Apaches Read Free

that the bust was orchestrated by a street cop who was as green as a dollar.
    Four days after the bust went down, one dealer, Sammy “Dwarf” Rodgers, decided it was time to teach the young cop a lesson. He offered $25,000, a same-day cash payout, to anyone who would bring him one of Giovanni Frontieri’s eyes.
    “Ain’t nothin’ personal against the boy,” Rodgers saidto members of his Black Satin gang. “I just need me a new key chain. Besides, I like the color of his eyes. They match my car.”
    •    •    •
    S AMMY R ODGERS WAS tall, well over six feet, with a big stomach, wide chest, and full Afro. The street called him Dwarf because he employed half a dozen dwarfs as drug couriers, sending them from house to house, door-to-door, pockets crammed with nickel bags of junk and rubber band rolls of cash.
    “I love watching the fuckers walk,” he once said. “Move down my streets like fuckin’ robots. Time you see ’em, they already past you. Cops hate bustin’ ’em too. Makes ’em feel cheap.”
    Dwarf was standing in front of his bar, La Grande, on the corner of 123rd Street and Amsterdam, when Giovanni Frontieri pulled his car up to the corner. Giovanni had grown solid, muscular like his father, his hair thick and black, his face sharp, handsome, and unmarked except for a thin scar above his right eye. He spoke in a strong but low voice, never shouted, not even during the heat of a bust. His first partner called him “Boomer” because of it, and the name stuck.
    He stepped out of the car and walked over to the dealer, stopping when he was only inches from the man’s face.
    “Hey, Dwarf,” Boomer said. “I hear you’re looking for me.”
    Dwarf looked around at his men and then back at Boomer. He had to keep his street-cool facade or lose face. Any sign of a backdown to a young cop could easily give the gunmen behind him ideas, any one of which could end with Dwarf packed in ice.
    “What I need with you?” Dwarf said. “I ain’t lonely.”
    “Twenty-five large,” Boomer said. “That’s a lot to pay out for one eye.”
    “Got me a business,” Dwarf said, “and you startin’ to cost me.”
    Boomer reached a hand into the side pocket of his leather jacket, his eyes on Dwarf. The hand came out holding a black switchblade. Boomer clicked it open with his thumb and tossed it to Dwarf, who caught it awkwardly with both hands.
    “You take it,” Boomer said.
    “Take what?”
    “My eye,” Boomer said. “You got the knife, so, take it. Right here. Right in front of your crew.”
    “You crazy,” Dwarf said, inching two steps back. “Pull a move on me like this, you got to be fuckin’ crazy.”
    “Take the eye now,” Boomer said, pulling a cigarette from his shirt pocket, his voice steady and controlled. “’Cause it’s your only chance.”
    “And if I don’t?”
    “Then your business is shut.” Boomer lit his cigarette with his father’s silver clip. “I don’t care where you go or what part of town you move your shit to. But if I see you on this corner ever again, I drop you and leave you dead.”
    Dwarf held his ground, not a move, not a sound.
    Boomer smiled and nodded, as if they’d just been exchanging pleasantries about the weather, then put both hands in his pockets and turned. He walked to the driver’s side of his jet black Plymouth and took another look at Dwarf.
    “Keep the blade,” he said, smiling, cigarette still in his mouth. “And enjoy what’s left of your life.”
    Boomer Frontieri got behind the wheel of the Plymouth, kicked over the 426 cubic-inch engine, shifted into first, and pulled out into the Harlem street traffic, radio tuned to Sam Cooke singing “It’s All Right.”
    •    •    •
    H E SPENT EIGHTEEN years on the force, rising to the highest rank he sought, gold-shield detective, faster thananyone in the history of the department. In his career, working with a variety of partners, Boomer Frontieri was credited with more