Becker sipped his vodka, listening.
One day, a couple of years back, when the investigation that led to The Brotherhood trial was just beginning, Becker arrived at Red Hardie’s office to serve a subpoena for all of Red’s accounting books and records. Red wasn’t in, but the secretary directed Becker to Nichols who said it would take a few days to gather the material. Subsequent conversations when Becker returned revealed that the two of them had mutually compatible goals. Becker mentioned that he was out to nail Red Hardie, which would be the biggest collar he made since he moved from the C.I.A. to the D.E.A. At that very moment, a thought occurred to Nichols. If Becker and his squad had enough information, they might cause Red Hardie—with his fame and fancy suits, his cars and women—to fall into the abyss of the justice system. At which point, he, Awgust Nichols, with all his inside information about the operation, his knowledge of how things worked, and, most importantly, where all the money was buried or hidden, would be standing right there to grab the tiller for “Uncle” Red Hardie. Nichols realized that once Red went to jail, he would be there for a long time. And in the interim, if things were worked right, Nichols would be standing in the place of honor and respect Harlem so long reserved for Red Hardie.
To pursue his burning ambitions, Nichols provided Becker with information about Money Dozier and the other major players in the Brotherhood, revealing when each visited Sport’s Lounge on the corner of 137th Street each day, how Money sat in the same booth and seat in the rear of the club, every day, sorting out, on Red’s behalf, various business matters that arose amongst the toilers in the drug trade. Nichols even told Becker about the picture of Sugar Ray Robinson that hung on the wall above Money’s booth. In addition, after obtaining a vow of secrecy from Anton Taylor, Nichols told him of the D.E.A.’s investigation, and the impending indictments that were going to hit the Brotherhood like a ton of bricks. He convinced Taylor that he was about to be run over by a steam-roller, but if he worked with the Government and A.U.S.A. Dineen so that an application for Electronic Surveillance could be presented to Judge Ellis, he, in turn, would receive substantial help from the Government in his own case.
At first, Taylor resisted. But Nichols, ever Taylor’s guide, convinced him that arrests were inevitable, The Man was about to pounce on the Brotherhood, and shit was really going to hit the fan. He assured Taylor that with some quiet help and information—he didn’t have to be a testifying witness—the length of Taylor’s prison sentence could be kept to the minimum. When Taylor agreed to assist the Government, he insisted, as Nichols had advised, that he would only give information, not testify. Dineen, anticipating the day that copies of his Application for Electronic Surveillance would have to be turned over to the Defense Counsel for those indicted, in his papers, referred to Taylor only as “Confidential Informant Number One (C.I. 1)” and Nichols as C.I. 2.
Once the Electronic Surveillance Order, based upon the information provided by C.I. 1 and C.I. 2, was obtained, the D.E.A. staged a common burglary of the Sport’s Lounge in order to place a bug in the premises. Except for Red, all the men who comprised the upper ranks of the Brotherhood gathered there regularly to lay plans, strategize the importation, sale, and distribution of the product.
That Red was never present during those meetings did not deter the Government from pursuing a conspiracy prosecution against him. The invocation of Red’s name by the others, references to his being involved in or approving of the actions taken by those who met at Sport’s, served as the necessary predicate for Red’s inclusion in the conspiracy.
Once the listening device was in place, in the dark area of the boxing glove in the picture of Sugar Ray Robinson, behind Money’s booth, everything that was said there was transmitted to a Con Edison excavation in the street just outside the club. There, members of Becker’s squad, in yellow hard hat guise, together with a couple of real Con Ed men who knew what they were doing in the hole, came and went daily right under the feet of Money and the rest of the entourage. From the excavation, the conversations were re-transmitted by telephone line to a listening post at the D.E.A. wire room on Tenth Avenue.
Hardie, having seen the excavation while driving by Sport’s one evening, advised Money to have a cousin of one of the Brotherhood—a real Con Ed line man—go down into the excavation to be sure that it was a legitimate Con Edison job. The friendly Con Ed man reported that all seemed normal below the street. Which was true, since Michael Becker, as a further precaution, had persuaded Con Ed to actually rip out some of the old lines on Lenox Avenue and replace them with new ones. Since the existing lines dated back over eighty years and were going to be replaced soon anyway, the construction did not burden Con Ed unduly. Money’s Con Ed man did not detect the single telephone wire, encased in an entire bundle of other wires, which served as the conduit for the D.E.A.’s receivers to transmit information downtown.
At the D.E.A. offices, other members of Becker’s squad monitored and recorded every word uttered around the table at Sport’s for the entire life of the bug. They made logs, with notes of the time of each conversation, a capsule version of what was said, and identified each person who participated in the conversation by voice recognition and context. In addition, a camera secreted in one of the blinking yellow caution lights that surrounded the Con Ed excavation photographed everyone who entered or left the club.
To guard against the possibility that a camera was taking pictures of Sport’s from the Con Ed excavation, Hardie had instructed Money to have someone break into the caisson-like equipment wagon maintained at the job site regularly, just to make sure there was no surveillance equipment or cameras hidden there. Supervisor Becker, counter-anticipating such a move, ordered that no surveillance equipment be left at the site or in the caisson overnight.
Hardie told Dozier that the blinking yellow warning lights should be broken occasionally, by some purposely errant motorist, as a further precaution against cameras or microphones.
Anticipating this possibility, the D.E.A. changed the camera/blinker at the end of each day, taking the real camera blinker with them, replacing it with a standard blinker during the night hours.
At the trial, this chess game of anticipation, move, counter-move, and counter-counter-move was revealed in all its splendor through the testimony of Becker’s agents. Some of the human limitations of the D.E.A. investigation were also revealed by way of testimony that there were many days during which no photographs were taken because the blinker/ camera had been crushed by an inept motorist, requiring that a new camera be requisitioned through the D.E.A. supply office. With Government bureaucracy and budget constraints, it had taken some time and wheedling to replace the expensive miniature camera, during which hiatus, no photographs were available.
“Don’t act like what I’ve done was nothing,” Nichols said to Becker. “When I told you I’d go along with your investigation, you almost creamed your pants.”
“Let’s keep the party polite,” Becker frowned. “I agree, your information was certainly helpful.”
“And who’s been giving you information about stashes of currency that you and your people have seized? To the tune of a couple of million, so far. Who? And who knows where all that dough ends up?”
In addition to the information Nichols was supplying about trafficking and traffickers, Nichols’s information permitted Becker and his squad to make occasional seizures of large stashes of currency. Even though, in most instances, there were no arrests, these seizures were intended to hurt the Brotherhood in its pockets, slowing its ability to traffic. Also significant, the seized funds were split up amongst law enforcement agencies, the bulk going to Becker’s superiors in Washington—which, of course, didn’t hurt Becker’s stature in the D.E.A.
“Are you going to tell me about this new Russian drug route any time soon?” Becker asked.
“Red was supposed to be put away, right? That was part of the deal, right?”
“Your point?”
“Hey, fo
rgive me that I’m unhappy. And it’s not just me, by the way. So is Taylor. Can you blame us? We’ve helped you accomplish what you wanted: getting Red into court—which you guys had never been able to do—and then into the Can. You’re in the process of disbanding the whole Brotherhood operation, which is all fine for you, but nothing has changed for me, or Taylor. And there’s no relief in sight. Now his lawyer’s got a freakin’ nose-bleed. And the trial is going to be delayed again. This thing is never going to end.”
“It’s almost over.” Becker said. “Just a few last twitches and spasms. By the way, I hope you haven’t been leading your boy Taylor down a primrose path. He’s as dirty as the soles of my shoes, and he’s got to pay for his sins, like everybody else. He may get a break with sentencing, but make sure he knows he’s going to be doing some time.”
“Nobody’s looking for a walk, man. If he got one, it’d make him look like a stool pigeon, anyway. I just told him you’re going to do something for him at the time of sentencing. You are, right?”
“What did I just say?”
“A low sentence.”
“I didn’t say a low sentence. A lower sentence, not a low sentence, wise guy. You’ll be better off when he’s off your back, anyway. He’s just a thug, a mug, even if he is your nephew or cousin or whatever.”
“Cousin. How do you expect me to keep him workin’ if I can’t tell him there’s a benefit in it for him at the end of the tunnel?”
Becker shrugged, then sipped his vodka. “Dineen’ll speak to the Judge at the right time. That means, at sentence. Remember, Taylor is absolutely, positively, no way in Hades, going to get a walk.”
“The problem is, the longer this thing goes on, the more possible it is that these guys will catch on to what’s been going down. They’ll figure it out one of these days. And when they do, these guys can get nasty, Red and Money, especially Red.”
“Why especially Red? Red isn’t a thug. It’s Money who’s the dangerous one.”
“Without Red, Money is a shuffling nigger. He has to have someone tell him what to do.” Becker shrugged, indicating some agreement. “That’s why Red should be offed.”
“Offed? Did you say offed? Offed? Are you actually saying you want someone to kill him? Have you gone off your rocking-chair?”
“Now that you mention it, that sounds like a great idea,” said Nichols.
Becker grimaced. “What you think sounds great doesn’t matter a tinker’s dam. We’re not killers, okay. We enforce the law, not break it. I’ve told you that before. I’m sure you’d like me to pop Red’s head off. Frankly, from a personal point of view, maybe I would, too. He’s scum. But that’s not what the D.E.A. is all about.”
“Jesus, get off the soap-box. You’re a goddam Supervisor because of me—”
“Because of you?”
“Hey, man, we’re both getting something out of this. You’re moving up, I’m getting out.” Becker studied Nichols as he spoke. “And here I’m bringing you a whole new deal of Russian smugglers that’ll be even bigger than the Brotherhood.”
“You keep telling me I’m going to hear about this new Russian route, but I haven’t heard a thing yet.”
“First, I want an answer, Michael. Either we’ve got an arrangement or we don’t. ‘Cause if we don’t, there’s no reason for me to be giving you any more information. And I’m telling you, this one could really bring in some big arrests, big money stashes; Russia, man, Russia—that’s right up your alley—da?”
Becker was silent for a moment, focused on something beyond the railroad car in which they sat.
“I still don’t hear an answer. Are we working together or not?”
“We’re working together, okay? Now relax.” Becker poured more vodka in his glass and sat down in one of the armchairs near the window of the compartment. A wisp of a smile was on his lips. “You know, you never told me how you found this place to meet.”
Nichols poured himself some more champagne, then sat in another armchair facing Becker. “Red,” he said after he had taken a sip. “He was always fooling around, behind my aunt’s back. Which, of course, was the reason she threw him out in the end.”
“She lives somewhere in Pennsylvania now, right?” Becker said. “Married to a school teacher?”
“A high school principal,” said Nichols. “Right on the money, as usual.”
“That’s my job,” Becker shrugged, smiling.
“One of the errands I would run for Red was to bring some booze down here for him. He’d go with some guys to the Knick games, and then, afterwards, he’d have some chick meet him here on the train.”
“The train always left the station at the same time it does now?”
“Yeah, about two AM. But if you’re a passenger on the sleeper, they let you get on board about nine o’clock. You don’t have to wait till two in the morning to get on board to go to bed.”
“Makes sense. If you want to have a secret party, this is the place to have it. Nobody would ever think of looking for anyone down here. You’ve got to admire Red,” said Becker. “Smooth as silk.”
“Yeah,” Nichols said with a curl of his lips.
“Now tell me about Russia.” Becker flashed a quick smile. He looked at his watch. “It’s five after eleven.”
“Don’t try to make a fool out of me,” said Nichols. “You think you can just sit there, pass a couple of idle remarks, and sucker me out of the new information?”
“For Christmas sake. You’re going to get what you want. As soon as the trial is over. And the trial is almost over. They’ll be in the Can soon, all of them.”
“You’ve been saying that for weeks.”
“I can’t make the trial go any faster than it’s going,” said Becker.
“Red could be remanded.”
“Remanded? Do you even know what that means?” Becker studied Nichols.
“Don’t patronize me, Michael. Remand is where his bail’ll be revoked and he’ll be put in the Can for the remainder of the trial, right?”
Becker nodded.
“So, if he’s going to the Can anyway—that’s what you said all along, right?” Becker nodded. “Then what’s the big deal if he’s remanded a little earlier than anticipated?” asked Nichols. “No big deal, right? And I’d feel much safer. Taylor’d feel much safer. More relaxed. We could continue working for you with peace of mind.”
“Now you’re patronizing me.”
“Patronizing you about what? If Red is off the street a couple of days sooner, than later, what in hell is that to you? He’s going in anyway as soon as the trial is over. Isn’t that what you said?”
“That’ll get you to give me information about this new Russian route—if he’s remanded? You sure there is a new Russian route?” Becker studied Nichols.
Nichols nodded and smiled. “I’m sure. There are guys in Romania right this minute picking up heroin from Russia.”
“Romania, too. A new drug route. I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it.” It was Nichols’ turn to smile and nod
“If he’s remanded pending the conclusion of the trial, that’ll mean enough to you to give me the information I need to pursue these people?”
“Scouts honor,” said Nichols, putting up the Boy Scouts’ three-finger salute.
Michael Becker sat back, pensive, sipping his drink.
“You can think of something to get him remanded.” There was a knock on the compartment door. “Who is it?” Nichols called.
“Ginger,” came a feminine voice from the other side of the door. “And the girls.”
“They’re early,” Becker whispered, looking at his watch.
“You’re early,” Nichols said through the door.
“We got off work early,” said Ginger.
Becker made a shooing motion toward the door. “Get rid of them for a few minutes so I can get out of here.”
“Come back in a few minutes, babe. I’m busy for the moment.”
“Where’re w
e supposed to go?”
“Go play with the Conductor. There’s an extra hundred in it for you.”
“How long you need?”
Nichols looked at Becker. “Ten minutes,” whispered Becker.
“Fifteen minutes,” Nichols called through the door.
“Make it three hundred. There are three of us.”
“Yahoooo. Okay, okay. You got it.” High-heeled footsteps tapped away from the compartment.
“Sure you don’t want to stay? There are three trapeze artists.” Becker shook his head. Nichols shrugged. “If you get the sucker remanded,” Nichols said, leaning back in his chair, “I’d be ever so much more relaxed. I’d be able to give you news that I know would make you happy.”
“You want to come out in the open, tell the Judge that he’s threatening you? Taylor want to do that? Either of you want that?”
“Are you crazy? You think we’re crazy?”
“Since you’ve obviously given this a lot of thought, tell me the basis on which to have him remanded.”
“You can tell the Judge that you discovered Red’s life is in danger. That you got wind of a contract in the street on his head. He needs to be put inside for his own safety.”
Becker smiled at Nichols, then laughed. “You got this thing all figured out. You’re getting good at this game.”
“I’ve got a good teacher.”
Becker laughed. ‘You sure about what you’re talking about, Romania, Russia? A new route.”
“They’re bringing in kilos of heroin, every week; couriers, contacts, the whole nine yards.”
“I’d be very interested in that,” said Becker. He sipped his vodka. “I’d like to see something more, some action, in addition to the talk.”
“I’d like to see some action too,” said Nichols.
“Can you arrange for a meeting, undercover, of course, something, somebody real we can see?”
“Everything can be arranged,” said Nichols.
“When?”
“When is Red gonna be remanded?”
“I’ll do what I can,” said Becker.
“You can do it. I know you can. I’ll get you everything you want—information on the new route, surveillance, everything—the minute he’s in custody.”
Condemned Page 13