NOW IT IS all on the table, anted up then raised like so many stacks of poker chips. Fred is in bed with the Feds, I know it, knew it even before it happened. Had I listened to the still, small voice within I never would have brought him on board, never would have been on Barnswallow Hill that fateful snowy afternoon to play Good Samaritan, never would have picked up the Heat swirling around Fred’s roost. True. But then I would not have had the pleasure of matching wits with Bernie Wolfshein. Nothing to do now but play the hand I dealt to myself.
I get up and wander into the garage. What’s this? One whole bay is stacked high with wooden crates. I don’t even want to imagine what is in them.
* * *
THE DAY OF the smuggle begins ominously. I’m at the ranch in Blanco, spent the night here last night. I get up before dawn, go into the bathroom to take a leak, and step on a scorpion. My leg aches all the way up to the thigh. Then one of the horses, a gelding that apparently didn’t understand his balls had been cut off, tries to jump the fence to get at the mares and impales himself on a fence post. The Mexican ranch hands and I have to cut the fence post with a chain saw to get him off. When I remove the stump, his guts spill out onto the ground and he dies.
Meanwhile, Jonathan Seagull is making me crazy. He offered to drive into Austin last night to pick up my attorney, Hef, at the airport. Ordinarily, I would have gone, but I was busy coordinating the pickup in Mexico, waiting on calls at designated pay phones. Jonathan was supposed to check into a hotel and get a good night’s rest so he could be up early and in the air on his way south of the border with the planeload of appliances, clothes, and other items for the Mexicans. Then get the plane loaded with pot and fuel and be back in Texas well before nightfall. But no, he takes his new lady friend and Hef out for dinner and drinks. Now he’s hours behind schedule. He should have landed in Guerrero by this time, loaded up and refueled, and been on his way back. There is a storm front moving in from the north. I’ve been watching it all night. This morning it’s over the Panhandle. I’m out in the paddock cleaning up, commiserating with the heartbroken young woman who takes care of the horses, assuring her it was not her fault the gelding died. We bring in a backhoe to dig a grave for the dead horse.
Then—out of the southern sky—come the deafening sounds of a turbo-charged twin-engine plane dive bombing the ranch, roaring overhead barely above tree level. Not once, not even twice. Three or four times. It’s the Seagull, of course, in the Aero Commander, buzzing the ranch like a fighter pilot strafing an enemy compound. As if we don’t hear him the first time. Or the second. The horses are spooked, prancing around the paddock. The Brahman bull is alarmed—no more so than me. JD drives over from the stash house and picks me up. He says he got some garbled communication from the Seagull fretting about the weather. JD has no tolerance for Jonathan. I feel like a fool for trusting so much of this operation to people who just don’t seem to understand that what we do is illegal, and there is no room for fuckups. And yet fuckups abound. Right now I am the chief fuckup.
As we drive over the Devil’s Backbone, down toward Startzville, I spot a DPS car—Department of Public Safety, Texas’s version of state police—pulled into a scenic overlook. The trooper stands beside his car with a pair of binoculars trained on the landing strip where the Seagull touched down minutes ago. “Shit… there’s the Heat.”
“What do you want me to do?” JD asks.
“We should just leave this fucking idiot there. Let him talk his way out of the pile of shit he just dumped on our whole trip.”
JD pulls over, starts to turn around. The cop gets in his car and takes off in the direction of the airstrip. But I can’t do it, something in me will not allow me to abandon Jonathan or anyone else in the field. “We gotta go get him.”
We arrive at the airstrip at his new girlfriend’s golf club. Jonathan is still sitting in the Aero Commander cockpit. He can’t get out. The rear of the plane is packed full of merchandise JD and Father Foley loaded in for the Mexicans, blocking the rear cabin door. I walk up to the plane. Jonathan opens the window. His face is flushed; he’s sweating. “Get me out of here,” he says.
The DPS car noses up onto the runway. JD sits in the driver’s seat of a GMC suburban, which is registered to the ranch in San Saba. He looks at me, cocks his head in the direction of the DPS car. “See what you’ve done?” I say to Jonathan. “Brought the fucking Heat down on us. What is wrong with you?” It’s all I can do to keep from punching him in the face.
“The weather… I never would have made it back—”
“You would’ve had plenty of time to get there and back if you’d left at five this morning like you were supposed to.”
“He’s leaving. Please… it’s hot as hell in here.”
The DPS cop makes a slow U-turn, eyeballs us, and drives off. I motion to JD. We unload a few of the appliances, make space for the Seagull to climb out of the plane. Then, for lack of anything better to do, we put everything back in the plane, lock it, and drive off. Less than a mile from the club, the DPS cop pulls us over. JD is driving, cool as always. The Seagull is in the backseat, drenched in sweat. I’m riding shotgun, dismayed by the turn of events.
“License and registration,” the tall, sunglassed DPS trooper says. JD hands him his Maine driver’s license. I get the registration out of the glove box.
“What’s the problem, officer?” Jonathan pipes up from the backseat.
The cop leans down, looks in the car. “Out of the vehicle. All of you,” he orders.
“Officer—”
“Shut up. Just do what he says,” I tell him.
We stand by the side of the road. The cop gets in the car, rifles through the glove box, looks under the seats.
“Let me see some ID.”
I give him my Paul Quinlan Texas driver’s license. The Suburban registration. The Seagull gives him an Ontario driver’s license. The cop takes all the papers and goes back to his car.
“There’s nothing illegal in the plane,” Seagull says.
“No shit,” JD snaps.
My mind is crowded with distressing thoughts. We are on a head-on collision course with the Heat. We’ve blown the ranch in San Saba, no doubt the place in Blanco as well. The new plane is now burnt; the call numbers will be recorded on an aircraft hot sheet, and we’ll get tossed every time we file a flight plan. Paul Quinlan, already nabbed carrying a concealed weapon in Massachusetts, will go down on some list of suspected dope smugglers along with JD and Jonathan in their real names.
“What the fuck were you trying to do, buzzing the ranch like that?” I ask as we wait for the trooper to return. “Every cop in the county had to hear you.”
“To let you know I was turning back so—”
“We have a radio for that,” JD says.
“I radioed.”
“We heard you.”
The cop is on his way back. “Just shut up. Please.”
“What am I going to find if I get a warrant and go back and search that plane?” he asks.
“Nothing, officer… nothing illegal—” Seagull offers.
The cop nods. “Just a bunch of shit for the Mexicans, right?”
If I could kick the Seagull, I would. But he manages to keep his mouth shut.
“You think I don’t know what’s going on here?” The trooper looks at me, squints. “Buncha Yankees… and you, Paul, if that’s your real name.” He shakes his head. “What is this, the three stooges?” He hands JD all our IDs and the Suburban registration. “If I were you boys,” he says, “I’d get the hell out of Texas. And stay out.”
Good advice.
MY LEG STILL throbs from the scorpion sting when I limp in to meet with Hef at the bar in the Driskill Hotel in downtown Austin later that evening. “I almost needed your services today,” I tell him, then recount the whole regrettable story of our brush with the DPS cop.
“I’m afraid that’s the least of your problems, my friend,” Hef says and orders more drinks. “I spoke to m
y contact in DEA the other day,” he continues after we have been served. “Actually, played golf with him and his partner—of course, I let them win. Later, over drinks, I inquired about CENTAC.” He shakes his head. “Not good. Not good at all. My DEA man said to me, ‘How the fuck do you know about CENTAC?’ Apparently your man Wolfshein has been talking out of school. It’s allegedly highly classified. I would call it a task force, but it’s more than that.”
“You didn’t say where or how you’d heard about it?”
“No, why would I? I told him another lawyer mentioned it to me. What CENTAC is, from what I can gather, is a unit within DEA that was formed to target a specific criminal organization suspected of being involved in RICO activity. You are aware of the RICO statute and what that means?”
“More or less,” I say. “Racketeering. Organized crime.” Which strikes me as absurd, given what my crew has been up to lately—more like disorganized crime.
“At any given time,” says Hef, “there may be as many as fifty DEA agents around the world, as well as agents from IRS, Customs, FBI, state and local cops, and foreign police all assigned to gather intelligence and eventually dismantle the target group from the top down. And they do not disband the unit until they have accomplished their mission. If indeed your happy, little family has gained the dubious distinction of birthing its own CENTAC, or if you’ve been adopted like the proverbial redheaded stepchild by someone else’s CENTAC, well, you might take that as a compliment in that it merits a certain prestige. It also means, however, that vast resources have been budgeted toward ensuring your downfall.” Hef pauses, takes a swallow of his drink.
“Having said that, I can now also state with certainty that the individual in question—” he identifies Fred by his government name “—is cooperating with the government. The US Attorney’s office in Portland is preparing an indictment as we speak. They may, however, seal the indictment and allow you to go about your business while CENTAC continues gathering intelligence for what would then become a superseding indictment, perhaps brought in another jurisdiction. They were actually quite surprised when they stumbled upon you in Maine.”
“‘Stumbled.’ Wolfshein used the same word…”
“Stumbled, indeed, my friend. You stumbled.” Hef holds up a finger. “But you have not yet fallen.”
“How do I merit my own CENTAC?”
“Perhaps it’s not your CENTAC. As I said, it could be the company you keep.”
I press on. “And Wolfshein’s veiled proposal, what do you make of that?”
“I can only speculate. I did float a hypothetical scenario for my DEA friends. What this agent may be offering—and if he’s as highly placed as he appears to be, it would make sense—is an unholy alliance wherein you would be allowed to continue to go about your business unmolested, so to speak. Given a pass on your current difficulties. And then they would have you act as what is known in the trade as a CI—a confidential informant. As opposed to a CW—a cooperating witness—which is what your friend in Maine has become, someone whose only value is as a witness at the trial of others. As a CI, on the other hand, you would be expected to keep working while providing information on a completely discreet basis to whoever was designated as your handler. You become, in essence, a double agent. You would not be required to appear in court or wear a wire, nothing of the sort, until the CENTAC unit has accomplished its objective. Perhaps not even then. Some of these CIs stay active ten, twenty years, amass a fortune setting people up, and then move on. They get to keep their ill-gotten gains and disappear into some rat retirement program.”
“It sounds intriguing. But a rat by any other name—”
“—is still a rat.” Hef finishes the thought. “And you get to live out your life with a big bull’s-eye on your back.”
“The only thing I like about this is that it seems to argue against my being the target,” I add.
“Yeah. I would venture that’s the case,” says my attorney. “But there are targets, and then there are targets within targets, so to speak. Even if you are not the only bull’s-eye.”
“And Mailer?”
Hef shrugs, sips his drink. “Collateral? To put more pressure on you? Or, simply prestige. The Feds love a big name like Norman’s on the indictment even if they suspect he’s not directly involved.”
“He’s not.”
“I believe you. But you know how vague these conspiracy statutes are. As one of my clients put it, ‘They could indict a ham sandwich.’ You and Mailer own property together. He has accepted payments from you for that property knowing you have no legitimate source of income. That could be presented to a grand jury as money laundering and interpreted under the law as his having been a member of the conspiracy.”
“They have no proof I paid him anything. That was all done in cash with no records. His name is still on the deed.”
“Good. That’s all very good. But you have to understand that once he or anyone else is implicated in the overall conspiracy, it becomes almost impossible for a jury to differentiate who is in fact culpable for exactly what. One gets painted with the broad strokes of the government’s sweeping charges. And with a name like Mailer’s, you know there are kudos to be claimed for taking him down. He becomes a bargaining chip.”
“Fucking nasty.”
“Indeed… it is. But then, you’ve always known that. You knew that going in.”
“I learn it over again every day.”
“That’s good. Keep it that way,” Hef says and orders more drinks. “Perhaps it’s time for a change of plans.
“Just keep them coming,” he tells the waiter and holds up his glass. “When you see the glass is nearly empty, bring another round.”
We both sit mulling it over, drinking and thinking.
“What would you do?” I ask him.
“Ah, my good friend, dear Richard. Is there any question in your diseased mind?” Hef reaches across the small table between us, takes hold of my head and hugs me. We are laughing now.
“What would I do?” he says and raises his glass. “I believe one never really knows the answer to that question until one is faced with the predicament. But knowing you,” he nods, grins, “I would never presume to advise you in such a matter. As your attorney, my only advice is—drink up! And when that drink is gone, have another! And when the alcohol has sufficiently dissolved your inhibitions, smoke some pot and let your megalomaniacal fantasies run wild. You have never been at a loss for coming up with a creative solution. And remember, life is short, my friend. In a situation like this, one must act expeditiously. He who hesitates is lost.”
Driving back out to the ranch in San Saba later that night, I work it all out in my head. I still have a few things around here I need to clear up before I can even consider what to do next—though, in truth, I already know what I must do. The wild wide-open land itself speaks to me: Just go, and keep on going. Never mind some puny, stupid, man-made laws. This is Texas, son, where a man can become the law unto himself.
* * *
MY FRIEND JAKE from Boston flies down to Mexico with another forty grand for Adelberto, the village chief, his family, and the growers in Guerrero. The Mexicans are getting antsy; they need money. Jake stays in the village to watch over the load until we can devise another means to get it out. The Aero Commander is unloaded, all the stuff we bought for the Mexicans is stored in a barn at the Blanco ranch. Jonathan then flies the plane to Austin and parks it at the civilian side of the airport. After two days sitting on the tarmac, the plane shows signs of having been tampered with—a couple of small screws left on the floor by the avionics compartment when the agents were forced to beat a hasty retreat. Using a sweeper, we detect the GPS tracking device the Heat installed.
Now the Seagull is relegated to leading DPS, DEA, Customs, and whoever else is bothering to follow the Aero Commander on a wild goose chase around the state, down toward the border and then back up into Oklahoma, where he is finally halted and detained while the
plane is thoroughly tossed by a team of narcotics agents. Meanwhile, at the strip on a neighboring ranch in San Saba—unbeknownst to the absent owner—we land the bulk of the load in two back-to-back trips using the Maule. Jake takes the remaining 300 pounds by land up to the Rio Grande and crosses it at Roma, Texas, with the help of the Mexicans who work at the ranch. JD buys a new truck and six-horse trailer. We transport the weed and the last of the horses from the Blanco ranch back east, deliver the pot to Lord Toranaga at a stash house in New Jersey, and the horses to the farm in Maine. We move all the cattle to San Saba. Herbert puts the place in Blanco on the market.
All this takes two weeks. And throughout there has been no sign of Wolfshein, DPS, or any other law enforcement agents. I’m betting on the time lag it takes for the various cop honchos to coordinate their intelligence and devise new marching orders to allow me occasion to get out of Dodge. I could feel a sense of accomplishment; at least I have not let the Mexicans down. Adelberto and the Indians in the mountains depend on cash from this business for their subsistence.
The San Antonio and Austin newspapers are filled with stories on the murder of Jimmy Chagra’s older brother, Lee, the renowned criminal defense lawyer and high-stakes gambler who was shot to death in an apparent robbery at his El Paso office. In a late-night, pay-phone-to-pay-phone conversation with Capuana, he tells me to see what I can find out from my people in Texas. He says Jimmy Chagra is incensed, convinced the Feds had his brother Lee whacked. “The FBI surrounded his office right after the body was found. They were taking out boxes full of his files,” Capuana says. He goes on to tell me the Chagra organization is in disarray, with Jimmy hunkered down at his Las Vegas mansion trying to figure out his next move. “Stumbled,” Wolfshein said. He had been surveilling my meeting with Capuana in Boston. As I try to fit this piece into the government’s investigative puzzle, I see how it is beginning to shape up into a CENTAC. Like Hef said, it may be the company I keep.
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