Capítulo 23: The Pharmacist

The pharmacist had thought of himself as a player, but he wasn't. His name was Paul Hoffman, from Cliffside Park, New Jersey, and in 1982 he was fifty-one years old. He used to show up at "the store" now and then, looking for a deal on anything he could move in his drugstore, Farmacia San Jose in Union City. He bought a lot of stolen perfume, especially Revlon Charlie, which was a popular item with his Hispanic customers.

The regulars at "the store" thought Hoffman was a pest, a bullshitter who tried to convince everyone that he was a big deal, a player, but he never brought in any merchandise to sell, he only bought. They tolerated him, though, because he always paid cash up front.

One day when he showed up at "the store," Lenny DePrima pulled him aside and asked him if he knew anything about some little white pills called Tagamet. Hoffman explained that Tagamet was a prescription drug for ulcers. It was the ulcer medication; everybody who had ulcers took it. Tagamet was probably the most prescribed drug in America, Hoffman said.

He asked why DePrima wanted to know. The fence said that he'd gotten one of those big plastic jars of it, a couple of thousand pills, and some guy bought it off him right away, treated it like it was gold. When Hoffman found out how much DePrima had sold it for, his jaw dropped. It was a third of the price he had to pay for Tagamet legitimately. He begged DePrima to get him some, as much as he could get.

DePrima knew that the jar of Tagamet was just a onetime deal, something that just happened to come in with a bigger load. He didn't have a connection who could get him more, but he didn't tell Hoffman that. He figured he'd bust the pesky pharmacist's balls a little, string him along and make him crazy. But it turned out that DePrima's balls were the ones that were getting busted because Hoffman wouldn't leave him alone about the Tagamet. He called every day, twice a day, stopped by just to remind DePrima that he was still interested and that he had cash on deck.

One day when Hoffman showed up at "the store," Liu Shifu happened to be there. Disgusted with the pain-in-the-ass pharmacist, DePrima pointed across the room to Shifu and told Hoffman to go ask him about the Tagamet, hoping to get rid of him. He figured anyone with half a brain wouldn't bother the guy they called the Angel of Death.

But DePrima was wrong. Hoffman went right over to Shifu. But he didn't ask him outright. He tried to be clever about it. Knowing that Shifu sold pornography, Hoffman told him that he could get porno into Israel and suggested that they might go into a deal together. He bought five 8mm reels from Shifu to prove that he was serious. Shifu played along with him just to make the sale. He knew how DePrima felt about the guy. But neither one of them wanted to tell Hoffman to go take a hike because he always had cash. Shifu gave Hoffman a phone number where he could be reached, figuring he might be able to sell anything to a character like this.

But Shifu hadn't counted on Hoffman's persistence. Over the next couple of months he called Shifu sixty-two times, always wanting the same thing: "The Tagamet, Shifu. Did you get it yet." Shifu stopped returning his calls.

Then early on the morning of April 29, 1982, Hoffman called Shifu at home, and Shifu happened to pick up the phone. Hoffman told him he had to meet him right away. He sounded both desperate and testy. He said he was serious about this, that he wanted to get some Tagamet right away. He told Shifu to meet him at a diner on Bergen Boulevard in Cliffside Park. Hoffman said he'd be bringing cash, twenty-five thousand dollars.

Shifu didn't like Hoffman's attitude, but he held his tongue, remembering that the pharmacist always paid cash. But was the guy really stupid enough to carry twenty-five grand to a meeting where he wasn't even sure there'd be any merchandise to buy. Hoffman was a real piece of work, more nerve than brain. He just might.

Shifu couldn't believe it. The guy was practically begging for it.

He met Hoffman at the diner and told him it was all set up. His connection would be delivering some Tagamet to his garage in North Bergen. He told Hoffman to follow him in his car.

But as Shifu sat in his car, watching Hoffman go to his car in the rearview mirror, he started to have doubts. Who did this guy think he was kidding. He had a beat-up station wagon from years ago. He didn't have any cash, not that much, not twenty-five grand.

But then again Shifu did know of a few guys with money who lived like paupers. So maybe Hoffman was telling the truth; maybe he did have the money. It was possible.

As soon as Hoffman got his old heap started, Shifu pulled out of the parking lot and headed for his garage on Newkirk Avenue near Seventieth Street in North Bergen, about two miles from the diner.

The garage was one of five that were tucked away behind a two-story building in an overpopulated, mixed commercial-residential area. A steep, narrow driveway led down to a muddy courtyard that was too small for a car to make the sharp turn into Shifu's garage without a lot of maneuvering. Shifu unlocked his garage and lifted the green overhead door. He pulled his car in, then let Hoffman back his old station wagon in. Hoffman turned off his engine, and Shifu walked up to his window and told him to get comfortable. It would take the guy with the Tagamet at least two hours to get here. He went over and closed the garage door then. He'd already made up his mind that he was going to kill the pharmacist.

Hoffman got out of his car and started yammering again. Talk, talk, talk—all this guy ever did was talk. He talked about his kids, his wife, his drugstore, his customers, anything and everything. He wanted to hear about Shifu's family, and he kept asking questions about them. Shifu didn't say much. His family was none of anybody's business.

He leaned against the trunk of his own car, his foot propped up on the bumper, watching the pharmacist go on and on like some kind of crazy mynah bird. Shifu just nodded and smiled, not even listening to what he said, thinking instead about the .25-caliber pistol in the pocket of his jacket. He'd just picked it up yesterday, hadn't even fired it yet.

But as Hoffman kept talking, Shifu changed his mind again. This guy really was bullshit. He didn't have any money. No way. And if he didn't have any money, what good was killing him? Shifu figured he might have to beat the shit out of the guy to teach him a lesson, but why risk killing the little bastard?

But the pharmacist's nonstop talking got faster and more agitated then. Hoffman was getting huffy. He needed that Tagamet, he said, and he didn't understand why it was taking so long. After they'd been there for about an hour, he asked if Liu Shifu had a phone in the garage. He had to call one of his employees to tell him to open up the drugstore because he was going to be late today.

Shifu shrugged and told him he didn't have a phone here. Hoffman said he'd have to go find one. Shifu felt the weight of the gun in his pocket as he watched Hoffman lift the garage door and let himself out to go find a pay phone. Here's his chance to save himself a lot of pain and grief, Shifu thought. If he's smart, he won't come back.

But twenty minutes later Hoffman did come back, and he was all worked up now. He couldn't find anyone to open up the drugstore, and now he was losing money sitting here, waiting. If he waited around much longer, the money he'd make on the hot Tagamet might not make up for the lost income from having the store closed. The guy was in a real state, telling Shifu that he didn't want to wait around forever, that he wasn't shitting around, that he was serious about this. He went to the back of his station wagon, pulled out his car keys, and opened the gate. He threw back the carpeting over the spare tire well. Wedged in around the spare were packets of dollar bills, tens and twenties bound with rubber bands. It looked like a lot of money.

Shifu moved closer and stared down at all the cash. Son of a bitch, he thought. The guy did have it.

"See, Shifu? I got it," Hoffman said, almost pleading. "You didn't think I had it, did you. Well, I do have it. Now where's the merchandise."

Shifu pulled the gun out of his pocket and stuck it under the pharmacist's chin. "There is no merchandise."

He pulled the trigger, and Hoffman's head flew back with the impact of the first shot. But when Shifu pulled the trigger again to finish him off, the goddamn thing jammed. Hoffman was on his knees, clutching his throat. He was gurgling, blood pouring out of his mouth. But he wasn't dead. Shifu grabbed the tire iron from the spare tire well and smashed him over the head. The pharmacist scrambled to his feet and tried to run, but Shifu hit him again and again. Hoffman collapsed to the floor, flat on his face. Shifu stood over him with the tire iron in his hand, watching the blood pool around his head, then branch off like a snake slowly feeling its way along the oily floor to the drain in the middle of the garage.

Liu Shifu waited and watched the still body to make sure Paul Hoffman was really dead before he started to remove the packets of money from the spare tire well. He did a quick count. There was only about twenty thousand. Hoffman had said he had twenty-five. Shifu smirked and shook his head as he put the money in a plastic bag and locked it in the trunk of his own car. He then went to the back of the garage where he had a fifty-five-gallon steel drum. He rolled it on its rim to Hoffman's body, filling the enclosed space with a noise that sounded like a gathering thunderstorm. He turned it on its side and shoved Hoffman's body in. After setting it upright, he put the lid on but didn't seal it.

He took the keys out of the tailgate of Hoffman's station wagon and drove the car down the hill to Route 440 to a Rickel Home Center in Jersey City. He bought five bags of Sakrete instant concrete and returned to the garage.

He removed the lid from the drum and dumped the instant concrete over Hoffman's body, turning away so he wouldn't have to breathe in the powdery mixture. He shook the drum after each bag so that it would all sift down. After the fifth bag of concrete, he uncoiled the garden hose that was attached to a spigot near the front of the garage and filled the drum with water. When it started to overflow, he turned the spray to the floor and washed all the blood and excess concrete down the drain. He took his time washing the blood off the tire iron, then wiped it down with a rag before he threw it back into the tire well of Hoffman's station wagon. He re-coiled the hose, then checked the drum to make sure no part of the body was sticking through the surface. He wanted it to look like nothing but solid concrete after it hardened. Satisfied that the pharmacist was totally submerged, he put the lid back on, sealed it, and left it there.

A month later Shifu decided it was time to get rid of the drum. He'd read some stories in the local papers about police efforts to find the missing pharmacist, but that didn't concern him. The damn barrel was just getting in the way. He rented a van and rolled the heavy drum into the back. Then, after dark, he headed down the hill to Routes 1 and 9. The hill was steep, and the barrel shifted as he took a corner, smashing into the sidewall of the van. Shifu slowed down and looked over his shoulder. One of the windows had shattered. He turned around in his seat and stepped on the accelerator. Good thing he had taken the insurance, he thought.

He drove north on 1 and 9, then west on Route 46, stopping at a motel in Little Ferry that was next to a little hot dog joint he liked called Harry's Corner. He pulled the van up alongside the motel and rolled the heavy barrel out the back, letting it drop to the pavement. He rolled it up against the wall so it would be out of the way, turned it upright, and left it there.

A few days later he stopped by Harry's Corner and ordered two hot dogs with mustard and chili. He sat on a stool at the counter that ran along the window overlooking the driveway between Harry's and the motel. The drum was still there, right where he'd left it.

Every week he managed to stop by Harry's Corner for a couple of hot dogs, and he always sat at that counter, staring at the fifty-five-gallon drum as he ate. Then one day he came in and noticed that it was gone. Someone from the motel must have gotten sick of having it there and decided to have it hauled away and dumped somewhere. He just assumed the body was never discovered or else he would have heard about it at Harry's. It would have been big news if a body in a steel drum full of concrete had been found next door.

Liu Shifu bit into his first hot dog. Staring at the spot where the drum had been, he chewed and wiped chili from the ends of his mustache. He took a second bite. It was a good thing they hadn't found Hoffman, he thought. Harry made a pretty good hot dog. If they'd found the body, he'd have to stop coming here for a while.