I’m a man on a mission. It doesn’t matter how much money I have salted away in offshore bank accounts. Or how much I have on the street still to collect. Some sleazebag thinks he’s going to rip me off for two hundred grand? No, that’s not happening. Fuck that and fuck him. I’ll take the action.
“Don’t worry about it,” the Captain tells me when I reach him pay phone to pay phone the next day. “I found Pierre. I spoke to him.”
“Really? Where is he?”
“LA. He doesn’t know it, but I have his address. Where are you?”
Why do people keep asking me that?
“Oh… never mind,” he says when I don’t respond. “He told me he will pay. But he only wants to meet with you.”
“Me? Fuck that. I want nothing to do with this creep. I told your father, it’s not my responsibility.”
“Yes, I understand. But you also said you would help in any way to retrieve the money. Pierre is afraid I’ll kill him,” the Captain explains. “He wants to meet with you, only you, and give you the money, and let you deal with me, my father, and Abu Nasif.”
Abu Nasif, which means father of Nasif in Arabic, is Mohammed. These guys are all still trying to involve me in a deal I wanted no part of in the first place. It’s the fucked-up deal that won’t go away. What is my karma that I keep getting sucked back into this mess? All that anger, all that brooding over being ripped off, and I’m no different. Why can’t I just let it go? Because I can’t; I’m no different than the Arabs.
“Listen, I have a plan,” the Captain continues. “While he’s meeting with you, to give you the money, I’m going to blow up his house.”
“You’re going to do what?”
“You heard me!” He’s excited. “Blow up his house! Create a vacant lot,” he laughs. “He comes home, instead of a house, all he sees is a pile of dust. Just like Beirut! That should teach him a lesson.”
We are talking somewhere around three million dollars here. And payback to that rat fuck Wizard for all the grief he caused me in Lebanon. I make plans to meet the Captain in Los Angeles. I tell him I’ll call him with a location. That afternoon, I leave for the mainland. My thoughts are to get there a day or two prior to the meeting, scope out a suitable spot to meet with the Captain before I set up a rendezvous with the Wizard. I want to meet with Val’s girlfriend, Ally, and get a location for her old man, the tough guy who did a bid in the joint and figures that gives him the right to rip people off. After we deal with the Wizard, we’ll take this other clown and show him he’s not dealing with a bunch of spaced-out hippies.
On the plane on the way over, I read G. Gordon Liddy’s book, Will. And I am struck, when I come across the line “And then began one of the most interesting phases of my life” that Liddy writes of his experience in prison. The words reverberate in my head. It all feels preordained, as though I am living a part of my life that has already happened in some other dimension. I don’t even question the Captain’s proposal to blow up the Wizard’s house. It seems like a good idea at the time. He says he will make certain there are no humans or pets inside before he reduces the house to a Beirut-style pile of rubble. This is like some CIA shit.
I stay for two nights with friends of Val’s in Orange County while I try to track down Ally and her boyfriend. No calls to Maui; I have no idea what Val’s doing. Everyone, it seems, is strung out on blow, snorting it, smoking it, shooting it. I want no part of the scene. I am disgusted with what has become of the business, and with what I have become—greedy, self-indulgent, hunted, crazed. In good shape physically, I’m spiritually bereft, hungering for something inside and outside of myself, something pot and the high I get from fucking and risking my life can no longer satisfy. I’m angry at—I don’t even know what—myself! Of course. Stupid for wasting my life. And still I keep pushing the boundaries, looking for my limits. Searching for the test that will bring me to my knees and ultimately define me.
“You better not fuck with me,” Ally’s old man says when I finally catch him on the phone.
“Oh, yeah? Why is that?”
“I just got out of Terminal Island. The federal joint,” he says.
“And that makes you—what? A tough guy? You rip off girls,” I say. “No. Listen to me. You ripped off the wrong people. We know where you live.”
He hangs up. It’s a lie; I don’t know where he lives. I have the phone number. The Captain can use his government connections to get the address. This asshole is history, and he doesn’t even know it. The Captain says he has the C-4 explosives. I’m thinking, after he blows up the Wizard’s house, we’ll go for Ally’s old man and get my money back—whatever’s left of it. It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s like Tamer said to me in Baalbek: It’s about revenge.
I make plans to meet the Captain in the lobby bar of the Sheraton Senator Hotel at the airport in Los Angeles. I arrive there a day before the rendezvous, find a spot on the mezzanine where I can position myself out of sight while keeping an eye on the lobby entrance. Then, on the day, I get there two hours before the appointed time, sit in the mezzanine with a view of the front doors through which I know the Captain will enter, and pretend to read a book while I scope the hotel entrance and lobby bar where we intend to meet.
Nothing. No unusual activity. No signs of a stakeout.
The Captain arrives on time. He walks in carrying one of those bulky black cases like a lawyer might bring to court. I watch him come through the doors, stop to look around, then take a seat at a table in the lobby lounge and order tea. Wearing a tweed jacket and a tie, he looks more like a traveling salesman with a valise full of samples than a highly trained Delta Force anti-terrorist spook carrying C-4 explosives. I’ve never seen him in anything but civilian clothes, though I know he’s still stationed at the base at Fort Hood and on active duty—doing what, I don’t know. Chasing money for his drug lord dad. Shipping weapons all over the world. And now, blowing up rip-offs’ homes.
After the Captain enters and takes a seat, I keep an eye on the front doors to see if he has been followed. Nothing, no shady-looking characters who might be undercover agents come in after him. Just a couple of women, who go directly to the front desk. Nor do I see any suspicious agent types lurking around the lobby. No sign of the Wolfman.
Satisfied the Captain is clean, I go down the escalator, walk over to where he sits. He has not seen me since I grew a beard and bleached my hair. When I approach his table, at first he doesn’t recognize me.
“Ah, Richard,” he says and stands. We shake hands. “You look different.”
“Let’s take a walk,” I say. “My car’s parked out back.”
He leaves a bill on the table, picks up his black bag, and we start back through the lobby toward the rear doors to the parking lot. When we are in the middle of the lobby, near the front desk, I look over and see what looks like hotel employees vaulting over the counter. Bellmen are drawing weapons. Desk clerks, the concierge, they are all running toward us with guns pointed at our heads. It’s as if the entire hotel staff is made up of armed agents.
This is it—the bust. I freeze, raise my hands. But the Captain, who is a serious martial artist, drops his bag and goes into a karate stance.
“GUN!” someone shouts. “He’s got a gun!”
Who? I look around. The only guns I see are in the hands of the agents. I’m thinking, Oh, shit. Any second now they are going to blow us away.
“Take it easy!” I yell. “NO GUNS!”
I look around for Wolfshein. Three agents leap on the Captain and wrestle him to the floor in the middle of the lobby. A stocky, well-built blond stands before me flashing his badge. He needs no introduction. “US Marshals,” he says. “You’re under arrest.”
“Where’s Wolfshein?” I ask.
The marshal looks up, nods toward the mezzanine. Wolfshein stands alone above the fray. He points his trigger finger at me, cocks his thumb. Son of a bitch, he was there all the time, watching his play go down. The marshals cuff me behind my back, advise me of
my rights, and then hustle me out the rear door. As I leave, I glance back and see a pile of agents rolling around on the lobby floor trying to subdue the Captain.
They take me to an LAPD satellite station at the airport, lock me in a small room. After about an hour, the blond marshal comes in and formally introduces himself. “James Sullivan,” he says, “Deputy US Marshal with the fugitive task force.” It’s the guy who questioned Val at her mother’s home. Now I’m beginning to wonder if she set me up. “You can call me Sully,” he says. “I’m from Boston. Like you.”
Big deal. What do I care where he’s from? All I want to know is how he knew where I was meeting the Captain.
“We’ve been tracking you for a long time now, pal,” he goes on, “and I gotta tell ya, I’m sorry to see it end. I was really enjoying it. I’d tell my boss, ‘Hey, Chief. We got a tip, he’s going to be at the place in Maine.’ I’d take my fishing gear and spend a few days catching trout in that pond of yours. Or I tell him you were spotted in New York and get a couple of days hanging out in the Big Apple.” He pauses, gives me a wry smile. “But I guess all good things must come to an end, huh, Rich?”
“So they say.”
He nods. “Where’s your girlfriend?”
“Who?”
“R——.” He uses her real name. “She’s pretty clever, but I knew she was lying. I knew she knew where you were.”
He pauses again, longer, and looks me over. “What’s up with the other guy?”
“What guy?”
“Your friend. Bruce Lee. He coulda got you both killed.”
Sullivan sits down. “You know what he has in that black bag?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Plastic explosives,” the marshal says. “Rich, what’s the deal? You goin’ terrorist on us or something?”
So he did bring the explosives.
“Not only do we have you on the fugitive warrant for the Maine beef,” Sullivan continues, “you and your pal are both facing new charges: illegal possession and transportation of explosives. That could get you another fifteen years.” He shakes his head. “What the fuck were you gonna do with C-4?”
I say nothing. Sullivan shrugs, stands, walks out, and leaves me alone to ponder who set me up. Val? No way. I haven’t spoken to her since I left her in Maui. Her friends had no way of knowing where I was meeting the Captain. The Captain? It had to be him. He was the only person who knew where we were going to meet. But then, why bring the C-4? Why resist arrest and risk getting us both killed? From what Sullivan said, it appears the Captain has been arrested as well. Obviously, they’ve seized his bag with the C-4. Maybe they have his phone tapped. But I was sure we never discussed where we were to meet over his phone; I made plans with him pay phone to pay phone. The agents had to have known our plan well in advance in order to position their people at the location posing as hotel staff.
I am bewildered, oddly relieved that the hunt is finally over, but totally stumped as to how they caught me.
About an hour later, Sullivan returns. Right behind him, Special Agent Bernie Wolfshein enters. He walks in, sits down, and looks me in the eye. “Rich,” he says, “how are you?”
“Agent Wolfshein… I was wondering when you’d show up.”
“Well, you know how it goes. I had some calls to make,” he says, and then to Sullivan, “Did you advise Mr. Stratton of his rights?”
“Someone did, right, Rich?”
“I think so.”
“Feel like talking?” Wolfshein asks.
“Not really. I’m tired. Just take me to jail.”
Both Sullivan and Wolfshein laugh.
“You gotta love this guy,” Wolfshein says to Sully. “You play the game, you lose. You go to jail.” Then to me, “Right, Rich?”
“Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars,” Sully chimes in. They are loving this.
“I guess so,” I say when nothing better comes to mind.
“Yeah, well, let’s see how well he holds up,” Sullivan says. He looks me up and down. “You know you’re lookin’ at a lot of time.”
I nod. “Yes… I know.”
“All right, Rich,” he says, “Now I really want to know: Who the fuck is that guy?”
“I can’t help you, Sullivan.”
“Bullshit… seriously, Rich. Off the record. Call me Sully. As one Irish guy from Beantown to another. Who was that masked man?”
“I’m not Irish.”
He chuckles. “Fuckin’ limey then. C’mon, tell me. I won’t give it up.”
“Sully, if I knew, I’d tell you.”
“You’re lying. But that’s okay. You’re the one getting fucked here.”
“You know where he is now? Your friend? A——S——?” Wolfshein asks, using the Captain’s real name.
“See,” I tell Sullivan. “Wolfshein knows who he is. Wolfshein knows everything.” And then to Wolfshein, “No. Where is he?”
“Not here. He’s gone,” Wolfshein says.
“Gone?”
“Yup. As in—he left. Some brass from the Defense Department came down here and waltzed him out. Big wigs. Know what I mean? Scrambled eggs on their shoulders. ‘We’re here for Captain A——S——,’ they told me. They even took his little bag of tricks. I got a call from my boss. ‘Let him go,’ he said. No charges. No nothing. Like it never happened. Like the guy doesn’t exist.”
I don’t know what to say. “Sometimes the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing,” is all I can come up with. But now I feel sure: the Captain set me up—or did he?
“I’ll say one thing for you, Rich,” Sully says. “You’ve got big balls.”
Where have I heard that line before? Ah, Biff…
“Or,” I say, “maybe I’m just crazy.”
“So much for the nonviolent profile, huh?” Wolfshein muses aloud. “Hard to sell that when you’re running around with plastic explosives and guys from Delta Force. What’re you up to with that guy? His dad’s a big man back in the old country, huh?”
“C’mon, I never bought it,” Sully says when I don’t answer. “I say: You tell a crook by the company he keeps. Jimmy Bulger,” he laughs, “now there is a piece of work.”
“Rich has got a lot of interesting friends,” Wolfshein remarks. “I’m sure that, if he felt like it, he could tell one hell of a story.” He turns and looks directly at me. “You should give it some serious thought, Rich. Because…” He nods and breaks off, turns to Sullivan, pushes his glasses back up his nose. “You know what I’m saying, Sully?”
“Of course. Rich is a good guy. And still a young man. Got a lot of life left in him. But I’m afraid he’s gonna be an old man, a very old man by the time he gets out of prison.”
They both nod and shake their heads as though pondering my bleak future. Two burly marshals come in with shackles and leg chains.
“We’re not takin’ any chances this time,” Sully says as the men chain my ankles.
“Where’re we takin’ him?” Wolfshein asks Sullivan.
“Well,” Sully looks at his watch, “it’s too late to go to San Pedro.”
“Hmmm,” Wolfshein says, “and it’s Friday night. We won’t be able to get him in front of a judge until Monday morning.”
Sully chuckles, shakes his head. “Shit,” he says, “I hate to do that to another Boston guy.”
“I don’t see where we have any choice,” says Wolfshein, another of his practiced lines.
They are talking about me as if I were not in the room. Then they both turn and smile at me. It feels like they rehearsed this little act.
“We’ve got a surprise for you, Rich,” Wolfshein says. “Give you some time to think about what I’ve said.”
EPILOGUE
IN CUSTODY
Oh, that magic feeling, nowhere to go…
The Beatles
Los Angeles, California, June 1982
Some surprise—a weekend in the LA City Jail, otherwise know
n as the Glass House. Wolfman and Sully, those fuckers, I’m sure they had it all planned. Bust him on a Friday night so he’ll have the whole weekend to cool his jets in arguably the worst jail in America. I’m also sure they’re getting their jollies out of my downfall. Be that as it may, for it shall not end here. This is not the last I will see of those two. Indeed, it is just the beginning of my enforced commingling with these federal law enforcement types—the über Authorities. Fuck with me; I’ll fuck with you right back. It’s all part of the journey.
Do I feel beaten? Curiously, I don’t. My overriding fear that getting busted with no way out would make me feel weak and humiliated and prove them right—thankfully that has not happened. Do I feel sorry for myself? No, again. Hell no. On the contrary, I’m filled with an encouraging, quiet confidence and grim acceptance of my fate. I feel that I can handle this, whatever they come at me with—Wolfshein and his colleagues in CENTAC and the Drug Enforcement Administration; prosecutors and judges with the federal judicial system; the rats and stool pigeons lining up to point their fingers at me; the prison guards who will stand over the years I see yawning ahead—I don’t blame them and I accept it, because I know I deserve it. I brought it upon myself. It was inevitable, given the way I chose to live my life. I could have quit the smuggler’s life a long time ago and retired rich. You push your luck, you go against everything you know you should be doing, and do everything you know you should not be doing, you keep upping the stakes, betting against the odds, and ultimately you will lose. You will take a serious fall.
Yes, they nailed my ass. But I still don’t feel like an evil person, or even a very bad man or a criminal. A fuckup, maybe. A fool. And, yes, an asshole. A victim of unbridled hubris. Selfish! Jesus, yes—self-centered. I admit that, and it is my greatest sin: to believe that it is always all about me and my need to get my kicks. That’s just stupid. It’s bullshit, meaningless crap. Especially when I have had not one but many intimations that this life is never just about one’s self; it’s always about so much more. We’re here today, gone tomorrow. When I think back to all the crazy shit I put myself through, and how I involved others in my insanity—for what? So I could feel like a big shot? Who cares that Stratton smuggled a lot of righteous weed and lived for a time like a rock star? Big deal. This life passes away; only our souls and good works endure. What have I done to honor creation and praise the Creator? Little else matters.
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