by Bob Hamer
Caitlin swallowed as the introductions began.
"I'm J. D. This here is Alicia. Michael's her kid but I'm here cause I'm interested."
J. D. started to walk around the classroom, eyeing the pictures on the walls and the posted essays.
"Thanks for coming. I'm Caitlin Hogan."
J. D. continued his quick-pace travels between the desks, eventually finding a seat.
"Bet you don't get too many stepparents showing an interest, do you?"
"We get our share, but I appreciate your coming, and I'm sure Michael appreciates your interest."
Caitlin took the lead and spent the next several minutes praising Michael, emphasizing the great qualities he demonstrated day in and day out in the classroom and on the playground.
"Well, you let me know if he ever gets out of line. I'll beat him until he sees straight. I believe in education. I'm not a big fan of public education, too many destructive influences. We need to teach truth. Not watered down with new-age slop from the mud people. We was gonna homeschool him until we heard you was his teacher. We heard good things about you." Pointing to his wife, J. D. added, "Besides, she's too stupid to teach."
"I'm sure your wife would be a fine teacher, but Michael is doing well, and I'm certain this is a great educational environment for him."
"Yeah, well I don't know about no environment, as you call it, but she's stupid and he better learn. He's not getting any points like we're giving these minorities. There's no level playing field for a white man, not is this society. He ain't got a chance. He'd be better off if we spoke Mexican and snuck across the border or painted the map of Jerusalem across his face. Yeah, if he was a Zionist, he'd have it made."
Alicia started to say something, but before she got past "J. D." he ordered her silence. His loud abrupt manner cast a darkening pall over the evening.
"Sir, I agree Michael must do well in school and learn as much as he can in order to compete in the world. But bigotry isn't going to level the playing field."
"You callin' me a bigot?"
"We are each a unique creation of God. I'm saying this country's multicultural heritage makes us stronger as a nation and will make us stronger as individuals once we appreciate its diversity."
"That sounds like liberal doublespeak. You and your husband got kids?"
Caitlin smiled. "Right now I have twenty-two children in my care."
"Huh?"
"And Michael is one of those twenty-two."
"I get it. Maybe I was wrong about you being a good teacher. Maybe I should let dummy here educate her son."
"I hope before you and your wife make such a decision we could sit down and discuss it. I'm afraid we don't have time this evening to really explore the issue. I do believe Michael must learn to get along with people from all walks of life. That's what makes America great, and as soon as Michael understands that, he will be better prepared for what lies beyond this classroom."
J. D. didn't have a comeback. He said a quick good-bye and grabbed his wife as they exited the classroom. It was easy to understand where Michael learned the racial epithet. Caitlin was glad she didn't bring up the playground overhear; the discussion would have fallen on deaf ears.
WHEN SHE ARRIVED HOME, Matt was camped out in front of the TV watching a classic James Bond movie with Sean Connery.
"Oh great, just what you need, more Bond."
"This is Dr. No, a training flick."
"I think you watched too much Bond during your formative years," said Caitlin as she bent over to give him a kiss. Then she asked, "What's 88 mean?"
"You'll have to give me a few more hints."
"What does the number 88 mean?"
"It could be the jersey number of a wide receiver in football."
"It's a tattoo on the neck of one of my parents."
"It means you have a problem. Who is it?"
"What does it mean?"
"The eighth letter in the alphabet is H. The number 88 stands for HH or Heil Hitler. It's a symbol a lot of neo-Nazis wear. Which one of your beloved parents pays tribute to the fallen leader?"
"It's not important." She kissed him again and said, "I'm going to bed."
"Is that an invitation?"
She responded with a seductive smile.
Matt forgot about Bond and followed his idea of the most beautiful woman in the world into the bedroom.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Matt yanked hard on the chain raising the large steel door to the warehouse. Boris called earlier in the day. Stump and J. D. Pinney were picking up twenty more master cases of the Export As. Even if Matt never engaged anyone in criminal conversations at the warehouse, the ruse of the stolen cigarettes enhanced his rep on the street.
Stump pulled in and maneuvered the pickup to the far corner where the cases were stored. In order to maintain credibility, Matt arranged for a forty-foot container to be stored at the warehouse as well. Several years earlier Matt posed as a warehouseman when two Mafia thugs from the East Coast extorted an independent trucking company in Long Beach. Matt confronted the two and recorded their threats on audio- and videotape. He was also on the receiving end of two body shots from the larger of the two Sicilian leg-breakers. Matt swallowed his pride on that venture, but both pleaded guilty and were still enjoying some well-deserved R&R courtesy of the federal penal system. The company owner had been an FBI fan ever since, and when any operation called for a truck, tractor trailer, or container, he was only too happy to oblige. Matt arranged for empty, sealed containers to arrive at the warehouse every few days, making the warehouse look like a viable operation.
Before Stump could turn off the engine, J. D. jumped out of the truck and ran to the restroom.
"Too much coffee?" asked Matt.
"Naw, too much beer last night. He's been going like a racehorse all day," said Stump.
"I think he just wanted an excuse from loading the cases into the back of the truck," said Matt.
"You may be right. He gives lazy a bad name."
Matt and Stump began loading the cigarettes. They were easy to maneuver so even Matt couldn't complain about heavy lifting. It only took the two men a few minutes to complete the task.
"Where's Boris moving these?" asked Matt.
"I don't ask. I'm just supposed to take 'em back to the Veil. He's got his customers. We got more important things to do tonight."
"Like what?"
Before Stump could answer, J. D. returned.
"Good timing, J. D. We just finished loading the truck," said Stump, who then headed for the restroom.
When Stump was out of ear shot, Matt said, "Stump says you got something big going."
"Yeah, Boris got Jesse, Stump, and me on a mission. We need to teach somebody who got outta line a lesson."
"I don't understand," said Matt trying to be nonchalant but begging for a criminal admission.
"Boris don't take crap off nobody. Somebody tried to extort money from the boss and threatened to go to the cops. You don't ever want to cross Boris. He's real quick to have us teach 'em a lesson."
"Sometimes brute force sends the right message," said Matt with conviction.
"You got that right, and Boris ain't afraid to send a message."
"That makes me feel a lot better. I'm glad to know we're dealing with a careful man."
"He's careful. He wasn't happy with the last dump job we did. We need to do better, or you might find my body at the bottom of some ravine."
Matt laughed, "I guess those kinds of failures make the eleven o'clock news."
"That one did."
"Can I get you a beer or something? I've got plenty in the frig?" said Matt.
"Yeah, thanks."
Matt returned with three beers and handed one to J. D., who twist
ed the top. Before Matt could open his, Stump stormed out of the restroom cursing like a deployed sailor, wiping his hands on his pants.
Matt smiled and promised to restock the paper towels.
"Why you washing your hands anyway?" asked J. D.
"Cause I needed to. He's outta toilet paper too."
J. D. and Matt both laughed out loud. Then J. D. said, "Oh, yeah, I should have told you before you went in. I used up all the roll blowing my nose."
"Just open the door. We're outta here," said an angry Stump.
"I'll see you guys over at the Veil. I gotta get my money from Boris," said Matt.
"Hey, why don't you come with us? Help us unload the truck. We'll go do our other job and then head back to the Veil, and we'll party," said J. D.
"Shut up. He's not coming with us," said Stump.
"Yeah, I'll catch up with you J. D. I still owe you a beer."
J. D. gave Matt an inquisitive look. He had no idea why Matt owed him another beer, but he wasn't going to pass up free booze so he gave the undercover agent a big smile and a thumbs-up.
Matt had no intention of joining them. He had a much more important mission. He hustled over and rolled up the door.
Stump goosed the accelerator, and the tires squealed as the truck pulled from the warehouse.
As soon as Stump and J. D. left, Matt grabbed the tapes from the machines and headed over to the Russian Veil.
On his way Matt called Dwayne but was only successful at getting his voice mail. "You need to listen to today's tapes. J. D. admitted to doing a dump job for Boris. They may be doing a number this evening. J. D. wasn't clear, but I think he, Jesse, and Stump are going to be dancing on somebody's face tonight. What we thought was a simple cigarette run may have turned into a felony. I'm running over to the Veil now to pick up the money for the cigarettes. I'll try to see if I can get any admissions out of Boris and beef up the PC for the affidavit." Matt paused, "Dwayne, we're getting closer."
He then called Caitlin. The answering machine picked up. "Hey, hon. I need to work a little later this evening. I know I promised we'd go out. Let me take care of this, and I'll get home as soon as I can. Sorry. I owe you big time. I love you."
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Dmitri arrived in Mexico City two weeks earlier and made his way to Sasabe, a small Mexican border town sixty-five miles southwest of Tucson. It was here he would meet his contact for the next leg of his long journey north.
Run by a shadow network of underground capitalists, Sasabe was no tourist paradise. It was a way station in the route to America, the daily jumping-off point for hundreds seeking the freedom and opportunities the United States offered. The town was dirty and dusty. Its rutted unpaved streets made travel difficult, even for the new pickup trucks parading up and down the main roads. The hot dog vendors with their homemade carts catered to those preparing to make the illegal border crossing through the Sonora desert. Homes and huts converted into smuggling stores featured dark clothes, water bottles, and camouflage backpacks, not for school children and soccer moms but those preparing for the journey on foot. Meth and caffeine pills were as popular as candy bars and packaged food items.
Hotels sprang up in recent years, but most wouldn't make it in the AAA Travel Guide. The modest stucco buildings lacked even modern conveniences. But at three to four dollars a night, Dmitri couldn't expect the Ritz. The hookers worked cheap as well. Smuggling was driving the economic success of this town once known for cattle and bricks imported into the United States.
Dmitri learned enough Spanish to navigate his way through Mexico. Getting a visa into the United States was a lengthy process, and he had no interest in alerting the U.S. authorities to his presence. The money for the flight to Mexico City and payment to the coyote who would smuggle him across the border were sound investments.
AS MATT EASED TO the curb to park, he saw a dark blue Range Rover Sport pull from the parking lot behind Boris's club. With the tinted windows Matt couldn't be sure of the driver, but the car reminded him of the one driven by Dr. Ubadiah Adel al-Banna or Dr. U as he referred to himself. Dr. U did some volunteer work at World Angel Ministry, Matt's undercover assignment the previous year. They only met once when the doctor delivered boxes of medical samples to the charity. Even then it bothered Matt a Muslim physician was contributing to the efforts of an evangelical medical missionary organization. Visions of his undercover assignment flashed through his mind, a montage of faces raced before him. Matt quickly dismissed the thought. There are a lot of dark blue Range Rovers in Los Angeles. Focus. He needed to get his game face on for mobsters, bikers, strippers, and whores.
Matt entered giving Face a fist salute. Matt was one of the boys, now welcomed anytime at L.A.'s low-class den of iniquity. He stopped briefly and pointed to the SUV heading eastbound on Ventura Boulevard, "Do you know who was driving that Range Rover?"
Face looked east, "No, didn't see him." He paused briefly then said, "Boris deals with some Middle Eastern dishrag, probably a rug merchant. He comes here every once in awhile. I think he drives a blue Rover. Maybe that's him."
"Thanks, no big deal," said Matt as he headed past the curtains concealing the stage from the sidewalk.
Cleanliness in the club was not a priority for Boris. The darkness hid the filth both physical and moral. Several bikers were at the bar, and more of the riffraff sat around the stage as two girls performed. Boris spotted Matt within seconds of him entering the bar and made his way to the undercover agent. Boris stopped briefly to talk with one of the patrons and then extended his powerful right-hand greeting Matt.
"Glad to see you, my friend. Stump and J. D. dropped off the cases a few minutes ago. Thank you."
"Boris, I am so glad to help out a fellow entrepreneur in a life of crime."
Boris let out a huge belly laugh and slapped Matt so hard on the back he almost lost his balance.
"Where are those guys? I told J. D. I owed him a beer."
"They are taking care of business."
"Anything I can help you with?" asked Matt.
"It doesn't concern you," said Boris with a bluntness conveying the notion to never revisit the subject. The Russian then clapped a strong hand on Matt's shoulder, "The boys tell me your warehouse has quite a turnover of containers. Every time they go there's a different box."
"I have to earn. I work with a couple of guys who need to move stuff in and out. I don't ask a lot of questions. The less I know the more they pay. I just ask for a bill of lading to cover me in case the Feds ask."
"Do the Feds ever ask?"
"I've never had a problem or even an inquiry. As far as anyone knows, I run a clean shop."
Boris released his grip, "By the end of the week, I may need to rent some space from you."
"Not a problem. Just let me know. Even though I take American Express, cash is the preferred currency."
Again Boris let out a huge laugh. "Yes, those service fees on credit cards can eat into your profits. Do you really take credit cards?"
"Why? You aren't going to pay me with a check or a credit card are you? Jerry Springer tried the check bit with a hooker years ago, and it ruined his political career."
"But it made him a star on your TV."
"There's probably more money in sleaze TV than politics anyway."
"In Russia, as in your country, both pay handsomely. Let's go back to my office. I'll get you the money for the cigarettes."
As the mismatched couple walked past the stage, Boris pointed to a dancer strutting on the walkway as the music began. "She is new. She just arrived this week. She is very good. Would you like to spend some time with her? I can arrange a very private session."
"She's pretty, but she also looks a little young. You aren't recruiting from Russian junior high schools, are you?"
Boris slapped Matt o
n the back again, causing Matt to fall forward catching himself with a quick step. "She is legal, but I like them to look young. Fulfills a fantasy."
"For you or the customer?"
"If I like it, I know my well-educated and worldly patrons will find pleasure in the performance."
Matt laughed, "Well-educated? I'm the first high school graduate you've had in here since you've opened."
"You may be right. Maybe it's just my fantasy." They continued walking to the office, and as Boris was about to open the door, he said, "Just so you know, all my girls are of age, and I have the paperwork to prove it. Nothing brings the heat faster than underage girls. I don't need the FBI snooping around."
"That's good to know, but I wasn't worried. You're too smart to leave yourself wide open to the Feds asking questions."
Matt glanced up at the monitoring screens in Boris's office. He watched a long-haired customer who tipped the scales just this side of three hundred pounds taking a girl into the room. "Maybe you should charge by the pound."
Boris looked up at the screen and picked up his phone, "Keep an eye on room two. Some whale just walked in with Tatiana. I don't want her hurt."
Boris walked over to the wall and pulled back a large black-and- white photo displayed in a hinged frame. Behind the photo was a wall safe. Using his body to conceal his actions, Boris entered the combination, grabbed the handle, and popped open the door. He removed a white business envelope and tossed it to Matt.
"I counted it. It's all there. But feel free to count it again if you like . . . if you don't trust me."
Matt opened the envelope and spied the cash. "We're fine. I'm invoking the six-four-three-zero-zero rule."
"And what is that?"
"If someone six foot four weighing three hundred pounds tells me all the money is there, I'm not going to argue with him."
Boris nodded without saying a word.