2007-04-05: Overdose

Starring:

Stan_icon.gif

Emitted (and caused) by: Ling_icon.gif

Summary: Stan investigates the gang war, tortures a Russian gangster into cooperating.

Date It Happened: April 5, 2008

Overdose


It's been quiet for weeks, at least as far as it comes with the Tong Chow versus the Camparelli-Zukhovs. It seems that the Camparelli-Zukhovs have struck a blow to the Tong as they were able to intercept a package of SOMA from Vietnam. Of course, the carrier is dead, and now there's a group of men at a safe house, wanting to distribute the incredibly popular drug.

Of course, that was part of the plan. The delivery boy was disposable, and so, an informant from the Tong has called and notified the FBI about the location of the stash, especially since it was filled with a little tracking device. They're devious over at the Tong, and they tend to think a few steps ahead than their Russian/Italian counterparts. So, over in Harlem, there's the House that SOMA Built…

Inside the house, there are five men overseeing a group of illegal immigrants that they gathered for work. Of course, the pay is good for the immigrants, and the five men are rather burly, muscular and are dressed rather sharply. "Boris..we're going to make this drug readily available, crash down the exhorbant prices that the Tong is selling them at.." says a blading man by the name of Alexei.

"All right,you heard him! All these, package in bags of five pills each!" says the scruffy looking Boris as he runs his fingers over his chin. "Then Luis and the others can sel them on the street. One dealer for each burrough."

Stan and a couple of brick agents are listening in thanks to a microphone in the lining of the pizza box that was delivered an hour earlier. It's rustly, being in the garbage, but Boris is a blowhard and talks loudly so they're getting a fair chunk of his words. They already have the license numbers. "A lot of ground for these fine entrepreneurs to cover." Stan says. He leans back, his cuffs starched and tightly put together with plain red cufflinks, his black coat riding up as he laces his fingers together on his shaved head. He formulates his own plan. "Step one. They get their packages and split up. Step two. Four of them get picked up by morning. By us, by locals. Nobody cares. Step three. The one assigned to the Tong's turf - him you follow. He'll be dead before long, and you are going to catch the killers. They're our real target." "What about you?" asks one of the agents. "I'll get a ride home with Boris." Stan says with a white smile. "Once it's just him and the Dominicans." Or whoever they are. One gangster, Stan can handle alone, and he needs more inside people in New York City.

These arent exactly the brightest of the Camparelli-Zukhovs, but they are some of the tougher guys to handle.A wry grin curls onto Boris' lips as they finish packing. "Okay, you know where to go.." he says matter of factly, as they all have their assigned posts which is on a map on a bulletin board inside the house. "Let's do this and give the Tong a nice little hello..I hear their boss has been laying low.."

"Oh, the bitch is probably fucking her latest boytoy. I hear she has one..an American even.." is Alexei's reply, letting out a hearty chuckle. With that, the five Puerto Rican dealers head out with little bags on their person, off to subways and taxis.

Stan gets pictures of each of them, leaning in to the window slowly and methodically. The pictures go to one of the agents, who starts to work the fax machine and the forms in the back of the surveillance van to get local police involved in the apprehension of the Persons Of No Interest. "That one, the one getting on the train, that's the one /you/ follow." Stan says. "Contact Transit police to track him and make him when he gets off." He hops out the back of the van, waggles a gun out of a holster - just a regular service revolver, nothing special, pats the van on the bumper. It drives off. The brick agents know better than to argue with Stan about the wisdom of facing off with Boris alone. They've been on the case only a few weeks but it already feels like it's too long. Stan doesn't go to the front door, he nonchalantly ducks behind a loose slat in the fence and goes into the backyard. There he greets the departing Dominicans with a smile and a quick flash of his federal credentials, indicating the back fence with a 'go right ahead' gesture. Let them take Boris' money. "Bienvenido a New York." he tells them quietly.

When Stan shows his credentials, the illegals know better than to stay. They just rush off, not wanting to get reported to la migra or anything with the like. Boris is the only one left in the building as the lower ranked goons had gone off with a few of the illegals to make sure that they wouldnt get intercepted by Tong members. Instead, they'll get intercepted by FBI agents..pretty much the same thing, but at least the FBI wouldnt kill them right off the bat. The drug game is a dangerous business afterall.

The door to the houes is unlocked, and Boris is looking over the rest of the stash. There are only about ten pills left, but it seems that every delivery is small. Maybe one hundred pills at most in every stash. No wonder the drug is so expensive. So, going against better judgement, he pops one…

Stan comes in with his gun drawn right at about that time. "Boris. Welcome to America. I'm here on the business of my dear Uncle Sam." he says coolly. "FBI. Don't move, my friend. Would not be very wise at this point. Feeling the effects yet? Makes you a lousy shot for one thing. Very lousy."

Boris' pupils dilate as he got a particularly nasty one. His body wasnt ready for its effect and he sluggishly turns out, looking over to Stan. He tries to pull out his gun, but his whole world goes topsy turvy as he curses in Russian. He has no idea what the hell is going on and he falls to his knees, blinking rapidly as his muscles start to spasm…

Stan kicks Boris' gun out of the way as it falls onto the carpet with a 'thunk'. "Thanks for putting your prints on it, Boris, now I can shoot you if you start getting too energetic." He slowly stares. His eyes slowly widen, recognition washing over him, his hands tremble momentarily on the firearm as he remembers the feelings Boris is going through going through him…then he fixes his face back in a mask of cool, salesmanlike politeness. He takes a couple of steps back from the spasming Russian, to the table, where he calmly sweeps the excess pills into one of the spare bags, rolls it up and puts it in his pocket. "Not too bad, is it? Problem is, you are going to need a hospital to detox from it." he says. "Or another pop. And you'll need it soon." He crouches down, puts his wingtip on Boris' arm to keep him from reaching up.

Considering how bad his reaction is, he can already feel the urge for another burst of euphoria. It's why his muscles are spasming, they dont exactly know what to do as the blissful effects are starting to wear off. Also, he needs a new pair of pants, he's ruined them by well..you know, having too much fun from one of these pills. He looks up towards Stan and continues stuttering in Russian while trying to reach for one of the bags. Obviously, he needs one..

Stan holds the bag up where he can't get it. "English, English, remember. Uncle Sam. Apple pie. The FBI." he chides, smiling like a benevolent uncle. "You're starting to crash. Oh yes, Boris, this is just the start. Just the start. I need information from you. How'd you find out where the Tong delivery was being made?"

"Ph-ph-phone call.." he manages to stutter out as he starts frothing around his lips, his salivary glands producing too much saliva and his breathing becomes a bit more shallow as his heart races. He needs his fix. He starts babbling more in Russian, definitely on some sort of trip now as he tries to tackle Stan to grab the bag from him…of course, he's clumsy and big, so he'll probably stub his toe before actually accomplishing what he had in mind.

Stan is pushed aside a bit by Boris' leap, but spins away. "No no." he tells Boris. "Not so good. Whose phone call? From who? Was this whole thing a setup to get you to have this stuff? Ohhh…oh, Boris, this stuff may be bad. It may be too strong! What do you think of that? Think of all the money you could have made, one of these pills could have been split up into fifty."

"Ph-phone call…club.." he continues stammering, not really making much sense as he tries again, definitely wanting a bit more of the soma. Sure, if he was rational, he would probably be incredibly pissed at the moment, but considering he's not exactly in the right state of mind, he just tries to tackle Stan onto the ground once more. He needs his fix.

Stan says, "What phone? What phone?" Another to add to the wire wouldn't be a bad idea. He's far enough back now that he dances out of the way of Boris' lunge. "Don't knock over the evidence, Boris. This info is in exchange for a trip to the hospital, because it's going to start to hurt, very, very soon. I'm /still/ going to be able to take you to jail whenever I want. What phone was called, and /who called/? It was someone you trusted."

"Zeitsev.." he manages to get out, his eyes widening as anyone who keeps track of all these syndicates would know that Zeitsev was one of the trusted second in command of the drug dealing that the Camparelli-Zukhovs did. He disappeared for a bit, presumably to hide from being incarcerated, but now, it seems he's turned on his former allies. As to whether it was done voluntarily or not, who knows.

It's then that Stan's prediction had come true, and soon, Boris isnt able to even say a word. His entire body is convulsing as he gacks for air, his lungs spasming now as well…

Stan says, "Now, Boris, I'm afraid I'm going to send you into something worse than jail." He picks up the phone, dials 911. "The American health care system. Yes, this is Special Agent Stanley Crosetti of the FBI, Badge Number 9182, I am in need of immediate emergency medical assistance…." He gives the address and details. Whether Boris lives or dies, it doesn't matter now. Zeitsev is the next target. And the phone at the club.

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