American Gangster by Max Allan Collins Read Free Book Online Page B

Nate, but they had two guests, a couple of young Thai wise guys insportshirts with big pointed collars and too much gold jewelry.
    The conversation going on right now was in the Thai language, which Frank didn’t understand; but he trusted Nate, a shirttail relation from North Carolina.
    A skinny, dead-eyed Thai punk asked Nate, “He say how much stuff he wants?”
    Nate, also speaking Thai, said, “He said ‘a lot.’What that means I don’t know. Four or five keys, maybe.”
    Both Thai hoods studied Frank like he was a modern art painting they were trying to comprehend.
    Then the skinny Thai said, “And he’s your cousin.”
    â€œMy cousin-in-law,” Nate said by way of full disclosure. “My ex-wife’s cousin, actually. But he’s family to me. I trust him.”
    The Thai kid thought about that. Then he said to Nate, “Ask your cousin-in-law how much he wants.”
    Nate asked Frank.
    Frank said, “A hundred kilos.”
    Now it was Nate studying Frank like modern art.
    â€œAre you fucking kidding me, Frank?” Nate asked.
    â€œAm I known for my sense of humor, Nate?”
    The next day, pushing through the paradise-forpickpockets throng on the sidewalk along a row of steamy food stalls, Frank and Nate walked and talked.
    â€œNo one I know can get
that
much,” Nate said.
    â€œI heard you were connected.”
    â€œI am connected. I know every gook gangster intown, and that’s a lot of gook gangsters. I know every goddamn black soldier in the Army from the cooks to the colonels, and on up.”
    â€œGood to hear.”
    They stopped and bought mangos from a vendor, and munched as they went on.
    â€œWell,” Nate said reflectively, “I suppose I could piece together that many keys, from different suppliers. But ain’t none of it gonna be one-hundred percent pure.”
    Frank shook his head. “Then I don’t want it. Not what I want.”
    Nate grunted in exasperation. “I
know
that. I see where you’re comin’ from, my man. I just do not think it’s possible, without risking floating facedown in one of these fuckin’ canals.”
    â€œIt’s my risk.”
    â€œIt’s my risk, too!”
    â€œIf you want to get rich, it is.”
    Nate bit into the mango. “Means dealing with the Chiu-Chou syndicates in Cholon or Saigon . . .
if
they’ll even deal with your stateside ass.”
    But Frank was shaking his head. “No. Not good enough.”
    Nate’s jaw dropped, part in reaction, part for effect. “What the fuck . . . ?”
    Frank was still shaking his head. “Too late. It’s been chopped. I want to get it where
they
get it. From the
source
.”
    Nate slowed, and Frank didn’t. Catching up, the bigman eyeballed his old friend and then started laughing. “Pullin’ my chain, right?”
    Frank’s eyes said
Wrong
.
    Astounded, Nate managed, “
You’re
gonna get it. Your own self.”
    Frank shrugged with his face. “Why not? Good shit in life don’t come around to hand itself to you. You got to go after it.”
    Nate tossed the mango pit in the gutter. “You mean
you’re
gonna go into the fuckin’ jungle like fuckin’ Tarzan?”
    Frank shrugged. “I lived in jungles all my life, Nate. Where I lived, fuckin’ Tarzan wouldn’ta made it.”
    Nate put a hand on his friend’s shoulder and stopped him, right there on the sidewalk, making a thousand people walk around the ex-soldier and the tourist. “No, you don’t get it. This isn’t
a
jungle. This shit is
the
jungle. Tigers. Vietcong. Fuckin’ snakes
alone
will kill you!”
    Frank raised an eyebrow. “And how is that different from Harlem?”
    Khaki-clad Frank felt like he was leading the goddamn Dirty Dozen, so motley a bunch were these Thai thugs and black soldiers, riding mules with shoulder-slung