by Paul Batista
He arrived at the beach at high tide. The powerful, flashing waves almost reached the dunes. As a wave receded, the sand was swept clean and flat until the next surging wave foamed up the beach, creating a different perimeter of gleaming flat sand as it slipped back into the ocean.
Taking off his sneakers and tying the shoelaces to the handlebars, Juan walked eastward on the beach, pushing his bicycle and staying close to the grassy dunes to avoid even the farthest-reaching incoming waves. He was concerned that the touch of salt water on the bike would create rust. The first time he had tasted, seen, or touched salt water was when, after thousands of miles of riding with seven other stinking men in the windowless rear of the rented Hertz truck, he had arrived in New York. On his fourth day in the city he walked downtown to look at the harbor. He was awestruck: the expanse of water in New York Harbor, the far shorelines of New Jersey and Staten Island, the distant Statue of Liberty, the innumerable tankers and boats criss-crossing the harbor. There had been one geography book in his village school in Mexico. Although it had pictures taken from satellites of the land masses of the world and the much vaster blue spaces of the ocean, he’d never imagined that the living ocean glittered so vibrantly to a far horizon. His teacher told him that salt water not only instantly corroded metal but had miraculous power to cure hurt or bruised bodies. Holy water, giver of miracles.
As he often did on these Tuesday afternoons, Juan decided to make his way to the East Hampton beaches three miles to the east of Bridgehampton. He rode the quiet old roads—which were once wagon trails and footpaths—from Bridgehampton through Sagaponack to East Hampton. Most houses in sight near the shore were large, shingled, sprawling, on several acres of land. Some were more modern: cubes of wood and windows piled on each other like the bright Lego pieces Mariana’s kids stacked on the floors. There were also acres of flat farm fields with rows of ripening cornstalks. It was late August. The cornstalks rustled drily in the afternoon heat.
As usual, Juan’s destination was Egypt Road, which ran between the Richardsons’ estate and the rolling golf course of the Maidstone Club. After he climbed the wooden steps that led from the beach to the road near the house, he walked his bike on the shoulder next to the hedgerows he maintained so well. He had cleaned the windows of the house on Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, and today they glinted like clear jewels in the sunshine and clean air.
Earlier in the week he had mowed the lawns, riding on the small tractor whose blades were like thousands of small shearing scissors grooming the grass as they cut. As always, even after the fragrant mowing, the lawns were lush. Not far from the Bonac’s front door, the American flag snapped from its white pole, all those vivid colors against the blue sky. Brad Richardson must have raised the flag, normally Juan’s job, since, as Juan knew, Joan Richardson was in the city and Brad had rewarded everyone who worked at the house by letting them take the day off.
Brad’s friends often worried that on these sacred Tuesdays he was alone. Unlike other extraordinarily wealthy men, he had no security guards. He never felt vulnerable in the immense house, or on the sometimes empty roads, or on the streets of East Hampton where he had walked on the weekends as a teenager and now as a 47-year-old man. He saw himself as a native of the seaside village, a local, with no need for a palace guard.
But after the financial collapse in 2008, menacing messages had been left on the voice mail of the office telephone system on Park Avenue. For several weeks Brad had been accompanied by the muscled-up, shaven-headed men, both black and white, of a security detail. Two black SUVs with tinted windows followed Brad and Joan wherever they went. Always in black suits and ties, the men were also stationed at the estate.
Brad disdained the ostentation of security details. Among the people he knew the presence of security had become yet another symbol of wealth. Joan, too, felt uncomfortable with the security. One night Brad said, “This is silly, don’t you think?”
Joan laughed. “This might make Nancy Reagan and Kim Kardashian feel important and impressive, but not me.”
And they dropped the security service.
Now, as Juan pushed his heavy bicycle near the estate, he noticed a black SUV, immaculately clean, on the fine white gravel of the circular driveway. He slowed his pace, wondering why the car was there, and then jumped on the bicycle. Its chunky tires left tracks in the roadside sand. It was a five-mile ride to the run-down ranch house on the Sag Harbor-Bridgehampton Turnpike.
On these long rides Juan had come to enjoy stopping at the Starbucks on the Montauk Highway. At first these stops were uncomfortable for him. He’d never known anyone who went into a Starbucks even for a take-out. The shops had tables, chairs, and sofas in them, and the people who had coffee and cakes and used their laptops and iPads there were for the most part young, white, and oblivious to what was happening around them.
The first time he left his Schwinn near the door and walked into the Starbucks he stared straight ahead at the girl behind the counter. Juan ignored the menu of drinks displayed on the wall and simply said, “Black coffee.”
She asked, “Grande, trente, or venti?”
Confused, Juan stared at her. She was a local girl, her face littered with acne. He was certain she couldn’t speak Spanish, although she had just uttered three Spanish words. She pointed to the smallest cup. He nodded.
In the overheated shop redolent with the odor of crushed coffee beans, he took the hot container to a chair near the front window, watching the traffic on the Montauk Highway and the cars—mainly gleaming and expensive German cars—parked in front of the store.
After that first stop Juan became more relaxed. He tried other coffee drinks. He smiled at people. Usually he sat for fifteen or twenty minutes, enjoying the coffee and the music. There was even a young woman with stylish brown hair, pretty face, and warm demeanor with whom Juan exchanged smiles but never words. He was happy when he saw her there and slightly let down when she wasn’t.
He had discovered another world—companionable, comfortable, warm.
“Anibal.” The familiar voice was behind him.
Startled, Juan turned. Oscar Caliente always dressed like a Brooks Brothers preppy: chinos, blue or gray blazer, button-down shirt. He was a handsome man who looked like a slightly darker version of George Clooney. He wore old-fashioned glasses with flesh-colored frames.
Juan, like everyone else who knew Oscar Caliente, was afraid of him. Oscar ran a crew of at least twenty men. It had taken less than a year for him to gain total control of the East Side of Manhattan from 86th Street to 125th Street between Fifth Avenue and the East River; his men wiped off the streets even the smallest competitor, including freelance punks who thought they could make a few bucks selling weed and cocaine for extra cash. Oscar Caliente had a zero tolerance policy about other drug dealers in his territory. In addition to the twenty full-time crew members, Oscar had at least thirty other men and women who had the contacts with customers—Oscar actually called them clients—in the territory. The runners delivered the cocaine, heroin, opium, weed, Vicodin, and any and all other drugs the clients wanted. Oscar was an entrepreneur: he ran a full-service business capable of filling any need any customer had, even for peyote and mushrooms.
Juan stood up. Oscar embraced him. Juan said in English, “Oscar, how are you, man?”
In Spanish, Oscar answered, “I’m always good, thank God.”
With his left hand Oscar gently guided Juan into his chair as he pulled a chair for himself from another table. The pretty girl already seated at the table didn’t even glance up. Juan felt a surge of fear: he had hoped never to see Oscar again. He had always been straight with Oscar. Because of fear, Juan had never skimmed a single dime from the cash the customers had given him even though at the end of a night that could be as much as four thousand dollars. Juan had heard that other runners who held back even small amounts of cash were beaten, stabbed, burned with cigarettes and kicked in the balls by the full-time members of Oscar’s crew.
“We miss you,” Oscar said in Spanish.
“I had trouble, man.”
“I heard. Why didn’t you come to me? I could have helped you. I don’t let anybody screw around with my people. You gave those guys who jumped you what they deserved. You kicked the shit out of them. I’m proud of you, man.”
“The cops were looking for me all over the place. I didn’t want to get arrested. If I got arrested I’d be gone.”
“You know better than that. Fucking cops. I could have made a call to get them to stop. You’re one of my best boys. I take care of my boys.” Juan had heard that Oscar Caliente controlled the police commanders who supervised the two precincts in Oscar’s territory.
Oscar was leaning forward so close to Juan’s face that he could smell and feel Oscar’s breath. Oscar never smoked or drank. He had clean, mint-freshened breath. He never touched the millions of dollars in drugs that were distributed in his territory.
Oscar placed his right hand on the back of Juan’s neck and gently pulled him even further forward. Their faces were within inches of each other, as if they were brothers about to share secrets. Juan trembled: the tendons in his neck vibrated like cords drawn very tight.
“You’re working for a rich guy, right? I’ve been thinking about you. You see, you were a great worker and I asked around about you. And they told me you were meeting lots of rich guys out here. Really, really rich.”
The grip of the hand on his neck was not strong. It was not Oscar’s own strength that Juan feared. Oscar was not strong. His hands were small. He was vaguely effete. It was his ability and his willingness to get ruthless men to act for him that caused the fear. “I’m just raking leaves,” Juan said. “I washed dishes in New York, remember? Raking leaves and washing dishes. That’s all I know.”
“Bullshit, that’s not true, man. You’re special. Christ, I had you wash dishes so no one would figure out who you were and who you worked for. Very special, very good at what you do. And it isn’t washing dishes and raking leaves.”
In the months in New York when he worked for Oscar Caliente, Juan’s special assignment was to range late at night out of Oscar’s established territory on the Upper East Side and East Harlem to the downtown after-hours clubs. There were at least seven clubs throbbing with music and wild dancing on West 14th Street and West Houston Street and in the old warren of streets between them in the Meat Packing District near the Hudson River. The clubs were open from eleven at night until six or so in the morning. Juan was soon so well recognized by the bouncers at the velvet ropes at the entrances and the owners inside that he had free passage, like a Hollywood celebrity or the mythic Smooth Operator in the Sade song. He even brought with him an entourage of two or three men and women who carried what Oscar always called the “dry goods.”
“I rake leaves,” Juan said.
“Come on, Anibal, cut that shit. You look like Antonio Banderas, you know, that guy in the movies. It lets you get all over town. You love that, I know. The parties, the girls. You love it. I saw it in you.”
Staring at Oscar’s close face, Juan said, “Really, man, I don’t want to do it.”
Oscar smiled. “Sure you do. Think about it. You can get out of that shack in the fucking woods with all those Honduran and black guys. I saw your beautiful mama and her babies. She won’t have to work any more in the supermarket. Or you can dump her and play around.”
Juan stared at him. It was no surprise that Oscar knew where he lived, who Mariana was, that she worked at the grocery store, and how many kids she had. And it was no surprise that Oscar Caliente knew that Juan worked for the Richardsons. All that made Juan even more afraid and also angry at this small, well-dressed man who had grown up in Mexico City in a wealthy family, attended a private school in Massachusetts where he learned to speak flawless English, returned to Mexico, and sought out and within three years became one of the key leaders in the Sinaloa cartel. Oscar could move seamlessly between Mexico and New York. Dressed in his blazers and button-down shirts—the type of clothes he had worn at the school in Massachusetts—he quickly established Sinaloa in the city. His instructions now were to expand the Sinaloa domain to the Hamptons.
Still smiling, Oscar Caliente said, “I need you to come work for me again. But out here. I’m new here. Now we’re selling to the punks in the streets and the college kids. We don’t make any real money when our clients are punks and kids. You can get to the rich guys. They love you, I know it, I’ve heard all about it. I can start to sew it up out here. And we both get big.”
On the table in front of Juan was a sleek iPhone Brad Richardson had given him. The only other cell phones he ever had were the single-use disposable ones Oscar gave him each time Juan went downtown to the clubs.
Oscar picked up Juan’s iPhone. He manipulated it as rapidly and deftly as a teenage girl, found Juan’s number, and entered it in his own contacts list. Before standing, he said, “I’ll give you a call.”
Five days later Juan Suarez made his first delivery. It was to Trevor, the man who had held Brad Richardson’s hand at the party. Trevor lived in a pretty carriage house on a quiet back street in Southampton Village. Juan had no idea his first client would be Trevor. Oscar had simply given him an address, a large order, and a time for the delivery.
“Lordy,” Trevor said, embracing Juan at the door. “What a wonderful surprise.”
Juan hesitated. “You live in a nice place.”
“You’re welcome here any time. Why don’t you stay for a little while?”
“Not today. I have to get to Water Mill.”
“Busy, busy boy,” Trevor said, taking from Juan the plastic Duane Reade bag in which Juan had carried two shoe boxes.
“Thanks,” Juan said. He smiled at Trevor. He didn’t want to antagonize a customer because word of that might get back to Oscar Caliente.
“I’ll be in touch soon,” Trevor said.
And then briefly, glancingly, he kissed Juan’s lips.
Juan stepped back but didn’t flinch. Trevor could not gauge this handsome, exotic man’s reaction. Juan was cool, motionless, waiting. Finally, he said, “The money.”
“Of course.” Trevor picked up a brown envelope on a table next to the door. “This is for you.”
In the back seat of an Audi driven by a man he knew only as Jocko, Juan counted the two thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills that were in the envelope. He had just earned three hundred dollars for five minutes of work. And this was just the first of four drops on this hot night.
7.
Joan Richardson was with Senator Rawls at the party for major donors to the Metropolitan Museum of Art when her cell phone, deep in her purse, started vibrating. Attended by three hundred people, the party was closed to the public. The grand museum was suffused with soft, flattering light. Torches burned. On the mezzanine above the entry hall a tuxedoed quartet played Boccherini, Mozart, the Beatles. Because of the sounds of the voices and the music, she could barely hear the ringing cell phone. She was reaching for her second fluted glass of champagne, as was Senator Rawls. She ignored the cell phone. She knew it was Brad Richardson because the ring—the steel guitar portion of the original James Bond theme—was unique to him.
Hank Rawls had spent the entire afternoon at her Fifth Avenue apartment. For hours they had touched each other everywhere, licked each other, and had sex on her bed, in the kitchen, and in the room-sized shower before they dressed for the party. But at this glamorous party they hadn’t even touched hands.
Within thirty seconds of the first ringing, her cell vibrated and rang again. More than a hundred miles away in East Hampton, Brad was being more persistent on the cell phone than he had been in years. It rang as many as six times while she and the Senator spoke with the aristocratic, perfectly dressed, dulcet-voiced Phillipe de Montbello, who for twenty-five years had been the director of the museum. He was more a connoisseur of fund-raising than of art. He made a donor feel as if he were granting a favor by accepting the gift. Again
she ignored the faint, persistent ringing from her sequined purse.
As soon as de Montebello glided to a group of people that included Bill Clinton and Caroline Kennedy, Joan made her way to the bathroom. Other than the bathroom matron in a blue uniform, no one else was there when her cell phone rang again. Exasperated, she snapped open her purse, composed herself to sound calm and neutral, and evenly said, “Brad?”
An unfamiliar man’s voice asked, “Is this Joan Richardson?”
She was startled. “Who’s this?”
“Detective Halsey, Suffolk County Police Department.” Halsey was a common name in the Hamptons. Some of the original settlers in the 1600s in Southampton and East Hampton were named Halsey. By now there were dozens of Halseys on the East End—plumbers, electricians, policemen, lawyers, teachers.
“Oh, hello. Has there been a break-in?” The Bonac’s state-of-the-art security system was linked to three police stations in Suffolk County.
“Is this Joan Richardson?” he repeated.
“Yes, it is. Has there been a break-in?”
“No, no break-in.”
“Are you in my house?”
“We are.”
“Why are you using my husband’s cell phone?”
“We used it to find you.”
“Where is my husband?”
“Mrs. Richardson, where are you?”
“Has there been an accident?”
“Where are you, Mrs. Richardson?”
She was now very nervous, confused. She pressed her left index finger into her left ear and leaned forward, as if to reduce the level of noise in the quiet bathroom. Raising her voice, she said, “Where is my husband?”
“Your husband is dead, Mrs. Richardson.”
Sensing that all the blood in her body had instantly drained away, she said, “That can’t be true. You can’t be who you say you are. This is a sick joke, isn’t it?”
“No joke. He is dead, Mrs. Richardson.”