The Borzoi Killings by Paul Batista Read Free Book Online

Oscar Caliente controlled the police commanders who supervised the two precincts in Oscar’s territory.
    Oscar was leaning forward so close to Juan’s face that he could smell and feel Oscar’s breath. Oscar never smoked or drank. He had clean, mint-freshened breath. He never touched the millions of dollars in drugs that were distributed in his territory.
    Oscar placed his right hand on the back of Juan’s neck and gently pulled him even further forward. Their faces were within inches of each other, as if they were brothers about to share secrets. Juan trembled: the tendons in his neck vibrated like cords drawn very tight.
    “You’re working for a rich guy, right? I’ve been thinking about you. You see, you were a great worker and I asked around about you. And they told me you were meeting lots of rich guys out here. Really, really rich.”
    The grip of the hand on his neck was not strong. It was not Oscar’s own strength that Juan feared. Oscar was not strong. His hands were small. He was vaguely effete. It was his ability and his willingness to get ruthless men to act for him that caused the fear. “I’m just raking leaves,” Juan said. “I washed dishes in New York, remember? Raking leaves and washing dishes. That’s all I know.”
    “Bullshit, that’s not true, man. You’re special. Christ, I had you wash dishes so no one would figure out who you were and who you worked for. Very special, very good at what you do. And it isn’t washing dishes and raking leaves.”
    In the months in New York when he worked for Oscar Caliente, Juan’s special assignment was to range late at night out of Oscar’s established territory on the Upper East Side and East Harlem to the downtown after-hours clubs. There were at least seven clubs throbbing with music and wild dancing on West 14 th Street and West Houston Street and in the old warren of streets between them in the Meat Packing District near the Hudson River. The clubs were open from eleven at night until six or so in the morning. Juan was soon so well recognized by the bouncers at the velvet ropes at the entrances and the owners inside that he had free passage, like a Hollywood celebrity or the mythic Smooth Operator in the Sade song. He even brought with him an entourage of two or three men and women who carried what Oscar always called the “dry goods.”
    “I rake leaves,” Juan said.
    “Come on, Anibal, cut that shit. You look like Antonio Banderas, you know, that guy in the movies. It lets you get all over town. You love that, I know. The parties, the girls. You love it. I saw it in you.”
    Staring at Oscar’s close face, Juan said, “Really, man, I don’t want to do it.”
    Oscar smiled. “Sure you do. Think about it. You can get out of that shack in the fucking woods with all those Honduran and black guys. I saw your beautiful mama and her babies. She won’t have to work any more in the supermarket. Or you can dump her and play around.”
    Juan stared at him. It was no surprise that Oscar knew where he lived, who Mariana was, that she worked at the grocery store, and how many kids she had. And it was no surprise that Oscar Caliente knew that Juan worked for the Richardsons. All that made Juan even more afraid and also angry at this small, well-dressed man who had grown up in Mexico City in a wealthy family, attended a private school in Massachusetts where he learned to speak flawless English, returned to Mexico, and sought out and within three years became one of the key leaders in the Sinaloa cartel. Oscar could move seamlessly between Mexico and New York. Dressed in his blazers and button-down shirts—the type of clothes he had worn at the school in Massachusetts—he quickly established Sinaloa in the city. His instructions now were to expand the Sinaloa domain to the Hamptons.
    Still smiling, Oscar Caliente said, “I need you to come work for me again. But out here. I’m new here. Now we’re selling to the punks in the streets and the