USA, Inc. (A Mike Wardman Novel: Book 1)

by Larry Kahaner

  “So I hear,” Mike said.

  “But there was something about him that wasn’t right. Know what I mean?”

  “Maybe.”

  Al motioned the server for another beer. “Make that two,” he added. He rubbed his chin. “Now I remember. The company you were telling me about, Telecommunication Associates, International. That’s his company.” Al’s eyes widened. “And they’re mixed up with the Judy Bee?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “I remember a story one of my managers told us about Kane. He was trying to buy some rooftop access for cell towers in Tunis. The owner of the building, a guy named Karim, didn’t want to lease the space, and things got ugly. Kane tried everything, including bribing officials and sending some thugs to convince the owner. He wasn’t above that sort of thing, but according to the story, it didn’t go beyond threats. Maybe it did. Who knows? This went on for years, and Kane got tired of being jerked around.

  “Finally, he bought the empty lot next to the building, erected a multifamily dwelling out of concrete. He set it higher than the adjacent buildings. In fact, it was the biggest and tallest building in the neighborhood. He rented out the apartments to the city’s poorest at rents they could afford, erected his cell towers on the roof, and named the building ‘Bachil Karim,’ which in Arabic means ‘Karim’s Mule,’ as in stubborn. Ever since then, it’s been rumored that Kane doesn’t fight, he buys. He negotiates, he even gives in, but he doesn’t strong-arm anyone. He doesn’t have to.”

  “Nice guy,” Mike said.

  “I never met him in person, but I do remember that he had a piece of his ear missing.”

  “His ear?” Mike said, staring again at the screen.

  “Here’s the story that was making the rounds,” Al began. “When he was about ten years old, growing up in Brooklyn—Flatbush, I seem to recall—an older boy confronted Kane and demanded his money. Kane refused, and the boy hit him with a sock full of pennies that he carried around. Kane fell and slammed his ear into the side of a telephone pole. It had chunks of wood sticking out. In those days, workers still shimmied up the poles with climbing spurs that dug into the wood. This left the outside pretty ragged. The pole took a chunk out of his ear, and Kane bled like crazy while the older kid’s brother showed up and went through his pockets and took the few coins that he had.

  “The other kids made fun of Kane’s ear, and the teasing didn’t let up until his family moved to a neighborhood not far from Coney Island. Anyway, he gets a short reprieve, but then the mocking starts again. It was relentless, and only got worse after they learned how it came about. In that neighborhood, losing a fight—and a piece of your ear to boot—is grounds for teasing. About a year later, the younger brother is found dead in a vacant lot with pennies over his eyes. Some neighborhood kids tell the cops about the fight between the two and they question Kane, who’s now eleven. He had an ironclad alibi. He was with his family, visiting his grandmother in the Bronx when the kid was killed.”

  “Do you think the story’s true?” Mike asked, taking a bite of his lobster roll.

  “It gets better,” Al said. “When Kane was in his forties, and had already made several million, he bought the company that the older kid’s brother worked at. It was a very old machine shop barely making payroll. He buys it, closes it down, and gives all of the employees and managers huge severance checks, enough that they can all retire comfortably. Even the younger workers.” He took another bite and a sip of beer before continuing. “All except the older brother, who had no savings and was unsuited to finding employment elsewhere, because his skills were pegged to the company’s outmoded machines. His marriage falls apart, his wife leaves him for another man and takes the kids. He ends up living in his car and dies of frostbite during a bitter February night.”

  “Is this true?” Mike asked again.

  “A guy in my office fancied himself a private eye and wondered the same thing. He didn’t learn anything about the ear incident. The police didn’t have any record of it. That’s not surprising. He also didn’t find any record of the police questioning Kane about the kid’s death. The documents were missing, and that was surprising. But he did find real-estate and tax records of Kane buying the older brother’s workplace and closing it down. He also found people who’d received generous severance packages, and they confirmed that only one person in the entire company hadn’t got his. Apparently, there’s no law that says everyone has to get the same severance package, or any separation money at all.”

  “What was the older brother’s name?”

  “Kai or Tai, something like that. I don’t recall the last name.”

  “T-A-I.” Mike pronounced each letter distinctly. “What a coincidence.”

  “How about that,” Al laughed.

  Chapter 34

  “Stop the car!” Mike commanded as they rounded the corner a block shy of his house.

  Al slammed on the brakes.

  “Look, those two guys,” Mike said.

  Al squinted. “Hey, isn’t that your house? And your car?”

  They watched as two men walked around Mike’s Jeep, peering into the windows. They each did two passes, hooding their eyes with their hands to block the sun periodically—overtly spying—then got back in their SUV. They were dressed in black pants, white shirts, sport coats, and loafers. Not quite beach-town attire.

  “What do you think? Feds?” said Al as they watched from his red Corvette.

  “I don’t know who they are, but they aren’t feds.”

  “How do you know?”

  “In my experience, feds are either overdressed, wearing dark suits when they should be wearing working man’s clothes, or dressing down when they should be wearing formal attire to blend in with the elite. The only time they seem to get it right is when they’re surveilling somebody at a pool and they wear a bathing suit. Even then, I’ve seen them sit poolside in dark trousers and a white shirt.”

  Al laughed. “Look at these mooks.”

  “Yeah,” Mike chuckled. “One time we had an agent from the Midwest who was assigned to tail a drug dealer in Miami. He showed up at a cocktail party wearing a Miami Vice outfit with pink pastel shoes, lime-green pants, and a bright-orange sport coat. He’d slicked back his hair and came off looking like he hadn’t been out of the house since 1985. When he walked into the hotel ballroom, the drug dealer and his posse couldn’t stop laughing. They slapped him on the back, got him drinks, and asked him what the Bureau thought of his wardrobe.”

  “So what did he do?” Al asked.

  “What could he do? He denies that he’s an agent, insists he doesn’t know what they’re talking about, and continues to play the role of a low-level drug dealer.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “He’s a true believer, so he’s unfazed and continues to eat and drink and tell corny jokes. Soon, he’s a got a crowd around him and doesn’t have a clue that they’re laughing at him, not with him. Someone figures it’d be funny to spike his drink with ecstasy. He starts dancing like a fool, trying to kiss the women, and even some of the men.”

  Al laughed so loud that Mike had to quiet him down so as not to attract attention. He continued, “Unfortunately, he hit on the head man’s girl. Drugs or not, the big man wasn’t going to let that stand. He snaps his fingers, and three jamokes carry the agent out—one on each leg and one by his shoulders. The next morning, a Miami field agent arriving at work early finds him by the main door, passed out, dressed as a woman, with makeup, and even women’s underwear. He’s got a note pinned to his dress that says, ‘I’m J. Edgar’s girlfriend. Please help me.’ The details are murky after that, but he’s now living in Iowa, running a corn silo.”

  “True story?”

  Mike smiled. “Does it matter?”

  “They’re moving,” Al said with excitement. “Do you want to follow them?”

  “Let’s see who they are.” He wrote down the license plate and shoved the paper in his pocket after he’d called i
t in.

  They tailed the dark-blue Crown Vic to Route 1, where it headed north to Dover, over an hour away. The car pulled into the FBI field office’s underground parking lot.

  Al drove past. “How do you like that,” he said. “Feds.”

  Mike’s phone vibrated.

  “Wardman. Okay. Thanks.” He looked at Al. “They’re not feds.”

  “Then who were they?”

  “The car is registered to a company called Global Structures.”

  “And who are they?”

  “The concrete subsidiary of TAI.”

  Al’s face turned hard.

  “Either they’re working with the FBI, were called in for questioning by the FBI, or …” Mike’s voice trailed off.

  “We’re running out of choices here.”

  “Let’s see how long they visit,” Mike said as he grabbed beers from his duffel in the backseat. About fifteen minutes later, the Crown Vic sped out of the underground lot.

  “Let’s go,” Mike said, taking the last pull on the bottle and tossing it in the back.

  They tracked the Crown Vic for another hour, back to Mike’s house, where the two men sat in their car. They were talking, rather animatedly based on all the hand movements Mike saw.

  Mike grabbed the shotgun Charlie had given him out of his duffel and looked at Al.

  “Coming?”

  “Why not? I don’t wanna be a nerd all my life.”

  Mike put a round in the chamber of his service pistol and handed it to Al. “You have sixteen rounds, plus the one already in the chamber. It’s government-issued ammo, so use the taxpayers’ money wisely.”

  Al took the pistol, his hands shaking.

  They stepped out of the Corvette in unison and walked to the other car. Mike motioned for his “partner” to put his gun behind his back as they closed in.

  Mike made eye contact with the one in the driver’s seat through the side mirror. The two men did nothing. Not a single movement.

  “Get out of the car,” Mike ordered. Al aimed the gun at the man in the passenger seat.

  Both men complied. The taller one was slightly built, but very solid. The shorter one was on the heavy side, with a baby face. They didn’t look at all like thugs. Then again, neither had Alberto Rotunda or his pal Friggin’ Jack.

  “Hands on the hood.” Mike frisked them both and told them to turn around. Neither man showed any fear. Al used two hands to hold his gun, each paw keeping the other from shaking.

  “Hands on your heads,” Mike barked. “Why are you watching my house?” he asked the taller one.

  The man looked at Al. “Is your pal over there shaking because he’s afraid to shoot us?”

  “He’s concerned that he’ll have to shoot you both, and that busts his killing quota for the day. He doesn’t like breaking the rules.”

  The man started to smile, then realized that Mike might be telling the truth. The smirk disappeared.

  “Tell him,” the shorter one blurted out. His eyes widened.

  “We were sent here to give you a message.”

  “Who sent you?”

  “We don’t know.”

  Mike shot the Crown Vic’s windshield and watched it turn into a spiderweb.

  “Wrong answer,” Mike said. “Let’s try an easier question. Why did you travel to the FBI office in Dover and back?”

  “To pick something up. It’s in the backseat.”

  Mike motioned for Al to retrieve it. He brought out a suitcase and placed it on the ground.

  “What’s in there?”

  The men were silent. Mike waited a second, then fired two inches to the left of the taller man’s leg, delivering a healthy dose of buckshot into his calf. He shouted in pain and collapsed.

  “Now you know,” Mike said. “I don’t ask twice.”

  The man rolled on the ground and moaned.

  Mike turned to face the other guy.

  Before he could say anything, the man shouted, “It’s a bomb! A fucking bomb!”

  “Here’s how this works,” Mike said. “You open the case with your back to me, so I can see this bomb over your shoulder. If you make any moves that I don’t like, I shoot you. Understand?”

  The man nodded. Al continued to track the man with his gun as he walked to the case.

  “Al, watch the other one. He won’t be moving too fast but he can crawl. Make sure he doesn’t go far.”

  Al stood over the injured man, who was now crying and holding his bleeding thigh.

  “Open it,” Mike commanded.

  “Holy shit. It is a bomb,” Al said as he glanced away from his charge.

  “Was this for me?” Mike asked, now holding his gun to the back of the man’s neck.

  “Not you. Your car. I swear it, not you. Just your car.”

  “What do you have against my Jeep? By the way, you know it’s not really mine, right? It belongs to the government, and they let me use it. I think you might have to pay a fine if you blow it up. Of course, I’d have to fill out a ton of paperwork. You don’t know this about me, but I hate paperwork.”

  The man didn’t catch the sarcasm.

  “That was all we were supposed to do.”

  “That’s all!” the injured man on the ground managed to scream.

  “Well, then,” Mike said, “maybe you should finish your job?”

  “What? Blow up the car?”

  “Not mine. Yours.”

  “Get in, both of you. Al, help that guy.” Mike grabbed cable-tie handcuffs from his Jeep.

  The two men drove where Mike ordered while Al followed in his car. They parked in an empty lot about a block from the beach and got out.

  Mike and Al watched as the uninjured man placed the bomb under the Crown Vic and walked back to where Mike was standing. The other man was on the ground and turning pale.

  “Blow it,” Mike ordered.

  An orange fireball engulfed the car. They watched as the gas tank exploded, forming a thick, black mushroom. Mike handcuffed both men to a nearby chain-link fence and called the police and fire department.

  “You okay to drive?” he asked Al, who was shivering excessively. His pupils were like pinheads. He managed a weak “yeah,” and added, “I … I … I … thought you were only a fish cop.”

  “We have our moments,” Mike said.

  Chapter 35

  “I’m not getting any of this,” Mike told Evelyn on the phone. “This man Richard Kane wanted to blow up my car. We didn’t know it at the time, but it was his men who not only tried to rough me up in Rehoboth, but were also behind the Judy Bee murders and Veach. None of this tracks with his MO, unless it’s all a clever façade. The problem is, I don’t have a smoking gun connecting him personally to any of this.”

  “Kane? Richard Kane?”

  “That’s right. Mean anything to you?” Mike asked.

  “Richard Kane, the concrete and cell-phone magnate?”

  “Yes again. Friend of yours?”

  “Holy … I know him from some funding he gave the UN. Some of my projects in fact.”

  “You’re kidding,” Mike said.

  “It’s not like we’re buddy-buddy,” she said. “Wait …” Mike heard papers shuffling. “Here it is. Would you like to meet him?”

  “Seriously?”

  There’s an event at the UN honoring Richard Kane for his funding of several environmental programs. One of the programs is mine, so I’ve got two tickets. It’s tomorrow night. You can stay at my place.”

  “I’ll be there,” Mike said.

  “It’s formal, Mike. You need to wear a tuxedo.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  • • •

  Mike and Evelyn watched the parade of people enter the ballroom.

  “That’s him,” Evelyn said.

  Kane looked a little older than his photos, but his disfigured ear was out from under his hair for everyone to see. He strode into the middle of the room, stopped several times by attendees wanting to shake his hand.


  Mike clocked two bodyguards, who walked too far away from Kane for it to be obvious they were protecting him. Mike had witnessed this maneuver before, and it took skilled bodyguards to maintain themselves at the right distance—just far enough back to remain out of camera shot and not scare away well-wishers. These two appeared ready and able to pounce on anyone who posed a threat.

  Mike grabbed two champagne flutes from a passing server, and handed one to Evelyn.

  “Still don’t believe it,” she said.

  “What, Kane?”

  “Are you sure about this, Mike?”

  He didn’t answer, but instead took in her black dress.

  “Look at him,” she said. “You’re telling me he might be behind my sister’s murder? He even once asked me … well, you know.”

  “Rich, suave, worldly, well-respected. Not your type?”

  “Stop.”

  Through a knot of people, Kane glanced in Evelyn’s direction and his eyes registered a hint of recognition. He walked over.

  “Evelyn Montclair, right?”

  “Good evening, Mr. Kane. I believe we met at the ambassador’s party in Nairobi honoring President Inchga. That was last year. I commend your memory.”

  “I never forget a pretty face. Oh, I’m sorry. Is that politically incorrect? My apologies.” He turned to Mike. “Richard Kane.”

  “Mike Wardman.”

  Mike extended his hand and looked into Kane’s eyes. No name recognition.

  “What line of work are you in, Mr. Wardman?”

  “Special Agent Wardman,” Mike corrected. “I work for NOAA in law enforcement.”

  “You people do fine work. Glad to meet you.”

  Again, no hint of recognition from Kane, who sauntered away to meet other people.

  “At least he remembered you,” Mike said.

  “Bastard,” Evelyn whispered to herself.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Still think he’s the one?”

  “All roads point to his company, and he runs the company.”