Stash (19 page)

But if Marta Everson makes a stink, then suddenly it all might start to smell.

Hopefully, Stephen could control her.

Jude counted twenty-seven of twenty-nine tables occupied, plus every stool in the bar taken. They’d serve a hundred dinners tonight, maybe a hundred and twenty if the late crowd trickled in when the Rep Theater let out. Another solid Saturday, but even on weekdays they’d do fifty while in other restaurants the staff stared out windows and took turns sneaking away to get stoned.

Andrew deserved the credit for Gull’s success. Jude’s management of the dining room and service staff was akin to making the trains run on time; Andrew’s skill was inventing a train and laying tracks in the first place.

On the wall behind the hostess desk hung a framed review from
Table
magazine with a picture of Andrew Cole. The headline read “Old Town, New Delight.” The photographer wanted Jude in the shot, too, but Jude had declined, preferring not to have his picture taken. Besides, everyone knew that chefs were trendy, not managers. Let Andrew be the star. He created the most interesting and varied menu in town while keeping food costs under control. When he ordered ducks, every scrap of meat got used: breast of duck, duck and goat cheese ravioli, a few of the bones roasted for the stock. A house favorite was a duck confit salad with grilled radicchio, which Jude’s companion was devouring now, along with a third Manhattan, straight up.

His name: Daryl Sweet. Known to all as Da Da Sweet, ever
since his NFL playing days, because of his reputation for taunting the competition across the line of scrimmage about their mothers, saying he fucked or was going to fuck their mama. He’d goaded plenty of offensive linemen into false starts and personal foul penalties over the years. A clever teammate came up with the nickname Da Da. As in “Da Da goin’ to do yo’ Ma Ma.” Juvenile, locker-room stuff, but it stuck.

Sweet stood Jude’s height at over six feet but weighed forty or so more pounds, mostly ropy muscle wrapping his neck, chest, arms, and legs. He still carried the intimidating body of a former NFL linebacker, first four seasons with the Giants, last three with the Bills, until injuries finished him. A torn Achilles tendon, which cost him an entire season, a dislocated elbow, a broken collarbone, spasms in the back. Two or three concussions. Plus the strains and cracks and contusions and bruises that don’t make the injury report. Talented, high motor, mean streak, nose for the ball, but brittle—that was the scouting report and legacy on Daryl Sweet. Arthritis already creaked his body, and he moved slowly now.

But Da Da knew going in that short, brutal, and violent defined NFL careers. He’d been smart enough to stash away some of the millions he’d made instead of blowing it all on bling and cars and dope. He’d invested in a business and now his name graced a half-dozen health clubs around the New York City area and two upstate with more planned. Sweet Fitness catered to high school, college, and club team athletes, offering custom strength-and-conditioning training programs for any competitive sport. He had contracts with a few minor-league hockey and baseball teams and one indoor football team to be their official training facility. He was planning further expansion and considering franchising his brand.

Tonight, he was finalizing negotiations to become Jude’s newest, and largest ever, client. He was looking for a safe, reliable
source for performance enhancement—steroids, HGH, and speed, but also coke, GHB, X, and weed. There’s the natural runner’s high, and then there’s the chemist’s high. Even some athletes like the additional boost after a hard workout; some work out hard just to party hard.

Jude had been introduced to Sweet through a Yonkers city councilman who also served on the board of a chamber of commerce Da Da had recently joined after opening a club there. The councilman was an occasional customer of Jude’s, purchasing a variety of prescription drugs for his extended family through Jude’s online pharmacy. At first, Jude had been reluctant about Sweet; he held back, but Da Da made clear what he wanted and displayed good business instincts. Sweet knew the language of risk and margins, he understood channels, he knew enough math to negotiate. Jude had left their last meeting with an agreement, and tonight they would finish the details over dinner at Gull.

“How’s your salad?”

“I could eat three of these. But I’m trying to shed a few. Can’t be Fat Albert if I’m promoting fitness.”

“Andrew’s menu is very healthy,” Jude said. “Everything is fresh, and he calculates calories in each dish.”

Jude had ordered the Bibb lettuce salad with Hudson Valley blue cheese and glazed pecans. They shared a bottle of Russian River Valley pinot noir, which Sweet sipped between Manhattans.

“You kidding, right, about this being a … What did you call it? Proof of concept,” Sweet said. “I don’t like no jokes when it’s business.”

“We have to see how it goes. The first time I’ll supply the product directly, and if everything goes smoothly and we’re both satisfied we can set up an online mail-order pharmacy that will handle all the prescription products. The street gear will continue to be
direct, with delivery to your preferred destination. But only if the first deal works as planned.”

“You can’t just give a taste and cut me off, it don’t work that way.”

Was Sweet questioning Jude’s business model or making a vague threat? He said, “One deal at a time. It’s the only way I work with new clients and larger transactions.”

“So I’d be a big customer for you?”

He shouldn’t have said that part about larger deals. “You’d be an important customer,” Jude clarified. “You know, like any business, it’s all about the customer.”

Sweet laughed. “Tell that to those gangbangers and greaseballs in the city. They don’t give a fat nigger’s ass about treating a customer right.”

“That’s why you came to me, for the service you deserve.”

Despite his anxiety over this new client, in many ways Jude sympathized with Sweet and his reluctance to work through the drug gangs. Jude had managed to stay under the radar of the usual murderous distribution channels, meticulously carving out a niche for his business. He built his client list over the years, never selling product to anyone he didn’t research first, and staying away from street users. His only direct sales were higher end. His profitable clients included a United States congressman and his cronies, the CEO of a software company, an entire network of restaurants and clubs in the region (but not his own; no fishing off the company pier), and select individuals who purchased and resold. Establishing the business in this manner took longer and he sacrificed income, especially in the early years, but by being careful and avoiding the trap of greed, his brains still occupied his head and not some shallow woodsy grave or the inside of his car windshield. He owned an unregistered Jericho 941 semicompact
9 millimeter, an Israeli model you rarely see, which he seldom carried and had never fired. He backed down in disagreements over money or product and subsequently removed that client or supplier from his list. After he had met Gil at a National Restaurant Association show six years ago, sourcing through Canada proved to be an astute business decision, and although border security had tightened over the past few years, he now scheduled border crossings for specific dates and times when his pal Leonard Deitch manned booth number four.

His Montreal connection didn’t offer the volumes or rates that larger organized drug operations needed, and Gil took a hard line regarding cash up front on this deal for Sweet that required such an array of product, but it was a perfect fit for Jude’s niche and kept him from having to deal with the gangbangers and greaseballs in New York City that Sweet referred to.

Yet here a dude sat across from him, black as squid ink, about to buy a larger volume and more variety than Jude had ever dealt, which required a level of risk he’d never before shouldered.

And therein lay the dilemma. Jude was looking to reduce his risk—in fact, retire from the business altogether, but first he needed to be more financially secure. Although his daughter had a partial scholarship to St. Lawrence, Jude still needed to write checks for tens of thousands of dollars over the next four years. Plus he needed to stash away more funds for his own retirement, pad Dana’s trust fund, pay off the Florida place, and finance a second restaurant he and Andrew wanted to open.

Working this deal a few times with Sweet would get it done, but the risk/reward ratio intensified. He couldn’t afford to get careless; he couldn’t sell so much as an ounce of pot to the wrong person. As careful as you are about whom you do business with, at some point you simply have to accept the risk, knowing that luck played its own indifferent role. And no one’s luck held out forever.

Jude returned his focus to the table. He reached for the bottle of pinot and filled Sweet’s glass.

“When you retired from football, did you ever think about just staying retired?”

“What do you mean retired? I was thirty years old. I had a whole life ahead of me.”

“Well, I’m sure you made enough money to last, if you wanted to live a modest life.”

“Da Da don’t live a modest life. Da Da makes a splash everywhere he goes. You know what I’m saying? I’m keeping my foot on the pedal until I’m dead. No retirement. What about you?”

“My daughter started college this year.”

Sweet flashed a smile. He may not have blinged his teeth, but his mouth had more white caps than the Jersey shore. “College ain’t cheap. Besides, I never heard of nobody retiring from this business, except in the usual way.”

Sweet was right. The usual way would be getting killed or sent to prison. That’s why Jude needed a smooth transition, a soft landing. If he got out, his clients would have to find a new supplier, and his own suppliers would need new distributors. There could be some angry, desperate people left with or without inventory, which could lead to a dangerous situation for him. He’d do his best to divest and make everyone comfortable; if Sweet ended up a trusted partner, Jude would introduce him to his pharmacist and his Montreal connections, although the French Canadians threw the word
nigger
around like it was still back-of-the-bus days.

“You have the down payment with you?” Jude asked.

“I don’t like the cash-up-front part. I never done it that way.”

“I don’t have the liquidity to float it, not at these quantities,” Jude said.

“You better not fuck me over.”

“I can’t do anything about the terms—at least for this first time. If you want a smaller order, I can do that, but price per goes up, of course. Or you can work COD with your city connections.”

Sweet frowned, as if he’d just thought of a new problem.

“I got it. Down in the car with my man.”

“I’ll send someone out to pick it up,” Jude said. “Does your guy need something to eat?”

“He’s fine.”

“I can send something out.”

Sweet shook his head. “So Friday night, right?”

“That’s when I get it. By the time I get back it will be Saturday.”

“Get back from where?”

Jude smiled at Sweet’s question, but his heart rushed a few beats. As if Jude would tell him. “I’ll deliver to you on Saturday afternoon.”

“You be with my money for too long a time. If you get it Friday night, I want it first thing Saturday morning.”

Sweet had to posture and get tough about every little detail that didn’t fit his vision. A few hours here or there. Everything a hassle. Is this someone he wanted to get into a business relationship with?

Think of the objective, Jude reminded himself. You’re doing this for Dana, making sure she has a good safety net. You’re doing this to retire sooner.

“I can’t do any earlier than the afternoon. I have to make a few stops to get everything together. What about by three?”

“You not there by three, I’ll think you’ve run off with my money. I don’t like any … what do you call them? Chinks in the plan.”

“I’m a businessman, Daryl, just like you. Where am I going to
run, and more importantly, why would I run? Why would I sit on all this inventory when I have you waiting to buy it?”

“Just so long as we know. And it’s Da Da, not Daryl. I ain’t been called Daryl since I came out of Florida State.”

“Fine. Da Da, then. We can set up the pharmacy anytime. Your customers can order online, even pay with credit cards.”

“After I distribute the samples and get some demand.”

Their waiter brought coffee and set down cream and a bowl of sugar.

“Can I offer you dessert?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“This is Simon,” Jude said, introducing the waiter to Sweet. “This is Da Da Sweet.”

“I know who you are. Pleased to meet you,” said Simon.

“We’re going to pass on dessert,” Jude said to Simon, “but I want you to go outside and pick up a package from Mr. Sweet’s driver. He’s waiting in his car.”

“Black Navigator,” Sweet said, reaching for his phone. “I’ll tell him you’re coming.”

“Navigator,” Simon repeated.

“Use the rear door,” Jude said. “And Simon, on your way out, could you send Vicki over here?”

Simon nodded and left.

“You seen the IFL at all?” Sweet asked.

Jude shook his head. Now that they’d come to an agreement, he’d had enough of Sweet and wanted to excuse himself.

“International Fight League. This shit’s the hottest sport going. You haven’t seen it?”

“No.”

“I’m sponsoring some fighters. Maybe I’ll get a team someday. It’s about one step up from dog fighting—except it’s legal, no one talks about cruelty because it’s humans and not animals. Taking
over from boxing. When you come down, we’ll go into the city for a match.”

“Sounds great. I’d love to see it.” He’d find a way to get out of it.

Vicki, the hostess tonight, came to their table. They had stopped seating people, and Vicki’s only tasks now were finalizing the count and tidying up around the hostess stand. About this time she usually planted herself on a stool and started drinking, surveying the bar for anyone of interest.