by David DeLee
“You allow?” Tara said.
“We sell ’em then guns, yeah.” LaSala nodded. “We also let ’em operate gaming establishments and girls.”
“Illegal gambling and prostitutes,” Bannon said.
“Human trafficking,” Tara added with disgust. “How magnanimous of you.”
LaSala let the interruption pass. “Their pieces of the pie. It should be enough, right?”
With you on top, getting your cut, Bannon thought but left the critique unspoken.
“This Kwon,” LaSala said. “He’s a different story. Has no respect for the old ways. He speaks of honor, but he’s got none. Not like the old man. He’s too ambitious for his own good.”
“You think this is a power play,” Bannon said.
“He knows how important Billy Palmer is to me. Yeah.”
“If you want our help, you need to be more specific,” Bannon said. “Otherwise, we’re out of here.”
LaSala sighed. “Palmer not just my accountant. He’s my launderer. He cleans my money. Sets up all our offshore and layered global accounts, all the business investments, all the banking institutions we’re involved in. He’s got access to all our records. If he gives Kwon that, gives him the locations, the account numbers, the access codes, Kwon will control…all…my…money.”
LaSala’s face turned dark purple again. The man was not far from having a heart attack or suffering a stroke.
“Sucks for you,” Tara said.
LaSala fisted his hand.
“Why should we help you?” Bannon said.
“You’re not from Boston, are you?”
“Not specifically. New Hampshire, but I spend enough time here.”
“How far back?”
“My whole life,” Bannon said. “Off and on.”
“I inherited the family business from my father,” LaSala said. “Nearly twenty-five years ago.”
“After he was convicted on multiple charges of murder, conspiracy, drug trafficking, robbery, extortion and bribery.”
“Trumped up charges,” LaSala said.
“His going to prison left a power vacuum,” Bannon recalled. “You didn’t just inherit things.”
“Sure. I’ll admit the transition wasn’t as smooth as I’d have wanted,” LaSala admitted. “There were challenges to my authority. It took over two years—I lost good men, including my top lieutenant and my underboss—before things settled down again. A lot of other people were killed in the process, too. You remember them finding Carlo Mineo?”
Bannon shook his head. The big splashy murders made the papers, of course, but the local crime beat didn’t hold much interest for him at the time.
“His body washed up in the marshlands near Plum Island. A bullet in his head. Or when they shot up poor Gustavo Capecchi outside the Sea Bass Grill in the Back Bay?”
“Why should we care if a bunch of hoodlums rub each other out?” Bannon asked.
“Did you miss the part where I said a lot more people got killed? They weren’t all made guys, you know what I mean. Not all my adversaries, either. You’ve got a military background, sort of,” LaSala said, disparaging the Coast Guard. “You know the term, collateral damage, don’t you?”
“What are you saying?” Tara asked tersely.
“If Kwon makes this move on me he’s planning,” LaSala said, laying it out. “I’ll have no choice but to retaliate against his hostile takeover attempt. That’ll create an unstable environment. One the Irish, the Bratva, the Albanians, even the bikers and the cartels are gonna get caught up in. Maybe make moves of their own against me. Maybe be foolish enough to take sides against me.”
LaSala paused for effect. “You’ve been to war, Mr. Bannon?”
“I have.”
“Then help me stop this one before it starts,” LaSala said. “For everybody’s sake.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
That night they regrouped at the Keel Haul.
Once again Bannon and Tara were behind the bar. McMurphy sat in his customary spot along the short end of the bar. A mug of Sam Adams Octoberfest half polished off in front of him. Tara nursed a bourbon on the rocks while she tended to the customers at the bar.
High season for the Keel Haul was summer, of course, but they had their few regulars. A small group of them were at a table enjoying drinks and good conversations while eating barbeque burgers and ribs, which made the whole bar smell like a Texas roadhouse. The playoff game was on TV over the bar. On the jukebox, Reba McEntire sang about the Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia.
Kayla Clarke, a lieutenant with the Coast Guard’s Judge Advocate General’s office and member of their little strike force, joined them. Dressed in a short sleeve cardigan sweater over a snug cotton top and formfitting blue slacks, she wore her wavy auburn hair down. It bounced around her shoulders and framed her pretty face. She ordered a drink called a Fiery Empress.
Bannon had never heard of it, but learned it had hot chili, curry leaves, and tequila in it as he watched Tara make it.
She handed Kayla the drink. “You do this just to test my bartending skills, don’t you?”
“Of course not,” Kayla said innocently but with a twinkle in her brown eyes.
“Every time you’re in here, it a different drink you think nobody’s ever heard of from some far-off place in the world.”
“Yet you always nail it. I had one of these the last time I was in Singapore.” She sipped the drink. “Delicious.” She gave Bannon a wink.
Captain Floyd, who seemingly came with the place when Bannon bought it, called out from midway down the bar. “Test her bartending skills? Ha. They’re crap. She can’t even keep my mug full of beer.”
He banged his empty mug on the bar.
Tara rolled her eyes. “Old man, you keep that up the next beer you’ll be wearing it.”
“You wouldn’t dare, hot stuff.”
She snatched the empty mug from him and filled it at the beer tap. “Maybe not. Maybe I’ll just star serving you the non-alcoholic stuff.”
Floyd clutched at his chest in horror.
She put the fresh beer in front of him. “There. Hope you drown in it.”
The old timer smiled at the thought. “Now that’d be a way to go.”
As she returned to the others, shaking her head, he called out, “Love you, peaches.”
“Were you able to find anything out?” Bannon asked Kayla.
He’d called her that afternoon, after their run in with Vinnie Knuckles in Boston.
In her position with the JAG Office, and because of the Coast Guard’s drug interdiction mission, Kayla had a ton of law enforcement contacts; DEA, FBI, ICE, even state and local police. Add to that she had an expertise in all facets of computer technology; systems, software, data networks, data recovery, information systems, and anything involving the internet, social media, and the web, dark and otherwise.
“More than I ever wanted to know,” she said.
“Start with LaSala,” Bannon said.
“He told you about how he seized power when his father Francis LaSala went to jail?”
“Frankie Small-fries,” McMurphy said. “He hated that name ’cause he was only five foot six. Suffered from Napoleon Complex like nobody’s business.”
“He told us it kicked up a power struggle for control over the syndicate,” Tara said.
“And a number of high ranking mafioso types ended up dead,” Bannon added.
McMurphy nodded. “Civilians too. Got so out of hand, LaSala had to reach out to the crime bosses in New York to help broker a deal.”
“The New York families?” Bannon said. “I thought Boston ran independent of those guys.”
“They do, mostly.” McMurphy slid his beer and barstool closer to the others. “But the New England syndicate exists at the pleasure of the New York families. A sort of pay to play arrangement. As long as New York gets their piece of the action, they let ’em be.”
“New England?” Tara asked. “Not just Boston?”
“Boston runs everything from Maine down to Providence, and Rhode Island, too. Gambling, drugs, strip clubs, protection rackets, you name it. Been that way since Prohibition. With help from the New York families, LaSala put down the opposition to his rise to power. He became the de facto crime boss in New England twenty years ago and has reigned over his domain in relative peace ever since.”
“How do you know so much about it?” Tara asked.
“What? I know things.”
“Until now,” Bannon said, refocusing the conversation.
“That remains to be seen,” Kayla said. “Depends on if Toi Kwon succeeds or not.”
“Only a matter of time before it happens.” McMurphy finished his beer. “These bosses, they grow old, get tired. Eventually some young buck’s gonna knock ’em off the throne. I’m surprised it’s the Yakuza though. They don’t have the numbers to win a gang war and they’ll never get the backing of the New York families.”
Bannon poured McMurphy another Sam Adams. “LaSala did said Kwon was too ambitious for his own good.”
McMurphy sipped his beer. “LaSala’s right about one thing. This cold war he’s got brewing goes hot, a lot of innocent people are gonna get caught in the crossfire.”
Bannon concurred. “Let’s hope we can do something about that then.” To Kayla, he said, “What were you able to dig up about the Yakuza and Toi Kwon?”
“They’re a transnational crime syndicate that originated in Japan. They’ve got forty thousand active members there. They deal in human trafficking, protection rackets, loan sharking. They operate gambling dens, and as LaSala told you, drugs and arms smuggling. As far as the U.S. affiliates go, they’re strongest in Hawaii, with a presence in LA, San Francisco, Chicago, New York, and of course, here in Boston. The police in Japan call them bōryokudan.”
“Violent groups,” Tara said, translating.
“They live up to the reputation, too,” Kayla said. “A large number of high-profile murders have been attributed to them over the years.”
“And Kwon?” Bannon asked.
“He’s a piece of work. Like many of the Yakuza, he’s of Japanese-Korean ancestry. His father sent him to live with his mother in Kyoto where it was believed he’d be protected.”
“Protect from what?” Tara asked. “Or whom?”
“Everyone,” Kayla said. “I guess it’s not safe being the son of a crime boss. His upbringing in Japan was anything but idyllic, being part Korean he got bullied as a kid. He lashed out, a lot, got in trouble with the law. As a young man he was suspected of brutally murdering three members of a rival Yakuza family; shooting a man in the head, stabbing his grandson to death, and even killing the man’s wife in a knife attack. According to sources I talked to, she had no connection to the family’s illegal activities.”
“He was never arrested?” Bannon asked.
“No. He fled Japan before the police could make a case. He came here to live with his father and eventually the case against him grew cold.”
“Now he’s our problem,” Bannon said.
“So it would seem.” Kayla finished her Fiery Empress.
Bannon polished off his beer. As did McMurphy.
Tara replenished everyone’s drinks.
“There’s something else LaSala told us,” Bannon said. “Not only does he believe Kwon is holding Palmer captive, but there’s also a missing flash drive he wants back. According to LaSala, Palmer’s never without it.”
“What’s on it?” McMurphy asked.
“LaSala’s entire financial operation. Banking records. Offshore accounts. Passcodes, account numbers. Business holdings. Legitimate and otherwise. And one other thing. A record of every corrupt politician, judge, lawyer, and law enforcement person LaSala’s syndicate has ever bribed, bought, paid off, or influenced with their ill-gotten gain.”
McMurphy whistled. “No wonder he’s desperate to get it back.”
Bannon nodded. “With it, Kwon controls not only all of LaSala’s money, but his entire operation.”
McMurphy’s cell phone rang. He pulled it out, looked at it, ignored the call and returned the phone to his pocket.
“I want to rescue Palmer,” Bannon said, “but I want that flash drive almost as badly. If we can get that into the right hands, we can shut LaSala down for good.”
“I don’t know about that,” McMurphy said. “You cut off the head and another one takes its place. Organized crime’s a part of Boston and has been for over a hundred years. They’re ebbs and flows in their influence, but they never go away. Take out one, even the king, someone else’ll just step into his place.”
“You saying we shouldn’t try?” Bannon asked.
“What? No. Lock ’im up and throw away the key. Take down as many of them as we can. I’m all for it. But check your expectations at the door. That world keeps spinning. The players will change, but the game won’t.”
“Well on that cheery note,” Bannon said. “Any suggestions on how we proceed?”
McMurphy pushed his beer to the side and leaned forward. “I’m glad you asked, because, yes, I do.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Toby Keith had taken over the jukebox from Reba McEntire, his deep voice singing about how much he Loves This Bar. The crowd in the Keel Haul—not enough to field a baseball team Tara said—had started to thin. Yet Captain Floyd remained, his wrinkled hand with its paper-thin skin hooked around his beer. On TV, the Red Sox were up six runs in the second game of the ADLS.
Tara, Kayla, and Bannon stared at McMurphy, each waiting to hear his idea.
He asked for another beer. Tara drew one from the tap and handed it to him.
“Kwon is a notorious gambler,” McMurphy said after a sip. “Not a great trait for an aspiring crime boss, but I guess we all have our Achille’s Heel. He hosts a monthly gambling excursion on his yacht, the Bakuto. He takes them twelve miles out—”
“Into international waters,” Bannon said. “Smart.”
“They shove off a little after dusk and return by dawn. Eight hours on the high seas.” McMurphy scooped a handful of trail mix from a bowl and ate. “Invited guests only. Usually handpicked and carefully screened movers and shakers in local business, entertainment, and political circles. It’s how Kwon gets a number of them into his pocket.”
“Forgive their gambling debts in exchange for favors,” Bannon assumed.
“Exactly.”
“And you know this how?” Tara asked.
“I’ve gone out with them a few times,” McMurphy admitted. “I’ve got a standing invitation.”
“As which?” Kayla asked. “A business, entertainment, or political mover and shaker?”
Bannon, steered the conversation in a different direction. McMurphy had his secrets—like everyone—and he had a right to keep them private. “It seems unlikely he’d have Palmer on board.”
“Agreed,” McMurphy said. “But if this flash drive exists and he has it, he’ll have it with him. We get the flash drive—”
“Palmer becomes expendable,” Tara said.
“I didn’t say it was a perfect plan,” McMurphy admitted.
“No,” Bannon said. “You’re onto something here. Kwon must need both. Palmer and the flash drive.”
“That would make sense,” Kayla said. “Whatever data’s on the drive, it’s more than likely passcode protected. Encrypted. He’d need Palmer alive to decipher it all. Until then it’s useless.”
“If he hasn’t done so already,” Tara said.
“I don’t think so.” Bannon drew a beer for himself, offering fresh drinks to Tara and Kayla, but they both declined. “LaSala said killing Riggi and leaving him to be found was a message. Kwon wanted LaSala to know he had Palmer. If he had what he wanted, Kwon would’ve killed Palmer and made sure his body turned up, too.”
“Telling LaSala he has what he needs to take him down,” Tara said.
“Right,” Bannon said. “So, for the time being, we assume he’s still alive.”
Kayla said, “But Kwon won’t keep Palmer alive once he loses the flash drive. Without the drive, he’ll cut his loses.”
“Unless we make it clear we’re willing to deal,” Bannon said. “We hold the drive for ransom. As long as there’s a chance he’ll get it back, Kwon will have an incentive to Palmer alive. That’ll give us the time we need to find out where he’s holding him.”
McMurphy’s phone rang again. He checked it, cursed, and returned it unanswered to his pocket.
This time, Bannon asked, “Everything all right?”
McMurphy frowned, irritated. “Yeah.”
“Okay. First step, we get the drive and tell Kwon we’re willing to sell it back to him. Then we keep him on the hook. Now we need to figure out how to do that.” He directed his attention to McMurphy. “What can you tell us about where Kwon would keep the drive? On his person?”
“No,” McMurphy said, emphatically. “He’s got a personal safe on board. It’s below deck, in a cabin he’s converted into a vault. It’s where they keep the dealer’s tills and take the drop safes from the gaming tables when they’re full.”
“How do you know all this?” Tara asked.
Before McMurphy could answer, Bannon said, “Any chance you know the make and model of the safe?”
“A Tram-Greene 2782,” McMurphy said. “Made out of one-inch thick, military-grade, ballistic armored plating. Three hardened one-inch diameter locking bolts in the door. An electronic keypad lock and biometric fingerprint reader. It has a glass plate relock mechanism designed to release relocking pins at the slightest attempt to penetrate the door or use any conventional safecracking techniques against it.”
Tara and Kayla stared at him.
McMurphy continued. “The vault room has reinforced steel walls, an armor-plated door, and key card access. It would take a bazooka to blast into the thing.”
Tara couldn’t help herself. “How do you possibly know all this?”
“I’ve been there.”
“Inside Kwon’s vault room?” Kayla asked.
“Yes.” McMurphy left it at that.
“Okay,” Tara said. “I can’t let that go. How? Did Kwon invite you in for saké or something?”