by Marc Olden
“Getting in touch with Kelly takes time,” said Rolando, “but it can’t be helped. He’s leaving Georgia soon, and he’ll be on the move before settling down. Naturally, some of his people know where he’ll be, but I can understand their reluctance to broadcast his whereabouts. What I want to know is this: if the economic conference in Spain is put back to May, and it looks like it might be, do we still use Kelly’s man as a mule? If we do, it means we have to keep his load in Spain for close to two months. We have to hide that much heroin until it can be brought out of Spain. So tell me: yes or no. We wait and go with Kelly’s man or we don’t.”
Mas Betancourt frowned. The decision was his to make. In addition to money and manpower, Kelly Lorenzo was bringing something else to this final deal that Mas Betancourt needed very badly. Kelly had a contact, a diplomat named Rupert Logroño, who in the past had smuggled cocaine for Kelly under diplomatic cover from Venezuela. Right past customs without having his luggage touched. With Francisco Franco dead and Juan Carlos now king of Spain, that country was now attempting to strengthen its economic ties to the rest of the world and had scheduled an economic conference for Madrid in March of next year, with every nation in South and Central America as guests.
It was Mas’s plan that Rupert Logroño attend that conference, then visit the Venezuelan delegation at the United Nations on the way back, bringing with him to New York twenty-five kilos of Mas Betancourt’s white heroin under diplomatic cover. But the conference was going to be postponed, which meant either finding another mule or waiting until Rupert Logroño was available. A diplomatic passport didn’t come along every day.
Mas said, “We wait. It’s as much of a sure thing as we can count on, having a diplomat carrying for us. Nobody’s going to touch him. We wait. We’ll have to find a place in Spain to hide Logroño’s load until he’s ready to leave.”
“Move it around,” said Rolando. “Two weeks here, a week there. I think we can trust Germán Burgos. Give him the job, he can use the money.”
Mas nodded. “Sí. All right. You pass the word to Kelly that Logroño is still a part of the deal. We’ll use him.”
Barbara Pomel said, “Mas, I have a thought. Say something goes wrong, a mule doesn’t show or something like that. We’re short one or two couriers. Now, I know you said you don’t want anybody carrying more than twenty-five keys, but if we do have trouble over in Spain, it might be a good idea to double up on Logroño. Let him take fifty keys, since he’s the safest one. Customs won’t touch him. Let’s just keep that in mind in case of an emergency.”
“Fine. If anybody doubles up, it will be Logroño, nobody else. He’s the only one I would take a chance on. Something else. Barbara, you’ll be making a lot of the payoffs and bribes in Europe, and you’ll be paying expenses for mules too. I think you should start shifting money from here now so it’ll be over there when we need it. Tomorrow, start moving a quarter of a million dollars to Geneva and Luxembourg. Use at least four different bank accounts, and when the money gets there, take it out and transfer it to accounts in Paris and Brussels. You’ve got Bañeza and Coria in Paris to help you. Tell them there’s a bonus when the deal does down. Give my love to their families and tell them both that they are too old to sit around drinking red wine and dreaming of Cuba. About the money, don’t move more than twenty thousand dollars at a time.”
Barbara nodded in agreement.
Mas looked at Rolando, who was eating his second egg custard for dessert
“No word on Cruz Real and his wife?”
“No. We left them in an extremely deserted swamp on the Florida-Georgia border, a rather quiet place, which leaves federal narcotics agents with infinite possibilities and unending speculation on just where our young bail jumper and his wife are at this point in time.”
Mas removed his brown-tinted glasses, blew a speck of dust from one lens, then put them back on. The old babalawo had said that a woman would be a danger to him. Cruz Real’s wife was no longer a danger to anyone.
During the dinner, which lasted three and a half hours, no one in the crowded restaurant came over to Mas’s table, nor did the waiters speak to the dope dealer and his lieutenants. Orders for food and to clear the table were given, but the only reply was a respectful silence and occasional nod. The waiters worked swiftly, efficiently, making no attempt to overhear what was being said, though they all understood that the talk was about dope. But for now, they cleaned the table and brought coffee, and tried very hard not to bring out the cruelty they knew was just under the surface of the three men and one woman that they served in tense silence.
Mas Betancourt rubbed his crippled legs, bending over to reach his calves. Inside, he felt good. Everything was proceeding according to his plan, and that meant success for him and life for Pilar. He looked at Luis DaPaola, who put out his cigarette in a bright red ashtray, then stood up and looked at his watch. Bending over, he pulled the aluminum suitcase from under the table, and near the front door of the restaurant, Three Cubans who had been sitting and sipping coffee stood up, reached for their overcoats, their eyes taking in the restaurant and everyone in it.
Barbara Pomel embraced DaPaola, kissing him on both cheeks, whispering “Buena suerte, Luis.” Good luck.
Rolando, the priest, also embraced him. Mas Betancourt sat, taking one of Luis’ hands in both of his, smiling up at the slim handsome man in gray, a man Mas believed was perhaps more cruel than he himself was.
“Do well for me, Luis.” It was a command.
“I will.”
When Luis DaPaola, in a gray mohair overcoat and gray leather gloves, reached the front door, the three Cubans, now in overcoats, their eyes still combing the room, surrounded him, one pushing the door open, and seconds later all four men had disappeared into the cold December night.
For almost a full minute Mas Betancourt stared at the front door before turning to look at Barbara Pomal and Rolando.
20
WALTER DANKIN, WHO WAS getting married in two and a half weeks, handed Neil Shire an invitation to the wedding, which Neil held to his nose, inhaling and raising his eyebrows.
“Walter, my dearest. Oh me, oh my.”
Dankin dropped his chin to his chest, shaking his head in mock embarrassment and closing his eyes as though unable to face what must be said.
“Rose Ann. My fiancée. Her idea. Lilac.”
The baby-faced agent stood in front of Neil’s desk, looking like a college freshman instead of someone who in three years with the bureau had killed two narcotics traffickers and been shrewd enough to score only good powder when working the street. Around the office, Walter was everybody’s kid brother, respectfully listening to older agents, cutting his hair when a group supervisor ordered him to, calling everybody in the building “sir,” including elevator men. A good agent, making good buys, learning fast. Brother agents had nicknamed him The Bionic Puppy.
Neil leaned back, feet on his desk. “Says here the bride’s Italian. Means she’s got a ball-busting ginzo for a father.” He grinned as Walter Dankin pushed a Manhattan telephone directory out of the way and sat down on a corner of Neil’s desk.
Walter said, “Father? Man, let me tell you. Three brothers. Three. Two in construction, one on the cops, and all three of them tougher than week-old bread. Any one of ’em is liable to dance on your face for no reason at all. What I want to know is, you coming to the wedding or you gonna sit here and type reports until you cop your pension?”
Reports. Saul Raiser was getting back at Neil by ordering him to redo some of his reports on Mas Betancourt. It was almost eight-thirty at night, and except for a handful of agents spread over three floors, and two agents working the radio room far down the hall, Neil was alone in semidarkness, surrounded by empty cubicles, desks, and tiny offices. Walter Dankin, however, was learning. Office politics had to be treated like a hand grenade with the pin pulled out, so before saying what was on his mind, he looked quickly over his shoulder, then frowned at Neil. “Raiser. He’s busting your chops
.”
“Christ, don’t tell me it’s written on our very own shithouse walls.”
“It’s around.”
Neil inhaled the sweetness on the wedding invitation held in his hands. From a young girl with dreams and a young boy who sits in the middle of that dream like a cherry on a cupcake. He sniffed the wedding invitation again. “Yeah, boys and girls, old Cut-’Em-Up is sticking it to me. Doing his number all over my bod. Get me redoing two reports on Lydia. Wants a clarification on her role in my last two buys. Wants specifics about my informants’ actions re: the purchase of illicit narcotics from aforementioned traffickers. Oh, yeah, the Razor rides again, digging his spurs in my eyeballs and laughing all the way. Fun and games by the book, dig?”
“No way you can bitch, right?”
“No fucking way, José. Raiser’s only doing his job, remember? He’s supposed to check reports, make comments, suggestions. He’s supposed to see that reports are accurate and that what should be on paper is on paper. Don’t matter if I nod out here and my old lady splits with some Puerto Rican delivery boy. I just got to take the weight, is all.”
“Split, why don’t you?”
“Report’s supposed to be on Raiser’s desk first thing in the morning.”
“Oh. How’s Lydia? She’s a nice lady.”
“Fine. She asks about you. Calls you muñeco, her little doll. Says you’re too young to be out at night. Wants to know if you’re still a virgin.”
Dankin smiled, remembering. “Wasn’t easy. Not with Rose Ann’s brothers watching me.”
Neil’s eyebrows went up in mock shock. “Before the wedding? Walter Harold Dankin! For shame.”
“Didn’t want to let the bureau down.”
Neil looked at Walter. A young man about to take unto himself a young wife, and wait until he finds out that she is going to hate every minute of what he does for a living.
“When you’re not with me, you’re with her. What in hell am I supposed to think, Neil?”
“Elaine, goddamn it, how many times do I have to tell you Lydia’s an informant! An informant! It’s my job to be with her, that’s how I pay the bills around here!”
“I have needs, Neil, or does that matter?”
“Christ! I’m home before midnight for the first time in a week, and what do I get? You standing here bitching. That’s all you can do. I mean, I’m here in my own home, and this is what I get. ‘My needs, Neil.’ Every time I come home, that’s what I get, and I don’t get anything different.”
Sometimes the street wore him down with its filth, its danger, the never-ending hustle everybody was into, and on top of that, there was the office, with its tension, its wheeling and dealing, so tonight, tonight he had looked forward to coming home, to being with his wife and child, to getting reassurance and peace from the private part of his world. Instead, he had walked into a hard time from his wife. Courtenaye, his four-year-old daughter, stood watching from the doorway of the bedroom, bright-eyed and silent, apparently seeing nothing, but seeing everything.
Why did his wife have to come down on him tonight of all nights? Her back was to him, and she hugged herself, her shoulders high and rigid with tension. “Neil, I am tired of being alone. I don’t know this city. It frightens me, but I don’t suppose you understand that. You’re better at listening to your cop friends, the ones with plastic covering their living-room furniture. God, I bet they all still wear underwear and masturbate over six-packs.”
He reached down into himself and found the energy to hurt her. He was on his feet, off the edge of the bed, kicking her purple-and-white slippers out of his way. “That same shit, right? Cops are dummies, and civilians write poetry and grow roses. Goddamm it, look at me when I talk to you!”
His fingers dug into her shoulders, and he brutally swung her around to face him. “I didn’t come home to be hassled. I’m working my ass off for you—”
“You’re hurting me!” She backed away, twisting out from under his grip. “You’re not doing a damn thing for me! You’re doing it for you, Neil. For you! That’s who you’re working your ass off for. You’re the one having fun, not me, not Courtenaye. Weren’t you the one who told me men like enforcement because it kept them away from their families, their wives?”
“That wasn’t—”
“Weren’t you the one who told me it was impossible for anyone in law enforcement to relate to anybody not in law enforcement. Us against them, you said.”
“You’re taking everything out of context, twisting it—”
“I’m not twisting anything!” Elaine shrieked, a piercing sound, her small face red and ugly with weeping. “I want a life, not an empty apartment. I am sick of sitting around this place thinking about you and some … some woman in a bar somewhere drinking together and …”
“Lydia’s an informant, that’s all.”
“Neil, how do you think I feel when she calls here and you start whispering to her, and then you laugh over some private joke I don’t even know about, and I have to stand here and take that in my own home? Damn right I’m angry, and I have a right to be!”
“Why now? Why tonight? I thought you had accepted—”
Elaine shocked him with the sudden softness of her voice, a small, pathetic sound. “Never. I never accepted it, Neil. I lived with it, but I never accepted it. Do you honestly think that I want to spend the next thirty years of my life alone?”
Alone? Wha—”
“I want a life, I want a husband, and I want them now. You have a life, you have your job. I’m not sure you want anything else or even need anything else. All I have is you, and when you’re not here, I don’t even have that. This thing with Lydia, this case you two are working on … Neil, I see less of you than I ever have.”
And at that moment he hated Elaine, hated her because she was right and because she was making him feel guilty and uncomfortable. She had disappointed him tonight, cheated him out of what he should have in his own home. He was home because he wanted her to give to him; instead, he had come home only to learn that he had to give to her, that she felt she was owed something. Frustrated because he didn’t get what he wanted, Neil was pissed off.
He said, “So I’m to stop what I’m doing, right? Quit my job and stay home with you, just you, me, Court, and maybe we go outside, sit on the park benches with the old people, right? Feed the pigeons, buy hot pretzels, give a dime to a wino, right? You don’t understand any goddamn thing except yourself. …”
She screamed. “Go to hell, you selfish bastard!”
He wanted to hit her, but he didn’t. In the doorway, Courtenaye leaned tighter, against the frame, small mouth open, eyes still bright and staring.
Neil said, “I’m in hell already, lady.” His arm made a sweeping gesture, taking in their bedroom. “What do you think this is? What do you think living with you is, huh? Come on, tell me!”
The telephone rang, the one with his street number. For a short while that seemed much too long, both of them stood still and stared at each other. The telephone continued to ring.
Elaine, eyes shiny and shimmering behind her tears and pain, said, “She wants you.” She turned to walk from their bedroom.
Neil was confused, and the desire to hurt his wife was ebbing, pulling back, and fading, but the words came out anyway, and immediately after saying them, he wished he hadn’t. His voice was cold. “Nice to know somebody wants me, bitch.”
Elaine and Courtenay were gone. The telephone wouldn’t stop ringing.
Neil flopped down on the edge of the bed, picking up the receiver. He felt tired, alone, and the guilt began creeping out faster, filling his mind with its own special pain.
“Yeah?”
“Neil? Lydia. …”
Walter Dankin said, “How’s your Christmas shopping coming?”
“It ain’t. Elaine’s doing the cards, so I don’t have to worry about that.” To hell with the reports. Neil couldn’t do any more tonight. Either he took them home with him or he came in e
arly tomorrow and finished them.
Dankin looked at his watch. “Why don’t we grab a bite, I got an hour. You got to be home for supper?”
Neil shook his head. “No sweat I get there when I get there.”
Dankin shook his head in admiration. “Man, you must have a great old lady. I mean, she understands, right? When you come home is when you come home. Gonna have to train mine like that.”
A whip and a chair won’t help, thought Neil, shoving reports into folders. He smiled across his desk at the young agent. “The honeymoon’s the best part, my man. That’s the last time she’ll lie back and take anything you give her and be happy.”
Dankin frowned, then quickly smiled, thinking he’d caught the joke.
“Come on, it’s not that bad.”
Neil kept the grin on his face as he nodded. “You’re right. It’s not that bad. It’s worse.”
Walter Dankin didn’t believe him, and said so, which Neil could understand. The first time somebody had told Neil, he hadn’t believed it either.
21
ENRIQUE RUIZ WAS THAT rare Cuban drug dealer, one who personally used heroin.
Almost all heroin dealers avoided taking the drug, knowing it was destructive, but Ruiz, the pleasant, friendly dealer who enjoyed entertaining people with his magic tricks, was addicted to “speedballs,” injections combining heroin and melted cocaine. Sometimes he preferred “la bambita,” melted cocaine mixed with liquid amphetamines. Both the “speedball” and “la bambita,” which Enrique injected through veins in his ankles and the soles of his feet, gave a faster “rush,” a quicker and more intense high than heroin alone.
Tonight he leaned in the open front doorway of Lydia’s apartment, smiling and waving at the Cuban children arriving with their parents for the party Lydia was giving for Olga’s sixth birthday. Enrique was high, mellow, too wasted to realize he was telling Neil, Katey, and Kirk Holmes that Lydia was in danger.
Enrique gently inhaled on a long black Cuban cigar, his eyes almost closed, his voice soft and gentle. “Two black dudes. Bad Red was one, and I think the other guy is Sonny Sally. Lydia left with them, oh, two, tree minutes ago. You didn’t see her?”