Robbing the Illegal Drug Store

By Preston Peet
For DrugWar.com

Posted May 2, 2006

Based on what might be a true story, heard through the grapevine while researching War on Some Drugs and Users news and events.

photo by John@
http://www.flickr.com/photos/cumisky/

"I don't like him," Scott D. told Edward the first day they met. "I'm going to rob him and take his customers," Scott said in what seemed all seriousness. Edward didn't know what to say in reply, deciding keeping his silence was the best recourse.

But that was only in front of Scott. As soon as Edward saw Frank, the object of Scott's ire, Edward told him right away what had been said.

"He's all pissed off at you, and says he's going to get you" Edward told Frank as soon as he walked in and sat down. "He says you'd made an appointment to see him, then dissed him by not showing up. You've apparently hurt his gangster pride. He might be a nobody, but he's got a serious burr under his saddle now, so if I were you, I'd watch my back at all times man. He's small-fry but I think he's dangerous too. Be careful."

Frank was riding high, his drug delivery business going great guns, so he was feeling cocky and indestructible, impervious to harm. Riding his bicycle all over Manhattan six nights a week, delivering a hugely diverse array of illegal narcotics and herbal substances to a wide assortment of customers without a hitch his entire career, it simply didn't seem feasible to him that he could be robbed or worse. As most people believe when hearing or thinking about robberies and disasters, he feels they only happen to other people.

Despite that first contact with Scott, and Edward's subsequent warning to Frank, another acquaintance ended up reintroducing Scott D. and Frank. Although Frank was initially wary, over the next month or so Scott D showed him nothing but deference and respect, so Frank quickly let his guard down, going so far as to begin doing the occasional, small time business with Scott D. Frank would relate the latest Scott D story when visiting Edward and his girlfriend, usually casting Scott D into the role of bumbling small-time hood with bizarre street slang to match.

One night when visiting Edward for their regular game of chess, Frank let drop the news that after he left Edward's place he was going to go "do a fairly large deal with Scott D."

Immediately Edward's girlfriend had a serious premonition of trouble. "Oh no, that's a really bad idea, don't do that," she thought to herself, but didn't mention her hesitation out loud to Frank, waiting until he was gone to express her dismay to Edward. "I should have told him not to go," she said point blank right after Frank walked out their door and into the early evening gloom.

After that night, Edward and his girlfriend stopped hearing from Frank. He stopped answering his phone, stopped checking his voicemail, basically dropping off the face of the Earth as near as they could ascertain. Asking around to all their friends that might know him, they and their friends all eventually decided that Frank must have been arrested. Everyone then began to worry about the collection of phone numbers Frank had in his nifty, ultra-modern phone. After six weeks it was pretty much assumed by all that he really had been arrested, no one wanting to entertain any worse ideas. Paranoia reigned among the whole group of friends and customers, and there were a number of folk scrambling to find a new drug dealing connection as they'd been left with large pharmaceutical habits and nowhere to get their fix. Things were not pretty in Manhattan for a while.

Then, after a seven week stretch, Edward's cell phone rang.

"Hi, it's me, Frank. I'm back."

"Hey man, Frank! Where In the hell have you been? You ok?" Edward couldn't hide the surprise nor happiness at hearing Frank's voice. At least he was alive, so those unspoken fears were now allayed. Still, it was a bit disconcerting to hear from Frank out of the blue like this, so naturally Edward's guard was up.

"It's a long story. Are you gonna be home tomorrow?"

"Sure man, come on by. We'd both love to see you."

The buzzer rang the next evening. Edward went out into the stairwell to smoke a cigarette and wait for Frank to climb the four flights of stairs. But when Frank reached Edward's landing, Edward almost didn't recognize him. Stamping out his butt, Edward opened the door and followed Frank into the apartment.

"Holy shit Frank, what happened to you?" Frank no longer looked the vigorous, healthy young man that Edward had known a month and a half previously. Always thin at over six feet tall, Frank was now gaunt, skinnier than Edward even, which is saying a lot. Even with all his winter garb on, Edward could see that Frank had lost major pounds. It was also very apparent that Frank was weak and tired, his face extremely pale and drained. As he sat on Edward's bed, Edward impatiently blurted again, "So, what in the fuck happened to you Frank? You ok?"

"Well, no, I'm not actually," he said, wiping at his mouth where a bubble of spit was gathered. "Scott D decided to rob, AND shoot me."

"Oh No!" Edward felt wobbly in the knees for a moment. "Are you serious? When did this happen?"

"Right after I left your place, last time I was here," he replied.

"Is there anyone after this asshole yet?" Edward asked.

"No, but obviously I'd like to know as much about this prick as possible," Frank replied.

"So what happened?" Edward asked again. "When did this happen?"

"Right after I left here," Frank said. By now Edward's girlfriend had come home and immediately told Frank about her unstated fears. "Don't worry about it. I wouldn't have listened," Frank told her. "I'd already discounted Edward's warning too, so even had you told me I wouldn't have listened. I wasn't listening to anyone. I was too confident that nothing could happen to me."

"So tell us what happened, please." Edward could barely hold his anger in check, but wanted to hear the details, so forced himself to stay calm and not fly off the handle.

"I met Scott D in the stairwell of his building," Frank told them. "in the projects over near Ave. D. I should have been more alert, but he'd been so cool to me since we'd been properly introduced that I just didn't consider that something might be wrong." Frank swallowed, obviously in pain, then continued. "We did a very small deal, not at all what he'd lead me to believe I was there for, but he made an appointment to do a further, much larger deal a week or two later. What he'd really done of course was make sure I had a lot of money on me. After we concluded our business, we began down the stairs. We got one level down, then suddenly this guy leapt out in front of us holding an automatic pistol. Scott continued on down the stairs right past the gunman without a pause. It was so fucking obvious that he'd set me up, but I still didn't register exactly what was happening. I then did the stupidest thing of my life. When I saw the guy coming at me, I backed up. He jumped me, we grappled for a moment or two, then he took that fucking pistol and shot me in the neck."

"In the fucking neck?" Edward almost yelled. "Jesus fucking Christ man, that's messed up!"

"Yeah, tell me about it," Frank started to laugh but stopped with a pained expression on his face. "Please don't make me laugh, it still hurts too much," he said. "I didn't even realize I'd been shot at first," Frank continued with his story. "All I knew at first was that the gun had gone off. When that happened I let the asshole have my case, more concerned with getting out of those stairs alive than trying to keep my drugs and money. I staggered down the stairs one more flight, still not realizing I was shot, until I tried to open an apartment door in search of safety and help. That's when I noticed my right hand wasn't working."

"Holy shit Frank, I can't believe this. Who called the ambulance?"

"The person whose door I was trying to open let me into their apartment and called 911 for me. I never did lose consciousness. The cops who first arrived automatically assumed I was in the projects to buy drugs, and I did nothing to dissuade them of their notion. When the homicide detectives came to see me in the hospital, I declined to give them a statement, feeling that Scott D could get me into almost as much trouble as I could get him in. For that matter, as far as Scott D is concerned, I was murdered in that stairwell. He never came back to check on me, so until I get my strength back, I'd prefer he continue believing that."

"What did they get off you?" Edward is having a bit of trouble digesting this, not wanting to believe that Scott D had been serious, and that his warning to Frank had not done a bit of good.

"I was carrying way more drugs and money than I had any right to be. I was being incredibly stupid and arrogant," Frank sighed. "They got just over twenty grand in drugs and cash. But I survived, so I don't really care in the end."

"Man, you are so fucking lucky to be alive," Edward said, shaking his head, still in shock over the news. "So what damage did it do you, besides the obvious loss of drugs and property?"

"The bullet went in the left side of my neck, missed my esophagus, missed my trachea, missed all the major arteries, chipped a vertebrae, then punctured a lung just before exiting from my upper right shoulder blade. The main thing it's done is left me unable to use my right hand, for now. The doctors think that either swollen muscle or scar tissue is pressing against the nerve still, or that the bullet severely bruised it, but they also think that eventually it will heal on its own and that I'll regain the use of my hand."

As Frank noted, as far as Scott D knows, he helped murder Frank, but hasn't heard a word from any police about the matter. So chances are he'd prefer no one know he had a hand in the set-up. This isn't comforting to either Edward or his girlfriend, who are torn between the desire to warn their friends about the murderous asshole, or to keep their mouths shut so as to avoid running into Scott D or one of his "friends."

The one good thing that comes out of this misadventure is that many of Frank's former customers take the opportunity to get their shit together, choosing to find a detox rather than a new drug dealer. Edward himself, who had already decided to clean up his own act, only has his resolve to stick to this plan strengthened at the news from Frank. As much as he likes Frank, this latest news convinces him that under current prohibition policies, the black market drug trade really is dangerous, scarily so, and he doesn't want himself, or worse the love of his life, to get hurt by some idiot our to make a short term profit for himself, to get a quick fix, or to cover his murderous tracks. Neither of them feel any urge to go speak to the police, but they stop associating with certain acquaintances from there on out. They also hear a week or two later that Scott D was picked up by the cops in another city with a lot of drugs on him right after setting up Frank, so he is sitting in jail and isn't a threat to anyone. As much as Edward hates to support anyone being arrested for drugs, in this one particular case, perhaps it's for the best. Ironic but true.
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Drug addiction might very often be a nasty experience, but addicts, along with the much more numerous casual users, help prop up a huge, black market business-a business that is unregulated beyond the covert involvement of US intelligence and the military, and lies totally beyond any quality control. Prohibition obviously engenders not only huge profits-impossible without Prohibition polices, enforcement, and rampant corruption in place, making money for a whole lot of folk on both sides of the law-but it also ensures that there are ruthless, cutthroat gangsters involved in the trade, willing to murder each other and innocent bystanders too, all for those untaxed profits. I can't remember reading ever about modern liquor store owners or brewery owners shooting each other so they can steal each others beer or alcohol or customers during violent turf wars, except in my history books. That sort of violence and crime ended when US citizens, weary of loudmouth jerks like Al Capone and his ilk profiting and murdering their way to fame and fortune, rescinded Alcohol Prohibition. Unfortunately for us all, modern prohibition is showing little sign of abating, so we're guaranteed to see and hear about, and quite possibly experience, many more of these senseless robberies and shootings for a long time to come. Most of the horror stories will even be true.