Scores

by Blutrich, Michael D. ;

  I was dictating a first draft of a brief to Casey when Andrew’s voice rang through on the intercom speaker. “Michael, Willie Marshall is on his way up, do you want to order cappuccinos?”

  “OK, where will you be when they arrive?”

  “I’m alone, Michael; I just thought it would be nice to order cappuccinos.”

  Looking to Casey’s confused reaction, I answered, “I’m not alone, hold on a second. Case, you want a cappuccino?”

  When she signaled her agreement, I asked her to order up five and allow me some privacy. “Lock my door and keep everyone out,” I called after her.

  “I’ve got it covered in here, Andrew,” I called to the intercom as soon as his door was secure. “Make sure you stay alone except for Willie.” I then proceeded to lock the bathroom door and reenact the required calisthenics.

  I could hear through the door that Willie had arrived. Recognizing a third voice as I opened the door, I stopped short, fearing a violation of the “prime directive.” But as I strolled into Andrew’s office, I recognized the unexpected person as one of Willie’s usual confederates, “Fat Pete,” another target on the approved list.

  Andrew had already handed the weekly envelopes to Willie, who was counting the cash atop Andrew’s desk. A perfect camera view, I thought.

  Seven o’clock that evening. I found myself sitting alone in Pearlstein’s office. After Marshall’s departure, I’d called Karst, advising about the day’s tapings. The agent seemed very excited. “Michael, I don’t want to leave those tapes in the closet overnight. One of you will need to hang around until everyone is gone, and we’ll make a collection.”

  The “one of you” turned out to be me, Pearlstein claiming an urgent rendezvous with Keri and her friends. Agent Paul Roman finally called to say he was entering the building and wanted to be met at the elevators. I met him, and together we traversed a route leading back to my secretary’s closet. Opening the closet, he confirmed two of the units had recorded, retrieved the appropriate tapes, and replaced the removed tapes with fresh ones.

  With little or no conversation exchanged, Roman quickly departed, reminding me to wait at least ten minutes before heading out.

  Sitting behind my desk, tired and a little sore from the day’s bending and rolling, I realized I’d been too busy and frantic to experience any nervousness during the filming. Concluding it was a blessing, I picked up the phone, reached Sergio, and made dinner plans for the following week.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Sergio’s Real Encore Performance

  My day’s work had been unproductive, nervous distraction winning out over genuine attempts at concentrated effort. A pre-briefing with Karst, Ready, and Pearlstein was scheduled for six at my condo to strategize the recapture of Sergio’s confession—words lost to posterity by the malfunctioning “high-tech” recorder. Tonight was the night to get it right, to set matters back on course.

  As I walked through my lobby, the concierge pointed my attention to two men seated on plush leather chairs in the visitors’ waiting section. Nodding and waving off the warning, I approached the men, calling out to them as I neared. Both agents rose, picked up their ample carry bags, and followed me to the elevators.

  Arriving at my floor, our small caravan made a series of quick left turns off the elevator and followed the hallway to my unit. In what had become routine, the agents walked into the living room, while I diverted to the kitchen to retrieve bottles of Snapple.

  Sitting around the dining room table, I looked at my guests, inwardly musing how quickly these men had transformed in my mind from evil government ogres to allies, even perhaps friends. Or was that just a deluded false reality? “So who got the call from Andrew that he’s going to be late?”

  The agents shot stares at each other sheepishly, revealing to my unhappy surprise that something unexpected was brewing.

  Karst cleared his throat, a clear additional signal he was uncomfortable. “We excused Andrew from the pre-briefing tonight because there’s an issue we three need to discuss. You know, tonight’s gonna be different from last week; we’re going with a body wire, ‘F-Birds’ we call them, ‘FBI recording devices,’ and not the telephone recorder. Well, Andrew feels it’s too dangerous for him to wear the wire, he’s not comfortable. He says the mafia guys are always very physical with him and he’s more vulnerable to discovery.”

  I didn’t immediately react. Instead, I picked myself up and walked over to the row of continuous windows framing the room. Suppressing a growing inner rage, I turned back.

  “To put it bluntly,” Karst continued, “Andrew tells us the mafia guys are more comfortable with him because of rumors about the ‘gay’ thing with you. He feels they shy away from you, from roughhousing, because of their macho self-images.”

  I was finally crossing into borderline anger. Thinking about it, I shook my head defiantly. “You know what? All the mafia guys despise Andrew; have you forgotten they were planning to kill him? In all the years Andrew’s been at Scores, I’ve never seen any of them touch him, not even once. They’d surely slit his throat rather than feel him up. And think about what you’re saying, because I’m gay, or so they suspect, the guys avoid me, but they feel perfectly comfortable playing around in Andrew’s crotch. This is all so stupid, I’m frankly lost for a response.”

  Once I got going, I found I couldn’t stop. “You know, I’ve really made every effort to live up to my part of our bargain. I’ve showed up to every meeting, pre-briefings and debriefings. I’m the one who met you guys for the camera reinstallation, I’m the one who works the crazy switches in the wall unit, and I’m the one who wore the beeper transmitter and carried the recorder phone the first time around. So be it—I don’t really care if Andrew misses every meeting and leaves all the administrative pain-in-the-ass work to me. But now he wants to avoid the really serious risks as well? And worse, you two seem to be buying into his crap. Do you really believe this is all about jostling around with mafia guys, or about his inability to control his girlfriend? Is the wool so far over your eyes he now has you doing his dirty work? Tell me, is there some justification for me to be the only one to wear a wire?”

  Karst walked over to me. “You really want to know what I think? I think Andrew is lazy and scared to death. I think he lacks the courage and guts to strap on the F-Bird and walk into a room with mobsters. So the question on the table right now, and the reason we needed to talk to you alone, is can this investigation proceed on your back alone or not?”

  I was surprised at Karst’s directness and honesty; it made me feel moderately appeased. Since the experience of the dream, I’d been living on the edge, in a world of dread laced with fear. And now I was being asked to walk with my fears alone, Andrew stealing even the comfort of sharing the danger. I began feeling myself inching toward a breaking point; why would anyone think I was strong enough to go it all alone?

  “Jack, I already have serious personal doubts I can continue with this undercover stuff. Don’t you think I’m scared out of my wits too?”

  “You’d better be plenty scared! Fear is important and useful; without it, you’d become careless. And I’ve told you already, you’re a natural at this kind of stuff; it shows. Andrew’s not made for undercover work; he got himself drunk the last time as an escape from his terror. Our targets trust and respect you; you have history with them. They’d never confide in Andrew the way they confide in you. Think about it, you know I’m right. You’re the only one in a position to make this investigation work, without you we might as well pack it in right now.”

  Lifting my hands, I rubbed my fingers up and down the bridge of my nose. Before I could respond, Karst jumped back in. “I’ll tell you something else, between us. I’ve sat through all the proffers so far, yours and Andrew’s, and there’s a difference between you two—you have a conscience. You understand you’ve received a second chance from the government; you’ve been invited to become a ‘patriot.’ When all this over, your sins are being f
orgiven, your wrongs outweighed by your courage and contributions. Instead of going to jail for a long time, you’re getting your life back. Not in New York, of course, but you’ll be on top again in some different place.”

  Karst was doing his job, motivating me to perform for the government’s benefit. How many times had I heard motivational speakers expound on these techniques? Yet Karst was hitting all the right chords, striking all the notes I wanted to hear, needed to hear. Dammit, I did want to make things right, to be forgiven and redeemed for the Florida debacle. And if risking my life was the price demanded, if I could truly make amends by risking my very existence, I’d do it.

  I stared back. “I’m committed to the investigation, you know that. But I’m scared and worried. Scared I’ll be killed, worried that after all of this Carol Sipperly won’t keep her word. Can you imagine how stupid and betrayed I’ll feel if I keep up my end and then the Florida case never comes here and I wind up with a long stretch in prison based on my own proffered words?”

  “I can’t guarantee what a court will do,” Karst shot back, “but I can share my experience. One, the Southern District always keeps its promises to cooperators; don’t give that issue a second thought. Two, if this investigation reaches as far into the mafia as I believe it can, I can’t see any federal judge anywhere in the country giving you any time in jail at all. Even if things never get that far, you’re never going to be in jail for more than a year. No way. And you’ll be in a country club, so get visions of Attica or Alcatraz out of your mind.”

  I quickly digested Karst’s words. I could manage, worst-case scenario, enduring a year in a country-club jail. But I had other concerns gnawing at my insides: What about my family and friends? What about my law license? What about Scores? But those were questions, I knew, for another day in another forum.

  Karst put his hand on my shoulder. “Just remember, when you feel the taste of fear rising, remind yourself you’re a patriot, a man who had the courage to do what most would find unthinkable. You’re a patriot taking the ultimate risk for the ultimate reward. Whatever you did before, whatever the wrongs, they are overwhelmed by what you’re doing now. Think about all the people you’re saving from extortion, beatings, and even murder; think about the grief you’re saving their families. What’s that worth? This is a no-lose proposition: for you, for the government, for the country.”

  After the pre-briefing, I picked up Andrew and together we drove to Westchester County. Ready had given us directions to a motel about five miles from the restaurant, and we would all meet up before proceeding to dinner with Mike Sergio.

  For better or worse, I decided not to verbally spar with Andrew over the F-Bird issue. I wanted to avoid any unproductive distractions, keeping my mind focused on the night’s assignment. If it were possible, Andrew seemed even more moody and distracted than the first time around, showing absolutely no desire for small talk anyway.

  The motel was situated in a rural, wooded track off the main upstate highway. It was easily located and, searching for the specified room, we discovered the door ajar on the second floor of a garden-apartment-like complex. The first order of business was the attachment of the wire to my torso. “Drop your pants,” Karst directed with the slightest hint of a smile.

  “Can I trust you won’t be doing anything ‘funny’ down there?”

  When Karst pulled out a roll of silver duct tape, I stepped back and looked at him as if he were deluded. “What are you planning to do with duct tape? Tie me up?”

  “I’m about to tape the F-Bird to your leg, what else?”

  “That’s what you’re gonna use to secure the wire? Sticky, crappy, greasy duct tape? Ever hear of surgical tape? Tell me, have you ever done this before? Because this is not how they do it in the movies!”

  Karst proceeded in a semi-huff to affix the F-Bird, about the size of a bar of soap, to the inseam line of my thigh, inches below my crotch. Two miniature microphones, attached to thin black wires, ran from the device and were taped to my chest at a level just below my nipples.

  “Wait, Jack,” I interrupted the procedure. “Can we leave the microphones down by my waist for now? Then when I feel safe, I’ll visit the bathroom and raise them.”

  Karst shook his head. “I don’t like that idea. Why complicate an already-complicated night?”

  “Because I’m asking, because I’d feel better.”

  Karst relented and the microphones were lowered. He also cautioned that the F-Bird might start to feel warm after a few hours, adding it was nothing to worry about.

  When he finished, I took a quick walk around the room. “The damn duct tape is pulling on my leg hairs.”

  “Just shave those areas next time,” was the only solace offered by the less-than-sympathetic agent. Karst next turned on the recorder and identified himself to my crotch.

  When the arming of the F-Bird was complete, and as I re-dressed, Jack put his finger to his lips and scribbled a note on a small white pad. The note read, “No more talking until you arrive at the restaurant.”

  I grabbed the pad from Karst and wrote back, “You’re the first person to ever formally introduce himself to my dick. Are we engaged?”

  Karst read the note, shook his head, crumpled it, and tossed it in the garbage without comment. In a final act, he reached into his carry bag, removed a beeper-transmitter, and clipped it to my belt.

  As we parted company, Karst exaggeratedly mouthed the words “Good luck.”

  After a short trip in silence, we parked and entered the restaurant. Returning to the same locale carried an aura of unreality, a discomforting déjà vu: same well-dressed and sophisticated crowd, same droning din, same disconcerting dead animal heads peering down sadly from the walls.

  Locating Sergio seated on the same stool at the bar, handshakes and warm greetings were exchanged. Mike gently put his arm around my neck and walked me over to a quiet corner of the room with Pearlstein trailing far behind. Good thing Andrew isn’t wired, look at all that dangerous jostling going on between him and Sergio, was my bitter thought.

  “You know,” he began, “my boss was really pissed off at me for having dinner with you last week. He’s worried the government’s gonna ‘flip’ you two because of that Florida thing hanging over your heads.”

  “What do you mean, ‘flip’?” I played dumb.

  “Turn you into witnesses. I told him he was talking crazy, that we’d been friends for years. In the end I had to make a compromise. I said I would search you for a wire tonight. You mind?”

  Having now joined us, at the mention of a search, Andrew went wide-eyed. He said, “Don’t they understand the Florida case is going nowhere and will probably just go away for lack of evidence?”

  Sergio just shrugged his shoulders.

  “Mike, what am I supposed to say? I’m hurt and surprised, but what the hell, if it gets you out of a bind, let’s do it. On the other hand, we could agree not to talk about anything sensitive.”

  “I still gotta keep my promise to my boss, it’s a matter of honor. I want to prove you’re loyal.” He turned to Andrew and said, “Go get us a table, we’re gonna hit the head.”

  As we entered the restaurant’s bathroom, Sergio made a quick tour of the stalls to ensure privacy. Once satisfied, he returned to the entry door and locked it with the small dead bolt.

  I was facing an instant decision: stay and fight, or turn and run. I opted for the former and broke the ice. “So, no one ever did this to me before. How’s it done?”

  “I just have to make sure you’re not wearing anything under your shirt.”

  Feeling the sweat beginning to bead on my back, and experiencing a wave of mild dizziness, I glanced longingly at the room’s locked door, eternally grateful I’d moved the microphone wires lower than Karst wanted.

  There’s still time to get the hell out of here, I reminded myself. I can run faster than Mikey Hop, for the first time grateful for the severe limp that brought him his mob moniker.

  I
nstead, I removed my suit jacket and hung it on a stall knob. I whipped off my tie without breaking the knot, and unbuttoned my shirt. With my chest now revealed, I turned around in front of Sergio, showing him there was nothing hidden anywhere on my upper torso.

  “That’s enough,” Sergio said with a tone of embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I just had to follow orders. But now I can report back I was right about you.”

  Sensing Sergio’s gross discomfort, I recklessly decided it would be to my benefit to press the issue a bit further. In what I would later recall as an “act of insanity,” I raised my voice in response. “Oh no. If you’re going to hurt my feelings and question my loyalty, let’s do this thing right.” I then proceeded to open my belt, unzip my fly, pinch down the tiny microphones, and pull down my Calvins—just enough to expose my privates.

  As I walked toward Sergio, my manhood hanging down in full glory, he covered his eyes with his hands and turned away. “Get dressed, Michael. I feel like I’m getting a lap dance at a gay Scores. I’ve seen all I need to see, more than I need to see, you’re clean.”

  Praying my pants wouldn’t drop far enough to expose the duct tape, or the F-Bird, or the dangling microphones, I carefully raised my slacks and dressed myself slowly.

  “I’m really so sorry about this,” Sergio apologized, stepping toward the bathroom door. As I followed, I kept wondering whether Andrew had run away. As we reached the exit door, I stopped. “You know what? I really do have to use the bathroom. I’ll meet you at the table.”

  I walked directly into one of the stalls and sat down while Sergio returned to the dining room. Here I was, the big brave undercover agent; I was shaking like a leaf. The wood-paneled walls around me were spinning and I was concerned I might pass out. Reaching down and removing the beeper-transmitter from my belt, I softly spoke. “Everything’s OK.” Feeling worse, I added, “What you’re about to hear is not code, it’s just an amusing irony.”