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  As he talked I glanced back at the shadow in the smaller room off the study. It seemed to be swaying back and forth, listening very carefully. Then I said, “Mr. Medalley, please understand. I gave you eighty thousand dollars for three kilos of high-grade cocaine. My friend is dead. I don’t take this situation lightly, and I am not alone. I have friends who have a shared interest. I’m here to make things right, or this situation will get worse, much worse.”

  Hermes smiled at my threat, but before he could speak, he was interrupted by a knock at the door. He said something in Spanish and the door opened; it was one of the goons that had grabbed me at the front door. He was carrying a red velvet box that he placed on Hermes’ desk. Without saying a word or looking at me, the goon walked out of the room and closed the door.

  Hermes said, “Here, this is for you. You were wronged and I am going to make it right.” He motioned for me to take the box.

  I opened it. Inside were six kilos of cocaine, wrapped in silver paper, sealed with the red Medalley wax stamp, with large numbers. They looked like gold bullion bars, neatly packaged, equal size.

  I was stunned. Hermes Medalley had just walked into my trap. We had given him eighty thousand dollars and he had now given us six kilos of cocaine. All I had to do was to walk out the door carrying the box and Hermes Medalley would go to jail for the rest of his life. I kept thinking how proud Michael would be and how easy this whole thing was. I would be a hero, getting Hermes on the first visit – then I had an uneasy feeling. I glanced at the room with the shadow, it was very still; someone was listening closely. All this was too easy.

  Then I did something so impulsive that it surprised both Hermes and me. I rocked back on my chair and looked at him across the desk and said, “You’re very generous, I see that you are willing to solve this problem. I came here for the drugs but now I don’t want them. Even though they are more than twice what I bought. The return of my money will be sufficient, along with your handshake.”

  Hermes was shocked. He sat in silence, staring at me. I understood why I was not going to make a case on Hermes. I worked for Michael Giovanni and Michael was not interested in drugs, not even six kilos of the best-grade cocaine in the world. Michael was certainly not interested in Hermes Medalley. To Michael, it was like finding a cockroach in his kitchen. You could kill it, even if it was a big cockroach, and you’d have some satisfaction. The problem was that there was a nest of cockroaches, and killing one, even the biggest one, would not solve the problem. You had to kill all the cockroaches.

  Then he said, “Very well.” And he got up, pulled at the side of a wall picture frame. It was a small door with concealed hinges. Behind was a wall safe. Within minutes he removed a large manila envelope and emptied the contents on the desk. Out tumbled bundles of brand-new hundred-dollar bills. He counted out eight bundles and pushed them in front of me. He opened his desk drawer and put the money in a manila envelope without saying a word. He put the rest of the money back into the safe as I kept glancing at the shadow on the floor in the back room.

  Hermes came back to his desk and picked up his pencil again. “I would like to be able to contact you, and perhaps we might do business. I like you. We always have need for new customers and people who will respect our organization.”

  I gave Hermes the phone number for an undercover phone at the Bureau. It was connected to an answering machine; if they talked long enough we could trace the source of the call.

  I reached in the envelope and pulled out one bundle of hundred-dollar bills and put the rest of the money back in front of him. “I would like that. I’d like to be your friend. This is money on account. Please call me. I would be proud to work for you and your organization.”

  Hermes stared at the remaining seventy thousand dollars. I could see that he was impressed, and then he said, “Have a good day … my friend.”

  I walked out of the room, back through the magnificent house to the front-door foyer. I had not been in the Medalley mansion for more than twenty minutes, yet the foyer was completely clean and the furniture rearranged as if nothing had happened. Outside I looked down the driveway and there was Michael, sitting on the hood of the white Mercedes.

  On our way back to Manhattan I told Michael every detail: the bloody bodyguard, the decorations, what Hermes looked like, even the shadow of someone listening in the next room, which seemed to interest Michael. He asked me if I had any idea who it was, and I said I thought it was probably a bodyguard or perhaps even his brother.

  Michael shook his head. “Hermes would not trust a bodyguard to listen in on his conversations. Besides, you were already frisked and unarmed, and if it was his brother, he wouldn’t have to hide, he would be part of the conversation.” He then cautioned me, “Whoever the shadow was, I would fear him the most.”

  I told Michael that Hermes had offered me six kilos of cocaine, but before I could explain my reasons for not taking the drugs, he said, “You were wise not to take the six keys. It was a trap. No one as smart as Hermes Medalley would ever give you even an ounce of cocaine and let you walk out of his house alive. If you had taken the cocaine you’d be dead by now. He wanted to see if you were setting him up. Only a dumb cop, or a dead agent would be dumb enough to think they could make a buy on Hermes Medalley so easily in his own house … You’re smarter than I thought. You might even become a good agent someday.”

  THE PARTY

  Several days passed and nothing happened, but Michael didn’t seem concerned. The Medalleys still had seventy thousand dollars of our money, but they were honest business people and would eventually call to complete the deal. Then there was a strange message on my undercover phone at the office – from a woman. When I returned the call, it was from a law firm in Manhattan. The caller was a secretary who put me on hold several times to answer other calls. Finally she explained why she had called. She was extending an invitation to a pool party at the Medalley mansion on Saturday. Of course I accepted.

  Dewey ran the name of the law firm through our files and found nothing. The Bar Association records said they handled primarily international law, import taxes with corporate clients, small companies in South America, Mexico, and Europe. I looked forward to the party. I picked out a shiny, light, powder-blue suit and black silk shirt. I bought a new pair of gray deerskin boots for the occasion. I certainly looked the part, and I liked the look.

  On Saturday I drove the white Mercedes to the Medalley mansion. It was very hot. The gates were open, and the same bodyguards that had roughed me up the last time waved me through. After parking, I saw the one I had pushed on the table staring at me, his arm in a sling. Another bodyguard showed me to the pool. Although I was a half hour late, the caterers were still setting up and I was the only one there. For the next hour I just stood around trying to look interested and trying to talk to the waiters, most of whom did not speak English. As I waited by the pool I looked up at the house to the second-floor corner window that overlooked the water. There was an opening in the window curtain and I could see a dark silhouette watching me.

  An hour later I was sweaty from the sun and nervous from having to stand around and do nothing except watch the waiter prepare huge trays of seafood, canapés, fruits, candies, and tubs of ice with champagne and every kind of liquor imaginable. The party was centered around the huge tiled pool. A cantilevered stage of glass hung over the pool deck. The other end was set up for a small orchestra. There were Roman columns around the pool and patio. At least a hundred red banners, of all sizes, fluttered in the breeze. Red was the Medalley family color.

  At around six-thirty about fifty people arrived all at the same time. Everyone knew everyone else, and the party began like someone had flipped a switch. The music, the dancing, the bars, the food, and the guests were stunning. The men had slicked-back hair, bright silk shirts, expensive pants, alligator loafers, and gold jewelry. The women wore plunging necklines and short skirts with high heels that showed off their long, tanned legs. The overall impression
was a gathering of the most attractive, well-dressed, well-mannered people I had ever seen. I tried to mingle and overhear the conversations. There were only two topics: the women talked about making love, and the men talked about killing people. I began to feel very uneasy among these incredibly glamorous people whose interests focused only on sex and death.

  Finally I found someone as badly dressed as I was to talk to. I knew that he was a cop by the way he carried himself, and his girlfriend was a typical low-life, a gum-popping blonde with a heavy Queens accent. He said his name was Larry Sprague; I remembered him from the Scarluci case. He was Domenic’s secret advisor.

  When it got dark the music began. It was very erotic – jungle drums with a beautiful girl singing in Spanish, in a very sexy, deep voice. It wasn’t long before everyone was dancing, and some of the girls were swimming topless in the pool. The glass stage and part of the dance floor overhanging the pool were lit underneath. The excitement began to build. It became the most magical party that I had ever seen or could ever imagine.

  Among all the pretty people, one person stood out. He was the ugliest, meanest-looking person I had ever seen. His long black hair, pulled tight in a ponytail, framed a scarred, acne-pocked face with burning black eyes. There was a terrible wide scar on the side of his face that looked as if it had healed without the benefit of stitches or any medical help. Little peaks of flesh puckered up along both sides of the gash. He was short and wide, practically square. I had no doubt that this creature was Pepe “Click-Click” Lamaros.

  Hermes came out of the house with a handsome younger man who wore a bright yellow-and-purple shirt, expensive gold rings, and a chain around his neck. I assumed it was his brother Orlando. He was with two girls who looked like they were from a Las Vegas chorus line.

  Police Lieutenant Sprague and I clearly didn’t fit in, so we stuck together, trying to make the best of things, ogling the women and wishing we could have as much fun as everyone else.

  A young couple climbed up on the glass stage and began to dance. The girl had a perfect athletic body, long black hair, and a tight see-through miniskirt with an open-to-the-waist shirt. She had big eyes with high cheek bones and looked wild and independent. The light from beneath the stage revealed everything as she danced with her handsome partner. I had seen great floor shows at the Blue Angel, at Basin Street, and at some of the nightclubs in Harlem, and this impromptu amateur performance was as good as any of them.

  Watching her dance, I suddenly realized that I knew her. When I looked at her partner, I realized they were the couple at the staged robbery when Louie got “shot.” Her boyfriend was Chevy de Falla, the drug dealer. I remembered him running away and her on the porch screaming, as the two black agents pretended to shoot Louie, and groped her breasts. Sprague told me she was Hermes’ stepdaughter. Her name was Leah. Unlike Rachel, who was cool and deep, Leah seemed fiery and defiant. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.

  Hermes and an elegant woman in her fifties then took the stage. They danced slower than Chevy and Leah, but were just as beautiful. At the end, Hermes “presented” her with open arms to the crowd, as Latin men like to do to show off their women.

  Hermes recognized me and brought her over to meet me. Her name was Regina, his wife. With great charm, she engaged me in a conversation about my background, how I met Hermes and how I happened to come to the party. I sidestepped every question with an innocent response, never admitting to anything brutal, illegal, or connected with drugs. She seemed amused with my clumsy deceptions. Her piercing eyes saw and understood everything. Wherever she went, people paid attention to her; even Orlando, who had turned into a loud-mouthed drunk, became a gentleman in her presence. She had a quiet manner, often extending her hand to be gently kissed or carefully shaken.

  Hermes ordered her around like a servant: “Darling, get our guest a drink,” or “Darling, I don’t like the line at the bar, please see to it, don’t let it happen again.” She tolerated the humiliating treatment and after several rounds of greeting the guests, she continued her conversation with me. She remembered my name and took me by the arm to the shrimp bowl, pointing out the types of sauces and side dishes that she felt were special. Nursing a glass of champagne, she tested my knowledge of art, law, politics, food, and wine. We were the only two people at the entire party conducting a normal conversation. When we talked about travel she asked me how I liked Switzerland. This surprised me. I made up a story about my uncle living there and said that all of my visits were just to his house, hoping she would not ask me about restaurants and hotels, and then find out that I knew nothing about the country.

  Eventually Regina introduced me to her two daughters, Leah and Mercedes. Mercedes was not as pretty, nor as wild, as Leah. She dressed moderately and stayed close to her husband. He was shy and wore a cheap suit. He didn’t seem to be a drug dealer.

  Hermes seemed to ignore his stepdaughters and was busy laughing with the other guests. Often he would grab and hug some of the females. This didn’t seem to bother Regina, at least not as much as I thought it should have. I also noticed that no one ever discussed drugs, sex, or any illegal activity in her presence.

  Finally around midnight, after Regina made the rounds with everyone again, I said goodnight. I was surprised to see the many inconspicuous types of cars in the parking lot: Chevrolets, Fords, Chryslers, even rentals – not one BMW or Cadillac, or any luxury car. This was smart. The cartel did not want to draw attention to themselves.

  The next day I told Michael about the party and the people. He was irritated that I didn’t get closer to Hermes and Orlando, since, after all, they were my targets, and worse, I had only met Pepe Click-Click once, just in a brief introduction. When I had nothing more to say, Michael opened up his briefcase and pulled out a file, opened it, and placed some photographs on the table. They were surveillance shots taken by FBI Agent Springfield. He pointed to one, of a man crossing the street, and asked, “Do you recognize him?”

  “Yes. That’s the cop I told you about. That’s Sprague.”

  “His name is Lieutenant Larry Sprague of the hundred-and-fifteenth precinct. Do you remember the name from the Scarluci case? He was the guy on the tape talking to Domenic.”

  I looked at Michael, “How did you find out about these people?”

  “Sprague pulled your file from BCI the day after you met Hermes. We know he’s dirty, but we don’t know how deep. He may only be providing information, or maybe he’s running things for them, giving them protection. We have to know. He could be as dangerous to you as the Medalley killers.”

  I remembered Regina and her conversations with me, especially her question about Switzerland. “Michael, does the file ever say that I was in Switzerland?”

  “It says you spent four years in a Swiss prison for assault and battery. It would be nice if you read the file. Your life depends on it.”

  THE CAR

  It didn’t take long for things to start happening. A few days after the party there was another message from the law-office secretary, inviting me to lunch in Manhattan with Regina at the Quo Vadis, an expensive society restaurant in midtown.

  I found Regina waiting in a booth, sipping a glass of white wine and talking to a well-dressed elderly man with gray hair that reminded me of Domenic Scarluci. Regina motioned me to sit down, but did not introduce me.

  The stranger was less rude. “How do you do; I’m Carl Wineburg. I must go, just wanted to say hello and thanks to the wonderful lady here.” I remembered the name Wineburg. It was Judge Wineburg who was handling Louis Turko’s case.

  Regina got right to the point. “Hermes couldn’t be here, but he likes you very much. My husband would like to know if he could employ your services. He wants you to be close to the family, come to the house to protect us.”

  I wondered why Hermes would want to hire me as a special bodyguard. There were more killers at that party than in Sing Sing. Regina spoke with such wisdom that I was instantly convinced that everything she
said had to be absolutely true. Regina was the most impressive person I had ever met in my life. I also knew that Hermes could never respect me. He’d sent Regina to hire me, like the rest of the domestic help around the house, like a butler or gardener. I suspected that my job would be to hang around like those goons I met the first day, but at least I would get inside the organization. I accepted.

  * * *

  I went to the Medalley mansion almost every day at about noon to look after Regina. Sometimes I’d accompany her to Manhattan in her limousine. After about a week I was able to report back to Michael what I thought was important, but in fact most of my information was useless. I told Michael about meeting Carl Wineburg with Regina. He knew the name. “He’s a newly appointed federal judge. Seems to be honest, but his political friends get a lot of money from the union, Longshore Teamsters. He could be dirty also. I know he let Turko out on bail. I’ll tell Dewey.”

  Again Michael told me that the cartel was ruled by a brotherhood code and had great influence. The Medalleys gave drugs to dealers on consignment! Of all the people in the world, drug dealers are the least trustworthy – yet the Medalleys trusted everyone. Apparently they had so much coke they consigned it to any willing dealer, and the dealer took the risk of being caught or getting killed by the Medalley family if he broke the trust. Pepe Lamaros made people think twice about crossing the family. Each day their operation grew larger and more powerful.

  I knew that the partygoers at the Medalley mansion were “account executives.” They were well-paid and knew that they would die if they ever betrayed the trust. The family recorded and carefully numbered all product – heroin and cocaine – with a red wax stamp. They took great pride in the quality of their cocaine. The numbers on all the packages of coke represented quality, as well as strict inventory control. When the Medalley dealers gave drugs on consignment the numbers were carefully recorded like inventory control in any other type of business. Michael was very interested in how they managed their inventory and their willingness to give drugs on consignment.