The Buffalo Pilot: A Ford Stevens Military-Aviation Thriller (Book 3)

by Lawrence Colby

  “That’s why you’re on my team. Splendid idea, my lady. Let’s schedule a big promo and tour when we’re up there, too. Full press coverage with the constituents. Get me on the lunch circuit, the usual,” Bruce said.

  When Bruce visited constituents in his district, he was always sure to obtain a nice car and driver to boost his appearance. It made local western New Yorkers feel like he was much bigger than he was, aiming to always appear to be fighting to solve problems for them. He spent most of his time fundraising with the top percent of earners in Buffalo and Rochester. Being a congressman was like being an actor on a theater stage. Appearances counted, as it took over $1.5 million to keep him in office for each election, and he was in the game long-term.

  Most of the time, Bruce got into deals way over his head. He had to maneuver within party lines. Make arrangements on hot topics like health care insurance. Native American land and casino rights. Missing Social Security checks. Higher education federal loans. Grant applications. Being elected to office meant he owed a lot of favors to many people.

  Sometimes it was the Buffalo Italian business owners along Hertel Avenue near Delaware and Colvin avenues. Sometimes he owed the Irish a favor down in South Buffalo, sometimes in February and March, hitting the Buffalo Irish Center. He’d “spin a yarn” at Daly’s on Seneca and mingle, doing his best to make it look like he was listening to his constituents. Other times, he’d have some famous “Smitty Wings” over at Doc Sullivan’s and endure stories of locals losing pensions, something he (sometimes) had no control over. And that was just his Buffalo geographic area, as Rochester and Niagara Falls had similar challenges.

  No doubt, Bruce had his hands full with the hot topics and ethnic groups, but what also took his time were community organizations, such as the unions and city leadership, the Boy Scouts, and veterans. Off the charts cancer rates. Buried chemicals that made Love Canal look tiny. Large corporations were leaving instead of investing. Economically disadvantaged areas. It just never ended. Western New York wasn’t known as a powerhouse of money, so anything he could do to keep those companies and organizations in his district, he did.

  Perhaps it took fibbing. Stretching the truth. Many times, he promised what he could never deliver, buddying up to stronger people and organizations in asking for handouts. Handouts in the form of favors, many times cash. Sometimes he received cash in an envelope and took the risk, while other times, his trusted assistant, Richard Lansing, would do it. Some of his fellow members of Congress in neighboring districts would criticize him, assuming he was on the take and telling him he had a “plug in every socket.” While they never came outright and accused him of anything, they knew the truth.

  No question, Bruce Anderson was dirty. What accompanied his corrupt actions was having a few members of the local police departments on his personal payroll to pay for information that he couldn’t get from anywhere else. It helped keep him in the know with inside decisions, ranging from local town councils to pending decisions at the State Capitol in Albany.

  Bruce knew the cops would be loyal to him because he took care of their families with cash, and the blue wall of silence kept their Internal Affairs away. No cop would ever rat on another, hence the silence. More importantly to Bruce, they helped keep his eye for the ladies on the down-low. To him, the ladies were precious. Bruce had this portion of western New York pegged, and his unofficial business clients were scattered across the Tier.

  “Get me on a visit to the air base, too, now that I think about it. As a veteran myself, I need to do whatever I can to assist them. Equipment, training, the works. Support from the HASC, sister districts, and Albany come to mind. Whatever we need to do to bring in funding. We need to get them attention through proposed legislation,” Bruce said, tapping his fingers on the table.

  This is odd that no one is jumping on this, the congressman thought in silence. Bruce felt something was brewing with his staff, so he blurted out what was on his mind. “Any issues with this plan?”

  The staffers all looked at each other, including special assistant Richard Lansing. Bruce did not have the best reputation in town, and even his own constituents questioned his motives. Richard had previously told the congressman in private that sometimes even getting even a single member of Congress to consider any of his pitches would be an obstacle. And this must be one of those times Richard was telling him about.

  Chapter 7

  Keuka Lake, New York

  The sun had just set on the far side of the lake and the orange glow was beautiful. The leaders of the upstate New York Native American Reservation organized crime gang, Niagara Red Kings, gathered on Keuka Lake. Known as Haudenosaunee, the group included the natives of Mohawk, Seneca, Cayuga, Oneida, Onondaga, and Tuscarora. By tradition, the Haudenosaunee saw themselves as one.

  “You’re all wondering why I have called this meeting at my house when we normally meet on the Reservation. I wanted just us, Rez elders, to make a decision on our future. A new proposal, okay? Once we decide, it will be final,” Daniel Parker told the group, pausing. Inside a stunning custom-built waterfront home that must have cost a fortune, it had amenities that could be found at large resort hotels. Hundreds of feet of shoreline located across from the bluff with sand imported from Florida, luscious green sod, and a wooden pier full of boats filled the property. The larger house was up on the hill where the leaders were sitting, while the lower and much smaller pool house at 3,000 square feet sat near the water. Five armed men stood guard outside the property, smoking and talking, but seemed pretty chill. Among all the seasonal cottages lined up around the gorgeous lake, this was big money being flaunted with luxury at its best.

  Native American organized crime gangs like the Niagara Red Kings were spread throughout Canada and New York and reached all the way to western states such as Arizona, New Mexico, South Dakota, and Utah. Most of the tribal gangs across the U.S. were pretty unorganized, but a few were powerful with massive growth and reach. They were dangerous and violent, and some were on par with much larger organized crime gangs, like full-patch bikers. Many had their hands in carjacking, illegal cigarettes, kidnapping, drug trafficking, and sometimes, murder.

  Because the FBI was breathing down on them with the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, known as RICO, they made sure to conduct their business as deliberate and carefully as possible. RICO was a feared federal statute that delivered penalties for crimes committed by criminal organizations, and organized crime leaders were aware of the severe implications. If you got caught under RICO doing something big, you could count on a permanent visit to the federal United States Penitentiary in Florence, Colorado, known as FloMax.

  The leaders of the Niagara Red Kings were different, though. Experienced and organized, they knew the political environment. These were no young and naive street kids pulling petty street crimes. The Keuka Lake homeowner and leader of the Niagara Red Kings, Daniel Parker, was the boss and spoke first. No one in the room would ponder speaking before him.

  Daniel started talking again, answering the “why” on holding the meeting that night. “Our normal way of doing business is just about over. Sometimes we do well, right? Big money coming in over time, you know. We’ve had years of declining incomes, ah, our children locked up from Southport to FloMax. Always got problems with the law here in New York. We all know that. My son Ray tells me a third of the state is on Medicaid, and the state is suffering from people leaving ’round here and going to Florida. Packin’ up and just plain moving.” He paused and looked out at the springtime sunset across the lake.

  “Worse, the technology these feds got against us is just too advanced. Barely understand it myself. With the ability to track us coming and going. Even our PGP Blackberry phones, which you, Ray, told me was safe. Who knows if it’s tapped?” Daniel said, sighing. “New York, our ancestors’ land, is saturated with the white man and these feds. We are Haudenosaunee. Ongwehowe. Native an
d one. And we Haudenosaunee all have the same problem. With this RICO, the feds are all over us. And so, what I am getting at is we need to make changes for us to survive.”

  “Changes? Like what? We’re pressed by the law. We’re pressed by them Italians. Them Canadians. We cannot extract more if there isn’t more,” said Graham Rockwell, the Onondaga Tribe leader. “Those jerks want more from us every time we do a God damn run across the God damn border.”

  Graham was right, as Canadian federal law enforcement was nothing to fool around with. Toronto was a mere 98-mile drive from Buffalo, and Montreal an hour’s drive from the Vermont border. Often overlooked by popular media and news outlets in the United States, Canadian investigators from the Canada Revenue Agency, Regional Police, Canada Border Services, and the Financial Transactions and Reports Analysis Centre were brilliant at tracking and arresting organized crime for illegal gambling, money laundering, loansharking, and defrauding the government. It was not just against Native Americans, but all organized crime.

  Daniel put his hand up. “Ah, ah, ah. Yes, Graham, we know. We know,” he said as he ran his hand through his gray hair. “This is what I am proposing, alright?”

  Daniel nodded to his son, Ray Parker, 25 years old, who stood with arms full of tattoos, hair pulled back into a ponytail, and wearing a diamond in his right ear. He clearly saw the nod and stood up.

  Daniel took a sip. “My son, Ray, has an idea that has some merit. Ray, tell your uncles what your idea is.”

  Ray was wearing a winter camouflaged hoodie and a backward baseball cap. Looking closer, in between his tattoos, his exposed arms showed all his burns and branding scars. “Evenin’, gentlemen. I get your frustration. When I was younger, I used to frickin’ bust it up, just like you did coming up. In the streets, ferrying our white back and forth, you know, coke. Hauling the cut rag. Making it happen. Ripping off your cars in Skaneateles, Sedgewick, and Cobbs Hill. I’m done with that now. I’m not going back to the joint for a couple hundred cartons of cigarettes. That crap I did, sheeitt… small stuff. Tired of putting bros in the graves. Now… now I want Benjamins.”

  Graham was the first out of the elders to shake his head. “Young Ray, that’s how we make our money… nothing else available. How can we make money otherwise? We are Haudenosaunee and do not work for the white man. No, we do not.” He paused. “What’s this idea you have?”

  Ray Parker’s ego was formed during his younger days when he was obsessed with actor Al Pacino and the movie “Scarface.” Judging Ray by his appearance, he looked to be a working man that perhaps spent time in prison or used his hands in a trade, such as a metal machine shop or rebuilding a Chevy engine. The prison look was accurate, as he had a rap sheet for spending some time locked up in Franklin and Marcy state prisons. There was something else, though.

  What separated Ray from his peers was his pre-teenage years spent away from home. Between fifth and eighth grade, his mother sent him out to the Rosebud and Pine Ridge Indian Reservations in South Dakota, since his father was in the joint down at the Green Haven Correctional Facility near New York City. Ray’s street behavior was just too much for his mother to handle alone, so he attended school with his long-distance Lakota cousins.

  Jesuit missionaries had been teaching on the massive rural reservations since around 1840, helping the Native American children across the Connecticut-sized piece of real estate. The Jesuit missionaries observed Ray’s bright intelligence, noting he was different than the other young pre-teens, and did all they could while he lived there. Among the children affected by scarce housing, substandard health care, and high rates of substance abuse, the missionary educators took Ray under their wing. Due to a lack of resources, the Jesuits couldn’t test him for his IQ, but they knew he was special intellectually. Upon returning to Buffalo, the bleak surroundings of poverty and violence took their toll, and he started a life of delinquency and crime.

  As an adult, Ray combined his street smarts with a keen intellect and leadership. These traits were carried by successful people and rarely seen by someone dedicated to lawbreaking. He could have made a significant career doing something the honest way if the Niagara Red Kings leader spot was removed from the picture.

  Ray was shrewd, self-educated, and savvy, and used his time wisely behind bars, unlike his peers. While Ray was locked up, he took a page out of the Malcolm X playbook from a movie he saw in high school by spending most of his free time in books learning. His informal self-study was part business major, part learning about how organized crime worked. Ray’s interests ranged from the Italian Mafia’s history and how they managed their businesses to what federal statutes law enforcement used to bring most of them down.

  Ray studied how famous gangster Al Capone got caught while doing joint time, absorbing lessons in business and accounting, hoping to improve the Niagara Red Kings’ finances. He studied other Mafia leaders, such as Joe Massino, Tony Spilotro, and Albert Anastasia, learning from their successes and failures. Ray also leveraged the lessons learned from the Jewish-American organized crime families, learning from famous criminals such as Rothstein and Siegel. That led to the birth of Vegas! From the 1930s to present, his history lessons taught him that despite both ethnic groups being different, they worked collaboratively to make money. Other nationalities, such as the Italians, realized that money knew no race, nor was it biased. How they were organized for business, from the terminology they used internally to conducting operations, Ray read about it. Techniques on how they killed people and kept it among themselves fascinated him.

  Despite being in and out of the joint, he continued his self-education. Podcasts and articles, even visits to the Erie Country Library, fueled his brain. Small things and little details on organizations that others may have glanced over, he dove deep and remembered the lessons for later.

  He was captivated with the unwritten rule of the Mafia called Omerta, their code of silence. No members were allowed to talk about the Mafia, nor identify a member, nor how they worked as a business enterprise. Once law enforcement started to get stronger with surveillance and collecting evidence to make arrests, the Mafia members began to talk about it with each other. To make matters worse for themselves, they ratted out their fellow members to reduce their own sentences.

  Many of his brother Native Americans turned to getting drunk, vandalism, and other time-wasters outside the jails and prisons, but Ray used his time wisely to think. He knew he would one day inherit the Niagara Red Kings organization. Ray wanted them to profit from a long-term business.

  “Well, Uncle Graham, my researched idea is a casino. Legal money coming into the Rez. I’m talking greenbacks by the truckload. So, here’s the pitch. We build a gigantic hotel resort and casino, Vegas-style. Big,” he said, holding his arms out. “With its own airport and airline that flies gamblers in from places like Chicago, New York City, and Toronto. One of those rooftop pools where the ceiling opens and closes with the weather. I’m talking a big project.”

  “A what, a casino?” Graham asked.

  “Yes, Uncle Graham. Let me say that I’m thinking of a stunning resort casino with a deep array of gambling tables and slots, a large theater for headline entertainment, and… and a 500-room hotel – even an 18-hole golf course.”

  He paused and could tell the Rez leaders were impressed so far. The kid had a dream for sure, and his talk showed his vision well.

  One of the older men in the back yelled a question about the business case and finances. Ray thought about it for a quick moment, then answered.

  “The business case study side of this makes financial sense as long as we find a location and funding. Native American gaming has included casinos and other gambling operations on Indian reservations or other tribal lands in the United States for many years. We all know this,” Ray said.

  He turned to his father, nonchalantly, seeking approval to continue.

  “The original land in wes
tern New York had all originally belonged to the Haudenosaunee. Because these geographic areas had tribal sovereignty, New York State has limited ability to forbid gambling, made into law by the Indian Gaming Regulatory Act of 1988. So, it’s possible to do it, okay?”

  Buffalo, Niagara Falls, and Salamanca already had smaller versions than the one Ray had in mind. Over 500 gambling operations were being operated by 240 tribes in the United States, with a total annual revenue of over $30 billion. Ray knew it was a profitable industry, and a large Class III casino could be built for sure.

  “This seems like it has excessive risk. Feds for starters. Borrowing a ton of money that we don’t have collateral for,” Graham said, starting to shake his head back and forth, his body language negative.

  Ray immediately noted Graham shooting the idea down, while at the same time noticed others approving it. He hoped his father would jump in to begin swaying the leaders.

  “Listen to Ray, my fellow warriors. Listen to him. Americans are addicted to gambling. Their sweetheart alcohol and music concerts. All this is well-known. Look at the smaller casinos our brothers and sisters already have in New York. This is a multibillion-dollar industry across the country. Big money. Hear him out,” Daniel told them.

  One of the Cayuga leaders stood up. “No one is going to your Rez in the middle of nowhere Niagara, especially in the winter. Where are you going to get customers if they have no money to spend? This project you are dreaming about is hundreds of millions of dollars. You already have your little casino near the Falls. Maybe a second one coming. Our brothers and sisters have others throughout the State. Connecticut. That Rez isn’t large enough of a space for us to live in now.”