Bartlett shrugged. "He picked it, and at the last minute. Look, the guy is playing a double game. If his agency finds out he's turned sour, he'll draw ten, at least. And if the Colombians even suspect he might be a plant-which he isn't-he's dead meat. So can you blame the guy for being paranoid? He's just meeting us as a personal favor to me. He'll show up-after he's made sure the place isn't staked out."
They were sitting in the bedroom of a motel far west on Atlantic Boulevard. The room smelled of roach spray, and the wheezing air conditioner in the window was no help at all. Bartlett had brought along a bottle of Chivas and a stack of plastic cups. They got a tub of ice cubes from the machine in the lobby, and were working on strong Scotch and waters.
"Before he shows," Jimmy said, "let's talk a little business. That queer twenty you got from Termite
Tommy is a gem. Was a gem. I went to dig it out just before you picked me up, but it wasn't there. Just a pile of confetti."
"I told you," Rathbone said.
"David, this is the greatest invention since sliced bread. The possibilities are staggering. We'll start with a deal I've got coming up in a week or so: a big deposit at the Crescent Bank in Boca."
"Mike Mulligan covering for you?"
"Oh sure; he's true blue. The deposit will run at least a hundred grand. Probably more. I suggest we begin by salting it with thirty thousand of the queer and taking out thirty Gs of genuine bills."
"Whatever you say, Jimmy."
"If it goes okay, we'll increase our take from future deposits. Can you get thirty grand of those color prints from Tommy?"
"In twenties?"
"Better make them fifties and hundreds, half and half. Twenties will be too big a bundle."
"All right. I'll let him know."
"And if Tommy is out of the picture, you'll be able to deal directly with the printer?"
"Absolutely. He-"
But then there was a single knock on the door, and both men stood up. Bartlett put the door on the chain, opened it cautiously, peered out. He saw who it was, closed the door, slipped off the chain, then opened the door wide.
"Hiya, Paul," he said. "Glad you could make it."
The man who entered was tall, broad-shouldered, with a confident grin. His madras sports jacket and linen slacks didn't come off plain pipe racks. He moved smoothly and, before saying a word, walked into the bathroom and out again, opened the closet door and looked in, even went down on one knee to peek under the bed.
He rose, dusting his hands. "No offense," he said to Bartlett, "but I'm alive and mean to stay that way. Who's this?"
"David. He's in the game. Paul, meet David. David, meet Paul."
They nodded. No one shook hands.
"Warm in here," Paul said. "Why don't we all take off our jackets."
"Paul," Bartlett said gently, "we're not wired; take my word for it."
"Sorry," the newcomer said, still grinning. "Force of habit. Hey, Chivas Regal! That's nice."
"Help yourself," David said. He sat on the bed, let the other two men take the spindly armchairs.
"So?" Paul said, taking a gulp of his drink. "What do you want to know?"
"An overall view of the world market," Jimmy Bartlett said. "What's going to happen in the next year. Your opinion, of course. We know you don't have a crystal ball. We just want your informed guess on the future fluctuation of the product price. Cocaine especially."
"Okay," Paul said, "but all this is just between us. Right now there's a product surplus. That should evaporate within three months. Demand will hold steady; supply will contract."
"How do you figure that?" David asked. "Government raids? Interception of shipments?"
Paul laughed. "Forget it," he advised. "Washington claims they stop ten percent at the borders. The truth is, if they're grabbing two percent they're lucky. No, the reason for the coming shortfall is more basic than that. The U.S. is saturated, all markets covered, no possibility of any great expansion. So the cartels are turning to the European Community. What's the market over there right now? Modest for heroin and marijuana, underdeveloped for cocaine. There are a few wealthy snorters, no one is free-basing, and they don't even know about crack. Plus you've got to realize that by 1992, the borders between countries in Western Europe will be a sieve; it'll be no problem at all to move the product. So the cartels' merchandising and sales managers have planned an all-out campaign to flood the whole continent with coke. It's already started in a small way, but eventually the European demand should be as strong or stronger than the American. That has got to mean reduced shipments to the U.S. and higher prices. You asked for an educated guess; that's mine."
"How high do you think it'll go?" David said.
Paul pondered a moment. "Assuming general inflation remains at its present level, I can see a wholesale price increase in the U.S. to 30K a kilo within a year. That may eliminate one social problem because the price has got to be about 10K before it's economically feasible to produce five- and ten-dollar vials of crack. But at the same time the price is rising in the U.S., it'll be reduced dramatically in the European Community. The Colombian marketing experts know there's a two-or three-year wait before a strong consumer demand develops. Cocaine addiction takes that long. Heroin and crack work much faster, of course. But the cartels have the money to invest and the patience to wait for the market to build. And cutting the wholesale price is the quickest way to open up Western Europe, but it'll mean a higher price per kilo in this country. Yes, I think it'll go to thirty grand within a year, and I wouldn't be surprised to see it hit fifty thousand in two or three years as more production goes overseas."
"Paul," Bartlett said, "who knows about this decision to target the European Community for coke? Do the domestic dealers know about it? The retailers?"
"I doubt that," the drug agent said, pouring himself another drink. "They're only interested in today's profits. They know from nothing about long-term planning and international marketing strategies. But the Colombian cartel executives realize they've got to develop worldwide demand if their growth is to maintain its current rate of increase. And after Western Europe, of course, there is always Russia, Japan, China. These men may not be Harvard MBAs, but they recognize the reality of the global economy and their need to expand their international trade. And price manipulation is one way of achieving that."
"Thank you, Paul," Jimmy Bartlett said. "You've given us exactly what we wanted. Can we contact you for an update in a month or so?"
"Whenever you like," Paul said, finishing his drink and rising. "I don't care how you use the information, as long as I'm not named as the source. By the way, this was a freebie, Jimmy. I owed you one for tipping me about that rat from Panama. Now we're even. If you want updates, it'll cost."
"Understood," Bartlett said. "Thanks again."
"Nice meeting you, David," Paul said.
"Nice meeting you, Paul," David said.
After he departed, the door locked and chained, Rathbone and Bartlett mixed a final drink.
"You believe him?" David asked.
"I trust his judgment and inside knowledge of the industry. He deals with some very important men. If he says the kilo price of coke is going to rise in the U.S., then it will. He'd have no reason to con us."
"I'll take your word for it. So we can plan purchases and sales by the Fort Knox Fund on that premise, that prices are going up because of a coming scarcity?"
"I think so. Let's start out on a small scale, wait a month or so, and then see if Paul's predictions are on the money."
"Okay," Rathbone said, "I'll contact Frank Little and set up a meet with his biggest client. We'll try to sell for eighteen to twenty thousand a kilo. How does that sound?"
"About right. Ask for more than twenty, but fight anything lower."
"What quantity?" Rathbone asked.
"How much is in the Fund's kitty right now?"
"About a quarter-mil."
"Then let's try to peddle fifteen kilos. We'll have
enough cash from Sid and Mort's mooches before we make the buy."
"Suits me," David said. "How much should we offer on the buy?"
"Say 12K per kilo. We may have to pay more and sell for less. But let's aim for a net of 100 Gs. Now to get back to Termite Tommy … I talked to two professionals, the Corcoran brothers, well qualified to handle our problem. Their price is ten thousand. But they're going to be up in Macon on assignment for a few weeks. I could get the job done cheaper, but I'd feel better if we waited for these men to return from Georgia. They're really the best in the business."
"Ten grand?" Rathbone said. "I thought it would be less."
"Oh hell," Bartlett said, "you can buy a kill for fifty bucks if you want to trust a hophead. Do you? I don't."
"I don't either. You're right; this is not something we want to chisel. All right, we'll wait until the Cor-corans are available. Meanwhile I'll get that thirty thousand in queer from Tommy. Now let's get out of this shithouse."
They rose, finished their drinks, looked around to make certain they were leaving nothing behind.
"Hey," Jimmy Bartlett said, "did I tell you my younger son won a catamaran race off Key West?''
"No kidding?" David Rathbone said. "That's great!"
39
Simon Clark was aware of one of the basic tenets of con men, corporate raiders, and investment bankers: Never gamble with your own money. Although he was not ultra-rich, his net worth was sufficient to bankroll Nancy Sparco's new business if he chose to. He did not so choose.
The sting money he had invested with Mortimer Sparco's discount brokerage, if it could be recovered, would be more than enough to get Nancy started. Thus, in effect, the U.S. Government (actually the taxpayers) would finance her escort service in south Florida.
The puzzle was how to reclaim the money before the boom was lowered on Sparco and all his assets seized. Clark thought he might be able to finagle it if he could be present when the bust went down. Sharks like Sparco invariably kept a heavy stack of currency on hand for bribes and getaway insurance. It wouldn't be the first time a law enforcement officer had glommed onto a criminal's money during the confusion of an arrest.
But Clark decided that robbing the robber was just too risky; there had to be a better way of regaining the cash that had presumably purchased shares in the Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund.
He put that problem aside temporarily and concentrated on his own future and the path it might take.
While stealing Sparco's poke during the arrest had its dangers, there would be much less peril in lifting a list of the broker's clients. With that in hand, Clark would have a strong base for starting his own discount brokerage, pushing the same penny stocks that had made Sparco a wealthy man.
But running a brokerage, even semi-legitimately, required many registrations, licenses, and permits. And the SEC was always looking over your shoulder. Clark preferred a simpler swindle, with the risk-benefit ratio more in his favor. He decided his best bet might be to follow David Rathbone's example and become an investment adviser or whatever you wanted to call it.
With a limited number of wealthy clients with deficient money smarts, Clark reckoned he could do very well indeed. His background as a U.S. ADA would inspire confidence, he had an impressive physical presence, and his courtroom experience had taught him that when sincerity is demanded, style is everything.
So when he wasn't on the phone to Denver and Chicago, learning more details of Sparco's price manipulation and market domination of certain worthless securities, Clark went looking for permanent housing and an office location. He figured that by using leverage he could hang out his shingle for about a hundred thousand tops. He could do it for less, of course, but recognized the value of front in a business based on clients' faith in his probity.
The only opportunities he had to relax and enjoy south Florida came when Nancy Sparco visited his hotel room, two or three afternoons a week. Then they drank too much, talked too much, loved too much and, as she said, "told the whole world to go screw."
She showed up one afternoon when rainsqualls from the southwest had driven all the tourists off the beach and flooded the streets. Clark saw at once, despite a heavy layer of pancake makeup, that she was sporting a black eye. He embraced her, then held her by the shoulders and stared at the mouse.
"Who hung that on you?" he asked.
"Who?" Nancy said bitterly. "It wasn't the Tooth Fairy. My shithead hubby."
"Does he do that often?"
"No," she admitted. "Maybe a couple of times since we've been married."
"Was he drunk?"
"Nah. Just pissed off when I told him he couldn't screw his way out of a wet paper bag. I guess I shouldn't have said it, but I can't stand the guy anymore. I pray for the day when I can give him the one-finger salute and walk out. Pour me a drink, will you, hon. I've got to take off my shoes; they're soaked through."
He mixed bourbon highballs, and they slumped in armchairs and watched rain stream down the picture windows.
"I never belted a woman in my life," Clark said.
"I know you haven't, sweetie, because you've got class. But I don't have it so bad. A friend of mine, Cynthia Coe-her husband, Sid, runs a boiler room-is a real battered wife. Sid has a rotten temper and he's a mean drunk. When he's crossed, he takes it out on Cynthia. Really slams her around. Once he actually broke her arm."
"Why does she put up with it?"
"Why? M-o-n-e-y. After he beats the shit out of her, he starts crying, apologizes, swears he'll never do it again, and gives her cash, a rock, a gold watch, a string of pearls. Then a month later he's at it again. She says that when she's got enough money and jewelry put aside, she's going to give him the broom. But I doubt it."
"Maybe she enjoys it, too."
"Maybe she does," Nancy said. "A lot of nuts in this world, kiddo. I'm glad you and I are normal." She pulled off her dress and the two of them fell on the bed.
Afterward, Nancy asked, "Listen, you haven't forgotten about my new business, have you?"
"Of course not. I'm working on a couple of angles. You'll get your funding."
"When?"
"A month or so."
"Promise?"
"Yep. Nancy, I'm thinking about moving down here."
She sat up on the bed. "Hey, that's great! I love it! But what about your wife?"
He shrugged. "She'll be happy to see the last of me."
"Divorce?"
"Or separation. Whichever is cheaper. I'll leave it to my lawyer to cut a deal, but it's going to cost me no matter what."
"You plan to get a job down here?"
He didn't answer her question. "Tell me something, Nancy: Does your husband keep a list of his clients at home?"
She stared at him. "Oh-ho," she said, "you do have a plan, don't you? Thinking of joining the game?"
"I might," he said. "I'm tired of being a spectator."
"Well, I never saw Mort's client list. He probably keeps it in the office." "Probably."
"But he does have a personal list of people he calls Super Suckers. Lots of loot and not much sense. That guy I told you about, Sid Coe, has his own list, and so does David Rathbone, another shark we know. They all have a Super Sucker list. Sometimes they get together and trade names like kids trade baseball cards."
"That's interesting," Clark said. "You think you might be able to get me a copy of your husband's list? It's worth a grand to me."
"In addition to the money for my escort service?"
"Of course. Two different deals."
She thought a moment. Then: "Five thousand," she said. "Those names are valuable. Money in the bank."
"How many names?"
"At least twenty. Maybe more. Widows, divorcees, senile old farts, and some younger swingers whose brains are scrambled. But all rich."
"Twenty-five hundred?" he asked.
"You got a deal," she said, and reached for him.
40
"Look," Frank Little said to the m
an from New York, "I'll introduce this guy to you by his first name only. That's the way he wants it. Okay?"
"Sure," Lou Siena said. "I like a man who's careful. But who is he?"
"His full name is David Rathbone, and he runs an asset management company down here. But that's just a front. He spends most of his time in Colombia and Bolivia, advising the cartel bosses on how to launder their money, what legit investments to make, and how to move their cash around to take advantage of currency fluctuations. He's one smart apple, buddy-buddy with the cartel big shots. The only reason he agreed to this meet was that about a year ago I tipped him to a rat in Panama who could have caused a lot of trouble. David passed the guy's name along to the Colombians, and they handled it. So David owes me one."
"Uh-huh," Siena said, glancing at his watch. "I just hope he's on time. I got to get down to Miami by five o'clock."
"He'll be here," Little assured him. "Have another belt and relax."
They were in the back room of the blockhouse office of FL Sports Equipment, Inc., on Copans Road. And next door, in the deserted fast-food restaurant, the DEA agents in their command post had filmed the arrival of Lou Siena in his silver Lincoln Town Car. And they made a written record of the license number on his New York plates.
Little's office was strictly utilitarian, with a steel desk, steel chairs, and filing cabinet. There was a small safe disguised as a cocktail table, and on it were arranged a bottle of Chivas Regal, a tub of ice cubes, a stack of paper cups, and a six-pack of small club sodas.
"I still don't see the need for a signed contract," Siena said, pouring more Scotch into his cup.
"Lou," Frank said, "how long have we been dealing? Five, six years?"
"Something like that."
"And never a hassle. Which means we trust each other-right? I'm asking you to trust me on this. I want to expand my business. All I've been doing is transshipping. You make your own buys. It's delivered here, and you pick up. I've just been a go-between, a middleman, and you know I'll never make it big on my cut. So now I want to simplify the whole operation and become a distributor to wholesalers like you. I'll make the initial buy, get it put into the baseballs in Haiti just like before, bring it in, and you'll buy directly from me. That'll save you time and trouble, won't it?"
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