Downward Dog in Miami

by Larry David Allman

  “I’m going to try to get your money back,” I said, holding the red card and looking at Ed.

  His eyes widened, and he smiled. “Two and a half million?”

  “Plus interest,” I joked.

  “Wouldn’t that be something,” he said. “Then I can pay your fee.” He laughed at his own joke.

  “Anything else for Katarina?” he asked.

  “Yes. When was the last time you used the card?”

  “The morning I got jumped.”

  “Where?”

  “Where was I jumped?”

  “No, where did you last use the card?”

  “At the bank near our office. Downtown Kiev.”

  “What’s the passcode?” I asked.

  She gave it.

  “Are you married?”

  “No, they won’t let me. I have to stay sterile while I work for them.”

  “Do you have any kids?”

  “No. Same thing: they won’t let me.”

  “Do you own a home?”

  “No, I have a government apartment.”

  “How do they prevent you from marrying?

  “They’d just kill me. That’s the way it is.”

  “Maybe this is your chance to get out,” I offered, a little lamely, but I was starting to feel sorry for her.

  She looked down, said nothing. It was sad.

  “Nothing else,“ I said to Ed, “but this is nice work on your part… How did you get her here so quickly?”

  Ed looked and nodded to Morty, silent but effective communication in play between them. Morty stood up, carefully assisted Katarina from her chair, took her free elbow, and gently walked her out of the room. He closed the door quietly. Throughout, he had shown a kind of gentleness and care toward her. Who knew what happened behind the scenes? But what I saw was comforting to my horror-show concerns. Maybe that was their plan; maybe this was a show just for me.

  “This is inside stuff. You keep it to yourself. I don’t know your friend here, but if he’s with you, that’s good enough for us. Agreed?”

  Lenny and I nodded in agreement.

  Ed continued. “We have friends at the office, the one on King Saul Boulevard, but it’s not really located there, just in Silva’s books. They help us; we help them. There’s a lot of back and forth. When you told us who did Ziv, we asked them to help out. They have people in Kiev, at the embassy, who got her that afternoon. There’s more to this than me. They always thought the Rifkin job came from these same scum who stole our money. They brought her here on Rifkin’s plane; he always helps. Morty’s from the Office, in case you couldn’t tell. We had Unit 8200 try to figure out how the money was stolen, but they couldn’t do it. You must be really good.”

  “Thanks. I’ve been doing this for a while. What happens to her now? You promised no violence.”

  “Don’t worry, bubby, you saw: no violence. She will go back home and have a trial. She trespassed against us, stole money from us, and committed crimes against our citizens. She’ll probably do a year or so in prison, then who knows? She has skills—they have a way of turning them. She might be our agent in a year or so. She certainly looks the part, wouldn’t you say?”

  “‘Home’ is Israel,” I said, stating the obvious.

  “Shalom, babe,” he said, smiling big and enjoying himself. “We take care of each other. Never again!”

  “I’m going to try and get your money back. I’ll probably know by tomorrow. Don’t spend it yet because I don’t have it yet. But I think I know where it is. Where should I have it deposited if we get lucky?”

  “You need our help?” he asked as he reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a sheet of paper, and handed it to me: Bank Leumi, along with a Tel Aviv address and account and routing numbers.

  “No, not yet. Maybe with the rest of this. If we take back the money, these guys are going to know, and they’re going to be upset, and then they’re going to be really dangerous.”

  “Go. Get the money,” he said as he stood and walked around his desk. “We know how to defend ourselves.”

  We all shook hands. There was a good feeling in the room as Ed led us to the door, where he stopped and looked up at Lenny.

  “I saw you when you played the Dolphins here. That game, the one that got you into the playoffs—you beat us. You had a damn good game.”

  “You should see us now,” Lenny responded, pointing at me and giving Ed a sports-bro hug.

  Ed walked us to our cars in the lot. I was curious about something. “So Ed… Why did you bring her all the way back here? Wouldn’t it have been easier, Ukraine to Israel direct?”

  He paused, visibly contemplating. “I brought her here for three reasons.” He paused; I was hanging on every word. “First, so that you could get information. And you did. I hope you can get that money back; I can use it right now. Second, for me. I wanted to see her, the person who did this to my nephew. And third…” He paused again. “I did it for Ziv—I think mainly for Ziv. So that he could have some closure, some satisfaction. That was a heavy hit he took. And he’s a good boy, very loyal. I did it mainly for him.”

  Good enough for me. We shook hands again, sports bros all around. Ed left us alone. Once he walked back into his building, we were done here.

  “Keep in touch. When do you think you’ll be back?” I asked Lenny.

  “Tonight. Maybe I can find something useful in Stuart,” he said.

  We had history together. His instincts were the best. Plus, I knew he could take care of himself.

  “Sorry about that when you drove in, man. That was a little much.”

  “I’ve seen it before. Nothing happened.”

  He got in his car, backed out, and drove off the lot. I watched him leave. He was my best friend, but he was also my most trusted business associate. We had done some good things together over the years.

  As I got in my car to head back to the hotel for some much-needed recharging, my path was clear: I had to figure out how to get into that Cayman account and make a withdrawal.

  12

  I drove off the Sabra lot with even more caution than usual after the security incident that had taken place on our arrival. I generally didn’t need a wake-up call, but that had been a graphic manifestation of where we all needed to be. I checked constantly while driving the short distance back to the hotel. On the way, I called the hotel manager and asked him if the aerobics room had any classes scheduled for today. When he said no, I asked him to block it off for me and emphasized that I would show my appreciation when I arrived. I needed badly to recharge myself—a deep yoga session was the perfect answer.

  I did an hour of yoga postures with more deep breathing than usual, lifted some free weights, took a steam and a swim, and left the hotel at two forty-five for the funeral. I hate funerals, but I knew it would be a really difficult event for Lauren, so there I was, heading to it with the intention of being her wingman, her support. It became my want, which was a rather pleasant thought on my part.

  The Cathedral of St. Mary is a huge Catholic church located not too far from the hotel. I arrived with highest-level situational awareness, parked, and walked about a block to the church. I saw Bob sitting in the usual black Chrysler parked right at the entrance and assumed Jimmy was inside, close to their protectee. I found Lauren with Cathy’s family, the McAvoys, who I learned were hardcore Irish. I met Lauren’s parents, too, and learned that Lauren’s maiden name was McCarthy—she was also of Irish descent. Who knew? I had never thought to ask her for her genealogy. Jimmy was standing close to Lauren, eyes roving. I flashed on how lucky we were to have guys that were this good at what they did.

  The funeral was painful, especially for the two families and Lauren, as well as the many friends and employees from Prime Mortgage who filled the Cathedral. I tried my best to be supportive. Maybe I helped. Probably not
much. The end of the service could not come quickly enough for me. I begged off going to the cemetery. Lauren just accepted that and clutched her father’s arm for support. I also passed on the opportunity to feel guilty—I had some important things to do. I told Lauren I would be in my hotel room if she needed anything, and emphasized anything.

  On the way back, I texted James, through Alexa, that I would be calling him in ten minutes, to stand by. He texted back immediately: Okay, I’m ready!

  I set up in my room and got started. I had done some deep thinking about how to approach this Cayman bank account. This is part of what I do, part of my business. It could be the main reason why I have no problem with new clients. I go and get the money! I have computer skills, I have online skills, and I have a business infrastructure I’ve designed for this purpose: my Predator programs are all my personal creations, and they work. I’ve even helped the government a few times, but I’ve never rented out those programs. And on top of those, I have people skills which come to bear in many of these situations, what they refer to as human engineering. I do that too. I would probably need to use all of those resources to get Sabra’s money back. And hopefully create my own paycheck.

  With all that, I have strong feelings about this part of my business, going and taking money—call them principles. I only take money from bad guys. I know they’re bad guys because this is always part of a case I’m actively working; I have to achieve a high level of proof before I do this. I’m not an ordinary thief; I consider that I’m correcting wrongs, righting a situation, and teaching bad guys a lesson they’ll understand immediately.

  This Siroco situation checked all of my boxes. Game on.

  I tapped in James to start. “You asshole!” he answered.

  “Two hundred thousand dollars,” I responded, cutting through the BS and getting his attention.

  “That’ll do it. What do you need?” he said with a lighter tone. “It better not be something with those Chinese nationals. Shit, I almost got arrested for that.”

  “It’s not. It’s more like the usual. We’ll be helping refinance some bad dudes, helping them achieve ethical balance. You understand?”

  “Sure, okay. I can do whatever today. It’s Sunday; nobody’s there. Tomorrow might be more problematic.”

  “I’ll need you tomorrow too. That’s when this will go down. You know how to go offline,” I chided him, referring to how he could shut down the memory function, the cloud storage function, and any other functions that could record what he was doing on their giant computers. He was the only one in the lab who had that know-how.

  “Tell me what this is about.”

  “It’s about two guys, a bank, and their phones.”

  “Man, that’s going to cost,” he said, irritating me.

  “You stop that! This is more than I’ve ever paid you on any other case. C’mon, man, show some balls here.”

  “Okay… Okay. Tell me exactly what you want.”

  “This is what I want: I want you to go deep on three sets of phones. You’ll have to scope these guys first. Linda has done most of the work. First, a guy named Santo Garcia in Florida. Then a guy named Horatio Gonzalez; he’s in the Caymans, he works at the bank, and he’s got operational control of the account. And do his bank too, Cayman National Bank and Trust. That’s today. I’ll have Linda send you her files on this; that should make it easier for you. Tomorrow, I need for you to control two of those phones for about an hour.”

  He was silent for a minute, thinking and trying to get comfortable with the work I had just presented to him. He might be a class-A nerd and, lately, a real asshole, but his mind related to all things computer was first-rate, comparable to Linda’s and mine.

  “What happens if you fail?” he asked, which was a really dumb question.

  “Then nobody gets paid, and I probably go to jail.”

  “Okay… That’s fair,” he said, probably dwelling more on me going to jail. “Then don’t fail!”

  “Agreed. Linda will be in touch with you in a few minutes. I’ll check in with you later. Get on this right away.”

  “For two hundred K, you bought my attention,” he said.

  I clicked off. James was the first component of my developing plan; he could do anything we needed with one of the world’s most powerful computing operations. His work would involve cell phones and maybe landlines, in use in real time—probably the most delicate part of the plan. It felt good to get James on board… but it could all change when he heard the details.

  I tapped in Linda, who answered on the first ring, as usual.

  * * *

  US 95 is one of America’s main motor highways, running north–south. Route 95 starts in south Miami and runs all the way up to Maine. The section of 95 that’s in Florida is one of the best-maintained highways in all of America, which makes sense since tourism is Florida’s biggest income source and people go there in their cars.

  Lenny set his GPS for the City of Stuart, placed his cell phone in the cup holder, booted up his laptop on the passenger seat next to him, and set out on 95 for Stuart directly after he left Sabra.

  “Alexa, call Linda,” he said after he had driven about ten miles and cleared the City of Miami boundary.

  She was expecting his call. She had sent some files to him, which he could have pulled over and examined, but it was easier to get a verbal review.

  “Tell me about this guy, Santo Garcia,” he asked.

  Linda went over what she had learned. Lenny noted the address of Santo’s house in Stuart and Santo’s office address in West Palm Beach. He changed his GPS destination to the exact house address in Stuart and told Linda he might need to speak to her later. She said that she would be at the office all afternoon and maybe into the night, depending on what the boss needed.

  He clicked off and continued comfortably north in the BMW X5, keeping his speed at seventy-five while most cars raced by him in the left lanes.

  Shortly after he finished with Linda, the GPS told him that a better route would be the Florida turnpike, a toll road with less traffic. Lenny thought about it; the Hertz rental had Sun Pass included, so the tolls would be automatically paid through his credit card rental. But that would also create a more easily traceable record of when and where he had gone, so he disregarded it and stayed on 95. The geolocation search mechanism in the car would be a lot harder for someone to access.

  * * *

  Lenny’s drive up 95 was going pleasantly, and, more importantly, uneventfully. Uncrowded Sunday traffic provided an opportunity to prepare for his adventure in Stuart. His GPS was guiding him to the community where Santo Garcia had his home, named Monterey Commons.

  “Alexa, find Monterey Commons in Stuart, Florida,” he asked.

  His laptop started spewing information, including a map of the community. It was an upscale community with houses from five hundred thousand to five million dollars, and a guarded security entrance gate. Santo’s was in the upper bracket: five bedrooms, six baths, three-car garage, pool, and on a lake. The money laundering business had apparently been good to him.

  “Alexa, go to the County Appraiser’s Office and give me a schematic of the Garcia house.”

  Lenny instructed Alexa to save the images so he could study them while not driving.

  “Alexa, are there any houses for sale in Monterey Commons?” he asked. His laptop responded that, according to Zillow, there were four houses on the local MLS, and it gave a brief description of each, including their addresses. One had the same street number as Santo’s, although on a different street. Bingo!

  Lenny took an exit for a city named Jupiter, just south of Stuart, found a strip mall with a couple of businesses open and only a few cars in the parking lot, turned in, and parked away from the other cars. He opened his suitcase and located five items: a portable printing unit, which he attached to his laptop; a pair of Google
Glass glasses, modified as dark sunglasses; a small Beretta .38-caliber pistol with a belt holster; a Miami Marlins cap; and some business cards that showed him to be a California real estate broker. The business cards were in a fake alias.

  He printed out a listing sheet in Santo’s community, threaded the holster onto his belt, tucked the Beretta in, and closed the strap. He then drove back to 95 and continued north to Stuart.

  * * *

  “Anything new?” I asked Linda when she answered my sat phone call.

  “Not too much. It’s Sunday; I guess the Siroco guys are at church or something. The general will be there tomorrow; Dimitri will be there around the same time. A real summit,” she said, chuckling at her own joke.

  It was, in fact, a summit of sorts; something definitely important was happening. I needed to figure that out and then take advantage of it. But first, I needed to figure out how to refinance Siroco. Redistribution of the wealth was one of my special skills. But it wasn’t so easy lately because money launderers had gotten way more sophisticated. The days when you could just covertly find a passcode and take the money online with little or no friction? Those days were over, at least for the players who had real money to launder. Now, there were human guards on patrol, so to speak. Real human beings were stationed at specific focal points along the online path to prevent just what I would be doing: stealing back the money that they had stolen. There was more mechanical control of fund transfers these days, by real humans who made decisions in real time, and only then went to a keyboard and entered commands to move money. This would be my private version of karmic justice.

  “See if you can get Oscar on the phone there. Put it on your speaker,” I asked.

  She did, and he came on. I could hear everything in HD quality.

  “Hey Oscar, Derek here. Linda’s on too. How’re you doing, bro?”

  “Good, man. Haven’t heard from you in a while. You okay?”

  “It’s all good. I need you… can you do a job for me today?”

  “Today? It’s Sunday, man! You gonna pay premium for Sunday work,” he answered.