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  Michael cut him off, “What was his name?”

  “What was whose name?”

  “The agent that was killed in Bogotá.”

  Campbell was irritated. “We’re all professionals. It doesn’t matter what his name was. We’re here to investigate the Medalley family.”

  Michael pulled on his cigarette. “What was the agent’s name that died in Bogotá?”

  There was an uneasy silence. Pike started to apologize, “I’m sorry, we’re all professionals, the name doesn’t –”

  McDermott interrupted, glaring at Michael. “He was my son. He was an advisor to their civilian government law enforcement. He was a teacher. They tried to ransom him. They tortured him. He was killed.”

  A long awkward silence, Campbell continued the presentation. Michael grabbed his cigarettes, stood up and nudged me to follow. As we walked toward the door, Michael stopped and looked at each of the FBI agents, then pointed his crooked, dirty finger at the smallest agent, wearing glasses, who had not said a word. As he pointed, Michael looked at McDermott and said, “Him.”

  McDermott bowed his head and said quietly, “Thank you.”

  Michael and I walked out, leaving Pike and the agents staring at each other. I knew we were going after the Medalley family. McDermott had just unleashed the hound from hell to get revenge for his son. On our way out we passed another conference room being prepared for a meeting; Michael grabbed some donuts off a tray and stuffed them in his pocket.

  LIAISON

  That afternoon our receptionist announced that I had a visitor, “Special Agent Tyler Springfield, from the FBI.” My unknown and unexpected guest was the agent that Michael had pointed to at the meeting earlier in the morning. I tried to be nice. “Hi. What can I do for you?”

  He was a little surprised. “I asked to see Michael Giovanni.”

  I chuckled. “No one sees Michael Giovanni. Anyone asking for Michael, they call me. What can I do for you?”

  “I have some information that I can only discuss with Agent Giovanni.”

  “You’re in luck. I think Michael is here. Come on, I’ll take you to him.”

  I walked him down the vinyl-floored corridors of 90 Church, past our old gray steel desks until we heard Michael’s voice. He was arguing with Dewey. “I don’t give a shit if you get him killed! One more case and then you can bury him.”

  Dewey looked at me, then my guest, who was shocked by what he had just heard. “Who is this geek, a Jehovah’s witness?”

  Michael grinned. “Don’t talk to him like that, Dewey. This is my new partner.”

  Michael took Tyler by the elbow and the three of us went into a small conference room. Agent Springfield, trying to hide his irritation, said, “I’m here to discuss the case only with you, Agent Giovanni.”

  “Yes, of course you are. It’s just you and me. Look around; do you see anyone else in this room?” I sat there with a straight face and then Michael said, “Good, we’ve settled that. Now, what do you have in your little bag?”

  Springfield opened up his briefcase and placed the files on the table, and began his presentation to Michael. “The Medalley family are vicious killers and –”

  Michael cut him off. “Who killed McDermott’s kid?”

  Springfield started again, “Preliminary investigations and based upon surveillance –”

  Michael cut him off again. “Who killed McDermott’s son?”

  “Based upon our –”

  “Tyler, what I want is one name! A name! Just a name! Give me the name!”

  He glared at Michael. “Pepe Lamaros.”

  Michael nodded. “See how easy that was? So it was Pepe Click-Click Lamaros … Tyler, do you know how Click-Click got his name?”

  Agent Springfield shook his head no.

  “They call Pepe Click-Click because when he kills people he clicks back the hammer of his revolver, then imitates the noise. The last thing you hear is click, click, and you’re dead. Now … what are these files?”

  “McDermott said these files are for your eyes only, they are not inter-departmental, and I have to return them right away.”

  “Yes, of course they are, I can respect that,” Michael said.

  “These are top-secret, FBI files,” Tyler added. “As you know, we don’t share information with other agencies.”

  Michael turned to me. “Give these files to Dewey’s toads, tell them to cross-reference them with the library. If there’s anything we don’t already have, tell them to copy and file it. Cross-reference people, buys, killings, phone numbers and addresses with our informants, and narrow the list down to twenty and give it to Dewey. Have him pick out the five informants who can help us. Now take Special Agent Tyler out and buy him some working clothes and then take him down to the Nassau. Maybe he’ll get lucky. Get him laid.”

  He then looked at Springfield. “I picked you to work with us because you are harmless. That can be useful.” Michael lit a cigarette and left the room.

  Tyler Springfield sat in silence.

  Finally I said, “Tyler, we work different here, but I guarantee these people are going down. Come on, I want to drop these files off at the Library, and then we’ll have to do some clothes shopping along Canal Street, if you want to work with us.”

  I dropped the files off to Janet, our head researcher in the Library, and gave her Michael’s instructions.

  Afterwards I bought Tyler Springfield some new clothes: black sneakers, cheap khaki pants, short-sleeved Banlon shirts, and a stingy-brim black hat. On our way to the Nassau Bar I told Agent Springfield if ever he was to come to 90 Church again, or to meet Michael, or conduct surveillances, these were the clothes he had to wear.

  I left him at the bar, talking to two young prostitutes.

  * * *

  Pike presented the FBI version of the case to everyone at our next Monday morning meeting. He had sat through the entire FBI briefing after Michael and I walked out, but now, in re-presenting it, only the new agents bothered to stay and hear the complete case. Nevertheless, it was a priority for the Bureau and an opportunity to improve relations with the FBI. Pike told everyone how Michael had insulted the FBI, and assigned Del Ridley to head up the case and work with FBI Agent John McDermott. Later the same day, McDermott told Pike that Giovanni “must be in charge of the investigation” and that all Bureau liaisons would be through Agent Springfield.

  Everyone except Pike knew why FBI Special Agent John McDermott wanted Michael. When most other agents were in charge, people went to jail. The agents knew how to investigate and apply the law. Michael thought search warrants, arrests, and trials were a waste of time. When Michael made a case there would be no one left to go to jail. We all knew what kind of case this was going to be, and so did McDermott.

  Dewey reviewed the files on the Medalley family, and Michael called a meeting at the Heidelberg. Lately we had been eating mostly Italian so it was a relief to be catered by a South American restaurant, the Café Del Sol, but the rice was mushy and tasteless, so everyone was anxious to end the meeting and go someplace else to eat.

  Michael began. He held up an organizational chart of the Medalley.

  The Medalleys were headed by two brothers and operated a simple but very efficient drug operation. Hermes, the eldest, controlled the product and financing, with Orlando handling sales. Hermes lived on Staten Island at the mansion while Orlando lived a life of endless parties in Manhattan, selling coke. Pepe “Click-Click” was the enforcer, and worked for both brothers. There were about fifteen dealers, or “account executives,” who worked for Orlando. They handled everything and Pepe stepped in if anything went wrong.

  The Bureau had made drug buys from the Medalley dealers before, but the cases never led to any cooperation. The two brothers held their organization together with Pepe, the enforcer, and a strong fraternal code: cheating on drug deals meant death, there was loyalty, no exception, they were all “brothers.” However, none of this bothered Michael, and everyone knew that one
way or the other he would find a way to get inside.

  Michael held up a map of the various family houses and apartments in Staten Island, Brooklyn, and Manhattan. “All of these locations have been under surveillance by us and the FBI periodically, and have not resulted in any useful information. Their operation is family-controlled and very tight. There are no second chances, no skimming of profits, no informants, no way to corrupt it. We know that coke is being shipped to the cartel from Bogotá to either Port Newark or New York City. Our intelligence in Bogotá is even able to give the departure date and name the ship that carries the drugs, but Customs here, in the United States, has never been able to intercept anything at port when the ship docks. Nor has anyone ever been able to connect any of the ship’s personnel to any member of the Medalley family here in New York. We must begin the hard way, and get someone into the brotherhood.”

  Dewey threw his pencil down in disgust. “That’s bullshit. We’re as dumb as the FBI. That’s how they get their people killed. These people are just a bunch of dumb spics with cheap jewelry. Not once have they been caught smuggling the shit through Customs, not once. That’s how dumb they are!”

  Silkey showed his ignorance. “What’s so dumb about not being caught?”

  There was a consensus in the room that this might be a good question, but Michael answered, “What Dewey is saying, is that because they are beating the system and they know everyone is looking at the port of entry, if they allowed themselves to get caught once in a while, everyone would continue looking for them in the same wrong place.” He looked at Dewey and said, “You’re right, Dewey, but so what? We still don’t know anything. Where’s their stash and how are they getting it in?”

  Dewey stood up. “Everything, the whole smuggling operation, is in the mansion at South Beach on the Staten Island shore.”

  “How do you know that?” Michael asked. “There’s no information in the files. How can you say that?”

  Dewey shook his head. “Michael, we’ve got to stop thinking like the FBI.” He held up an aerial photograph. “Look at this picture of their compound in Staten Island. What do you see?”

  The photo was passed around and then Michael said, “We all see a big house on the beach with some nice boats. So what?”

  “No,” Dewey answered. “That’s just it. They are not ‘nice boats.’ With all of their millions of dollars there’s only one small yacht; the other two boats are for fishing – not recreational fishing, industrial fishing. Look at the booms on the decks and the nets hanging on the port side. Do you think that these spics, with all their money and fancy jewelry, are in the fishing business? The drugs never come in through Customs. They’re delivered direct from South America to their doorstep. Ships on their way in to Port Newark and New York pass right in front of the Medalley beachfront property.”

  “They can’t offload a commercial freighter in the middle of a busy harbor channel,” Michael said. “The Coast Guard and Customs aren’t that dumb.”

  “Yes, they are, Michael,” Dewey answered, “and so are we. Look, first of all, the ship never stops. The drugs are thrown over the side, probably at night, just as they pass between Brooklyn and Staten Island, getting ready to dock, either in Newark or New York. Look at this open water.” He held up a geographical map of the harbor.

  “How do they get the coke out of the water and how do they find it?” Michael asked.

  “I think I know,” Dewey answered. “There’s a Coast Guard open frequency ten miles offshore, so any homing device would be detected immediately, as would any light or bright color. This channel has heavy traffic: Coast Guard, police, and other ships. Almost anything put in the water would be detected. Besides that, they would have to know when or where to throw the drugs overboard; there’s a river current. This is how I think they do it. Look at the map. Here is the Medalley’s mansion on South Beach and here – directly across the channel – is their apartment in Brooklyn. Does anyone see it?”

  There was silence around the room, no one did. Dewey continued, “Jesus Christ, you guys are dumb! All the property they own is upscale, luxury, but the apartment on the Brooklyn shore is a tenement and it’s directly across the channel from the Medalley mansion on the Staten Island shore. As the ship passes between the two points, they throw the drugs over the side. It would be easy to have a light in the apartment and a matching light in the Medalley mansion as an intersecting point of reference. And the reason the Coast Guard can’t find the drugs is that there’s no homing device, no signal light, no bright buoys, nothing. They’re probably using a salt drop, or something similar.”

  Silkey asked, “What’s a salt drop?”

  Dewey drew a deep impatient breath. “It’s very simple. The drugs are strapped to a buoy, probably made of cork or Styrofoam, and then tied to a bag of salt to weigh it down. When it’s thrown into the ocean, the package is heavy and sinks directly to the bottom. The salt begins to dissolve and twelve hours later, or whenever everybody is gone, the package is freed from the salt and rises to the surface. Along come their fishing boats with their nets to pick it up, and no one knows anything.”

  Michael looked at Dewey and shook his head. “How would they think of something like this, and would it work?”

  “Michael,” Dewey answered, “yes, it works. And yes, they would know about it. Smugglers have been using salt drops since the Revolutionary War. They’re probably using something better than a salt weight, something that dissolves at a measurable rate. You can get cable connectors, used in marine construction for underwater cement forms, with a spring-lock release, that are very accurate, so they know exactly when the drugs will surface. Then they measure the current so they can predict exactly where to pick it up in their fishing nets.”

  Everyone was stunned. It looked as if we had made a major breakthrough in the case and we hadn’t even gotten started.

  Dewey’s experience with Navy Intelligence had certainly paid off; although it was still a theory, it was a very good theory. This was going to be easy. Everyone knew this was the place to start – everyone except, of course, Michael. Instead of congratulating Dewey, Michael said, “How do you know these spics are wearing cheap jewelry?” There were a few forced laughs. “I don’t care how they get the dope, we’re going in, someone is going inside.”

  I wanted to be that “someone.” This was going to be a big case. Undercover agents rarely controlled cases. I certainly never did. We were sent in to make a drug buy with little or no background. Most of the time, I didn’t even know who the informant was. I was simply told what to say and who to meet. But this case would be very different, and I felt sure that I would be chosen to lead the undercover operation. This case was major and – everyone knew – very dangerous. I had earned it and I had been loyal to Michael for a long time, keeping the dark secret of his awful rape – which I knew had bonded us and protected me. I carried the chrome-blue automatic, a gift from Michael, as proof of our secret. But now Michael stood up, cutting Dewey off before he could continue his theory, “Our first step in this case will be an undercover buy of eighty thousand dollars for three kilos of pure cocaine. One of our informants knows Chevy de Falla, who sells for the Medalleys in Queens, and I have chosen Louie the G to be the undercover agent on this case.”

  I was shocked. Louie was a good undercover agent, but I had earned the right to lead this case. Michael owed it to me, yet he acted like I wasn’t even there. Everyone gave a little round of applause for Louie, who pretended he’d just gotten some type of award.

  THE SHOOTING

  I was completely shut out of the Medalley case. For the next week I continued to work on other cases and even came home early in the afternoon several times a week.

  Then one afternoon Michael asked me if I would like to come with him on surveillance. I knew they were getting ready for Louie to make a cocaine buy from Chevy de Falla, one of the Medalley dealers. I hadn’t told Michael about my disappointment; it wouldn’t have mattered. He cared only a
bout the case, which was what made him the most dangerous agent in the office.

  That night I drove Michael to a quiet residential neighborhood in Forest Park, Queens. He told me that Agent Louie Gomez had already given Chevy eighty thousand dollars and was now going to pick up the cocaine here at Chevy’s house. Ordinarily, an agent would never front drug money and pick up the drugs someplace else; you could never trust anyone and easily lose the money. But with the Medalleys, I assumed things were different. They had a code of honesty.

  After about a half hour, two cars pulled into Chevy’s driveway. A muscular male about my age, who I assumed was Chevy, drove the first car. A girl with long black hair, probably his girlfriend, rode with him. Both were well-dressed. Louie followed alone in the second car and pulled in behind them. All three went into the house. When they turned the lights on we watched them through the front window. Michael handed me a pair of binoculars.

  Within minutes, another car pulled in the driveway: a white Cadillac with chrome wheels and gold trim. I recognized the car immediately, it belonged to Mars La Pont. Two black men got out wearing nylon stockings over their faces, walked up to the front door, opened it, and went inside. I watched them through the binoculars as I told Michael. He just stared at the house, unconcerned.

  Through the window I could see there was trouble. Louie and the girl had their hands up and Chevy was agitated, walking back and forth. Then I saw one of the black men hold a gun to the face of the girl, and Chevy handed him a gym bag. Then both of the masked men turned on Louie, their guns pointed at his face. Chevy bolted out the front door, down the steps and around the side of the house. Michael saw the whole thing and laughed. One black man tried to follow Chevy, but gave up and returned to the front porch. Louie, the girl, and the other black guy carrying the bag came out of the front door. Then Louie started to walk away, toward his car, but stopped and began arguing again with both of the men. The black guy who had first followed Chevy raised his gun and shot Louie. Louie grabbed his stomach and fell in the grass. The girl began yelling and waving her hands.