Downward Dog in Miami

by Larry David Allman

  “Sure,” he said. “Built-in financing is always a plus.” We let that sink in for a moment, then he asked, “What happened on that Siroco stuff you asked about?”

  “You’ll read all about it in the newspaper,” I said as we stood to leave. It was all hugs and handshakes and good vibrations. A pathway was definitely opening into the future.

  * * *

  Olivia was waiting for us in the lobby of the hotel when we returned around one p.m. I invited her to the restaurant, where we could have lunch and conduct a debriefing about the affaire Siroco. It was interesting for me to be with these two women who appeared outwardly to be so different, but who were both strong women in similar ways. Lauren was five-foot-six, while Olivia was just above the five-foot mark. Lauren exuded a calmness and a confidence which allowed her to be not on the offensive at all times; Olivia was on the offensive at all times, trying to do her job with an aggressiveness that seemed to work. I appreciated the differences, but in truth, seeing Lauren and Olivia at the same table only reinforced what I found so alluring and likable about Lauren.

  The lunch special was a swordfish plate with seasonal local vegetables and a Caesar salad, which we all ordered. Olivia placed her cell phone in front of her. I saw the red light indicating that she was recording.

  “This is all off the record, background only,” I said. “You cannot include me in anything you write. Agreed?”

  She nodded.

  I said, “Say it for the record.”

  She did.

  I ran through my dealings with Siroco and Lev Lavorosky, starting with my initial meeting with Ed Sapperstein at Sabra Security and ending with the SWAT team’s take down of Lev and his men yesterday. I only mentioned that Santo Garcia was the money laundering guy, but nothing about Cayman Bank. I had already given her terrific inside information on the Palmetto Plaza incident, including the fentanyl and ricin, as well as some great photos, which she had already used in the newspaper. I told her about Lev’s warehouse and the blocks of cocaine the SWAT team found there. I left Pablo out of it. Pablo who?

  Overall, I gave her many details that she would otherwise not have known and would not have been able to ascertain on her own. She had everything she needed to produce a great wrap-around article from front to back. She had done her investigative work and written her articles very well to this point. I felt certain she would do this last piece just as well. It would serve the best interests of her career and probably win her one or more awards; it would also serve my best interests. The people I had worked with, and those who needed to know, would see my prints on several of these incidents. I could embellish as necessary. I told Olivia that I would be available if she needed more information. Then we ate, and, as usual in this fine hotel, the food was world class.

  I started to wrap things up around two-thirty. I had enjoyed Olivia’s company: her spunkiness and quest to get the story and get it right was refreshing. Lauren enjoyed her too. As we finished, I had a great sense that my work here in Miami had put me in touch with some special people, with whom I would have future dealings of some sort. Olivia was one of those people.

  As Lauren and I were giving Olivia good-luck hugs, my phone chimed. It was Linda Vargas. I accepted, as we had not spoken in a few days, which was unusual. She informed me that the San Francisco FBI had arrested two of the men from the Chinese consulate there. She suggested that I call Agent Sartrelle to get more details. With that news and nothing else to report from her side, I thanked her and clicked off. I had not related any of that part of the case to Olivia—maybe I would later on if more came of it.

  We accompanied her to the lobby, where she told us that she needed to get back to the office to write the “story of the decade.”

  We headed up to the room. We had an appointment with Lenny at three.

  * * *

  Lenny was ready at three sharp when we tapped on his door. He came out wearing an elegant suit with an open-collar shirt and Italian shoes. He was lugging his giant Pelican suitcases, the ones that contained all of his equipment, devices, and assorted props. He had certainly produced successful results in this case. I was lucky to have a best friend like him; I was also pleased to be able to compensate him appropriately. Who makes three million for a few days of work? Well, he and I both had. And there was more coming. I had a good idea of how Lenny would handle the remaining pie distribution.

  We loaded his cases into the back of the Panamera. Lauren and Lenny each pushed the other to take the front passenger seat. I wasn’t sure if sitting in front next to me was an honor or a penalty. Lauren finally lost when Lenny said that there was more room in the back for him.

  I drove up to valet parking for American Airlines at MIA. There were four attendants and no other cars. They wanted to help us carry Lenny’s big cases and his other bag into the airport—Miami-style service. We refused politely, and I gave them a twenty-dollar bill and told them to keep the car close, as we’d be back within an hour.

  Because Lenny always traveled in first class, we approached an empty premium registration desk. He needed to fill out some forms and show some creds because he was transporting firearms. Lenny had somehow—he had never told me how—obtained a special category of federal marshal’s credentials which allowed him extraordinary transportation privileges. It took only about ten minutes for him to complete and receive his first-class boarding pass. He would go to the first-class lounge after security, which we could not go through, so we settled in at a Starbucks near the security gate.

  Over coffees, we riffed a little on the case here in Miami, and the dangers we had encountered and overcome. I mused that a week-long series of yoga classes and a client with a minor computer security problem had mushroomed into an international criminal case with national security ramifications, not to mention a nice payday. That was Lenny’s cue.

  “I’ve got something for you,” he said to Lauren. They had become good friends in a short time. I noticed how they interacted, and I liked it.

  “I hope it’s an invitation to your wedding. I’d like to meet Julia,” she said.

  “I will send that to you,” he said, reaching into his inside coat pocket and retrieving two white, legal-sized envelopes. “This is for you.” He handed one envelope to Lauren and one to me.

  Lauren opened hers and found a Bank of America check for the sum of three hundred thousand dollars, payable to her. She was shocked; her face lit up. “What’s this?” she asked.

  “I guess you could call it your fee for helping us,” Lenny answered. “You’ll accept it, right?”

  “Of course. I can use it now,” she said. She stood, walked around the table, and hugged Lenny and kissed him on the top of his head. She did the same to me. My heart was throbbing; the way she handled herself was just so cool.

  “Just a little something we picked up along the way,” he said. Lenny and I exchanged knowing glances.

  After a little more musing, we walked Lenny to the security gate. There were hugs and kisses all around. We watched him go through the gates, he waved, and that was that. I could have dwelt on his departure. He was a force—in my case, a force for good. He possessed a power and certain useful skills that I did not have.

  He was gone. I was alone here in Miami—with Lauren, of course; but a big part of my protection, my security, had just left. I reaffirmed to myself that I needed to be ultra-alert, with max situational awareness at all times.

  We walked out of the airport to the valet parking stand. My eyes were roving three hundred and sixty degrees, and I felt some nervousness, even though Lev and most—all?—of his crew were dead or in custody. Nothing drew my attention, other than the lovely afternoon sun, the electric vibes one feels in the great City of Miami, and the pleasure of walking with a beautiful woman who turned heads as we passed.

  We got the car and drove back to the hotel. I had four days to enjoy with Lauren before I had to tak
e a plane to New Orleans for my next yoga series and a new client. As we drove back, Lauren outlined her plan for the evening. I listened with pleasure as she took the lead for our mutual benefit. I was all in. Who wouldn’t be?

  She tapped a number on her cell, and I heard her say, “It’s me… We’re coming tonight.”

  What a woman, I thought—I was thinking and noticing that more often.

  * * *

  Lauren and I spent Wednesday night, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday at The Islands of Islamorada, an upscale resort about halfway down the Florida Keys. She had arranged a villa for us, situated right on the beach, close to the turquoise waters for which the Keys are well-known. I had no idea about the cost and didn’t care. I still had about one hundred thousand dollars in cash from the Cayman hack. At one point, while I was being generous with tips at the resort, I flashed on Horatio Gonzalez and wondered what his fate was at that point. I mentally thanked him for being gullible but didn’t dwell on it. The phrase “when you lie down with dogs who have fleas” came to mind.

  We went scuba diving on Thursday and Friday. Lauren was good at it, as good as I was, and she often led the way. We had three dives each day, and had the dive boat to ourselves, with a crew of three master divers and the captain. She had arranged all this. Maybe mortgage management was not her best career; she was really good at travel. I was happy to let her lead us. It helped that money was not a factor.

  Our lovemaking took place in the mornings while we were there. It was breathtaking and intimate and passionate, and above all, totally pleasing to both of us. We just clicked on that level, in addition to all the others. I wanted more of Lauren. I told her so in my own stunted way. She felt the same way. She was better at expressing herself than I was and joked that she would work with me on that skill.

  We left the resort Sunday midmorning and drove back to the Biltmore, a two-hour drive. I had kept the presidential suite. My plane to New Orleans was at six p.m., so we had a few hours together.

  I needed to take back control of things around me. I arranged for Carlos to come to the hotel and bring one of his friends since we had two fares to two different places; Lauren’s car was at her house. Carlos told me that Enrique would be the other driver. Good guys, I thought. Something would come in the future with them with my new presence in Miami.

  As four p.m. approached, Lauren sat me down, settled across from me, and faced me. She looked to my face, looked deeply into my eyes, and seemed to be studying me. She was so solid and confident, womanly and feminine. I started to get a little nervous—I’d been a single guy for a long time.

  “We have something special,” she said to me. “I want us to pursue this.” She paused, her gaze drilling into my eyes. I thought of saying something, like yes. Then, fortunately, she continued. “If you move to Miami, we can be together. We can make a life. You need to want that too. It has to be mutual, shared evenly. I can’t want you more than you want me. I’m in love with you, and I don’t want to scare you.” She stood, moved to me, and hugged me into her chest, relieving me of the need to say something immediately.

  I drank it in, inhaling what had become her unique scent, one of the Chanel perfumes—it blended with her natural essence into something that made me almost dizzy. It was her… That, and what she had said.

  I pulled away. “That’s what I want. I want to be with you. Just you,” I said, looking up to her. Her eyes were moist… and then a tear dripped down her cheek. I was in a movie, except it was real.

  “I’ll be back Saturday night. I have the yoga series, and I’ve got to help a new client there, Chef Thomas Fine Foods. Do you know them?”

  “Sure, everyone who cooks knows Chef Thomas’ spices and flavorings. What’s the problem?”

  “They’ve been ransomed. The business is shut down. We have special programs for that stuff; we’ve dealt with it before. My guy at the Stanford Lab can do more than the government. We’ll get it sorted out. I’ll be back. Meet me here at the hotel next Saturday night.”

  “It’s a date, buddy, and you better not get into trouble down there. I don’t like lateness.”

  “Deal,” I said, standing and holding her. And she held me. Before we left the room, I reached into my briefcase and pulled out two packets of hundreds and gave them to her. I said, “This should hold you until I get back.”

  “You can’t buy my love,” she said, accepting the money. She walked over to her purse and placed the packets inside like this happened to her every week. But she was all smiles. “But I like that you try.”

  We parted at the hotel entrance. She went off with Enrique, and I went with Carlos. I gave Enrique two hundred-dollar bills and told him to be careful with her; she was precious to me. I watched them drive away. It was the second time that week that I had watched someone close to me go off somewhere. I was really alone now. I wasn’t scared or frightened, but I was aware of my new situation: single traveler with known enemies.

  I kept it light with Carlos. I asked him to pick me up next Saturday, when I would return. I asked him to call Lauren at Prime tonight and see if she needed a ride or anything else. He was now part of my team, so to speak. I told him I could help him in ways that he hadn’t yet considered. He handled himself like a pro. He dropped me off at the American Airlines entrance after offering to park and assist me inside. I gave him three bills and thanked him. We shared a sports-bro hug and shake, and I went in.

  I also fly first class whenever that level is available. Sometimes they call it business class. I registered, got my paper boarding pass, and went to the first-class lounge after security. Even thought I’m a computer guy, there’s a certain opaqueness about using old-style paper, whereas digital passes on cell phones are often vulnerable. I liked the old-world charm and the obscurity paper offered. Whatever.

  After a short time in the lounge, my flight was called. I walked down to the gate where there was a line waiting for economy boarding—I could walk onto the plane any time I wanted. I pulled out my cell phone for one last check. I had a voicemail, which must have come in between the lounge and here.

  “Santo wants his money back!” a voice said, dripping with anger and negative implications. My heart went up into my throat, and my breath stopped. Do I stay here? Will Lauren be attacked again? What do I do? What kind of a lightening bolt was this?

  I took several deep breaths to unlock my brain. The universe spoke to me, as loudly and clearly as I had ever heard it guide me: You have friends in Miami. You are not alone.

  I put the phone away and walked through the first-class entrance to the plane.

  THE END

  EPILOGUE

  Derek Randall, cyber security expert, spent almost two weeks in the great City of Miami working on the affaire Siroco. His best friend and most trusted associate went there to assist him. Together, they were successful on several levels, including satisfying the client’s needs and objectives, dispatching a criminal organization and its vicious principals and underlings, disrupting an international money laundering operation, creating a handsome payday for themselves, and creating a budget to compensate all associates on their side and, as well, to fund the Cathy McAvoy Minority Scholarship Fund at Prime Mortgage. Perhaps the best achievement of all for Derek was discovering the beautiful Lauren Berger and mapping a future together for them—in Miami, as she insisted.

  The people Derek encountered during the affaire Siroco had their own respective fates and futures. For the reader who might be interested in exactly what happened to them, here it is.

  Siroco International Investments Corporation was legally dissolved and its various assets liquidated. Lev Lavorosky was killed in the Biltmore SWAT raid. Richard Adams put up a protracted defense against the government’s criminal case against him for almost two years; it was finally dismissed for “lack of evidence.” He returned to his native Louisiana and got involved with some of his old business friends the
re. Several of the Siroco employees were killed in different confrontations. However, seven of those employees, taken alive by Pablo, had the unique honor of serving the medical needs of humanity at a clinic based on a small barrier island off Cuba. Nothing was ever heard from any of them again. Lev Lavorosky’s DNA was taken during his autopsy. Just as Linda Vargas had reported, it was matched to one Nikola Karadžić. The International Criminal Court confirmed that Mr. Karadzic was a wanted war criminal for crimes during the Balkans wars, but he had escaped and his whereabouts were listed as unknown. The US Central Intelligence Agency’s investigation revealed that Nikola Karadžić had undergone extensive plastic facial surgery and bore no resemblance to Lev Lavorosky… but he was the same person in a different identity and in a different criminal milieu. No one came to claim his body.

  Agent Howard Ross was given the highest award at the FBI for his work in dismantling Siroco and the Garcia money laundering operation. There was no mention in any of the FBI files concerning civilian cooperation in achieving that success. Likewise, Daryl Chapman was listed as individual unknown.

  Pablo Antonio Bustamonte was twenty-eight years old and a rich man when he met Derek Randall and helped him with two serious situations. In his own way, he was a perfectionist, and his organization reflected that high standard. Pablo was driven to help his people, and his people included not just those of Latin heritage, like himself, but also other minorities and, mainly, those who were poor and defenseless. He and his organization were like an equalizer force in the Miami area, and he was well respected—and unforgiving to those who felt his force. A couple of years after he assisted Derek, he got restless. Helping the neighborhood was no longer satisfying. He saw bigger challenges for himself. Toward that end, he hired Tony Robbins to coach him for future success, and he became Paul Andrew Bustamonte. His charisma, presence, and polished energy were unstoppable. He ran for Mayor of the City of Miami and won by a landslide with the vigorous help of thousands of campaign volunteers. He served his four-year term and accomplished many good things for the expanded concept of his people, but chafed at the limitations inherent in public office and decided it was not for him. He left office with political capital and lots of friends, and started a career of acquiring businesses and amalgamating them into a major corporate empire. His holding company, Bustamonte, Inc., was ultimately listed on the NYSE.