Miguel's Gift

by Bruce Kading

  “Yes, I understand,” said Garza gleefully, stashing the bill into the inside pocket of his wool coat. “I say nothing.”

  “And don’t come in here again,” said Rico, a firm edge to his voice. “If you need to talk to me, get word to one of my people.”

  “Of course. I know how to do things properly.”

  “I think you’d better leave now.” Rico had gotten what he wanted and was no longer interested in Garza.

  “Yes, Mr. Rico. Thank you for your time.” Garza stood up, pulled his knit cap over his ears, and wrapped the scarf around his neck. He nodded toward Rico and marched toward the door. Though he desperately wanted another shot of whiskey, he wouldn’t spend any of his fifty dollars here—to hell with Chacon! Garza went out the door into the freezing air, convinced that his visit had been a complete success. He had not only escaped the cold but also gotten a free whiskey and made fifty dollars!

  It was quiet again in the bar. Rico sat in the corner and mulled over how to best utilize the windfall of information he’d just received. He chuckled softly at the image of Hernan Garza. It was his good fortune that the little Peruvian had stumbled into El Palacio.

  * * *

  Hernan Garza sat in the corner of a donut shop on Lincoln Avenue and slurped a hot cup of coffee. It was another frigid, gray February morning. He looked out the window at cars plowing through a fresh layer of snow and contemplated his dilemma. With Duran in jail, his brief career as a dealer of small bags of cocaine was over. He was almost broke, having spent most of the fifty dollars Rico had given him a week ago. The thought of robbing a liquor store passed through his mind. He’d noticed an inviting target on Pulaski Road, though he knew he had to consider getting a regular job. The thought depressed him.

  He looked down at a Chicago Tribune somebody had left on the table and was about to page through to the classifieds, when the headline near the bottom of the front page caught his attention: COCAINE BUST NETS TWELVE KILOS. The name jumped out: Raul Bautista! His nemesis, Bautista, had been arrested by the FBI for possession of twelve kilos of high-quality, uncut cocaine.

  Garza’s head felt like it was on fire. He knew he was now in grave danger. His instincts told him that it had to be Salvador Rico who was responsible for Bautista’s arrest. Rico was the only one he’d told about the Colombian holding the cocaine and that the FBI would pay thousands for the information. To protect himself, Rico had probably already spread the word that Garza was the rat. Bautista and his friends, having every reason to believe this story, would seek violent revenge. Suddenly, every passing vehicle and person was a threat. How incredibly foolish he had been—all for fifty dollars and a bit of warmth on a frigid morning.

  He tried to calm himself and think it through clearly. He didn’t have enough money to relocate to another city, yet it was too dangerous now to stay in Chicago. His mind worked feverishly for several minutes before it came to him—a route to safety that would cost him nothing.

  Garza had been sleeping nights in the utility room of a three-flat in the Humboldt Park area on the West Side. With the furnace rumbling and pipes dripping overhead, he’d made a home of sorts, paying the building custodian a small amount each month to allow him to use the space. There was an industrial sink in one corner and a toilet in the adjoining supply room. Reasonably certain that the Colombians didn’t know of his hideout, he decided to risk one last visit.

  After checking the street and alley for signs of the Colombians, Garza darted down the cement stairs and through the basement door. He took time only to take the loose brick from the wall and remove the passport from the space he’d carved out. He left the .22-caliber revolver and the half-full bottle of Wild Turkey and replaced the brick. He then fled, pulling the collar of his wool coat up to hide his face and protect it from the freezing wind.

  He jumped out of the train when it reached Jackson Boulevard and felt great relief when he passed through a revolving glass door and into the warmth of the Federal Building. Garza strode quickly along the marble floor to a stainless steel elevator that whisked him up to the third floor reception area of the INS office. He told the deportation officer he had no papers and had been unable to find work. Life was too hard here, he confided sadly, and he hadn’t sufficient funds to go back to Peru on his own.

  The INS office was always looking to pad their apprehensions of OTMs—“Other Than Mexicans”—if only to deflect charges that they discriminated by targeting Mexicans. Whether illegals were arrested or came in voluntarily, they all counted on the department’s monthly tally sheet. Garza waived a deportation hearing, and they had sufficient funds on hand for airfare to Lima, so he would be allowed to return voluntarily at government expense.

  Garza felt safe in jail. Ironically, he would do time in the same jail (the Metropolitan Correctional Center) as Raul Bautista. But Garza would be placed in the minimum-security area, several floors below Bautista and other high-flight-risk prisoners. Deportation officers would need time to get clearance from the Peruvian Consulate and to make travel arrangements, so it would be several days before his departure via jet from Chicago to Lima. That was fine with Garza. He liked the warmth of the jail. He liked the three regular meals a day and watching television on a big screen. He liked talking to other prisoners, trading stories and ideas on the best places to cross the border.

  Still, as the days passed behind bars, Garza’s thoughts drifted to Salvador Rico. And when the self-recriminations subsided, a loose plan for revenge began to emerge.

  8

  Six Months Later

  Francisco Campos shuffled through the marble-floored pavilion of the Federal Building, pushed his way into a crowded elevator, and hit the button for the fourth floor. A short, chunky man with a thick mustache, Campos had the manner of a struggling, small-time businessman. A look of anguish seemed permanently etched on his face, as though he had just caught a whiff of old cheese. Nobody recognized him as an alderman, the elected representative for Chicago’s Twenty-Fifth Ward.

  Despite Campos’s frequent public criticisms of the Chicago INS office, District Director Farber respected the feisty alderman. After years of being stabbed like a human piñata, Farber had developed the hide of an alligator and didn’t take the attacks personally. Besides, he knew he couldn’t refuse to meet with a member of the city council. It would only provide grist for another INS-bashing news conference.

  Farber had his secretary usher the alderman into his office. Campos declined the offer of coffee and donuts and sank into the burgundy leather chair in front of Farber’s desk. He folded his hands together on his lap—his face creased with worry. Farber, a portly but elegant man who favored expensive three-piece suits, smiled cautiously and settled into his chair. He passed a soft hand lightly over his wavy hair and sighed, girding himself for the next crisis.

  “Well, now. How can I help you, Alderman?”

  “There is a problem, Mr. Director,” said Campos ominously.

  “Yes, of course. There are always problems.”

  “Certain unsavory individuals have taken control of the counterfeit document business,” Campos murmured dryly.

  “You mean those who controlled it in the past were not unsavory?” asked Farber with a playful grin.

  Having little sense of humor, Campos ignored the comment. “The vendors are now working openly on the streets,” he said. “They used to work behind the scenes. Now they are becoming a nuisance, flagging people down, getting in the way of ordinary shoppers, especially on Cermak and Twenty-Sixth Street. Alderman Baez is equally concerned.”

  “What about the police?” asked Farber. “Can’t they get rid of them?”

  “They say it is an INS problem. There is the mayoral decree that prevents them from cooperating with INS enforcement efforts. Most of the vendors are undocumented, and city workers aren’t supposed to assist in arresting them. Besides, they don’t have the manpower to continually pick up people for misdemeanors like vagrancy.”

  “You supported
that mayoral decree, Alderman. In fact, you were one of those who initiated it.”

  “Yes, but I don’t agree with their interpretation of it in this case.”

  “I see.”

  “Perhaps a modest allocation of manpower would return things to normal, Mr. Director.”

  Farber considered Campos and the situation for a moment before speaking.

  “Need I remind you, Alderman, of the conversation we had three years ago? You complained that having agents working counterfeit document cases was a waste of time. I agreed and ordered that ordinary document cases not be worked—only cases on major distributors. You seem to have changed your mind.”

  “It’s different now. Before, they were operating reasonably. Now they are doing business openly. The businessmen are complaining about them.”

  “Ah, of course . . . the businessmen.” Farber smiled knowingly.

  “Yes. We must do something about it.”

  “Get them to ‘operate reasonably.’ That’s how you put it?” said Farber.

  “Yes, not so visibly.”

  “Who are these people who have taken over?”

  “They are organized, but I don’t know who is behind it. The leaders are not Mexicans, from what I hear. Perhaps a couple of your better agents can look into it.”

  “If I do as you wish, what do I get in return?”

  “Well, if you do nothing, I would have to get the media involved. And I can assure you it would be very embarrassing,” said Campos evenly. There was a silence as he let Farber think it over. The alderman knew he was holding the cards. He looked toward the wall at a collection of photographs of Farber and various dignitaries; then his eyes slowly drifted back to Farber. “In the end, you will have to do something. If you wait, it will appear you are only reacting to pressure. If you do it now, bad publicity can be avoided, and you appear to be in control.”

  Farber considered the irony of Campos as political counselor and sudden advocate of INS enforcement. He sifted through likely scenarios—television crews filming vendors on the street, front-page news stories charging INS with incompetence. He knew how little it took to get them started. They would have no sympathy for excuses about manpower. That never worked. The accusatory interviews would put him on the defensive, and the news would find its way to region and headquarters. If things were as flagrant as Campos suggested, there was a possibility of national media exposure. It wouldn’t matter to officials at headquarters that they had intentionally ignored the problem of counterfeit documents. He would be blamed. Where the hell was Jack Connelly? It was his job to stay on top of things like this. But Connelly was burned out and ready to retire, so disengaged that Francisco Campos was more diligent in rooting out violators than his own director of investigations. Farber knew that he was trapped and had no real choice.

  “I’ll see what I can do, Alderman. I may need a month or two.”

  “Yes, of course, but the sooner the better. I can’t guarantee the press won’t pick up on it before you are able to act.” Campos always knew the right buttons to push.

  “No, I suppose not,” said Farber. “Please contact me before you bring in the media.”

  “Certainly. And it is to our mutual benefit that the substance of this meeting should never be discussed, don’t you agree?”

  Farber smiled. “We have only been discussing how to improve community relations.”

  “You are always a very reasonable man, Mr. Director.” Given Campos’s past public criticisms, it seemed a ludicrous statement, yet he appeared to be completely serious.

  “I would appreciate it if you would pass those sentiments along to your friends in the media, Alderman.”

  For the first time there was a hint of a smile in Campos’s eyes. “You know, Mr. Director, I can only go so far.”

  “Of course,” said Farber. “I understand very well.”

  * * *

  Hayden and Kane, having no idea why they’d been called in, took seats facing the two supervisors. Lou Moretti, looking depressed, peered through reading glasses at a roster of agents, trying to figure out how to make up for the loss in production. “Well, boys, the big time is calling,” he said, smiling beneath flat, joyless eyes. He looked like the weary manager of a minor-league team about to lose his best players to the majors.

  Richard Stark, standing behind Moretti’s desk and casually leaning against a filing cabinet, chuckled at Moretti’s implied compliment. Or was it a compliment? He was never quite sure if Moretti was being sincere or sarcastic.

  Stark was a tall, lanky man in his early forties with small gray eyes that shifted restlessly beneath bushy eyebrows. As a field agent, Stark had managed to garner outstanding performance evaluations, not through hard work but by fawning over his supervisors, dressing well, and carefully avoiding the controversies that seemed to dog his more productive colleagues. His ambition was so transparent, however, that he had no real friends, only temporary allies.

  Everything was going according to plan for Stark. He’d been promoted to first-line supervisor and a year later to his current position as chief of fraud investigations. Now he desperately wanted to succeed Jack Connelly as Chicago’s director of investigations. Looking around the office, Stark found only one serious competitor—Ed Gleason, a solid field agent in his day, a competent supervisor for twelve years and, at least on paper, the most qualified to take over for Connelly. With Connelly retiring in three months, Stark knew he didn’t have much time to position himself ahead of Gleason. He saw the counterfeit document task force ordered by Farber as a vehicle to push him over the top, but because fraud had become a low priority, he found himself supervising slow-moving dinosaurs who were mainly killing time before retirement. The obvious solution was to poach a couple of young, ambitious agents from another section. With Farber’s directive applying the needed pressure, Jack Connelly agreed to Stark’s request for Moretti’s best agents: Tom Kane and Nick Hayden.

  “We thought you two might be interested in working criminal cases in our shop,” said Stark. “I want somebody to work counterfeit documents again. Vendors are now dealing out in the open. I’ve been trying to convince the front office for some time that we can no longer ignore it.”

  Moretti rolled his eyes, recalling that the day before he had seen Alderman Campos on the fourth floor. Now it all made sense.

  Stark continued. “No dress code. You can wear jeans and gym shoes. It would be a two-month detail; then we’ll see where we are. As you know, a number of guys detailed to fraud from area control have ended up with permanent assignments.”

  Hayden and Kane looked at Moretti, who said nothing, feigning indifference. Stark, following their eyes, rushed to fill the void: “Of course, Lou fully supports this.”

  “Yeah, we’d be interested,” said Kane. “At least, I would be.” All eyes shifted to Hayden.

  Nick was surprised he wasn’t more excited about the offer. From the beginning, the fraud investigations unit had been the most attractive. Yet there was something in Stark’s demeanor that made him hesitate.

  “So we’d be partners, Tom and I?” he asked.

  “Right,” said Stark. “Normally I’d want you working with a journeyman, but everybody is tied up with other cases at the moment. You’ve both already spent time on details in fraud and gone through the usual training. Two months is plenty of time to clear the vendors off the street and take a crack at the guys behind it. I think you can handle it. Naturally, I’ll be there for guidance along the way.”

  Moretti grimaced. Guidance? The only thing Stark would be able to instruct them in would be how to skillfully caress the posteriors of superiors at the district and regional offices. And the only thing the old-timers in fraud were “tied up with” was happy hour at McGinty’s. The bullshit had grown too intense. Moretti pretended he was wearing thick earmuffs, swiveled in his chair, and peered out the window, trying to spot an attractive female on the street below.

  “When would we report?” asked Hayden, who k
new he couldn’t pass up the opportunity.

  “Next week. But you guys can start moving your stuff down any time now. There are a couple of desks in back,” said Stark. “I’ve also arranged for two seized vehicles to be at your disposal, a Camaro and a Firebird. Good for surveillance.”

  Hayden again glanced at Moretti, knowing it was bad form to eagerly accept a detail out of the unit without his tacit approval. But he could immediately tell his concern was misplaced.

  Moretti was now staring out the window, his gaze fastened on a young woman in a leather miniskirt and high heels making her way poetically down the street. Moretti wished Stark would get the hell out of his office so he could lock the door, get out his binoculars, and peer down Jackson Boulevard in peace.

  * * *

  Kane and Hayden had both reached a point where their jobs and identities had merged into one—it had become very personal. Those who violated the immigration laws or committed crimes that fell within their statutory authority were a threat, not just to the rule of law but to their very identities. Though they’d never spoken of it, they observed the same messianic fire burning in the other and thought it could be the basis of an effective working relationship.

  A few days after the meeting in Moretti’s office, they sat in Kane’s Camaro, just off Twenty-Sixth Street. It was the center of commercial activity in the largely Hispanic Little Village area, featuring a long line of small but thriving businesses: restaurants, clothing stores, and other retail shops. The buildings were old, two-story brick structures, each with unique architectural details, unlike the generic strip malls that had sprung up more recently. Thousands of pedestrians flocked to the area every day, and police cars rolled by slowly every half hour or so. The popular Mexican import mall was just a few blocks away.