He finally discovered a working telephone on Franklin Street. Four people were on line ahead of him. He stepped over to the frankfurter peddler and ordered, “The works.”
The peddler flipped open a steam tray, speared a frank, and set it into a bun, brushed on a hearty coat of mustard, dumped in a clump of sauerkraut and red onions, wrapped it in a napkin, and said, “’At’ll be a dollar.”
Hot dog in hand, Too Tall Paulie joined the line. When his turn came, he inserted a quarter into the slot, made a silent prayer that it still worked, dialed a local number, and said to the woman who answered, “The Cowboy, please.”
“The cartels operate through cells controlled by an underboss, five to seven managers, and assorted workers. The underboss is responsible for the safety of the drugs and the money. The two are usually stored separately in two different safe houses,” Porges was telling Mary Beth as he stood in front of an organizational chart of the New York branch of the Calí cartel. “All orders for drugs are made through coded telephone calls directly to Colombia. In surveillance films you’ll always see underbosses walking around the city lugging cloth bags filled with quarters. Despite what civilians think, these underbosses are not flamboyant characters dripping in gold chains. They live modestly, without attracting attention. And they’re not all Hispanic. But all of them are trained in countersurveillance.”
He paused thoughtfully, looked at the undercover code-named Mary Beth, and said, “The cartels couldn’t operate without the help of lawyers, accountants, bankers. Trust no one, Mary Beth. Play ’em all.”
The telephone rang. “Excuse me,” he said, and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“How’s Mary Beth doing?” Too Tall Paulie asked, biting into his frankfurter and dropping strands of sauerkraut on the lapel of his suit jacket.
11
The air was moist and heavy. A thick cloud cover obscured the sun. Thunder occasionally rumbled to the north.
Not many mourners had come to the Tuesday-morning funeral at Saint Gregory’s Roman Catholic Church in Hopewell Junction to hear the Reverend John McAllister eulogize Bonnie Haley, the CI registered in DEA files under the name Cupcake.
The priest spoke kind, gentle words meant to comfort a grieving family. He spoke of a beautiful, happy girl, growing up in a loving home, and how she had left after graduating high school to pursue her dream of becoming an actress.
The priest did not know that Bonnie had had no intentions of being an actress. She had come to Manhattan because she did not want to squander her beautiful face and body on some boring man from Hopewell Junction, some potbelly slob who plopped down every Sunday to guzzle beer and mindlessly watch television.
Bonnie needed more out of life. She needed a successful man who could give her a life in a duplex overlooking Central Park, winter and summer vacations in exotic places, maids, and nannies for her kids. The priest also did not know that by the time Bonnie was twenty-five the mere thought of having to go down on another man revolted her, causing her to retch. She had discovered that booze and cocaine made it easier for her to open her mouth in her increasingly desperate quest for the perfect husband.
Two of Bonnie’s high school girlfriends wept in their pews as their husbands attempted to quiet their fidgety children.
The priest eulogized: “So loving, so full of goodness, that God wanted her at His side.”
Bullshit, thought DEA agent Frank Christopher, a tall ex-Marine whose sharply defined features had caused him to be given the street name “Dick Tracy.” He had busted Bonnie five years ago on a five-gram buy operation. One night in the Federal Detention Facility for Women had convinced her that life on the inside was not for her. Looking down the aisle at the coffin, Christopher admitted to himself that he had come to like Cupcake. There was a good-natured warmth about her. She never forgot his birthday or Christmas. The few good ties that he had were all presents from her. He felt guilty; he should have pulled her out long ago. The booze and coke had begun to cloud her judgment, making her careless where carelessness meant death. He knew that the guilt pangs he was feeling now would evaporate, because in the world in which he lived, he was a federal agent doing his job, and Cupcake had been nothing more than an instrument helping him to do that job.
Judith Stern took a handkerchief from her black Gucci pocket-book and dabbed her eyes, thinking that she would rather be in bed with Hector tongueing her clit than have to suffer through all this bullshit.
Judith Stern had been named after her grandfather Joseph, who had come to the States from Russia in 1919 and started the family business, G. Stern, Bathing Garments. When Joe died, Judith’s father inherited the business and eventually brought in her two brothers, Sam and Jay. Judith had gone to an exclusive Manhattan Jewish school and graduated from Barnard. She had done graduate work in math and economics at Columbia University. After graduation she was expected to get married and have a family. But Judith wanted no part of getting married. She wanted to make money. She had tried to persuade her father to take her into the business. He was adamant; it was unseemly for an educated Jewish woman to go into the rag business. During one particularly loud fight with her father, she had stormed out of their Locust Valley home and never returned. A week later she went to work for one of her father’s competitors.
She had met Hector Pizzaro in Bolivia nine years ago. They had quickly become lovers. Once she’d found out what Hector’s “business” was, she’d had the idea to start a counterintelligence service for the drug cartels. Quality information for quality money. And this would be a business she could run better than anyone else because of her skills in research and finance.
Tucking her handkerchief into the sleeve of her Chanel dress, she glanced at the man in the pew to her right. He was wearing an expensive off-the-rack suit, properly coordinated with a light blue shirt and dark blue tie. Kneeling forward, she focused on his clasped hands. He wore a large school ring. She smiled to herself, knowing that only the less prestigious colleges sold rings like that, on the assumption that its worth was proven by its massiveness and ornateness. His hair was cut short in an almost military fashion. Stretching her neck, she looked down at his shoes. They were shiny, black, and heavy. Cop shoes. If he’d been on the street making a buy, he’d be wearing Italian loafers. But he wasn’t, and the shoes and college ring fit the profile of a DEA agent. Still, she had to be sure. She continued studying him. A bulge at the cuff of his trousers on his right ankle caught her attention: he was wearing an ankle holster.
She felt she could reasonably conclude that the dead woman had been a DEA informant—and that Roberto Barrios had a mucho serious problem. Her mind went into overdrive.
“Eternal rest grant to her, O Lord,” the priest intoned, leaving the altar to sprinkle holy water over the coffin.
Across the street from the church, two men inside a panel truck with two-way mirrors were recording the scene on video cameras. Three other men were walking the blocks surrounding the church, carrying briefcases with concealed cameras, snapping license plates.
On cue from the funeral director, pallbearers appeared and solemnly gathered around the bier. On signal from the director they took hold of the handles on the casket and rolled it on its wheeled support to the entrance. Mourners left their pews and fell in behind the cortege.
Stopping at the top of the church steps, the pallbearers raised the coffin onto their shoulders and carefully carried it down the steps and over to the waiting hearse. Hector Pizzaro’s men recorded the scene, zooming in on the mourners’ faces.
Frank Christopher waited at the end of the line, anxious to get back to the office. There was a lot of paper waiting for him. He also desperately needed to find a replacement for Cupcake. Suddenly he became conscious of a seductive perfume and the press of breasts against his back. “Don’t turn,” a woman whispered. “Wait until everyone is gone before you leave. Che-Che’s people are across the street taking pictures.”
Christopher didn’t hesitate or even l
ook around but peeled away from the mourners and knelt in a pew.
Judith Stern, standing in the shadows, waited until he had slipped away. She was the last of the mourners to leave the church. Standing at the top of the steps, she pulled her handkerchief out of her sleeve, dabbed her eyes a final, insincere time, and walked down the steps in her spiked heels, thinking, Roberto has become a real liability.
“Well?” Pizzaro asked, looking out from behind his office desk at Judith, who had just returned from the funeral.
She walked across the room and slowly lowered herself onto the chair at the side of his desk. She put her pocketbook on the floor, crossed her legs, and said, “Roberto Barrios’s girlfriend was a DEA informer.”
Pizzaro leaned back, raking his fingers through his hair. “I’ll have him taken care of right away.”
“By whom?”
“One of the people in the network.”
“But if the project we’re working on takes off, we’re going to need him.”
Pizzaro’s expression left no room for argument. “He has to go, Judith.”
“Yes, but not right away. Let’s get all the mileage we can out of him before we … retire him.”
He thought about what she said and finally replied, “Okay. But not too long. Pussymen are dangerous.”
Reaching into her pocketbook, she smiled at him. “Sí, jefe.” She took out a gold heart-shaped compact and began fixing her makeup. “And may I suggest that we not use one of our regular people. We don’t need witnesses.”
“They’re all loyal.”
She shook her head slowly. “That’s today. But what about tomorrow when one of them might be staring at twenty-five to life in a federal prison?”
Pizzaro smiled, a not terribly pleasant sight. “You’re always one step ahead, aren’t you?”
“That’s why you pay me so much money, darling. That, and you know what?” she said, puckering her lips at him.
Lighting a cigarette, Pizzaro said, “I’ll give the job to a private contractor.”
She smiled back at him. “Why waste the money? I’ll take care of it.”
Andy Seaver spooned a glob of sour cream and chives out of the silver bowl and plopped it into his baked potato. Looking across at Wade Hicks, the CIA’s liaison with the NYPD, he observed, “This place is always crowded.”
They were lunching in the Chez Julien dining room of the Barrington, a formal room filled with muffled conversations and careless laughter. Wade Hicks was a big man with a fleshy face and meaty chin; he looked around at his surroundings approvingly and sipped at his Black Label.
“So how’s Breckenridge doing?” Seaver asked, slicing into his prime rib.
“I believe he’s going to be one of the truly great directors.”
“What’s going to happen to the Agency people who tried to scuttle his confirmation?”
Hicks’s mouth tightened. “Nothing.”
“I figured he’d let some time go by and then engage in some Washington-style bloodletting.”
Hicks smiled. “That’s not his way.” Contemplating the red juices oozing out of his filet mignon, he added, “But I imagine there will be some reevaluation of priorities and realignment of positions. Meaning payback time, Andy.”
“Naturally.” Seaver forked potato into his mouth.
“How is everything in the Job?”
“The faces change, but the script remains the same. When I came in an arresting officer had to make out three blue and four white arrest cards for every collar he made. The Palace Guard streamlined the arrest procedure in ’71 and did away with the arrest cards. Guess what?”
“They streamlined it again in ’93 and are back with three blues and four whites.”
“You got it,” Seaver said. Toying with the stem of his wineglass, he confided, “We’re training our counterterrorist units in resupplying cutoff police units in the event of a civil insurrection.”
“Good idea,” Hicks said, slicing another piece of meat.
“Like your outfit, we have to plan for every possible contingency.”
“Naturally.”
“We were wondering,” Seaver said casually, scraping out the dregs of his potato skin, “if you might be able to lend us a Parapoint delivery system. Just for training purposes, you understand.”
Hicks’s eyes flashed at his luncheon companion. “I’d have to go upstairs with it.”
“Of course,” Seaver responded in a reassuring way.
They fell silent as the waiter cleaned off their table. They studied the dessert menu. “The raspberry cheesecake is great,” Seaver suggested.
“Then the cheesecake it’ll be. After all, you’re paying.” After the waiter had gone, Hicks drank the last of his wine and asked casually, “Do you have many first- or second-generation Cubans in the Department?”
“A few.” Seaver braced himself for what was coming.
“We’re looking for some good people who know Havana and Ciego de Avila Province.”
Seaver took out a small memo pad and made a note on it. “I’ll run through the Force Record File and check.”
Slicing into the creamy cake, Hicks said, “If we borrowed them, we wouldn’t want them leaving a paper trail.”
“No problem. One telephone call would transfer them to the Police Academy on a ninety-day temporary assignment; it could be extended indefinitely. And if you liked, we could even black out the message in the telephone log.”
“That might be nice,” Hicks said, licking his fork. Protocol dictated that whoever called the meeting pick up the tab. So when the waiter presented the bill, Seaver glanced at the total and slid his corporate credit card into the leather billfold.
“Great lunch, Andy. Thanks.”
“My pleasure,” Seaver said, proffering his guest one of his cheroots.
Hicks took one. Taking his time lighting up, he said, “I understand you paid a visit to the Hacienda over the weekend.”
“Yeah, I just love those Blue Ridge Mountains,” Seaver replied, wondering how much Hicks had been told about his activities there. And his companion.
He walked his friend outside and saw him into a taxi. Back inside the hotel, he went directly to the banquet manager’s office on the mezzanine floor, a large space furnished in reproduction French classical and adorned with arrangements of freshly cut flowers. A couple were sitting at a desk, selecting place settings for their wedding. Seaver stood by a large table, idly flipping through large photo albums of dishes and silverware as well as floral and other decorations. Then he strolled past the manager’s glass front office, glancing inside. A woman sat behind an ornate desk. Their eyes met with secret recognition and fell away. He walked out, went downstairs to the registration desk, and said to the man in the morning coat, “Harry Parker, I forget my room number.”
Morning Coat input the name into the computer, announced, “Suite fifteen oh six,” turned, plucked an antique key from the pigeonhole, and handed it to him.
The suite had a terrace that overlooked the city. Bracing his arms on the railing, he looked out at the view and sighed, wondering if Alejandro was up yet. He heard the door open and turned.
A tall woman dressed in a smartly tailored black dress was rushing toward him. It was Wilma Galt, his workaholic girlfriend, her face aglow with pleasure as she fell into his arms. “I missed you.”
The heat of their kisses filled him with a warm glow. Their bodies pressed close; their tongues danced. She ran her hand up his leg, stroking him rock hard. “I love the feel of you,” she said, biting his lower lip and at the same time rubbing his bulge against her body.
He began working down her zipper. “Not out here,” she said, taking his hand and pulling him into the bedroom.
Later, as they lay in bed exhausted by the fierceness of their lovemaking, she played with his penis and murmured, “How the mighty have fallen.”
“Keep doing that and it’ll come roaring back.”
She turned toward him, leaning on her si
de and watching his expression. “I miss you a lot, Andy. I want you to know that I don’t telephone you at your office anymore because every time I do I’m told you are on patrol.” She looked at him. “Why does a clerical man have to go out on patrol?”
Seaver managed a suitably bitter and convincing laugh. “You don’t understand the police department. I have the responsibility for keeping the time records—which means I have to go around to all the courts, checking on the appearances of the detectives assigned to the office. I prepare the roll calls for the entire week, which means I have to attend a lot of staffing conferences on the disposition of assets. And, I’m also stuck with the responsibility of visiting complainants to take their statements and forwarding them on to the assigned detective.”
“Oh, my,” she said, looking down at the erection in her hand. Stroking it, she asked, “Do you ever think we’ll get off this treadmill we’re on and have a normal life?”
“One day,” he said, “one day,” and rolled on top of her willing body.
Research and Analysis occupied the top floor of a seven-story drab factory building five blocks north of the Holland Tunnel. Shortly after three o’clock on that beautiful summer afternoon, Seaver walked into the ratty first-floor reception area decorated in peeling imitation veneer, imitation leather, and plastic flowers. The woman sitting behind an old green metal desk looked up at him and asked, “May I help you, sir?”
Seaver looked at the sign on the wall—COPEX INDUSTRIES—pulled out his credentials, and handed them to her. She flipped open the case and typed his name into the computer. His photograph and pedigree came onto the screen.
“Date of appointment?” she asked.
“January 1, 1962.”
“What was your class number in the Academy?”
“Two.”
“What was your patrolman’s shield number?”
“Five five nine three.”
“What is your current assignment?”
“Pickpocket and Confidence.”
Seaver rode the freight elevator to the top floor. He thought of Wilma and how their relationship had developed over the years into one of lies that skillfully skirted important questions, like love and a life together. They had met at the wedding of a mutual friend, one of those extravaganzas that seem to go on for days. They’d escaped early from the wedding banquet and ended up in an old jazz club in the Fifties that Seaver had been going to since he was old enough to drink.
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