Newyork Dealer

NEWYORK DEALER

Intro: Antony Sanchez thinks he knows everything about drug dealing in New York. Maybe he's right. The distant Chrysler Building reflected the moonlight across the river directly into Antony Sanchez's eyes. He lay against his red Buick in the chill of the New York night. He was in DUMBO, Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass, waiting for his buyers. They were some scummy Russian gang from New Jersey called the Blue Basers. He had been waiting for twenty minutes already, watching a rat eat the remains of a leftover pizza that had fallen out of a trash can. Had he not been on business, he would have blasted the little vermin away at the first chance. The sound of his Desert Eagle being fired would be audible halfway up Manhattan, and the cops were never more than five minutes away in New York, so he decided against it. As the furball was eating the last slice of pepperoni, his clients arrived. The rat scurried away at the grumble of the engine of the Blue Baser's Ford Mustang. There were three of them, with the leader being bearded. Antony never brought back up. Only one deal of his had ever gone awry. He dealt with it in his own way. The police were still finding pieces of the other guys six months later. You didn't mess with Antony Sanchez, but he wasn't a psycho or an idiot. He'd never done anything to anyone who didn't deserve it. The bad thing was, in this game, he often came across people who deserved it. He opened his passenger door and retrieved the brown package from the glove compartment. The main guy, who Antony was told to call Dmitri, approached him. The other two were more of the dumb muscle variety, hands on their pistols, just in case. A cool wind was blowing now, cutting through Antony's suit and chilling him to the bone. Dmitri spoke calmly and had a relatively neutral accent. Antony knew he was dealing with professionals. The Russians were always professional. "You got the H?" "No. I brought an Elmo toy by mistake." "Very funny. A wise guy, as you Americans say." "I have it. You got the cash?" "Yes. People's lives ruined for some green paper." "Makes you nauseous, don't it?" Antony sighed as he handed over the package of heroin. Dmitri handed him the black case of fifties. Both parties went back to their cars. Antony never checked the case of money until he was back in his car. Snipers could get a bead on him in the open. He opened it and took out a bundle. Two fifties on top, and white paper notes below. "Those Rooskie..." A burst of machine gun fire ripped through his windscreen. Derek ducked down with his head on the passenger seat. The fluff from inside the seats rained down on his face as the bullets ripped them apart. He knew his car was pointed towards the street from the dark alley. He started up the engine and pushed on the pedal. A splatter of blood hit the cracked windscreen. He had hit one of the goons. His engine block wrapped itself around the corner of the bank. Antony took out his pistol and exitted his mangled wreck. Dmitri's Mustang roared past Antony and onto the streets. "Dmitri!" screamed the goon left behind. He aimed his Uzi at Antony as he approached him. Antony blasted him in the shoulder. The Uzi flew out of his reach and hit the

side of a trash can. "Where does he operate from?" "Please... you shot me." "Where?" He whimpered. "Empire State. 33rd floor. He does his day job there. He's an accountant." "Accountant by day, drug dealer by night? Kind of opposites. I guess scum have to have good P.R." "Please..." Antony left the goon. He didn't deserve it. If he ever showed his face again, Antony would make sure he didn't have one left. The morning of the twentieth was warm, but there was a nip in the air. Antony lived in a hotel room in Manhattan. It wasn't too over-the-top and provided a good cover as it was easily affordable by his day job as a stock broker. The allure of millions won and lost every day had their charms, but he would have died of the stress before thirty if he had done it full time. He always did his drug deals on Friday nights. Some of his colleagues thought that was unlucky, but they knew his reputation. He made his own luck. He made his way out of his apartment and downstairs. The elevator never appealed to him, and walking down the stairs did him good. He pushed past some tourists on the sidewalk and hailed a taxi. The line of yellow cars were recognisable throughout the world, and Antony took one to the impressive concrete monolith. The Empire State Building, a 102 storey slice of the American way. Antony slipped a fifty to the guard by the metal detector inside the entrance and slipped around it. Since 9/11, deadly force was used without a second thought. He took the elevator to the observation deck on the roof. He had a very carefully laid out plan. First, he called Dmitri's mobile phone. The Blue Basers had given him Dmitri's number for the deal. "Hello. Derek Watson, accountant. How can I help you?" His imitation of the New York accent was nigh on perfect. "Come to the observation deck now, Dmitri." Dmitri didn't recognise the voice, but knew it had something to do with his other income stream. People often called to the Empire State to make deals. It was easy. Everyone knew where it was, even people who couldn't point out America on the map. Antony was looking out to the Statue of Liberty, far below, when the ping of the elevator alerted him. The green statue symbolised a lot for a lot of people. For Antony, it was a lump of metal impersonating an ugly woman. Dmitri always kept a Beretta on hand to deal with people like Antony. Antony turned around, stopping Dmitri with a stark glare. "Remember me?" The bullet missed Dmitri and embedded itself in a tourist's leg. Antony felt sorry, but his mission was still at hand. Dmitri ran into the elevator, Antony firing at him throughout. The bullets ricocheted off the closing metal doors of the lift. A fat security guard approached with his gun drawn. Antony ran into the second elevator as the favour he extended to Dmitri was repaid to him by the guard. Dmitri was exitting the building as Antony's elevator stopped. He ran through the metal detector. It's beeping alerted people in his vicinity to him. They began to scream and run away. Dmitri's Mustang was parked outside. He had trouble starting it. This gave Antony just enough time to commandeer a passing cab from it's Indian driver and give chase. People like Dmitri made Antony sick. He ploughed through crowds of pedestrians, hitting a couple. He didn't care about justice. He was a coward. Antony hit the occasional trash can, sending rubbish all over the sidewalk. They came to the majesty of Times Square. By this time, the NYPD had caught on and

were on the look out for their two cars. The glowing neon signs in the heart of capitalism told them what sort of shoes to buy, while people not thirty seconds away were homeless. The cab hit the side of a Toyota in its path, send the "taxi" sign from its roof onto the middle of the street. Cars swerved to avoid it, unsure of what it was. In New York, if you weren't sure what something was, you'd best assume it was dangerous. The Mustang growled its way towards the Manhattan Bridge, with the battered cab slowly following. The Mustange crashed into a blue Nissan, stopping both in their tracks. Antony pulled up in time to see Dmitri hobble out. His hand was clammy. It never had been before. Maybe it was the approaching sirens and the threat of his other side being revealed. Maybe his conscience was catching up with him. Maybe it was just the air conditioning. The Beretta in Dmitri's hand clicked. It was empty. Antony walked towards him quickly and fired once at his head. Blood spattered on his face. The sight of the brain always disgusted Antony. He barely escaped in a green Humvee, stolen from a hysterical Romanian holidaymaker. He left it in a dark alley about a mile from his apartment. The sun beat down as he walked the rest of the way. A day or two passed by. Antony learned from an old contact that the Blue Basers had been killing dealers all over town to monopolise the drug trade. Antony changed his weapon of choice to something more sensible, a Colt with attached silencer. He started off with Alexei, the guy directly in charge of Dmitri. He scouted out his mansion in Jersey for a week before making his move. As Alexei went out in his dressing gown to pick up the paper, Antony shot him through the eye. Pavel was next. By the end of the year, the city had a whole new variety of dog food. With the Blue Basers out of the way, he was back dealing again. The stock market had its allure, but it just wasn't for him. He left it behind and went into drugs big time. That was his mistake. He became more and more lavish. He moved into a mansion on the East Side. He bought himself a Porsche. Then a Ferrari. He was drawing attention to himself. He always wanted he'd go out like Tony Montana, in a blaze of bullets, but only if he really had to. He could never bring himself to shoot a cop, and knew he'd probably end up in the slammer, sooner or later. Too late, he realised he should have kept it low key. The NYPD did their recon of him and got enough for an arrest. They called for him in July. Antony never kept any drugs in his apartment or used any of his stash. The cops didn't find anything. They could only pin Dmitri's killing on him, the only one with witnesses, and the jury went easy. Dmitri was scum and got what was coming to him. Had Dmitri been in front of the court, he would have gotten the Chair. Antony got five years in Sing Sing. His double life was over. The normal life and his drug dealing were gone. He'd have to make his money some other way. As he lay in his bunk, thinking about his future and his past, the guard opened the cell door. "Sanchez, you've a new cell mate. Say hello to Cesar Manela. I hope you two play nice." "Hello, Mr. Sanchez." said the one armed prisoner. "Remember me?" Antony recognised him too late. The goon dug the shiv into his chest as the guard shouted for help.