The Informant (37 page)

“Oh, one more thing—”

The buzzer erupted on Oliver Barth’s intercom.

“Yes?”

“Three, sir.”

He wasn’t in a mood to thank secretaries this morning, so he didn’t. He pushed down a button and picked up the receiver. “Barth. What? … Jesus Christ, how did you let that happen?” He listened, frowned, and shook his head, hearing but not wanting to hear. “Just a minute.” His hand covered the speaker.

“Kates. Says Lydia’s gone, disappeared. Said she went into the bedroom, and when she didn’t come out, he tried the door. It was locked. Kicked it in, and she was gone. Fire escape; thinks she went up to the roof, then out through another building to skip our surveillance.”

Barth slammed down the phone and flopped back in his leather chair.

Right now, it was Oliver Barth versus everybody, and everybody was winning.

Neil knew this about the people who had grabbed him when he went for his car around the corner: they were young, black, in narcotics, and a bunch of hard cases. More important, they were probably mules for one of the dealers Neil was buying from. At the moment, his eyes were taped, his hands cuffed behind him, and he was hungry and scared.

“Okay, Hundred Dollar Man. Gon’ take off them cuffs, so’s you can eat breakfast. All you get is a spoon to eat wif. This here’s a can a tuna fish. It go in yo’ lef hand. This here’s the spoon, it go in yo’ right hand. Some bread’s in front of you, and you gits one soda, so don’t spill it. Ain’t no dessert.”

The voice was sly, digging, and used to being in charge. Black and young. Neil knew that much. Who were they working for? Who ordered them to grab him? Damn. Might as well eat while he could; he damn sure hadn’t been able to sleep or relax.

“Say, Hundred Dollar Man, you Eye-talians s’pose to be so bad.” Snickers. Palm-slapping. “Tail me somethin’. How come you still here if you so bad?”

Neil chose his words carefully. “Guess everybody’s still out partying. Don’t know I’m gone.”

Laughter. “Yeah. That’s cool. We done tol’ them your ass is missin’. Your lady done got the word, brother man. We gets the bread or you gets dead. Rhymes, don’t it?”

“It rhymes. How much you asking?”

“One hundred thousand dollars. How you like that?”

“What can I say?”

“Say we gonna git it. Say you worth it. Say you wanna see what the rest of the year gon’ look like.”

“How long they have to raise the money?”

“Lookin’ at my watch here. Oh, little less than twenty-fo’ hours.”

“And if they don’t come up with the money?”

“Feel this?”

Neil felt it. Something hard pressed against his ear. A gun.

“I feel it.”

“We don’ get the money, you git this.”

Neil heard the click, a sound he would always hear the rest of his life. The black kid had pulled the trigger, and now they all laughed, and Neil suddenly thought that it was all a waste, that he would die with his eyes taped, die in darkness, in a cold room with stale bread and tuna fish in his hand. It was a waste, goddamm it, a dumb way to go out, because there was so much he hadn’t done, so much life he hadn’t lived. He thought of Lydia.

“Hey, Hundred Dollar Man, hurry up and finish eatin’ there, dude. We ain’t s’pose to let you have yo’ hands free too long.”

Just like Neil figured. The kids were taking orders from somebody else. Somebody was calling the shots. Who? Who the hell was using kids to get rich?

The bureau would be working on getting him free, going along with the demands, trying to work him loose without getting him killed. Lydia. They would lean on her, checking her story from every angle, working hard to satisfy themselves that she wasn’t it on it.

“Okay, Hundred Dollar Man. Eatin’ time is over. Y’all got to pee?”

“Might as well. Doesn’t cost me any extra, does it?”

“Nawww. We throw that in for free. Couple us gon’ walk y’all over to the john. This crib ain’t no Hilton. Man, you got the best view, and if I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’.”

More laughter.

Neil said, “No TV, right?”

“Well, we got one fo’ ourselves. Watch all them bowl games. But you gotta stay blindfolded. Wanna put a bet down?”

Neil smiled. “You got that kind of money?”

Several black voices at once. Boasting, bragging. They had the money.

And that’s when Neil knew who they were and who the man was behind them. He knew which dealer was using black kids as mules and muscle.

“My husband ain’t here. He out.”

“Oh. Well, I have a message for him from some people he knows, but maybe I oughta come back.”

“Tell me. I kin tell him.”

“Oh, no. I was told to give it to him in person, nobody else.”

“Well, I’m his wife. Who’d you say you was? Miss … Miss …”

“I didn’t say. Anyway, it’s cold standin’ out here in the hall, and there’s a lotta other things I could be doin’ on New Year’s Day rather than freeze out here.”

“Well, tell me the message, woman.”

“Hey, lady, no way. The people who sent me, they ain’t the kind to tell me one thing and have me do another. Look, tell you what. I’ll leave a number for him to call, and he can speak to them himself. You his wife, right?”

“Yes, I’m Mrs. Lonnie Conquest.”

“You married to Lonnie Too Tall, right?”

“Yeah.”

“My name’s Lydia. Look, I don’t have a pencil or nothin’. Can I come in and leave a message, a number for him to call?”

Suspicion, paranoia, fear had hardened the black woman’s face, but she knew her husband’s business, knew the money involved, and knew what he had going with Kelly Lorenzo and the Cubans. This Lydia woman, she was Cuban. “Yeah, come on in. Don’t be trippin’ over none of the kids’ Christmas toys. They got ’em scattered all over the place. Lemme find you a pencil.”

Lydia smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Conquest. You don’t know how you helpin’ me out.”

“Lonnie?”

“Yeah. Who this?”

“Doesn’t matter. I got your wife. I’ll trade her for the man your people kidnapped last night. Your wife for the Hundred Dollar Man.”

“Bitch, you fuckin’ crazy! Hey, I know who you are. You Lydia.”

“I got your wife, and I want Neil. You make the phone call and turn Neil loose, or I’m gonna kill your wife.”

“Hey, woman—”

“Lonnie, you’re wastin’ time. You heard me. You turn Neil loose, you tell him to go back to his people. Back to his people, got that? When I hear from him, you get your wife back.”

“You dead, Lydia.”

“So’s your wife.”

“Okay, okay. Gimme some time—”

“Got no time. Turn him loose. I’m gonna call Neil’s people in one hour. One hour. He ain’t there, and you don’ see your wife no more. Like you said, I’m dead, so I got nothin’ to lose. Your wife, she got a lot to lose.”

“Lemme speak to her.”

“No.”

“How I know you got her? How I know you ain’t lyin’? Maybe she jes’ out visitin’ some friends.”

“No woman go away and leave her children, specially children only three and four years old. Your wife’s name is Hazel, she’s kinda chubby, and she wears glasses. You gave her a new watch for Christmas, and she’s got it on—”

“Okay, okay. I’ll make the call, I’ll make the call.”

“Thank you, Lonnie. You better do it, ’cause I ain’t callin’ you no more. I’m just callin’ Neil’s people. He ain’t there, well, it’s gonna be like I tol’ you. I ain’t got nothin’ to lose, understand?”

“Understand.”

When a frightened Lydia hung up, she stepped out of the telephone booth and vomited into the snow.

When she heard his voice over the telephone, she wept.

“Lydia? Lydia? You still there?”

“Yes … yes. I’m here. You all right?”

“Fine. Cold, a little shook, but it’s all right. What the hell can I say? Man, you did it, you did it. I owe you my life. Lydia, where are you?”

She blinked away tears. “Neil, you sure you’re out? I mean, this ain’t no trick, right?”

“Hello, Lydia? This is Saul Raiser. Neil’s back at the office, he’s fine. We’d like to pick you up. You’re in danger. Lonnie will have you killed. He’s probably looking for you now.”

She looked around her, seeing people bundled up in overcoats and scarves, heads down, walking into a bitter January wind. Danger. For the first time, she became aware of it. For the past few hours, she had thought only of Neil. But now …

“Put Neil back on.”

“Sure thing. Neil?”

“Lydia, I’m back.”

“Will you come and get me?”

“You know it. You took a hell of a chance. There’s no way I’ll ever be able to repay you.”

“You did already.”

“How?”

“Today I get a call from somebody. Remember what you said to me in the hospital, what you promised me about Dominic?”

“Yeah?”

“Dominic’s dead.”

“What happened?”

“Tried to burn some guys in a coke deal. Tried to sell them turkey, some bad coke. They killed him. Neil, nobody ever do nothin’ like that for me before. Nobody ever take care of me ’cept you.”

Neil sighed. “These things happen, I guess. You know how it is on the street. They play hard all the time. You burn somebody, and they ain’t going to like it.”

“He tried to sell them sugar instead of cocaine.”

“Yeah, well, that ain’t important now. He got what he deserved. We’re coming to get you. Stay there until we come, okay?”

“Yes.
You’re
comin’, right?”

“I promise. Don’t I always keep my promises?”

As Neil hung up the phone, Saul Raiser looked at him carefully and for a long time. “Shire, what’s this shit about a promise in the hospital?”

“Nothing, sir. She was doped up, half asleep. I just said to her that one of these days Dominic León’s luck was going to run out, that’s all. Promised her that it would happen.”

“Apparently it did. Did you—?”

“Sir, you know I never had any drug dealings with León. I mean, what for?”

M
AS BETANCOURT’S EXTRAORDINARY SENSE
of caution, developed in order to survive in Batista’s secret police as well as in the world of narcotics, had in time become an acute instinct.

Law enforcement was aware of who he was, Mas knew that, but so long as he was careful and remained insulated, no case would ever be made against him. It was instinctive, for example, for him to assume that his home telephone was bugged, so he always avoided using it for crucial conversations. When one of his major dope deals neared completion, his caution automatically followed certain lines.

At that point, Mas never used the same telephone twice in one day, and the conversations were brief. He would find himself feeling closer to Pilar, believing her to be, in essence, the one person in the world he could really trust. The pain in his body, the pain in hers, the death of their sons. What they shared made them closer than Mas could ever be with anyone else. So, toward the end of a deal, he spent more time with Pilar, quietly talking, reading to her, listening to opera. At this point in the deal, he ate little and drank no alcohol, believing his reflexes were made sharper by this self-denial.

In the tiny office in back of a Queens bakery owned by his lieutenant Luis DaPaola, Mas spoke over the telephone to Barbara Pomal, who was still in Paris. He spoke quickly, intent on keeping talk to a minimum. Barbara understood.

She said, “Duclos was telling the truth. The extra money will not go to him. I told him yes, we’d pay it.”

“
Sí.
Go on.”

“Luis says the ships are okay. The Greek leaves Barcelona the last day of February, the Italian leaves Naples March 4. One load each.”

“
Sí
.” The Greek was Nikitas, the Italian was Potenza, and both of their freighters were to carry one load—twenty-five kilos of white heroin.

Barbara was reciting all of this from memory; she kept no notes. The maps used to plot routes for couriers were either in her purse at all times or locked in a Manhattan safe-deposit box. She spoke rapidly in Spanish, knowing Mas wanted the conversation to end as soon as possible.

“Duclos says if we send more than two loads through Cherbourg, to space them out, at least four days between mules. I said yes, and said we might have to send three or four. That would be over a period of two or three weeks.”

“Fine.”

“Using Jacquard’s contacts and our Paris people, the rest of the routes are plotted. Twenty different ones. They leave Spain, France, Brussels, Italy. Different times, different routes. Rolando is talking to another one this afternoon. Luis has approved one he met through Germán Burgos in Madrid.”

Mas nodded. “That is all settled. Our friends from Miami and Simon Waxler say they can take care of the rest of our mules. Mules, routes, they are now complete. Anything more?”

“Just one thing. Our diplomatic friend. I think we should let him take two loads.”

“Why?”

“His diplomatic immunity. He will come through New York customs with a party of fifteen, maybe more, and they will have a lot of luggage. A lot of luggage. You understand?”

“
Sí.
Do it, then. Tell Luis to take care of everything in Spain. How is Germán Burgos?”

“Still taking the loss of his mother quite hard. They were very close. He is grateful for the extra money you sent him.”

“Yes. When are you returning?”

“Tomorrow, day after the latest. Rolando and Luis won’t be back before the beginning of next week. Our friends from Miami, how are they doing in the big city?”

Mas snorted and listened to the rumbling of his empty stomach. “They say it is too cold here for them. They want sunshine and fresh papaya. One small problem came up. Something about an Italian, a man Cristina thinks might be a very good customer. He ran into trouble, and she … well, I’ll tell you about it when you come back.”

“I can’t wait to hear. She fascinates me. I’m bringing Pilar some perfume from Paris. It is very cheap over here. You want anything?”

“No. I’ll see you soon.
Adiós
.”

Reaching behind herself, Lydia touched her own spine. “Doctor says I should wear a brace for a while. It don’t hurt all the time, but sometime I feel like Dominic he kick me yesterday instead of almost three weeks ago.”

Oliver Barth drew on his pipe, the flame from a thin silver lighter flickering over the bowl. “Dominic’s kicking days are over. How do you like your hotel?”