90 Church

by Dean Unkefer

  Group Two was empty except for Pike talking on the phone. He just waved to me. The supervision of agents was ridiculous. They just came and went as they pleased. At the end of the week everyone wrote a silly report on all the hours they spent in the street with most of the cases going nowhere or the arrest of some pitiful junkie.

  After lunch I sat at my desk alone waiting for someone to ask me to join a case. I started sorting through my desk drawer until I found the three-by-five index card taken from the file room so long ago on a cold dark winter night. I could never forget the simple words that changed my life forever: Twigs, Henri Manasso. On the back of the card was a scribbled address, the last bit of research that Tony Roma from Roma had done before he killed himself.

  I picked up the phone and booked an evening flight to Boston. Then I told Pike I needed three days off. He just nodded okay. Rachel was living in Marblehead, Massachusetts. I was glad to get a trip out of New York.

  The plane ride and comfortable seaside hotel made me feel a little better. Soon the thought of finding Rachel absorbed me completely. Despite everything, I still loved her. She made me feel strong and smart. None of this made any sense, but I didn’t care. I needed her.

  I started my stakeout early in the morning. The house was small, on oceanfront property. I parked at the corner of an intersecting street so I could look down the block without being seen. At about eight o’clock the neighborhood started to come alive, people picking up the newspapers, driving to work, running off to school. Rachel’s garage door opened at about 9:30 and a white Porsche rolled out and darted up the street past me. It was her. Even with the oversized sunglasses and baseball cap, I could see that it was her.

  After a few minutes I drove into a small village that I had passed earlier and found a hardware store. I picked out a small one-inch-wide putty knife. I had the store manager use the metal grinder wheel in the key department to cut a notch halfway through the middle of the blade. The manager asked me several times why I wanted him to grind a huge notch to a new knife. I couldn’t think of an answer that he would believe.

  Besides the damaged putty knife I bought a roll of toilet paper and drove back to the house, again parking down the street. I unrolled all of the toilet paper and put the brown cardboard cylinder spool in my pocket. I walked up to each house pretending to knock on the door. Anyone seeing me would think I was a door-to-door salesman and hide. When I got to Rachel’s house I slipped around back.

  Most people feel safe behind their doors with locks and chains. They don’t realize how easily a skilled burglar can get through. Rachel’s back door opened out with a typical wood frame. When you closed the door the sliding latch would hit the striker plate on the door jamb, pushing the latch in, then letting it spring back into the hole in the door frame to lock. I slid the notched putty knife into the door jamb, pushed down so the notch hooked behind the door latch and gently pulled forward, pushing the latch in so the lock was released. The sliding chain lock was next. With the door open a few inches I jammed the brown cardboard toilet-paper cylinder against the chain, and then carefully closed the door. The cardboard cylinder forced the chain to run along the slider track to the end where it popped out. My street education was starting to pay off.

  Rachel’s house was very well-kept, decorated in black and white. Dewey would go straight to the refrigerator. I knew why. She lived alone – yogurt, small dishes, one of everything. She ate out at night, no entrée items in the freezer. On I went to the dirty clothes and trash. She traveled a lot. Next the medicine cabinet: it had the usual, aspirin, birth-control pills, and a large jar of Vaseline. Next to the toilet was a vegetable sieve. In the waste basket I found large condoms, double layered, one inside the other. She was still smuggling drugs for a living. No evidence of a boyfriend anywhere. The closet was filled with expensive sexy clothes, but not much for winter. She had another home someplace warm. Her bed was made so she was comfortable living alone. There were pictures of her in a bathing suit with all sorts of people – ugly, fat, dark and pale – with exotic backgrounds of palm trees, mountains and yachts. There was a large picture with Manasso and her, hugging each other.

  The garage was neat, with a complete tool bench and a wide assortment of bolts and screws. She had a black, high-powered Moto Guzzi motorcycle ready to roll.

  I sat in the living room to think. I had not found the hideaway. All drug dealers hid things. The closets, kitchen, and behind the toilet were all too obvious for someone as smart as Rachel.

  There was expensive white pickled wood paneling on one wall next to the fireplace. There were pictures everywhere except there. I pushed each panel, looking for a pressure lock. The third one gave in and sprung open to a series of shelves. The top shelf had a small stack of passports from various countries. Her real name was Rachel Burano. The other shelves were stacked with money and long curved condoms filled with cocaine and heroin. Manasso’s black .45 with a silencer was on the middle shelf, still in its shoulder holster. The gun bothered me. Why would she keep it as a souvenir? How did she even get it? This could not be Rachel’s gun!

  I picked it up. It was loaded. I unscrewed the silencer and went into the garage. I took a drill bit and slid it down inside the barrel. Then I found the right-size machine bolt and screwed it into the front of the barrel as hard as I could. With the barrel spiked, the gun would backfire, blowing the drill bit through the firing pin, into the shooter’s face. Manasso’s gun would not kill anyone ever again, except maybe the shooter. I replaced the silencer, put it back on the shelf in its holster and closed the panel.

  I sucked up a line of cocaine and started looking through the papers in her desk. She had over one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in the bank. Besides clothes, she spent a lot of money at a local restaurant called The Cove.

  I sorted through her underwear drawer, all clean white silk. I took one and held it to my cheek, then to my nose – laundry detergent.

  I roamed from room to room, still holding her panties to my cheek. Finally I laid on the bed and felt like I was being bathed in warm water. I loved her now more than ever. She knew how to outsmart Michael and Dewey. With her by my side I could face anything. I knew why she had done the things she had done, I didn’t care. I even respected her for it. She loved Manasso, but he was gone. She loved me too. When we made love there was such passion that the sheets would be soaking wet. We would hold each other for hours. Now we would ride motorcycles together, travel the world. No more drugs, no more 90 Church. She was part of me and always would be. She lived alone because she could not love anyone else. Now I was back.

  I laid my face on her pillow for hours, remembering everything we did together. Finally I straightened up the house and went back to my hotel. It was late afternoon and I wanted to think about how I would contact her. I fell asleep and woke up later at 7:30. I drove back to Rachel’s house, but it was dark. I had missed her. I remembered her receipts from The Cove Restaurant. It was easy to find on the ocean front in the small town. Her white Porsche was parked out front.

  The Cove was expensive and elegant with chandeliers and waiters in white dinner jackets. I had short hair when Rachel and I were together. It now hung down, covering my face. I sat at the bar and looked into the mirror behind the bottles that reflected a panorama of the restaurant. The Cove was different from most restaurants. Everyone seemed to know everybody else so they stood around in little groups, like at a party.

  I saw her right away, talking with a grease-ball hood. She was wearing a long black dress with hidden pleats that showed flashes of red or white. She strolled through the crowd, greeting people. She was alone and avoided anyone who tried to touch her, affectionately pushing them away or stepping back with a smile. As she worked the crowd, laughing and joking, she would occasionally look at me. Her glances began to increase until I saw the shock on her face. She quickly turned away, but her nervous smile gave her up.

  Finally after about ten minutes she sat down beside me but looked away t
oward her friends. “How did you find me?”

  With both of us looking in opposite directions I answered, “Through your drug-dealing friends over there.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you. I never stopped looking for you. I don’t care about what happened or what you’re doing. We loved each other, I want it all back. You are my life.” I stared into my drink and waited for her answer.

  My best hopes came true. She said, “There has never been anyone else after you. How could you ever forgive me?”

  “I have to forgive you. I understand what you did. I love you. You can do no wrong. Please, let’s try. I need you.”

  After a long silence she got up and leaned close to me and whispered, “Okay, but not here. That’s mob over there. You’ll get both of us killed. One mile up the beach going north, there’s a small park below the hills. It’s the only place you can park next to the water. I’ll be there at twelve-thirty.”

  She strolled back to her mob friends. Her beautiful body and flashy dress again drew every eye in the restaurant to her.

  At twelve-thirty I stood on the sand, staring at the rolling ocean and waited. There was no moon so it was very dark. My life had meaning again. I would give up cocaine and find a normal life. Surely she wanted the change, too. We needed each other.

  Above the crashing black waves I heard a high-pitched motor, whining slow, then fast. Up above, on the overlooking cliffs I saw a single light darting back and forth. The light disappeared at times but the sound grew louder and louder as the motorcycle made its way down the winding road to the shore.

  The light swept the beach and me. Then with a loud click it was dark and silent. I could barely see someone walking toward me. Rachel was dressed in black motorcycle leather and wearing boots with big silver buckles on the side. Even though it was too dark to see her face she was the most beautiful person I had ever known. I wanted to hold her, to kiss her, to feel her tongue on mine. I wanted to cry and have her see my tears.

  When she was within a few feet of my embrace, I said, “It’s been a long time, never again. I love –”

  She opened her leather jacket, reached under her armpit and pulled out the black automatic, Henri’s automatic with the silencer, “This is for Henri.”

  I watched her level the gun with her eye on the sights and pull the trigger.

  I never really actually saw what happened to Rachel, it was too dark. I just remember my screams and running to the car. I spent the night at the airport, staring down at the floor and trying not to begin screaming again.

  God made darkness for a reason and now I knew why. Michael knows the reason too, that’s why he prefers it. Now I hated the daylight, too. From now on I would live only at night.

  THE BEACH

  The moment I walked into Cookie’s apartment I knew she was gone. Closet doors left open, clothes scattered on the bedroom floor. She had taken only what she could carry, abandoning all the rest, along with her whole apartment. No note, just gone for good. This should have depressed me, but it didn’t. Considering everything else that I was going through my only reaction was to make a sandwich and pour myself a drink. I was grateful for my wonderful rainbow of addictions. They offered a much better life than my reality. I was proud of myself for keeping my drug and liquor habits secret from everyone, and I knew that from now on my sexual pleasures would probably be found at Gramercy Park.

  The next day my cocaine cured a hangover and I went back to the office. Dot, Blanker’s secretary, was in the library, eating lunch as she worked on some of the case files. I thanked her for phoning me a warning about my pending indictment. She asked if I had heard anything yet.

  I said, “No.” Then out of curiosity, or perhaps fear, I asked, “Dot, what’s the latest with Dewey?”

  She glanced up at me once, then she answered, “They are coming for him soon. I heard Blanker talking to some investigator; he is going to be arrested for multiple murders. I heard at least ten killings.”

  Trying to keep the conversation going, I said, “I’m sorry to hear that. Didn’t Dewey transfer here from Navy Intelligence?”

  “No, I’m not really sure.”

  I was surprised. “No? You don’t know where he came from?”

  Dot put down her sandwich. “I know this; he came from the University of Michigan, but come to think of it, he was recommended by Navy Intelligence. He had a Master’s Degree in foreign languages, so Blanker brought him in to be an interpreter, but he couldn’t speak a word of anything except English. Then Blanker found out that he had gotten straight D’s.”

  “Dewey Paris graduated in the top of class from Annapolis. What do you mean got straight D’s?”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Dot replied, “but I saw his transcript from graduate school, not one C, not one F, straight D’s in every subject that he took in foreign languages, but he still got his Master’s Degree. Blanker thought he was too dumb to be an agent and he wasn’t any good as an interpreter, so he assigned him to Michael to get rid of him. Besides, he didn’t even look like a federal agent; he looks like a teenager. Blanker couldn’t stand him. He was embarrassed to call him an agent.”

  I was stunned. “Dewey was too dumb to be an agent, so they assigned him to Michael Giovanni to get rid of him?”

  “That’s right,” she answered. “Blanker always assigns the dumb agents he doesn’t want to Michael.” Then she realized what she had just said and was embarrassed.

  “That’s okay. Dewey was dumb; it was smart to assign him to Michael.”

  “Dewey didn’t make cases like you,” she said then. “You have made more major cases than anyone else in the Bureau for the last two years. I don’t know why you should care about Dewey. I typed Blanker’s personnel report on him. It said that Agent Dwight Paris was a killer and he was disrespectful to his supervisors, and he was never serious about making cases. He was a party boy.”

  Dewey could always make me laugh and he was even doing it now. He got straight D’s in his Master’s in foreign languages so he would never be stuck with the dull job of being a language interpreter – and played dumb to get assigned to Michael, so he could learn from the smartest agent in the Bureau.

  I thought of the Vietnam War, Dewey’s mystery guest he met for lunch at the Peacock Alley, and the picture hanging on his living-room wall of hundreds of sailors saluting him on the deck of a ship. Dot hung her head down. “Flowers and the others talk all the time about you. I’m sorry. They’re all wrong about you. You don’t deserve this.”

  I walked out of the library to my desk in Group Two. I wanted to find Flowers and tell him that I was going to accept his deal. I had a solid case against Dewey and Michael. I was not going to jail. An indictment against me was not necessary. I had decided to add one more condition to the letter of immunity: that I stay in my job for the next five years. I was sure he would agree. I hated everybody here at the Bureau. I hated Dewey and Michael for being so smart, and leaving me here alone, but it didn’t matter – this was where I belonged. Besides, here I had an endless supply of dope. When I walked into Group Two no one was there except Pike and his secretary. Things seemed normal.

  “What’s new?” I asked Pike, wondering if he had heard anything about my indictment.

  “Nothing,” he replied. Then he handed me a memo from George Blanker. It was marked urgent. At 1:00 p.m. I was to be picked up to fly by government jet to Texas for a meeting with Johnny Greenway and others from the El Paso office. The objective of the case was to attempt a buy from an international dealer coming in from Colombia. I went to my locker and got four bundles of cocaine and stuffed them in my jacket.

  In less than an hour I was the sole passenger on an Air Force jet headed for Brownsville. During the flight, I wondered why I was leaving New York. Maybe they wanted more time to squeeze Michael and the others. Everyone wanted me either dead or in jail – preferably dead. There was no booze on the plane so I was sweaty and dizzy when I arrived in Brownsvi
lle.

  Greenway was there to meet me and I asked him if we could get a few drinks. We went to a small bar in the airport. He looked happy, no longer afraid of New York. I didn’t mention the bomb scare or his hasty forced return to El Paso, exactly where he wanted to be. We both knew Michael had set the whole thing up. There was no need to talk about it.

  He explained the case. There was a fishing camp across the border, on the Gulf, accessible only by boat or plane. Interpol, the Bureau, and the Mexicans were going to show two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash to dealers in Monterrey, Mexico. A boat was to deliver one hundred kilos of cocaine, and a plane would bring the money. I was to be the “New York Mafia connection” to oversee the exchange at the fishing cabin. I would fly in first and, once everyone was together, with the drugs, I would signal – and all hell would break loose.

  “Why am I going in alone?” I asked.

  “You’re not. I’ve got guys already at the camp, waiting for you. I’ll be there in about three hours.”

  “Okay,” I said, “let’s go.”

  We headed back to the Coast Guard base. As we pulled up, Greenway said, “Oh, one problem; we have to go through Customs. I don’t want them to know who you are. Give me your coat and your gun.”

  I was searched at Customs but Greenway was not. Greenway walked me to the cockpit of a small single-engine plane, handed me my jacket, which was wrapped around my gun, and left. No good-bye, he just turned around and walked off.

  The little plane flew straight south. All I could see was the coast and jungle for miles. The pilot banked a sharp left and I could see a small airstrip cut out of the jungle that ran parallel to the shore. As he maneuvered for a landing, I saw a small house on the beach. The pilot said we were about fifty miles from San Fernando, Mexico, which was west through the jungle. We landed and the plane pulled to a stop. “Here you are,” he said.

  “Aren’t you coming with me?” I asked.