The Payback Game
Page 21
Before replying, Boff took a bite on the dog, which in addition to sauerkraut, was covered in pickle relish and hot, spicy mustard.
“That vendor makes a fine dog,” Boff said while chewing. “I think I’ll put his name in nomination for a Vendy.”
“What the hell’s a Vendy?”
“An annual award for New York’s best street food.”
“Only you would know something like that. So tell me, what’re you working on now.”
Boff gave him a rundown, beginning with Cassidy’s hiring him to find Doyle’s killer and Maloney’s faked heart attack and ending with the contraband delivery to the Hells Angels. He didn’t think Schlosberg would have any interest in Bassett, so he didn’t mention him.
When Boff was done, the DEA agent gazed at the vendor’s stand for a few minutes as he pondered what he’d just heard. Then he nodded and looked back at Boff. “Based on the fact that Massena is close to the Canadian border, I believe the stuff in the bags Galvani delivered to the bikers was BC Bud.”
“BC Bud? What’s that?”
“It’s a new, high potency marijuana. Grown hydroponically in Canadian greenhouses. BC stands for British Columbia. The Hells Angels there have largely taken over management of the industry.”
“How big of an operation are we talking about, Marty?”
“It’s estimated that between sales in Canada and the U.S., it’s a billion-dollar business.”
Boff whistled. “That’s major league. What makes this grass so much stronger than garden-variety pot?”
Schlosberg wolfed down more of his hot dog, then spoke with his mouth full. “It has a THC content ranging from fifteen to as much as twenty-five percent higher than regular grass.”
“That’s quite a difference. How do they make it so strong?”
“What I’m told, greenhouses in British Columbia isolate and clone selected female plants. Then they harvest the buds from the unfertilized flowering top. Hence the name, BC Bud. One of my contacts with the Canadian Mounties told me there are two to three thousand of these greenhouses in British Columbia.”
“How do they bring it across the border?” Boff asked.
“The usual methods. You know, filling tires with it, creating false beds under trucks, and so on. What you described about the exchange between the two church SUVs sounds like a good way of getting the stuff into the U.S. I mean, not many border guards are going to take the time to look too closely at your typical Canadian family, as you described them, and riding in a church vehicle, no less.”
“How can you be so sure the stuff smuggled in to Galvani was BC Bud?”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense, Frank. You know damn well the Hells Angels can get guns, heroin, cocaine, and regular pot right here. The only thing of value I can think of worth smuggling in from Canada is BC Bud.”
Boff finished the last of his hot dog and stood up. “You want another one, Marty?”
“Already had two. Don’t want to make a pig of myself. But help yourself.”
He walked over to the vendor, bought another dog with the same trimmings, then sat back down and said, “Would they ship this stuff all the way to the East Coast from British Columbia? That sounds a lot more risky than just slipping across the border into Washington or Montana and selling it on the West Coast. California must be a huge market for them.”
“It is, Frank.” Schlosberg finished off his dog, looked longingly at the vendor, then said, “You know, I don’t believe the stuff in the church vehicle came from the West Coast. The farthest East the BC Angels have tried to smuggle it in was Indiana. They got caught doing it.”
“If it didn’t come from the West, then where did it?”
The DEA agent used three paper napkins to wipe his greasy hands before replying. “Our latest intel says the indoor cultivation process has gradually expanded to other areas of Canada. Including the Prairie Provinces. Ontario. And Quebec. In Quebec, it’s marketed by the Montreal Hells Angels as ‘Quebec Gold.’ Lemme check something.” He took out an iPad, fiddled with it awhile, then looked up. “Massena’s only seventy-one miles from Montreal,” he said. “So the Montreal Hells Angels could send someone like that family down Canadian Highway 401 to the New York border near Massena. An hour and a half trip. Tops.”
“Has any of this Quebec Gold been showing up in New York?”
“Not yet. So far, it’s only surfaced in Connecticut and Massachusetts. Primarily in the cities of Bridgeport, New Haven, Hartford, and Boston. From what you’ve told me, though, I’m guessing the New York Hells Angels are getting ready to launch sales in this city. New York’s potentially a massive market. The money they stand to make here would dwarf all their other illicit activities combined.”
“How much is this stuff selling for on the street?”
“Oh, anywhere from four to six thousand bucks a pound. Based on your description of the size of those bags, and the fact that it took two guys to carry each one, I’d estimate, oh, close to three hundred pounds was smuggled in. Do the math, Frank. You’re looking at a street value for that haul of roughly three million.”
Boff nodded. “I’m also betting this wasn’t their first smuggling run. What puzzles me is why, if they have all this Quebec Gold, it hasn’t spiked yet in New York.”
“Why? My best guess is if their operation here is going to be as large as I suspect it will be, they need time to organize a distribution chain.”
Boff held up one finger. “Unless they use an established dealer. That would speed things up considerably. I might know someone who could help us get a handle on who that dealer might be.”
Schlosberg sent another yearning glance in the hot dog vendor’s direction. Then he frowned and said, “Aw, what the hell. Why starve myself?” He walked over to the cart, bought another dog, and came back. After taking his first bite, he said, “One thing that might help us narrow down who the dealer is would be to concentrate on Brooklyn. It just makes sense they’d start selling it in the most populated borough of the city.”
Boff nodded. “Okay. So, Marty, what’s a home run for you here?”
“Raiding the Hells Angels’ club sure as hell isn’t it. NYPD has tried that a few times, and all the cops had to show for their trouble was a bunch of harassment suits filed by the bikers. No way do I want to go that route. Especially since we don’t know where they’re stashing the stuff. I highly doubt it’s at their headquarters. We need to find out where they’re stockpiling it.”
Boff waved that suggestion off. “Forget about that. Even in the unlikely event you do find where the drug’s being stored, that does nothing for me. I want Galvani and the longshoremen, too. Not just the Angels.”
The DEA agent grabbed his stomach. “Arrgh. Already you’re giving me heartburn.” He put his dog on the bench, then reached down, opened his briefcase, and pulled out a bottle of Mylanta. He gave it a resigned look, then took a slug. As he swallowed, he put the antacid back. Then he picked up the dog again. “Okay, Frank. How about this? We tail Galvani to Massena the next time he picks up a shipment. There we bust him and flip him to testify against everybody involved in the op, including the Hells Angels and the distributor.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Boff said in a flat voice.
Schlosberg narrowed his eyes. “Why do I have a sneaky suspicion you have a hidden agenda here?”
Boff said nothing.
“Please tell me you’re not planning on doing what you did in our last case.”
Boff stayed silent.
“Jesus Christ, Frank! You can’t keep killing off your targets. I know about what you did to that Israeli mobster and his bent cop in Las Vegas. And I suspect you lied to the Westchester County cops when you said Yusef Force told you he wouldn’t surrender. Just so they’d storm the house and kill him.”
At this, Boff let out a short laugh. “You have a vivid imagination, Marty.”
“Maybe so. But I don’t want your thirst for vengeance gumming up my operation.”
Schlosberg frowned. “Okay, okay! Don’t get your balls in an uproar. What if I don’t bust and flip the cop? What if I just observe him picking up the contraband in Massena and follow him to the Hells Angels’ headquarters here? We’d have probable cause and could bust Galvani and the Angels on the spot. That’d satisfy Cassidy, right?”
Boff shrugged. “To a degree. Or at least it would’ve in the beginning. Besides killing Doyle, though, Galvani also sent a couple goons with knives to attack Cassidy’s protégé, a young reporter named Hannah Riley. Whom he’s extremely fond of.”
Schlosberg just sneered. “Aw for chrissake, just tell me this. After you make all your Machiavellian moves, do I get the Angels?”
“Yes. You have my word on that.”
“And what about Galvani?”
“Leave him to me.” Boff stood up. “Thanks for the hot dog, Marty. Let me know the minute you get a spike on Quebec Gold. I suspect it’ll be soon.”
As he started to leave, it hit Boff that Schlosberg might also have a hidden agenda. He turned back. “Marty, under no circumstances are you to try and find out where they’re stashing the stuff. I’m pretty sure you won’t locate it, and in the process, you’ll just tip off the bikers that we’re onto them. Then we end up with squat. The Angels will unload the Gold on another dealer, and we’ll get shut out on all fronts.” He took a step closer to his former partner. “Are we clear on this?”
“All right. All right, already! I’ll do whatever you say, Frank. But you’d better come up with a good plan to collar these dirtbags.”
“I always do. In the meantime, I want to be more convinced that it was Quebec Gold in those duffle bags and not something else.”
“How do you propose doing that?”
Chapter 36
From the park, Boff drove to the garage in Brooklyn where Galvani was stowing the church SUV. After parking across the street from the facility, he waited on the sidewalk for Schlosberg to show up. When the DEA agent arrived in a Chevy Equinox, Boff walked over and climbed into the front seat. In the back were another agent and a large German shepherd.
“Frank Boff, this is Tom Haskins,” Schlosberg said. “The dog’s name is Ollie. In case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t. Marty, you’re sure the mutt can detect where drugs have once been?”
Haskins answered. “Yes, we’re sure. Marijuana gives off an odor, as I’m sure you know from your days as an agent. Marijuana as potent as Quebec Gold has an even stronger smell. And the smell stays wherever it’s been stored for days after. From what Marty told me, this was a recent incident.”
“Yes it was,” Boff said. “But how does Fido distinguish between cocaine and marijuana?”
“I’ve worked with Ollie a lot. He gets much more worked up when he finds marijuana than he does by coke or heroin.” Haskins smiled at the dog. “You’re our marijuana expert, right, Ollie?”
The dog responded with a bark. Haskins rewarded him with a kiss on the snout.
Schlosberg said, “Frank, where’s the church SUV located?”
“Second floor.”
“Okay. Let’s do it.”
Schlosberg drove his Equinox into the garage and went up the ramp to the second floor.
“Turn left here,” Boff said.
The agent drove along the second floor until Boff pointed ahead. “That’s it. The blue SUV.”
Schlosberg stopped beside the vehicle. “Sonlight Christian Reformed Church,” he read aloud. “Is there really such a church in Massena?”
Boff shook his head. “No. It’s all bogus.” He turned to Haskins. “Tom, are you and Fido ready?”
“Whenever you are. But you might want to consider using his correct name, you know.”
With a shrug, Boff got out the car, followed by Haskins and Ollie. The dog stretched his front legs and yawned after being cramped in the back seat.
“Does Ollie need to know where the drugs were kept?” Boff asked.
Haskins shook his head. “No. If they were anywhere in this vehicle, Ollie will find the location.” He gave the dog a command and it began sniffing around. Mere seconds later, it dropped to its stomach, crawled under the rear of the car, and then began barking up a storm.
“Back out, Ollie,” Haskins commanded.
When the dog complied, he was very agitated, barking and jumping wildly.
“Is that a marijuana reaction?” Boff asked.
“Yes. And that definitely was Quebec Gold. He doesn’t get this worked up over regular grass.”
“Very impressive,” Boff said. “There’s a false compartment under the SUV where the drugs were kept. Good work, Doggie! Let’s go.”
Back in his own car, Boff called his drug dealer pal.
“Pedro, there’s something I want to discuss with you. But not over the phone. Where’s a good spot to meet?”
Well, my place sure ain’t it. Last thing I need is for the neighbors to see a big white dude walking into my crib, a dude who looks like a cop.
“Where, then?”
Brooklyn Bridge Park. There’s a stretch of grass under the span. It’s a nice sunny day, so it should be crowded.
“Where will you be?”
Don’t worry about me. I’ll find you. Forty minutes from now good?
“Fine.”
After Pedro cut the connection, Boff called Cullen. “Where are you?” he asked.
With Hannah at the Brooklyn Eagle. She wanted to update her editor.
“Shit. I don’t want her telling the editor all the details of what we’re doing.”
Relax. Give me some credit. I already let her know what she could and couldn’t reveal. Just vague stuff. Enough to whet the editor’s appetite.
“Okay. What’s the address?”
Boff heard Cullen asking somebody for it.
It’s 30 Henry Street in Brooklyn Heights.
“How soon will Hannah be done?”
Hannah, how much longer will you be here?
Boff heard her say fifteen minutes. “Okay. You guys wait outside for me. I’m on my way.”
Where’re we going?
“To a picnic in the park.”
Boff found Hannah and Cullen waiting for him on the sidewalk in front of the Eagle. Hannah climbed into the front seat, Cullen the back.
“What park are we going to?” Hannah asked.
“Brooklyn Bridge. We’re meeting with a drug dealer that I helped beat a couple racketeering raps.”
“How’s the dealer going to help us?” she asked.
“Be patient and you’ll find out.”
Cullen tapped on Boff’s shoulder.
“Where’d you go today?” he asked.
“To meet with Schlosberg.”
“Who’s he?” Hannah asked.
“A DEA agent,” Cullen replied. “He’s a former partner of Boff’s. Schlosberg helped us catch the killers of a boxing trainer several months ago.”
“Here’s the way this goes down,” Boff said. “Neither of you are to ask the drug dealer any questions whatsoever. He wouldn’t like that. If you want, you can both take a walk around the park while I talk to him.”
“We’ll stay,” Hannah said. “I want to hear what he has to say. It’s all going to be part of my story when I write it.”
“Fine. But when you do write the story, under no circumstances are you to use the dealer’s name.”
“No problem.”
Rather than waste time riding around looking for a parking space, Boff pulled into a garage about a block and a half from the park. When th
ey walked into the park, it was crowded, just as Pedro had predicted.
Cullen looked around. “So where’s your drug dealer?”
“Pedro didn’t say where he’d be. We just wait here until he spots us.”
A few minutes later the drug dealer and a muscular young Hispanic man walked over. In his forties, Pedro was casually dressed like most of the people in the park, wearing cut-off blue jeans, white sneakers, and a Yankees T-shirt and cap. He shook hands with Boff. “Frank, this is Hector.”
The bodyguard merely nodded, then started eyeballing their surroundings.
Narrowing his eyes as he looked at Cullen and the redhead, Pedro said, “Frank, who’re these two people?”
“Danny’s a professional boxer and Hannah’s his girlfriend.”
“They can be trusted, right?”
“They wouldn’t be here if they couldn’t be.”
“Okay. Let’s sit down.”
Everybody except Hector took a spot on the grass.
“Pedro,” Boff began, “do you know what Quebec Gold is?”
“I’ve heard of it. High potency grass, right?”
“Yes. I have reason to believe someone’s about to launch a massive operation here in Brooklyn. I’m wondering if there’s been any talk on the street about this operation or about Quebec Gold.”
Pedro shook his head. “No. No talk about it. And you know I got good ears.”
“Could you ask some of the other big dealers if they know anything? I’m mostly interested in finding out who the distributor might be.”
“Lemme make some phone calls. You stay here.”
With Hector following close behind him, Pedro took out his cell phone and walked far enough away so they couldn’t hear him.
“You think this guy can get that information?” Cullen asked.
Boff nodded. “Pedro’s one of the most powerful drug dealers in Brooklyn. He’s been doing this for twelve years and has never done any jail time. Thanks in no small part to me. Twelve years is a long life span for a drug dealer. If the information is out there, Pedro will find it.”
Hannah had to ask, “So what kind of raps did you help your unsavory dealer pal beat?”