by Don Winslow
Sean Callan was supposed to put a bullet in you. He didn’t. He loved Nora, she loved him.
You put a bullet into M-1.
Then put Adán behind bars.
You should have killed him right then.
Try to sleep now.
Go ahead.
The movie won’t let you, the movie goes on.
You try to find some peace in a monastery.
But they let Adán go back to Mexico to serve his sentence.
You know what’s going to happen. It does. He escapes. He launches a war to take all of Mexico back.
A hundred thousand people die in that war.
You go back down there to find him.
Worse devils rise—the Zetas.
Beheadings, disembowelments, burnings.
Mass slaughters, mass graves.
You meet Marisol. You fall in love with Marisol. The Zetas gun her down, cripple her. You side with Barrera to destroy the Zetas, protect her.
More blood, more killings, more atrocities.
Adán sets up the Zetas.
You go into Guatemala.
You kill the Zetas.
You’re supposed to bring Adán out with you.
You kill him instead.
Payback for Ernie, for all the dead.
Forty years.
Fighting that war, doing wrong for the greater good, making deals, playing God, close-dancing with the devil.
The sun comes up.
Cheerless winter sky.
It comes up on junkies, men in prison, grieving families, the strung out, the jammed up, a country that doesn’t know itself anymore.
Sleep won’t come in daylight any more than in the dark.
You have a choice to make.
A decision.
Make another deal, give them what they want.
Let Lerner slide.
You’re being an asshole, and a selfish one, to boot. Think of what you could do with what they’re offering you—the addicts who will get treatment, the people who will get out of prison. You could do a monumental amount of good, but you’re going to flush all that just to put some slimy asshole like Lerner behind bars for a few years? Even assuming you could do it, which is a very long shot.
Take the money to treat addicts, empty some of those cells.
Or.
Fight.
Keep fighting.
You’ll go down but you’ll take them with you.
Maybe. If you can.
Maybe keep them from stealing the country.
If they haven’t already.
O’Brien calls Keller. “People are getting edgy. Impatient. I need to know what to tell them.”
“Tell them,” Keller says, “to go fuck themselves.”
Claiborne opens the door to the call girl he called to relieve his stress.
She comes in, three men come in behind her.
One of them slams a pistol butt into the back of his head. He wakes up tied to the bed, a ball gag in his mouth.
Rollins sits in a chair in the corner and explains things to him. “When I remove the gag, Mr. Claiborne, you are going to tell me everything you revealed. You are going to be thorough. If you do anything else, I am going to kill you, your wife, and your two little girls. Nod if you understand.”
Claiborne nods.
Rollins gets up and takes out the gag. “Talk.”
Claiborne talks.
Through sobs, tells them everything.
Rollins puts a needle into his arm. “Your family’s going to be fine.”
He pushes the plunger.
Claiborne’s death makes the Times and the Daily News.
real estate banker dead of apparent overdose.
His body was found in a suite at the Four Seasons, on the floor where he toppled from the bed, the needle still in his arm.
The ME rules the cause of death as an overdose of heroin laced with fentanyl. He attributes the bruise on the side of Claiborne’s head to his striking the corner of the bedside table when he fell.
Hotel staff tell police that Claiborne was a frequent guest and that he often had “company,” although none of them on duty remember a woman going up to his suite. Colleagues at Terra express no knowledge of Claiborne’s drug use, although a couple of them eventually admit to police they had seen him use cocaine.
The obituary notes that the deceased is survived by a wife and two children.
Cirello figures the best defense is a good offense. Darnell is going to blame him for that asshole Claiborne being wired—it’s smarter to get off first. So he yells at Darnell, “Did you motherfuckers kill that guy?!”
“Who you m-effing, motherfucker?!” Darnell yells back. “You was supposed to make sure the room wasn’t wired!”
“If you wanted me to pat down your bankers,” Cirello says, “you should have told me that’s what you wanted! It’s on you! And I didn’t sign up for murder!”
“You want out, you out.”
“Yeah,” Cirello says, “I go out the door with an accessory tag on my back. Fuck you.”
They’re in one of Darnell’s cribs in Harlem.
Sugar Hill.
Darnell isn’t happy. “They ain’t tell me neither, they was going to kill him. They just did it. Don’t tell the nigger nothin’.”
Cirello accepts it as a peace offering. “Your name come up on the tapes?”
“Man didn’t know my name.”
“Well, that’s good,” Cirello says. They’re quiet for a minute, then he says, “Claiborne had two kids.”
“He was in the game, man.”
“Did he know he was in the game?” Cirello asks.
“He didn’t, he should have,” Darnell says.
“So what’s next?” Cirello asks.
“Back to business is all,” Darnell says. “You going to deliver some money for me. To my supplier.”
“You fucking kidding?” Cirello asks. “The DEA is onto the loan, the syndicate . . . they’re going to shut it down, put people in jail.”
“They ain’t going to do shit,” Darnell says. “Bunch of cops against the White House? White House wins.”
Uh-huh, Darnell thinks.
White always win.
It’s possible he overdosed.
No, it isn’t, Keller tells himself. Don’t kid yourself.
They killed him.
But not before he told them everything. They’d have drained him of all information first, hit him on the head and then popped him the fatal shot. And they know that the tape of him and Lerner is problematic in front of a grand jury without Claiborne there to verify it.
Goodwin knew it, too. Called Keller and said, “Your key witness killed himself?”
“Quite a coincidence, huh?”
“Come on,” Goodwin said. “The Lerner people are a lot of things, but they’re not murderers.”
“You can still get a grand jury to indict,” Keller said.
“Maybe,” Goodwin said. “But then a trial judge tosses the tape without a verification of its provenance. Even if he doesn’t, the defense asks the jury if they’re going to take the word of a drug addict.”
“You’re not going to take the case.”
“There’s no case to take,” Goodwin said.
“How about the Claiborne murder case?!”
“The ME has it down as a suicide!” Goodwin said. “Do you know how hard it is to reverse a—”
Keller clicked off.
Lerner’s people—who aren’t, of course, murderers—got the job done, Keller thinks.
They made a mistake, though.
Killed the one man who could identify Hugo Hidalgo.
Hidalgo is torn up.
Keller knows the feeling—the first time you lose a guy you’ve been handling, it rips you apart.
It doesn’t get much better with the next or the next.
He wants to tell Hidalgo that it isn’t his fault but he knows the kid won’t buy it. All he can do is channel Hidalgo’s anger.
<
br /> And try to keep him safe.
“Did I get Claiborne killed?” Hidalgo asks.
“You can’t think like that,” Keller says. “They killed him.”
“They wouldn’t have if—”
“Don’t eat yourself up,” Keller says. “Claiborne never cared about any of the people he hurt.”
“What about his kids?” Hidalgo asks. “They didn’t do anything.”
“No, they didn’t,” Keller says. “You’re done here; I’m sending you out west.”
“Why out west?”
“Because that’s where Darnell’s supplier is,” Keller says. “If they think I’m going to let all this just slide, they’re out of their goddamn minds. The thing now is to work the drug angle back up, find out who provides Darnell with his dope. Whoever that is also told him to get security for the Park Tower meetings.”
We can work it back that way, Keller thinks.
It’s money and drugs.
If you can’t work the money, work the drugs.
Because money and drugs are like two magnets—eventually, they’ll come back together.
Cirello is the only passenger on a Citation Excel jet that could seat seven. There’s no flight attendant, but he can make himself drinks or a light lunch in the small galley. And there’s plenty of room for his carry-on luggage, which is the point.
Cirello has two suitcases filled with $3.4 million that Darius Darnell owes his supplier. Other than the cash, he has enough clothes to do Vegas for three days, and some presents for a friend of Darnell’s.
“After you handle business, do me a favor,” Darnell said. “Drive to V-Ville, see this friend of mine, bring him a few things for me.”
“I’m not delivering dope to a federal prison facility,” Cirello said.
“Ain’t dope,” Darnell said. “This guy don’t do dope. It’s some books and some banana bread.”
“Banana bread?”
“Man like banana bread. That okay with you?”
“Did you make it?” Cirello asked.
“Why that a surprise?” Darnell asked. “Three-hour drive from Vegas to Victorville. I already got you on the visitor list.”
The jet cruises at 500 per, so it’s a five-hour flight. Cirello settles in with a Bloody Mary and thinks about things.
It’s been a wild few months.
First he’s in a hotel suite with billionaire real estate developers connected to the potential next president. Now he’s on a private jet flying to Vegas with a few million dollars in cash at his feet. They chose Vegas because a gambler like Cirello would go there, although he gets the sense that the supplier isn’t based in Vegas but somewhere within easy striking distance.
The supplier doesn’t want the courier to know where he’s based.
Cirello has his instructions.
Take a cab, not an Uber, from the airport, Darnell said. Pay cash. Check in at the Mandalay Bay, carry your own bags, no bellboys. Stay in your room. Don’t be callin’ no hookers because it would be bad if one of them walked out the room with one of them suitcases while you was taking a piss. Just chill and watch TV. Someone will call you.
After you pass the money, you stay a day or so and you gamble. Win, lose, don’t matter. Get laid if you want. Take in Blue Man Group. Don’t be conspicuous but don’t be snaky, either. Just a cop on a little Vegas vacay.
Fly commercial home.
“Commercial?” Cirello asked.
“It don’t matter what TSA find in your bag coming home,” Darnell said. “What, you spoiled already? You think you Jay-Z now, you can’t fly commercial?”
“Okay, but first class, right?”
“Coach.”
“Come on.”
“You win big, upgrade,” Darnell said. “Otherwise, ain’t no reason a cop fly first class. Cops cheap. Look at your shoes.”
“What’s wrong with my shoes?”
“If you don’t know . . .”
Cirello falls asleep on the flight. Wakes up, makes himself a roast beef sandwich, cracks open a beer and watches some DirecTV.
The trip’s putting more strain on his relationship with Libby.
“If you can wait until Sunday,” she said, “I could come with you. We’re dark Sunday and Monday.”
“Has to be Saturday, babe.”
“Okay,” she said. “I could join you on Sunday. I’d like to see Vegas.”
“I have to do this alone, Lib.”
“So it’s work,” she said.
“You know I can’t talk about that.”
“What work does a New York cop have in Las Vegas?”
“The kind of work he can’t talk about,” Cirello said. “Jesus, cut me some slack, would you?”
“Hey, Bobby? I’ll cut you all the slack you want.”
Meaning, Cirello thinks now, she’ll cut me loose. That’s her telling me she doesn’t have a hook in my mouth. I want to swim away, swim away.
A couple of hours later he’s in Vegas.
Gets a cab, checks into his room.
Nice room overlooking the Strip.
It would be nice to get out there but he has to stay and wait for the phone to ring. Knows it’s going to take a while because the supplier is going to perform his due diligence. Going to make sure Cirello came alone, going to make sure the adjacent rooms aren’t loaded with feds or Vegas PD, going to have an eye on everyone coming in and out of the hotel lobby.
So he stays put.
Grabs a Coke and some Toblerone from the minibar, turns on the television and finds some college football.
Tight game, USC v. UCLA.
Five minutes left in the fourth, of course, that’s when the phone rings.
Eddie Ruiz is a big believer in multitasking.
Arranges to get his money in Vegas so he can then run two hours up the 15 and see the family in St. George.
Lay some of the cash on Teresa to keep her sweet. A green poultice on the low-grade infection of her resentment at being stuck in Utah. See the kids, listen to them bitch, take everyone out to dinner and some shopping, then hit the road back to Dago to mollify that family.
Plus, he didn’t want the courier knowing he lives in San Diego.
Guy doesn’t need to know that yet, maybe ever.
Besides, Eddie likes Vegas.
Who doesn’t?
If you have money, and Eddie has money, Las Vegas is heaven. He goes a couple of days early. Gets himself a suite at the Wynn, gets on Eros.com and books an unbelievable blonde named Nicole and takes her to Carnevino for a riserva steak, aged for eight months, that’s priced by the inch.
He don’t know what Nicole’s priced by, but it’s worth every dollar when they get back to the suite, and he tips her an extra G when she leaves. Gets himself a good night’s sleep, calls down for a masseuse and, relaxed, goes downstairs and blows forty G’s at blackjack. That night he hits Mizumi with an Asian chick named Michelle and then sleeps in until Osvaldo calls to tell him his money has arrived.
Eddie showers, gets some breakfast and a pot of coffee sent up, and by the time he’s jammed that, Osvaldo has made good and sure that the courier, an actual cop, is alone and clean.
“So go get my money,” Eddie says.
The doorbell rings.
Cirello gets up, goes to the door and looks through the peephole. Sees a young Hispanic guy standing there alone and opens the door a crack.
“Cirello?” the guy asks.
“Yeah.” Cirello opens the door.
The guy walks in and looks around. “You mind if I check the bathroom?”
Cirello gestures Help yourself. The guy walks into the bathroom and then comes back in, apparently satisfied they’re alone. “You got something for me.”
“I need to hear a series of numbers.”
“5-8-3-1-0-9-7.”
“Bingo.” Cirello goes into the closet, takes out the bags and sets them on the floor by the guy’s feet. “I’ll need a receipt.”
“Huh?”
“J
oking.”
“Yeah,” the guy says, not especially amused. “My man says to give your boss love and respect.”
“Back at him,” Cirello says, even though Darnell said no such thing.
The guy picks up the bags. “Nice meeting you.”
“You too.” Cirello opens the door and the guy walks out.
Just like that.
It makes sense, Cirello thinks. A guy leaving a hotel with a couple of suitcases is going to attract zero attention.
Hidalgo is looking for the suitcases, not the guy.
Sitting at the lobby bar, he sees the guy get off the elevator with the cases in his hands and talks into his collar mike. “Coming out now, Hispanic male, five eleven, pink polo shirt, khakis.”
“Got him.”
The woman outside, Erica, is gorgeous enough to be a Vegas showgirl except she’s an LVPD plainclothes. Keller called in a chip with the local department because he’s not using any DEA personnel on this except Hidalgo.
Hidalgo would ask her out except this is business and he’s dating the woman back in DC. Anyway, Erica has a visual on the guy and she’s good. In seconds, she sends a photo of him waiting for the valet to bring his car up.
Hidalgo forwards the photo to Keller.
Then he hears her relaying the make and license of the guy’s rental car. Two LVPD Narcotics guys wait in a car to tail the guy.
Hidalgo orders another beer and waits. It’s all he can do now. Then Erica calls. “They’re on him.”
He listens as she relays news from the two narco cops. The subject goes north up Las Vegas Boulevard, the Strip, past the Luxor, the Tropicana, the MGM Grand. Then Caesars Palace, the Mirage and Treasure Island. He crosses Sands Avenue and turns into the Wynn, takes the suitcases out, flips the keys to the parking valet and goes in.
Eddie, wrapped in a white terry-cloth robe, opens the door and lets Osvaldo in. He eyeballs the suitcases. “What’s the guy like?”
“Like a cop.”
“Nervous?”
“He made a dumb joke.”
“About what?” Eddie asks.
“Getting a receipt.”
“That’s kind of funny, actually,” Eddie says. He opens a suitcase, takes out a stack of bills and hands it to Osvaldo.
Osvaldo leaves.
Eddie doesn’t count the money—Darnell is too good a businessman to short him.
