The time had come. The shipment of flour was in and it was time to get down to business. Marcus had pretty much come to grips with the fact that it was do or die time... and he wasn't scared anymore. The back loading room of Oscar's butcher shop seemed even sketchier than ever and he knew today it could end up being the site of a massacre. The sound of the strong wind whipping at the side of the building made an eerie sound that just put Marcus in an uncomfortable position. He didn't know how he could get caught but he did know that the Bandanistas had a peculiar knack of just knowing stuff. The big cheerful lady on the side of the delivery van posed as an odd juxtaposition of sorts: this jolly, wholesome lady delivering what was to become anything but. And Machelli just standing there with that baseball bat and those sunglasses. Looked like something out of some cheezy gangster movie. Marcus thought to himself that he would have laughed out loud were the situation at hand not so dire.
Carlos had delivered 20 kilos in packages labeled "From Mom." "So what exactly are we gonna be doing?" Oscar asked, clearly skeptical of the plan. "Easy," Marcus replied knowing that that response was completely untrue, "We gotta just lace all the coke with flour. I'm thinking 20% of every ounce we'll lace with the flour, giving us a 20% increase in total profits. At this rate, in a month we'll have made 20,000 extra dollars that won't have to be taxed by the Bandanistas." "This is risky man," Oscar replied. "I dunno if I'm down." They began to ration out the coke.
A door opened on the other side of the garage and the two men looked to where the sound had come from.
"Dios Mio! RUN!"
Shots rang out.
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Oscar Alcazar
The pain was sharp, throbbing, menacing, unforgiving. Any slight movement sent shocks of agony pulsing through Oscar's meaty head. He couldn't remember what caused the pain, why he was half-way off the bed, why he was sweaty and cold. He stepped outside into the fresh morning air and began to recall flashes of imagery from the night before.
He was with Manuel and Machelli. He must have been doing something illegal. A black van flashed through his memory. What was that? Why did he keep thinking about it? It must have some importance. Damn the pain was too much. Oscar collapsed into a dirty plastic chair. As his vision faded in and out, Oscar's skin bristled with goosebumps. Hail? Really? Please... But he was too delirious to care.
Oscar remembered see the black van drive away. Its tires screeched on wet pavement. The picture in his mind was blurry, hazy. He remembered commotion, disarray, frantic running, ducking, hiding. Gunshots. And the black van's screeching tires. That van was nothing but trouble. He knew it.
Marissa flung open the door of Washington Heights. A gust of wind tipped her sideways as she stepped off the curb. She recovered, hustling across the street towards Oscar.
"Watcha need honey, the usual?"
"Hell yeah. How you doin today big buddy? Looks like you had a long night last night."
"Sure did. Funny thing is, I'm still trying to remember it all." Oscar slapped her sandwich together. "Keep the money, girl. We cool."
"Thanks Oscar."
He returned to his look-out chair on the sidewalk. The wind felt good now, calming, relaxing, refreshing. His head was clearing up.
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