Death Benefits

by Michael A. Kahn

“Sure. Something wild and crazy.”

  “I shall, Miss Gold. Wild and crazy. I certainly shall.” Triumphantly, he yanked open the door and hopped out of the car.

  ***

  A few minutes later I pulled into the parking garage across the street from the offices of Abbott & Windsor.

  As I removed my briefcase from the back seat, I heard the sound of approaching footsteps. I straightened and turned to the sound.

  Moving toward me was a heavy-set man, fat enough to have to walk around his thighs.

  “Rachel Gold?” he said, his breath rasping. He was maybe fifty. Gray crewcut, lumpy nose, green-tinted aviator sunglasses, no neck.

  “What?” I said, trying to inject a little belligerence into my voice.

  He had on a brown suit and thick-soled black shoes. The cuffs of his pants ended above his ankles, exposing argyle socks. Unbuttoning the suit jacket, he reached around to remove his wallet from his back pocket. His belly hung over his belt. The buttons on his white shirt strained against the pressure.

  “Ferd Fingersh,” he rasped, flipping open the black wallet to reveal a badge on one side and an ID card with photo on the other. “U.S. Customs.”

  “Ferd what?” I repeated.

  “Fingersh, ma’am. Ferd Fingersh.” A gold tie clasp kept his skinny black tie in place.

  “May I?” I asked, reaching for the wallet.

  He handed it to me. I studied the ID card, I studied the badge. They both said Customs, and the ID card said Ferdinand M. Fingersh. I looked up at the real Ferd. He was chewing on a kitchen match. He looked like a sleazy private eye. I handed him back the wallet.

  “Am I safe in assuming that this is not a chance encounter?”

  He grunted and ran his palm over the top of his crewcut. I couldn’t translate the grunt. “We’d like to talk to you, Miss Gold.” He turned and gestured toward a black Lincoln Town Car down the lane. The moment he pointed the car started to creep down the lane toward us. It pulled to a stop even with us. The windows were tinted black so that you couldn’t see the inside.

  “Now?”

  “Now would be best.” He removed a cellophane-wrapped cigar from the breast pocket of his suit and twirled it between his thumb and index finger, making the wrapper crackle.

  I looked over at the car. “That doesn’t look like government issue.”

  “It isn’t. We seized it in a drug raid. It’s best if you ride with us in our car. We think you’re being followed.”

  “By whom?”

  “We’re not sure. We need to move quickly, Miss Gold. You’ve been in the garage for a while. It’ll be safer in our car. Windows are tinted. You can’t see in from outside. Whoever’s following you won’t know you’re with us.”

  “What do you want to talk to me about?”

  “Stoddard Anderson and Remy Panzer.”

  “What about them?”

  “I think we should go now, Miss Gold.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  It’s a short drive up Market Street from the parking garage across from Abbott & Windsor to the massive gray building across from City Hall. The building covers an entire city block, as tall as it is wide—WPA architecture in the Franz Kafka mode.

  To St. Louis lawyers, this massive block of cement is known as the federal courthouse. To the antitrust litigators of Abbott & Windsor—along with their counterparts at the scores of law firms around the nation feeding at the trough of In re Bottles & Cans, an antitrust leviathan that has been pending in St. Louis in front of U.S. District Judge Harold Greenman up in Courtroom M since it was filed more than thirty years ago—the building has come to be known as “Eleven Fourteen,” which is its street number along Market Street. But the official name of this Depression-era edifice is the U.S. Court House and Custom House. For the first time in my career, I was here to see the Customs people.

  We drove into the garage beneath the building, the one reserved for government officials. The driver dropped Ferd Fingersh and me off at a special elevator that required a key to operate it. We took the elevator up several floors, exited in an empty corridor, and followed it around to Ferd’s small, cluttered office.

  There were two men waiting for us. The first was a younger, tighter-wrapped version of Ferd—the same flat-top crewcut, lumpy nose, brown suit, white shirt, and kitchen match, but a lot more nervous energy. His name was Bernie DeWitt. He was burly like Fingersh, but without the beer belly. His close-cropped hair was red, his eyes were slate gray.

  When Ferd introduced Bernie, the younger man clicked his tongue against the back of his mouth a couple times and said, “How y a doin’ there, Rachel?”

  “Don’t know yet,” I said. “You tell me.”

  Bernie pointed his index finger at me, thumb in the air, like a handgun, and he sighted down the barrel, squinting. “So far, so good, kid,” he said good-naturedly.

  “And this here’s Mr. Rafael Salazar,” Ferd said. “He’s a lawyer from Santa Fe, and he’s gonna sit in with us today.”

  Rafael Salazar towered over the rest of us when he stood up. “It’s a pleasure, Rachel,” he said softly, extending a hand.

  I have a weakness for strong, gentle hands. His were strong and gentle.

  “I have friends from law school living in Chicago,” he said. “They tell me wonderful things about you.”

  “Oh,” I said, blushing. No other words came to mind. Mental vapor lock. Just sit down, Rachel. Smile and sit down.

  Rafael Salazar was at least six foot four, and—for want of a better cliche—breathtaking. His skin was bronze and his eyes were coal black. With his high cheekbones and strong nose, he looked like a Comanche warrior—but a Comanche warrior dressed by Brooks Brothers. He was wearing a khaki poplin suit that looked freshly pressed, a blue Oxford cloth button-down shirt, and a red and navy striped tie. His straight black hair was pulled back in a short pony tail that ended just below his shoulders. His smile revealed perfect white teeth. There was no gold band on the third finger of his left hand.

  “Let’s get started,” Ferd Fingersh said. “We gotta get you back in an hour, Miss Gold. If anyone asks, you can tell ’em you went shopping at Famous-Barr, or something like that to explain this lag.”

  “Why don’t you explain this lag?” I said. “What am I doing here?”

  “Fair enough. You working for Remy Panzer?”

  I paused to collect my thoughts. “If I were,” I said, “I probably wouldn’t tell you without first getting his consent.”

  “You know anything about Remy Panzer?” Ferd asked.

  “I met him for the first time yesterday. He has a nice gallery.”

  Bernie DeWitt—the younger clone of Ferd Fingersh—snorted in disgust, his right knee bouncing. “You think that’s a nice gallery. Hah! You ought to see what’s going on upstairs. It’s just like that damn movie about the Roman king, what’s his name, Ferd?”

  “Caligula.”

  “Yeah, that’s him,” Bernie said. “Like Sodom and Gomorrah up there, man. Panzer gets his rocks off with young boys. So do his clients. Panzer the pansy. He’s running a whorehouse for chickenhawks and faggots up there. It’s fucking disgusting, lady.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Bernie, watch your language,” Ferd said harshly. “Sorry, Miss Gold. Bernie’s on target, though. We think Panzer procures young boys for his clients.”

  “Are you guys Customs or vice?” I said.

  “Touché,” Ferd said, pronouncing it “touchie.” “You’re right. He likes boys, that’s a problem for the police. We’re telling you because we think you ought to know what kind of a man you’re dealing with.”

  “Is that all?” I asked, starting to get up.

  “No, ma’am,” Ferd said. “We’re looking for something called Montezuma’s Executor. I assume you’ve heard of it?”

  “Maybe,” I said, keeping my
expression neutral.

  “We think Stoddard Anderson was working for Remy Panzer, as crazy as that sounds.” Ferd frowned and ran his hand over his flat-top. “Even crazier, we think Anderson helped smuggle the Executor into this country.”

  “And?”

  “We think Anderson died before he turned the Executor over to Panzer.”

  “Okay.”

  “You want to help me out here, Miss Gold?”

  “You’re doing fine on your own. It’s a fascinating story.”

  “Which you’re probably hearing for at least the second time, right?”

  “Where is the Executor?” I asked.

  “We were hoping you could tell us,” Ferd said.

  I shrugged. “Sorry, I can’t help you.”

  “Can’t,” Bernie DeWitt barked, “or won’t?”

  I stared at Bernie. He stared right back.

  “Cool it, Bernie,” I finally said. “Acting tough isn’t going to do anything. I came down here voluntarily to answer some questions. You don’t like the answers, don’t ask the questions.”

  “Lady, you keep dodging our questions,” Bernie retorted, “and we might just decide to call you before the grand jury. Make you answer under oath.”

  “You do that,” I said to Bernie. “But make sure you give me a couple extra copies of the subpoena so I can pass them out at my press conference. For your sake, Bernie, I just hope this isn’t supposed to be some hush-hush investigation.”

  “For Christ’s sake, put a fucking muzzle on it, Bernie,” Ferd said, shaking his head and muttering under his breath. “I’m sorry, Miss Gold. We appreciate you coming down here to meet with us. We really do, ma’am. Bernie’s a little bit on edge these days. We all are. We’ve been on the trail of the Executor for almost six months now. We just don’t know whether you fully appreciate that smuggling that thing into the U.S. is against the law. The fact that it’s now in this country doesn’t make it any less a crime. We want to remind you that you could get in a lot of trouble if you’re involved.”

  “I’ll consider myself reminded.”

  “Good. I’d kind of like to think we’re all on the same side here.” Ferd sighed as he ran his hand over his flat-top. “Frankly, Miss Gold, we also want you to understand that this could be a lot bigger than just Stoddard Anderson and Remy Panzer. It could be even more complicated than you think it is.” He glanced over at Rafael Salazar, who nodded. Ferd turned back to me. “Have you ever heard of a man named Tezca?”

  “Tezca,” I repeated, searching my memory. “Is he the guy with the cult out west?”

  “New Mexico,” Ferd said.

  “He’s got all those jets?”

  Ferd nodded. “Seven Lear jets. One for each day of the week.”

  “I read a magazine article about him a couple years back,” I said. “Wasn’t there a story about him on 60 Minutes?” I glanced sideways at Rafael Salazar, who was seated against the wall to my right. He nodded with a friendly half-smile.

  “There was,” Ferd confirmed.

  “I didn’t see the show,” I said, trying to focus on Ferd. “But I heard about it from friends.”

  “We got some copies of the show on videotape.” He turned to Bernie. “Go check with Lucille. See if we can get Miss Gold a copy to take with her.”

  “No prob,” Bernie said as he bounced to his feet and left.

  “Is Mr. Salazar with the government?” I asked, turning toward him. He was truly gorgeous.

  “Nope,” Ferd said. “Ralph here represents the Mexican National Museum of Anthropology. The Museum, as I understand it, represents the government of Mexico. I got that right?”

  Rafael nodded. “I’m in private practice, Rachel. A solo practitioner, like you. I have my own firm in Santa Fe. On a few occasions in the past the Mexican National Museum of Anthropology has sought my advice on international tax matters. Specifically, bequests to the Museum by citizens of the United States. They retained me here to represent their interests in securing the return of El Verdugo to its native soil.”

  “And you think Tezca is involved?” I asked.

  Salazar deferred to Ferd.

  “We do,” Ferd said.

  “I’m trying to remember that article on him,” I said. “Didn’t he used to be a CPA?”

  “Yep,” Ferd answered. “And he used to be Arthur Nevins. First he changed his profession, then he changed his name.”

  “He was a tax accountant at Price Waterhouse,” Salazar explained. “In their Houston office.”

  Bernie DeWitt returned with a videocassette in his hand. “Here you go,” he said as he handed it to me. “Take a look at it when you get back to the office.”

  “Thanks.” I turned to Ferd. “Tell me about Tezca.”

  “About seven years ago, according to most versions of the story, one Arthur Nevins, CPA, of Houston, Texas, found religion.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Bernie chimed in with derision, “some religion. Spelled S-E-X.”

  “It’s your classic religious cult,” Ferd continued, trying to ignore Bernie DeWitt. “Lots of losers. Plenty of PhD’s. Men in their thirties and forties, women in their twenties and thirties. They all seem to dedicate their lives to him. Eventually turn their property over to him. Most of them have moved to that town they built in New Mexico. Town’s called Aztlan. His cult’s called the Aztlana movement. It’s supposed to be based loosely on the Aztec religion.”

  “You can say that again,” Bernie added. “Real loosely. Instead of cutting out hearts on top of that pyramid of his, he gets girls to give him head up there. That whole fucking town of ex-yuppie wimps watches him get his rocks off.”

  “Sex is a big thing in his cult,” Ferd Fingersh said with an awkward shrug.

  Rafael Salazar leaned forward. “Aztlan is the mythical lost homeland of the Aztecs.” Although his voice was low—almost serene—it held everyone’s attention. “Tezca bought three thousand acres out in the middle of New Mexico. He and his followers built the town of Aztlan from the ground up. It’s a rather remarkable accomplishment.”

  “How many people live there?”

  “Close to four thousand,” Salazar said. “They’ve gradually become a political force in my state.”

  “All that from a CPA?” I said with amused wonder.

  Salazar smiled. “Tax accountants from the Big Six firms form the backbone of his organization. The earliest recruits were CPAs from the other big firms, along with a few tax attorneys. He met them all at tax seminars and conventions while he was still with Price Waterhouse. Dozens of them. They run his operations today.”

  “The Internal Revenue agents are pulling out their hair,” Ferd added. “They’ve been trying to build a tax fraud case against him for years. Problem is, Tezca’s got the equivalent of Ernst & Young’s tax department handling all of his business affairs.”

  “IRS can’t lay a fucking glove on him,” Bernie DeWitt snorted.

  “He’s created an elaborate corporate structure,” Salazar explained. “Holding companies within holding companies within holding companies. Some are located outside the United States, principally in tax havens down in the British Virgin Islands and the Netherlands Antilles.”

  “And don’t let the CPA part fool you,” Bernie said. “This ain’t some pussy accountant. This guy’s a psycho.”

  “He has a short fuse,” Ferd explained, “and a history of violent outbursts that seem to go back a long way.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Hit his high school shop teacher in the back of the neck with a ballpeen hammer,” Bernie said. “Damn near killed him.”

  “He has his own security force out there,” Ferd said.

  “More like a goon squad,” Bernie added.

  Ferd nodded. “He seems to use them as enforcers and thugs. The New Mexico police have several unsolved h
omicides in the Aztlan area, including a couple cult members who had had a falling out with Tezca. The police are convinced that all of the deaths can be traced back to Tezca’s security force.”

  “To be fair,” Salazar gently interjected, “there’ve been no arrests and no indictments of any of his people in connection with those deaths.” He turned to me with a sheepish smile. “That’s the criminal lawyer in me talking.”

  “Still,” Ferd added, “he’s a violent, dangerous man, with or without his security force.”

  “Tell me about the jets,” I said.

  “There are seven Lear jets,” Salazar said. “The sun god was the centerpiece of the ancient Aztec religion. Tezca has woven the sun into his religion, too. Every day at noon, when the sun is at its apex, all work in Aztlana comes to a halt and all of the town folk turn to the East, which is where the jet approaches from. Tezca flies one of the jets—a different one for each day—back and forth across the sky for maybe fifteen minutes or so.”

  “He flies it himself?” I asked.

  Salazar nodded. “He’s quite a good pilot. I’ve seen him fly a few of those jets. “

  “Is the IRS still after him?” I asked.

  Ferd nodded. “And the FBI. And the New Mexico state police. Everyone’s trying to build a case against him. Up until Mr. Anderson killed himself, Miss Gold, we thought Customs had the inside track.”

  “What makes you think this Tezca is trying to get the Executor?”

  “Sources within his cult,” Ferd said. “Also former members, who’ve told us that Tezca is obsessed with the history of the Executor.”

  “No question,” Bernie DeWitt chimed in. “The guy’s got a major blue-veiner over it.”

  “Are your people in New Mexico keeping an eye on Tezca?” I asked, trying to ignore Bernie. Blue-veiner? I’d have to pass that one on to Benny Goldberg.

  Ferd grimaced. “Well, he’s disappeared.”

  “Tezca’s disappeared?”

  Ferd nodded.

  “When?”

  “A week before your man killed himself.”

  “Why? What’s he up to?” I asked.

  “There’s a lot of speculation, but nothing solid.”