He remembered Special Agent Curtis very well. He’d made a fool of himself in front of Walter Curtis.
“It’s obvious that they expected to find ties to drugs or drug dealers or drug dealing. They haven’t, and I don’t think they’re going to. Since that seems to have been their objective in the first place, we may get lucky and find that they no longer have much interest in you.”
“That would be great,” said Eduardo. He hadn’t been excited in days.
“On the other hand, they might make you pay for it.”
“Pay for it?”
“They have you on numerous financial violations. They have a pretty good case. If you want to plea this case down, they’re going to want you to talk.”
“Plea it down?”
“Yes. Mister Mendes, you do understand that you are looking at several years in prison for money laundering, don’t you? I can take this to trial if you want, and we might shake one or two of the counts, but they have solid evidence suggesting that you’ve been playing games and funneling money into Mexico.”
Eduardo was on his feet and walking. He had his hand on the door. He was trying to open it. He was trying to go back to his room. He didn’t want to have this conversation anymore. He didn’t want to be in this room anymore.
“Mister Mendes, are you alright?”
No. He was not.
“Mister Mendes.”
He said several years in prison.
“What I am giving you is the worst case scenario.”
Years. Prison. He felt like his head had lifted off his body. He held the door handle to keep from falling.
“Mister Mendes, as I said, we are just starting. This is a long process. Let’s focus on the bail hearing.”
I’ll still have to come back, he thought. I’ll always have to come back.
“I did manage to make one of the phone calls you asked me to make,” said Tobias Flan.
Eduardo held firmly to the handle, but he asked.
“And?”
“It was a dead end.”
He felt dizzy.
“I put my investigator on it. He’s a talented man.”
I am going to die in here, he thought.
“You’re not going to die in here,” said Flan.
Eduardo spun around. Was Flan reading his mind or had he been speaking aloud and not realizing it? Flan was still seated at the desk.
“There are different types of jails, Mister Mendes. You haven’t been accused of murdering anyone. You’ve been accused of financial crimes. Granted, it is suspected that you have ties to narcotic distribution, but I am confident that those theories will be proven to be groundless. So this is a financial matter. It may seem like a big one now, but we’ll talk to the prosecutors and compromise a bit here and there and when we are done it will be a small one. People who commit small financial crimes don’t go to places like this. They go to different places. Ones that are not so confrontational.”
“How did I end up here now?”
“I suspect someone took a personal dislike to you, Mister Mendes.”
“Why?”
“I can’t imagine. We’ll talk again soon. In the meantime, I want you to think very seriously on what matters you are willing to compromise.”
“I don’t compromise. I never have.”
Eduardo felt Tobias Flan size him up and down. His voice was lower when he spoke.
“Think about whether you should start, Mister Mendes. Also, you need to prove to me in the near future that you have more funds to pay me.”
Eduardo thought of the heft of the briefcase that had been dropped on Flan’s desk.
“I left a small fortune with you,” said Eduardo, breathless.
“What you left,” said Flan, “was a retainer. It was enough money to get things started. Not getting raped in prison is expensive. If you don’t agree with how your money is being spent, let me know. We’ll stop payment. I’ll ask for a full refund.”
Eduardo knew his mouth was hanging open. He was too stunned to close it.
“I thought so,” said Flan.
***
In his cell, with the lights off and unable to sleep, Eduardo knew for certain that he could not and would not survive in this place.
He wasn’t asleep when the door opened. He heard the footsteps, the keys, and the lock. As the newest prisoner, it wasn’t the first time that he was bumped to breakfast duty without so much as a warning. He climbed off his bunk and followed the guard. He was steps into the hallway and heard the door close when he realized something was wrong.
The hall lights were dimmed. There were no other workers. All the other cells were dark and silent. There was no yawning, no screaming, and no crying. The rest of the unit was asleep.
“Let’s go,” said Nixon in his deep country voice. Eduardo had no choice but to follow.
They didn’t go toward the kitchen. They went the other way. They passed the elevator. Nixon took his keys out. They went to the stairwell.
This is it, Eduardo thought. His whole body tightened. I am being delivered.
He knew he should run. He should start screaming. He should attack Nixon right now. There had to be witnesses. Eduardo knew what was going to happen. He saw it coming and knew what he should do, but a weak, cowardly voice inside of him said that fighting would make it worse. Just take it, whispered the voice.
Would they laugh at him now? They would. They would do anything they wanted to him.
Nixon led him to a hallway that had windows. It was early. The sun was coming up, and the sky was a deeper blue. Would they make him work in the kitchen later? Would he be able to? Nixon unlocked a door and stepped to the side.
Special Agent Walter Curtis was in the room. He wore a suit. Nixon closed the door and Curtis and Eduardo were alone.
This thin, nerdy agent was the last person Eduardo had expected to see.
“Tell me about the three million dollars in the desert,” said Curtis.
Chapter Four
Curtis – Austin, TX
Marc Virgil had been a detective in the Boston Police gang unit. He handled investigations and ran informants. He trafficked in high level intelligence as well as street work. Virgil was everything Walter Curtis wanted to be.
Nine months ago, Marc Virgil had been working when a man tried to shoot him. He missed. Virgil didn’t. His life as he knew it ended anyway.
The shooting happened outside a party, which quickly became a riot. After the riot, the dead man’s gun couldn’t be found. Everyone liked and admired the work Virgil had done before that night, but they still couldn’t find the gun.
What Curtis and Virgil had in common was drinking. That’s how it had always been. Virgil could wake Curtis at one in the morning on a work night, and Curtis would get dressed and meet him in a bar to hear of his latest adventure. Usually, Curtis had a lot of questions. Now, he had only one.
Curtis drank all the booze in his house. Then he walked down the street and ordered a whiskey. When he was drunk enough, he took out his phone and called Virgil.
“Remember the time,” began Curtis, “I lost my job and I was broke and you took me out to eat. We got drunk and you paid for everything.”
“Yeah,” said Virgil. “I had money then.”
“Let me repay it,” said Curtis.
The Texas sun was still burning, and Curtis had the top down. He pulled his old Saab into Austin-Bergstrom Airport, and spotted him immediately. Marc Virgil stood out from the crowd. He had his things in a worn seabag. It was slung over his shoulder, and Curtis could see the tattoo on his arm of the Marine Corps emblem. He grinned as Curtis pulled to the side.
“Please tell me you‘re working undercover as a hairstylist and you didn’t actually buy this with your own money,” said Virgil.
“This car is a classic,” Curtis said. Virgil tossed his bag into the open back seat.
“Thank God no one knows me here,” said Virgil. Then they shook hands for the first time in years. Virgil w
as leaner, and all the softness had been stripped from his frame. He smiled, but his eyes were tired.
“Let me buy you a drink,” said Curtis.
***
“Mi casa, su casa,” said Curtis, though there wasn’t much casa to be had. The apartment had a tight galley kitchen, a living room with one leather couch that had some miles on it, and the bedroom. There were boxes of paperwork everywhere.
“You don’t spend much time here, do you?”
“No,” said Curtis. “I’ve been at the office for the last few years.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
“I’ll tell you about it later. I want to show you something.”
Curtis disappeared into his room and came out a moment later with a gun in his hand. He laid it on the table.
It was a Kimber 1911 model forty-five. It was like Bobby Jordan’s, but smaller. It was shined and polished, where Bobby’s was worn and used. Virgil just looked at it for a while.
“You can pick it up if you want,” said Curtis.
“When did you become a serious shooter?”
“A man needs a hobby.”
Virgil still didn’t touch the weapon on the table. It lay conspicuously between them.
“Are you sure you don’t want to check it out?” Curtis asked. He sounded disappointed.
“Later,” said Virgil. “I came here to be someone else for a while.”
***
Perry’s was an expensive steak house. It had a huge bar and wine racks that stretched from floor to ceiling, stocked the whole way. Everything looked delicious, right down to the chocolate colored walls and ceilings.
“Do you remember that gift you gave me when I got out of agent school?” Curtis asked.
“No. I hope it was something good.”
“It was a chain,” said Curtis, surprised. “It had a medal of Saint Michael on one end and a handcuff key on the other. There was an inscription on the back. Your uncle gave you one. You said he was a cop. He told you and you told me to always keep it with you when you went to work. That Saint Michael was the patron saint of police officers. The handcuff key was for the things you could fix. Saint Michael was for the things you couldn’t.”
Virgil smiled at the memory.
“Yeah, that sounded real nice, didn’t it?” said Virgil.
“Do you still wear yours?”
“I lost it years ago.”
Curtis had his Saint Michael medal in his pocket. He always had it. He was about to ask another question he had been meaning to, but Virgil had turned his attention to the two girls who had slid onto the stools beside them.
They both smiled at him. Girls always smiled at Virgil. He immediately ordered drinks. Virgil told them that he was a professional mountain climber. He said Curtis was just a boring venture capitalist.
“He doesn’t look that boring,” said the one who looked vaguely Asian.
“He’s not,” said Virgil. “Just his work. Curtis actually saved my life once.”
“How did you do that?” Curtis was just trying to keep up and didn’t even know who had asked it.
“He found me wandering around in a snowstorm.”
“What’s so dangerous about that?”
“It was on Mount Everest.”
“No way.”
“Yes way.”
“What were you doing?”
“I was climbing it,” said Virgil.
“Did you climb it too?” one of the girls asked Curtis.
“No,” Curtis said without thinking. Virgil shot him a look that said, ‘Don’t make me work harder than I need to.’
“Can you make money climbing mountains?”
“That was the problem. Everything else about it is awesome. “
“So how did he save your life?” She seemed genuinely intrigued.
“I guided a team up the mountain, and on the way down, I had to go back for a rich guy who got sick. Then I got lost in the snow.”
He patted Curtis on the shoulder.
“Curtis climbed up to look for us and found me wandering around half dead in the storm. He dragged me back into camp and made me drink this strange Sherpa tea until I could walk again.”
They ordered more drinks and the girls disappeared to the bathroom. The girls both asked for the same drink, which was pink, had a cherry, and came in a tall stemmed cocktail glass.
“You ordered four of them?” Curtis asked.
“It seemed like the smooth move at the time. Besides, I only know one person in Texas and he drives a Saab. Bottoms up.”
“Know what story of yours I always liked?” Curtis asked. As he said it, he felt excitement building inside of him. “The story where you planned to rip off the Boston Beer Festival.”
“I did what now?”
“The Boston Beer Festival story. You said you had the security detail. All you had to do was help security escort anyone who got too drunk.”
“And listen to music and talk to girls. The only thing we couldn’t do was drink. It kind of sucked.”
“Remember it now?”
“No.”
“It was in a huge tent that could hold thousands of people. So you started to watch. Then you realized that it was all cash, all day, and it all went to one small locked room.”
Curtis could see the look of cagey recognition on Virgil’s face. The look said, yes, I know what you’re talking about, but I can’t believe you remember. It also asked plainly, what else are you up to?
“Do you want to finish it for me?” Curtis asked. “You tell it better.”
They had been in a bar in Boston called Foley’s at two thirty on a Monday night. Marc Virgil had just gotten out of work. Curtis had to be up in a few hours.
“So here is my plan, and I swear it will work,” said Virgil. “The average person in the Beer Fest spends about forty bucks. Some spend sixty. Then you have the serious drinkers, who spend eighty to a hundred. What you don’t realize is that they have twelve thousand guests on a Saturday. By the end of the day, there’s between six fifty and eight hundred thousand dollars in cash on site.”
“And it’s unguarded?” asked Curtis.
“That doesn’t matter. I don’t plan on doing a huge shoot out. What I did was I asked who the owner was, and he was right there. Young guy, went to the best schools, and instead of working on Wall Street or running for president, he started brewing beer.”
He paused and drained half his pint glass.
“I’m going to walk right up to him with a phone and show him a picture of his terrified family in a closet at his own house. I’ll explain to him in simple English that even a Harvard man can understand. I’m not a pervert. I’m not a sex offender. I am not jealous of your success and I wish none of you any harm. I have no desire to hurt you or your children, but so help me God, if you don’t do exactly what I say, I will visit evil on this family tonight. From there, the two of us will casually walk the cash out in boxes to my car. Then, he never sees me again.”
“Jesus H. Christ.”
“No. Marc Virgil. At your service.”
***
Years later, in a steakhouse in Texas, Virgil still had a skeptical smile. He finished his fancy drink.
“You realize that I was drunk and didn’t mean a fucking word of that, right?”
“Of course I do.”
“Because I’m not really going to rob and threaten to kill some guy’s family.”
“No. That would be nuts.”
“Have a pink drink.”
Curtis didn’t even taste it.
“What if I had an easier way to make money?” he asked.
“You do. You have a job.”
“What if I told you that I didn’t like it?”
“I’d tell you to get over it.”
Curtis looked up and down the bar. No one was looking at them. No one could hear them. He had no idea if the girls were coming back. He could feel his heart, despite how much he’d had to drink. Curtis figured it was now
or never.
“What if I told you there was three million dollars buried in the desert?”
***
Virgil stood in line by the valet to wait for the car. The valet looked as if there was no way he was giving a car to a person this drunk. Curtis pulled him away.
“We parked down the street.”
“I’m going to drive this fag-mobile,” announced Virgil.
They had left the top down, and Virgil slid right into the driver’s seat. Curtis began to protest, but he was in no shape to argue. He gave Virgil the keys. Virgil looked and looked again, but he couldn’t find the ignition.
“How fucking drunk am I?”
“Saab’s have the ignition in the center console. I know a good place up the street.”
“I don’t want to go to a good place. I want to go to a dump.”
They found one. There was no sign over the door. Most of the other patrons looked like they had just graduated college and had no money or had run out of money a long time ago.
“What do you think of my plan?’ asked Curtis.
“Doesn’t sound like much of a plan at all.”
“That’s what’s good about it. It’s easy.”
“How about the guy who told you about the money?”
“He’s getting something out of it too.”
“What’s that?”
“A very reduced sentence and a one way ticket out of the federal system.”
“I thought you said the case fell apart.”
“He doesn’t know that.”
“If it’s so easy, why didn’t he go down and get it himself?”
“He doesn’t know exactly where it is. I do.”
“How did you manage that?”
“I did the one thing I’m good at.”
“Police work?”
“No. Math.”
The accountant came out of him. It was the accountant who Curtis hated, who he had never wanted to be. The accountant was studious and detail oriented and never quick on his feet.
“My source told me that there was three million dollars buried in the desert just outside of Monterrey. Out near the Sierra Madre. He was one mile south past a town called Salinas. He knew it was within twenty miles. He knew it had been buried with concrete walls. Monterrey is a busy city, but out there by Salinas is farm country. There isn’t a lot of construction. So I looked into land permits in Mexico for new construction in that area. There was a little, but not a lot. Then, I started looking into who had bought that property, and who built a brand new house on it, and when. I had a few bites, but I found a corporation that doesn’t own anything. They’re a shell for a real estate company, which also doesn’t exist. They exist on paper. They had exactly one transaction. When I looked into the origins, I found a thread to some money that I traced to a tiny little business that closed. No one else would have noticed, because it was just a little mom and pop operation, but if you were obsessed with a man named Aureliano Colon, and if you had spent years of your life tracking him down on paper and tracing his bank accounts and property and learning everything there was to know about him, you would know that this mom and pop construction company once imported a chemical from Hong Kong called anhydrous ammonia and that it is frequently used in the production of a very dangerous drug known as methamphetamine.”
South of Evil Page 6