“This is right up your alley, Richard,” Ivan tells me.
Still no word from Radha Battachargi at Guber-Peters. And Tony Suarez has not been back in touch with the agreement or the down payment on the Chapin biopic treatment. I’m ready to begin writing. I read the Coan biography of Chapin, I made extensive notes for the script, and I spoke briefly with Chapin’s widow, Sandy, who lives in Huntington, Long Island. I’m due to go out and meet her next week.
I’M DEEP INTO reading discovery and drafting a motion on Operation Pyramid Overdrive. Ivan wasn’t kidding; it’s a fascinating case. There is a novel here. Ivan’s client, an Israeli junk dealer, was lured out of Israel. He arrived in Cairo expecting to rendezvous with a temptress, a plump odalisque named Sari Angel. Instead of the expected assignation, Levy was captured by Egyptian cops. He was beaten, tortured by the Egyptians with DEA agents in attendance. He was then bundled onto a plane and delivered onto US soil, where he was formally arrested. This resulted in multiple violations of his Fourth Amendment right against unreasonable search and seizure. The government wishes to justify the agents’ actions all in the name of America’s holy war on drugs. When Levy appeared in court looking like he’d been in a prizefight, the agents claimed he’d injured himself in a suicide attempt while in the bathroom on board the airplane.
Fisher is certainly getting his money’s worth out of me. I’m writing a brief a week, and not a word of fiction—nothing since my release from prison. I sit in my new apartment and stare at the screen on my new computer, which I am still trying to figure out how to operate. It doesn’t really make the actual act of writing any easier. Norman calls writing “the spooky art.” I recall his advice on how to deal with writer’s block. Just before you go to bed at night, tell yourself that in the morning you will get up and go to work writing. You must keep your word to yourself and follow through in the morning. Then, as you sleep, your subconscious will be at work preparing you for the next day’s writing. But if you tell yourself you are going to write, and then you don’t follow through the next day, soon your subconscious will tune out, and the words won’t come. He also advises against talking to others about what one is working on, cautioning that many a novel has gone the way of barroom blather.
I am not so much blocked as I am stymied, drained by the demands of earning a living. I am writing for several hours most every day, and there’s the rub. My work for Ivan is so close to writing fiction—taking the elements of a story/case and crafting them into a narrative/statement of facts—that, after however many hours spent writing legal pleadings, I’m fried. I find my creative energies are exhausted. At the end of the day, all I want to do is have a couple of drinks and quiet the voices yammering in my head.
At last I have a brand-new smile. It may be only temporary while the permanent veneers are made, but it still makes all the difference. No more snaggle-tooth. After the doc finishes installing the temporary veneers, he leaves the room while Paloma instructs me in the proper method of cleaning my new teeth. It’s all I can do to keep from taking her gently by the hips and easing her down onto my lap.
“Hermosita,” I whisper, “when am I going to see you again?”
“Shhhh,” she cautions. “Soon.”
“Promise?”
“Of course. I want to see you, too.”
Another week goes by, and Tony Suarez still has me hung up on the Harry Chapin deal. I would love to tell him to forget it. As much as I like the story, as much as I would be happy to write it, I hate being jerked around. All this talk and no real action on his part pisses me off. I’m beginning to dislike the guy. His secretary (someone else, not Susan Loring) calls and asks for the fax number at Ivan’s office. She says she is going to fax over an agreement. Hours later, by the time I am ready to leave for the day it still hasn’t arrived. And there has been no word from Radha Battachargi at Guber-Peters.
AFTER A WORKOUT at the gym in Brooklyn Heights, I am at the Mailers’ apartment making my dinner, drinking margaritas, when Fisher calls. He asks if I have had dinner.
“Something has come up,” he says. “I need to speak with you right away.”
In fact, he tells me, he’s in the car on his way over to pick me up.
Jesus! What could it be? Have I done something else I should not have done without first getting his permission? No, nothing I can think of, and he didn’t seem angry.
Ivan picks me up in front of the Mailers’ brownstone, and we dine at Norman’s favorite Japanese restaurant on Joralemon Street. I’m already half buzzed from the margaritas I drank at Norman’s. Ivan orders drinks and scans the wine list, looking for the most expensive bottle.
“I’ve had a Richard Stratton weekend,” he tells me. He’s excited. The long locks usually tucked behind his large ears with pendulous lobes (said to be a sign of intelligence) have come unstuck and frame his flushed face. “This afternoon I met with Chamon Efradi, who you will recognize is the Israeli attorney representing our client, Chiam Levy of Operation Pyramid Overdrive renown. Just an hour ago I dropped Efradi off at the airport; he’s on his way back to Israel. Now, listen to this, Richard. It turns out that Mr. Efradi, who was a cop in Tel Aviv before he became a lawyer, represents a certain Lebanese drug merchant who is in custody somewhere in Israel and—”
“Don’t tell me,” I interrupt. “Mohamed Bero.”
“Yes! How did you know?”
“Lucky guess.”
It’s not really a guess. I learned while in holdover at K Unit in Lewisburg penitentiary; I was told by another Lebanese heroin dealer that Mohamed Bero had been busted on a big junk case in Israel and that he was trying to negotiate his way out of a life sentence by ratting on everyone he knows. Bero, who is the former Chief of Customs in Beirut, was my connection for moving large loads of hashish from the Bekaa Valley up near the Syrian border in Lebanon over the Chouf Mountains and then to pass the load through perhaps half a dozen roadblocks manned by troops from any number of the different factions of the warring tribes in the Lebanese Civil War. It was Bero’s job to assure that the loads arrived safely at the port in Beirut. There, while still under Bero’s protection, the hash would be hidden in a shipment of legal goods, packed into containers, loaded onto freighters, and shipped to the US with no red flags to alert American customs. We made a small fortune together, Bero, my partners, and I. But then Mohamed and his son Nasif got greedy and decided to go into the heroin business. We parted company. Inevitably, Nasif was busted in New York as he tried to sell ten kilos of heroin to an undercover DEA agent. In a deal to free himself and return to Lebanon, Nasif, along with his father, Mohammed, set me up to be captured by federal agents at the airport in Los Angeles.
Ivan tells me that Efradi approached him on behalf of Bero. Efradi wants Ivan to represent Bero gratis and have Bero brought to this country. The proposal is that once Bero arrives in New York, we would set up an operation in cooperation with the State Department to free American hostages being held in Beirut and, more recently at locations in the Bekaa Valley.
“What ‘we’?” I ask. “Who? How do I fit into all this?”
“Who . . . that would be Efradi’s contacts in the State Department. And you, of course. . . . Richard, what American knows Lebanon, and the Lebanese, and the Bekaa Valley, the various warlords and drug czars better than you? You would, let’s say, contribute your expertise, and your connections, your influence to see that whatever Bero is able to come up with is in fact legitimate and viable—”
I shake my head. “Hold on, Ivan,” I interrupt. “We went through this once before. Remember? When I was being held in the county jail in Portland, I was approached by Senator Mitchell’s people through my lawyer, Marshal Stern, and—”
“Yes, yes, I know. Of course I remember. And it fell through. Okay. But keep in mind you were in custody then. And facing multiple indictments in several jurisdictions. You bargained hard, but it was a much more complicated negotiation. And this time . . . well, you’re out.”
“So what’s the point? Why would I get involved? And what would I expect to get out if it besides—if this is even feasible—of course I would like to help free the hostages. But my guess is Mohammed is just blowing smoke up their asses. He’s doing a life sentence in Israel. He turned on and ratted out any number of people—not only me. He’s run out of people to set up and rat on. He’s desperate, Ivan. He’ll say anything to get his fat ass out of jail. You can’t believe anything the man says. And besides, it’s dangerous as hell over there. Look what happened to Terry Waite.”
“Precisely! That is why they need you. First, to find out if in fact Bero has the ability and the relationships to make this happen. Second, to use your considerable connections in the Bekaa Valley, and your reputation for keeping your mouth shut, with the drug lords to make sure it goes according to the agreement.”
“And?”
“And . . . Well, first of all, we know your parole officer will never go along with it.” He laughs. “I can just see Lawless now. We’d like permission for Mr. Stratton to return to Lebanon. Oh, sure, why not? So, therefore, boobie, I would suggest the first order of business ought to be that your parole is terminated immediately. After that, we’ll see what happens.”
This is all reminiscent of an evening before my second arrest, while I was out on bail, and before I decided to go on the lam. I stood on the promenade after leaving Mailer’s in Brooklyn Heights. I had recently returned from Lebanon and I had the distinct feeling I was being followed. Moments later I was approached by my DEA nemesis, Special Agent Bernard Wolfshein, who was the lead agent in the investigation that ultimately resulted in my arrest. Wolfshein made me an offer that still to this day intrigues me. In so many words, the DEA Special Agent told me that there is a variety of criminal who works both sides of the law, and he alluded to Jimmy Bulger, a.k.a. Whitey, the infamous South Boston Irish gangster who was a longtime secret FBI asset. Whitey was allowed to continue committing crimes as long as he provided valuable information to his FBI handler. Wolfshein told me that this was an option open to me as well. I could continue doing what I did, smuggling large loads of hashish and marijuana, and I could remain free, keep the money I made, and make even more money so long as I continued to provide the government with intelligence that would ultimately result in the arrest of others in the dope trade. I passed. Later I would come to know this rarefied criminal specimen is what federal law enforcement terms a Top Echelon Criminal Informant.
And then again, after I was arrested and in custody, housed in the county jail in Portland, Maine, awaiting trial in my first federal case, the government came to me through my attorney with yet another offer. This one I was willing to accept, though not right away. My Maine lawyer, Marshall Stern, was close to Maine senator George Mitchell. A Lebanese family had adopted Mitchell’s father when he was orphaned in Lebanon. Mitchell’s mother was Lebanese. Her maiden name was Saad; her family came from Bkassine, Lebanon. Several American hostages were held by Hizballah in Beirut, and later moved to the Bekaa Valley near the ancient village of Baalbek, close by the border with Syria. Government agents knew that I had close ties with the major hashish producing clans in the Bekaa Valley. The offer was simple. If I were willing to return to Lebanon and use my connections to arrange back-channel negotiations to free American hostages, all the outstanding charges against me would be dropped. Ross Perot was willing to put up $10 million ransom money.
What they were offering was not exactly a vacation hike in the cedar forest of Lebanon’s Chuf Mountains. The civil war in Lebanon was still raging. I was reminded of a statement made by Pablo Escobar: “Better a grave in Colombia than a jail cell in America.” For me that translated as “Better a jail cell in America than a grave in Lebanon.” Hadn’t the Anglican envoy Terry Waite been captured and held hostage in Lebanon after several successful efforts to negotiate the release of hostages held in Iran? I had narrowly escaped Beirut during the Israeli invasion in 1982. But, confirmed action junkie that I am, I countered the government’s offer: if my wife, who was being held on money laundering charges in Canada, were set free, and if I were guaranteed that no future charges would ever be brought against me for my various cannabis-related exploits, I would consider going. One thing I was sure of: the hashish trade is the lifeblood of Lebanon. If anyone has the connections to negotiate the release of hostages being held in the Bekaa, I believe it could well be the warlords whose armies are financed and armed by proceeds from the drug trade. I had close relations with members of one of the major hashish barons’ family, and I was still respected by them for not having cooperated with DEA and federal prosecutors after my arrest. After the initial approach in Maine, a few weeks went by and we heard nothing. My trial date loomed. The government ended up going with another prisoner, a Lebanese heroin dealer who ripped them off and disappeared with Ross Perot’s money.
I’m still intrigued by the idea of high adventure in the Middle East. The antipathy between the opposing factions in my psyche—artist and criminal—escalates to a pitched battle. After drinks and wine with dinner, I would sign on to just about any parlous enterprise. Good to be in a position to bargain with the US government. Who knows what might develop out of this? I could agree to go to Lebanon, and then insist that only by moving a massive load of hashish out of the Bekaa Valley along with the hostages and shipping it to North America can we expect safe passage, which is not unrealistic. It wouldn’t be the first time or the last that American officials facilitated an illegal drug transaction for a supposed greater good; that’s how business is done in certain parts of the world. There is no question in my mind that the drug lords in the Bekaa have the sway, the imprimatur to make this happen . . . if the deal is right. And such a deal could be carried out. We are talking about huge amounts of cash money. And money changes everything. But Mohammed Bero, after what he did—ratting out and setting up not only me but others well placed in the business—from what I’ve heard this resulted in Bero being considered persona non grata in the world of Lebanese drug trafficking. Hence, he was busted in Israel. Still, it’s the Middle East, after all, where alliances, treaties, deals, formal and informal agreements are as transitory and shifting as the desert sands.
WHEN IVAN DROPS me off back at Mailer’s I’m too hyped up to sleep. I rummage around looking for pot but find none. I wander into the bathroom and grin at myself in the mirror. Why settle for a life of quiet desperation? I ask myself. Why not live life on the edge, where anything is possible? Especially in Lebanon. Not long ago, I was in the belly of the beast with broken teeth staring down the long dark tunnel of a twenty-five-year nonparoleable sentence. Now that I’m out, I could be on my way to Beirut with a brand-new passport in a brand-new name. My addled brain is alive with the possibility of new high-stakes escapades and/or quasi-official criminal machinations in foreign lands.
“You could do this, Stratton,” I tell my reflection. “You could make a phone call and see if there is any move to be made here.”
The madman in the mirror leers back at me with a dazzling mouthful of new, white choppers.
Chapter Five
AMOR A LA COLOMBIANA
IT’S IVAN’S BIRTHDAY. The office staff throws him a surprise party. Just as I am about to leave for the day, feeling restless and oddly out of place, Paloma walks in. What a lovely surprise! We go out for a drink, dinner, and then to the movies to see The Freshman with Marlon Brando. The movie does nothing for me, but Paloma’s sweet kisses make it worthwhile. We’re like two kids on a date smooching in the theater. Again, after the movie, she bids me goodnight and takes a cab home. But a lingering hope survives: she has invited me to dinner at her apartment this Saturday night.
Later in the week, Ivan leaves for LA on the Menendez brothers murder case, a referral I brought him through John Mulheren. I get a call from a woman named Jan Yee at Davis Entertainment in LA. She wants to read Smack Goddess and asks if I’d be interested in doing a movie of the week based on my story. Meanwhile, this dildo Suarez is
still jerking me off.
SATURDAY EVENING I arrive at Paloma’s apartment for dinner, and I bring her flowers and a bottle of wine. This really appears to be turning into a traditional courtship. Early in the evening, over dinner of pollo a la Colombiana and a bottle of chardonnay, Paloma tells me that although she likes me very much and finds me attractive, she hopes I will understand that she is not ready to sleep with me, not yet . . .
“That’s fine,” I tell her. “Of course I understand. You’ll let me know when you feel you’re ready.”
We make love all night long. First on the sofa, then again on the living room floor, and finally in her bed. In the morning we shower together, she lathers and washes my cock and balls, and she instructs me in the proper way to floss my teeth. At 6:00 a.m. she hustles me out the door and admonishes me once more, “Don’t tell Eisenberg!”
She kisses me, pats me on the cock, “Take care of my little friend,” she says, imitating Al Pacino in Scarface, and closes the door.
I’m dazed. What just happened? I feel like I’m nineteen years old as I step out onto the sidewalk in front of Paloma’s apartment building in Jackson Heights. What am I doing here? Is this okay? Am I allowed to feel this good? Am I allowed to have so much love? What a little bundle of intense Latin passion that woman is! And more. There is something so open about her, so giving in the act of making love; she holds nothing back. She’s so ready and willing to take me and love me for all I’m worth, I’ve never known that kind of uninhibited desire before.
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