig, Jack, I tol’ Moms, you got to gimme them five dollars you got stashed, she say no good, I jumped right
out on the fire escape on the edge—I’ll kill myself, I don’t deserve to live, I’m making you suffer, Mom. She gimme the bread. Now Wednesday when she cashes her check you wait under the stairs. I’ll play chickie on the stoop, dig? But don’t hurt her.”

There’s got to be winners and there’s got to be losers. They’re the losers, that’s all. So when one of these chumps O.D.s, everybody’s saying, what a pity, such a young man; that’s what the motherfucker wants—he wants that last high, going right up the roof of his head and keep going. So what in hell is all the fuss about? They’re scumbags. Get the money.

A
BOUT THIS TIME
R
OCCO
F
ABRIZI SENT FOR ME
. J
ILLY’S
. Class joint. Best piano in town. I just had Colorado with me.

“Only room at the bar, sir.”

“It’s okay, Mike, he’s with my party.”

There was five thousand years in the joint. Spitters. Rocco brought us to his table in the back—his crowd, no broads.

“You boys know Carlito, from uptown. Mr. A, I’d like you to meet Carlito.”

Peter Amadeo, Rocco’s boss, he’s been around since they repealed Prohibition. He got three speeds—gun, knife, and the rope. Any beef or hassle come up, kill right away, then we discuss it later. He was made in the thirties, always seemed to be on the winning side in all the
wars, a survivor. He come up the ladder but he ain’t got no smarts, no class like Rocco. A crazy ginso with a horseshoe up his ass. Suspicious of his own mother.

“Wadda you crazy, Rocco? I got to meet people? I know too many people already—get them a table someplace else.”

Real gentleman, Mr. A. I got hot but I didn’t want to make more trouble for Rocco so I let it slide. Guinea motherfucker.

Rocco had them put a table for us right in the aisle. Bucket of champagne. He could see I was hot.

“The old man’s very nervous, Carlito; he doesn’t mean any harm, but he’s got a thing about conspiracies—very nervous.”

“Then maybe he ought to move over for you, Rocco.”

“You’re downtown now, Charles; don’t fool around with that kind of talk.”

“Okay, Rock, gimme the deal.”

“Cubans—what do you know about Cubans?”

“The Cubans, they’re here and in Miami, loads of them; what is there to know about them?”

“All right, Charles, I’ll tell you. This is not a banana-or cattle-boat migration; these are doctors, lawyers, businessmen, the whole middle class—like the German Jews after the war.”

“So?”

“So they’re going to move fast, make their weight felt real quick-like.”

“So?”

“So the hoodlums came with them. You’ve seen them hanging around the Latin joints down here and in Washington Heights. Light stuff feeling their way around now. But they’re ex-cops and military people from the Batista and Prio governments. They’re small-arms experts, they’ve all been in shoot-outs. They’re also hungry; this is their last stop, and the pickings are easy. You get the picture now?”

“Yeah, Rocco.”

“They’re going to make their move. So we have to head them off at the pass, ease them in gradually. You take a few into your crew, this other guy will take some, like that. This way they won’t come at us all at once. When they get greedy we’ll have to kill a few but they’ll be split up and all the rest will fall in line. I mean am I right or wrong?”

“You right, man, you right!”

“Things may get better because there’s more than enough to go around and they’re down in South America for the candy and in Europe for the real shit. I see all kinds of possibilities. Am I right or wrong?”

“The man is on, the man is on!”

“First off, you’re taking a guy off my hands. They’re sending him to me with his boys from Miami—yeah, your friend, Nacho Reyes; I need that crazy Cuban like a hole in the head, so I’m farming him out to you. You both eat rice and beans. Keep him under your wing, he’s the main guy. If he goes along with the program, the rest will follow. Any Cubans give you trouble, send Nacho; I hear he’s rough. As a matter of fact, some of my people
will be using him from time to time for various—uh— house calls—ha!”

“
Carajo!
You gonna put this
verdugo
on me?”

“Look at that, you even talk the same language. Tell your man to get you your car, I’ll walk you to the corner.”

When we got to Eighth Avenue, Rocco said, “There’s a car on its way over now—I’m forming a pot, ten guys, a hundred a piece.”

“You running the deal?”

“Who else?”

“I’m in.”

“Take this half of a dollar bill; Vinnie—you remember Vinnie—he’ll have the other half on him; he’ll be at your place Tuesday, have fifty ready for him—front money. Have the rest ready for Friday—C.O.D., I’m guaranteeing the shit.”

“Rocco, you know what this means to me, I’ll never let you down.”

“I told you I’d give you a shot; it’s a welcome-home present from your Uncle Cheech—’ey
afangul
, wadda you gonna kiss me on the cheek? Get uptown.”

And the deal went down. Ten kilos I got. We had that shit in the street in no time. I was big-time. Imagine, me, Carlito, the main connection uptown. I knew I was bad, but I didn’t know I was slick.

About this time I changed my image—conservative clothes, a pad on the East Side, a Lincoln. I even bought a discotheque downtown so I could get next to the young pussy that was down there—the help was robbing me but I didn’t give a shit, it was just a toy. Funny the way the
wise-guy can never make it in legit business because the square that covers for him will always rob him. Never fails. I guess it’s like getting even. I used to like to stash into the joint with a big party. Champagne for everybody—make believe I was checking the receipts. “I don’t want nobody in my joint with a piece”—law and order—when I think of the bread I’ve pissed away! Sometimes on a Saturday I’d jump up to Harlem in my Lincoln and play stickball in the street with the kids in my eighty-five-dollar slacks. Yeah, I was a big shot! Everybody said it, “
Carlito buena gente!
” Like if some P.R.’s was getting dispossessed or needed some funeral money, I’d see them go. Or if some dude come out of the slams or couldn’t make a bail, I was always down. Like I wouldn’t hog the bread—everybody with me went first-class. Especially my broads—you name it, good clothes, good jewelry, good coke.

Then the Cubans punched in.
Cubiches!
They sure shook up the hoodlums. Right away they was ringside at all the Latin joints drinking Chivas Regal and snorting. They call coke
perico
(parakeet) because it makes you talk all night. So they’d be in the after-hours joints until 10 or 11
A.M
. Everybody had a pistol so it was Wild West stuff. A pistola they call a
fuca
—so when you mix
perico
and
fucas
you know you got trouble. People were getting killed. Ask the bulls from the two-eight, the three-oh, and the three-four—they thought a hurricane had hit Manhattan. The hoodlums were all shook up, everybody was packing; mostly the Cubans would fight among themselves but it was only a question of time.

Nacho Reyes: first night in New York we hit about ten joints—Liborio, Iberia, La Baracca, like that. He had put a group together in Miami, all hitters, all veterans of the Batista wars, all hungry. The Ricans quite naturally had to be the hosts.

Nacho’s tongue was always thick from
perico
, which he snorted day and night, so when you talked he always got up close to your face—“
Mi hermano, mi consorte
.” If he wanted to get somethin’ across to you he’d close his eyes in the middle of a sentence and leave his mouth open—so you’d be waiting. Before you knew it I was doing the same thing. “
Mi her-mano
,” crazy. His life was unreal. He’d killed four cops, two of Batista’s and two of Castro’s. His mortal enemy, Juanito Cuatro Vientos (Johnny Four Winds), had shot him five times in an ambush in Havana. They took him to the morgue where he came to on a slab. He got up off the slab naked with the five bulletholes and stumbled into the morgue attendant’s office—scared the shit out of the guy.