“Why Atlanta?”
“He mentioned I-20 one time, talking about a traffic accident. I-20 takes you right into Atlanta. He makes the drive in the morning and calls us on the way back. It takes him about ten hours, which is about right if he’s going to Atlanta. He’s also been talking about something new, like he’s got something in the works. He wants to up the scale.”
“How does he deliver the coke to you?”
“We meet at his cabin in McClellanville.”
“Where does James King fit into it?”
Kado looked up, surprised. “Jack’s in charge. King gets his dope directly from Jack, then he turns around and sells it to his guests.” It became all too clear to Kado. “Y’all were already onto us, weren’t you? Since Chad Rourke’s death. Jack had a feeling. He knows you’re coming.”
“That’s for us to worry about.” Then a very important question. “You know a guy named Tux Clinton?”
“Never heard of him.” That’s what I was hoping for. Tux had nothing to do with this crowd. If he did, I wouldn’t be able to go undercover.
I nodded. “Who gave you that black eye?”
“Jack did.” I didn’t say anything, waiting for more. “We were all at his place last night, all in the pool real late. Tela Davies was there.”
“You were in the pool with Tela Davies last night?” Chester asked. “I don’t feel sorry for you at all.”
“Don’t get me started. I’m not even going to say the words that come to mind when I think about her.” He shook his head. “She and I were talking kind of close. Out of nowhere, she started screaming at me, saying I was trying to make a move on her, which was total bullshit. Jack came up to me in the shallow end. Told me to leave. I told him she was lying. He said I wasn’t going anywhere without an apology. We ended up getting into it. The bastard got me in a headlock and held me underwater. Nearly drowned me.”
“This is your friend?”
“Used to be.”
We’d found my way in. Kado was the ticket. Forget James King. I wanted to go straight for Jack. I’d been using guys like Kado to go undercover for years, and if you’re careful, you can make them work. The trick was figuring out what angle to use. Same questions that we’d ask about King. What did Jack need? How could I make him trust me? Keeping the details from his runners meant Jack knew what he was doing. He wasn’t going to be easy to break. Kado said Jack was greedy, starting with only a few kilos but upping it nearly every month. Greed should be taken advantage of. It makes them weak. My wheels turned. I was already sculpting the perfect character.
We mentioned dropping the weapons charge and the DUI, and Kado’s ratty eyes lit up like disco balls. He agreed to make an introduction and assist in building a relationship between Jack and me and testify if necessary. Chester had the AUSA fax over two more documents, one for Kado to sign and the other ordering Kado’s release.
Officer Long didn’t like it at all. We told him we’d mention him in our report, but he wasn’t having it. “I don’t give two hyenas about some dang report. You DEA fags come in here and try to pull rank. Take my damn prisoners. You can have him but you’ll be sorry. Last thing you want is Darby Long on your back. I’ll be on you like white on shit.”
I couldn’t listen to it any longer. The DEA had a long history of butting heads with local law enforcement. “Officer, once you get a few more years under your belt you’ll begin to understand the meaning and value of teamwork.”
“I ain’t no rookie, son. You better watch your mouth.”
“I know. You’re gonna be on me like white on shit…or was it stink on rice? Either way, I’d like to see you try.” We weren’t going to fight, only exchanging pleasantries to make sure we understood each other. To be honest, I was warming up to him.
I stuffed my card in Officer Long’s shirt pocket, and we walked out with Kado and his lawyer. We told him we’d be in touch. As they drove off, I said, “Ches, did I tell you about this girl I met?”
“Ten times, man. Ten times. Why don’t you call her already? If you don’t, someone else will.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“Probably? I guarantee it.”
I took Chester’s advice. Liz met me at the Blind Tiger on Broad Street for a quick drink that evening. She wore this funky white top and a long, gypsy-like yellow skirt with sandals. I loved the quirkiness of her wardrobe. I kissed her on the cheek, not wanting to repeat the last time I tried to kiss her lips. We took a seat in the corner of the patio, up against a stone wall. A standing fan hooked up to a mist machine blew beads of cool water in our direction.
It was so good to see her again, and I could tell she shared in the excitement. I took her hand and we both leaned forward at the table and talked like best friends who hadn’t seen each other in years.
Out of the blue, during our second beer, she said, “You can kiss me now.”
“What?”
“I wasn’t ready on the boat, but I am now. Don’t make me beg.”
“You don’t have to ask twice.”
I reached over and gently guided her chin towards me. At long last, our lips met. She tasted like the cool water that rushes past stones in an Appalachian stream. It was a kiss that might have been talked about in the heavens, a kiss that would never let me go.
10
Within a week, Security Programs at the DEA headquarters in Atlanta approved Operation Coastal Snow, a name Ches penned. I would be issued a Social Security card under my new name, Travis Workman Moody.
Our team met in the boardroom for what Steve called a pre-mortem. I walked in, admittedly, with a bit of pride. I’d finally earned a little respect. Only days after being tapped on the shoulder, I had found a way in. Of course, Kado had fallen in our lap, but still. Making headway is the goal. No one cares how you get there.
Now I just had to convince Jack Riley to let me into his world, and I didn’t care how. I’d start by feeding his greed. Let him know that I could move a ton of product in a new market. Then I’d befriend him. Try to start working for him. Whatever it took to get close enough to figure out the details of his organization. Jack had kept Kado in the dark about his sources and most of his clientele. Who knew what Jack’s other runner, Ronnie, knew? I needed Jack to trust me more than either one of them. To build a case, we needed all the answers.
Steve summarized what our surveillance team found on Jack, eyeing the file through his glasses as he spoke. “Jack Riley was born in Amagansett, New York. That’s in the Hamptons for those of you who don’t summer there. Winston and Laura Riley are his parents. The family moved down here when Jack was nine. His sister, Sarah, died that same year, hit by a car downtown. Now, they’ve obviously got cash. Thirty or forty million. Own land in New York, Idaho, and South Carolina.”
One of the guys said, “That kind of money? What the hell’s Jack doing dealing cocaine?”
“Who knows? His folks live on the Battery now,” he said, referring to the most expensive span of real estate in South Carolina. Steve ran over Jack’s progression from college to his father’s business to his art gallery in Mt. Pleasant. Apparently one of the most respected galleries in town. Also, his involvement with the current Republican party presidential campaign. Jack’s latest venture caught Steve’s eye. “According to his tax records, he’s claiming profits from a privately owned company, J.R. Imports, L.L.C.” Steve stated the net. “Looks like he brings in everything from teak to used farm equipment.”
“The guy’s an entrepreneur,” I said, “but no way he’s bringing in coke on containers. He’s not swinging globes between his legs.”
Steve agreed but said, “We’ll take a look anyway.” He went on to explain that Jack owned a sixty-one-foot Viking sport fisher docked at Patriot’s Point and lived at the Renaissance, a collection of condos that stands next to the Motley building, Ron Motley being the man who fought and won against the big tobacco companies back in the nineties.
We went on for a couple of hours, dis
cussing surveillance, wiretaps, timelines, backstopping, that sort of thing. My focus was on backstopping, the process of building the character who’ll be going undercover. I enjoy it immensely. For the next week, Chester and I would do little else. I had to become Travis Moody.
Ches and I made the two-hour drive down the highway toward Savannah, Georgia, my new home. Of course, it would have been a ton easier if my new character could have lived in Charleston. I wasn’t particularly excited about having to spend half my summer away from home and Liz. But it made more sense: Charleston is not that big. Jack, Kado, and Ronnie already had that distribution network covered. At some point, over-saturation dilutes prices and draws attention. In other words, if I was Jack Riley, I wouldn’t want to bring on another big buyer from Charleston. Not to mention that there’s only so many potential buyers out there. If I was looking to move more product, I’d want to look for another market. Savannah was just far enough away to fit that niche.
Furthermore, Jack would trust me more if he knew Kado and I had some sort of history. Claiming that we’d grown up in the same town would reinforce to Jack that I wasn’t the law. Sure, we could have said that I’d just moved to town and run into Kado. That we’d reconnected and I’d mentioned I was interested in buying some quantity. But it’s not as bulletproof. And we wouldn’t get second chances. If Jack was good, he’d check in on me in Savannah in one day, and he’d leave convinced I was legit. He wouldn’t think it likely that the DEA or any law enforcement would go to the trouble of creating such an elaborate backstory.
How wrong he would be.
We stopped at an Exxon on the way and bought two lottery tickets and a bag of boiled peanuts. If there’s not a good peanut stand on the side of the road, you have to go with the gas station type. It works out sometimes. I cracked one open, dug out the peanuts with my teeth, and tossed the shell out the window.
“Not bad for a gas station.” I offered Chester the open bag.
“Hell, no,” he said, pushing the bag away. “I don’t eat those things.”
“Why not?”
“Look at ‘em. That’s squirrel food, man.”
“C’mon. It’s like Southern edamame.” I moved the bag back in front of him.
“Get that shit out of my face.”
I laughed. “All right, tough guy. You keep dreaming about a Melvin’s burger. I’ll shut up and eat my squirrel food. You don’t know what you’re missing, though.”
He changed the subject. Went for the jugular. “You gonna tell me what happened in Miami last year? I’m tired of wondering about it.” Seems he thought getting my fix on boiled peanuts might have softened me up.
I laughed to myself and cracked open another peanut. “Only if you keep asking me. Maybe on the fortieth try.”
“Seriously.”
“You know the story.”
“I know the official story. I know the rumors. I don’t know your side of it. I don’t know the truth.”
“It is what it is. Leave it alone.”
“Why don’t you like talking about it? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
I raised my voice. “Don’t fucking bring it up again, Ches. That’s it.”
He lifted his hands off the wheel for a second. “So be it.”
I got all the way to the bottom of the brown bag with ease. If someone was looking for us, all they had to do was follow thirty miles of peanut shells along the side of the road headed south. I crunched up the bag and stuck it in the cup holder. Then I took out my phone and spent about twenty minutes with a woman in our Atlanta office. She would line up a new Visa card, AAA card, insurance; all the things I needed to fill my wallet.
Once we arrived, we picked up a paper and I flipped through the classifieds while Chester drove us around and tried to be Mr. Tourguide. I had never been to Savannah. It’s a gorgeous place, very much like Charleston in many ways but with its own charm. Gardens and parks on every block. Spanish moss dripping from the oaks like wax from a candle. Students with backpacks walking their dogs, old men in hats wobbling around on canes saying hello to everyone they pass.
We looked at several apartments before finding one on Broughton Street that fit the fabricated lifestyle of Travis Moody. We met the landlord after lunch. The apartment was one of two in an old colonial style home. It had high ceilings and hardwood floors, fully furnished. He agreed to keep the bills under his name, and we signed the lease on the spot. We stopped at the DMV on the way home and grabbed a Georgia Driver’s license bearing my new address and then swung by Verizon for a new phone.
The week went by quickly. It’s all about the details in undercover work, and we prepared diligently for my new role as a financial advisor. Every chance I could, I called Liz. With so much to ask her, I wanted to drown myself in her thoughts. So much to say. The sound of her voice—subtly Southern—was like candy. And her laugh made me want to leave the case behind and spend every waking moment with her, but I had to stay focused.
I spent several days with Kado. Learned everything I could about Jack Riley. How his longtime girlfriend, Kayla Martin, had caught him sleeping with Tela Davies. Now, Jack was brokenhearted and single. How he’d lost his sister. How his cocaine habit was starting to get the best of him. Kado and I also worked on our story. We were supposed to share some of the same friends, so he schooled me on the particulars.
I also talked to him about staying on the right path, making sure he didn’t start regretting his decision—something I’d seen many times before. He could bring down this whole operation with a phone call, and I couldn’t let that happen. I had plenty of ammo against him and didn’t expect any problems, but you can’t be too careful with a drug dealer. They never cease to amaze.
At the end of the week, I dialed Kado on the drive back up to Charleston. He’d been back for a couple days.
“We’re ready, big guy,” I said. “You’re on.”
“Shit.”
“It’s all good.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“All you’ve got to do is be yourself. Stay relaxed. Mention my name when it seems appropriate. We already know he needs me. Tell him I can take care of Savannah and tell him you trust me. That’s it.”
“What if he says no?”
“Don’t let him.”
The waiting began. Soon my life would be turned upside down. At least I hoped so. If Kado could pull it off. If Jack bit.
In the meantime, I had to see Liz.
11
I’d never walked through the College of Charleston campus, and its antebellum architecture captivated me. I was in the heart of the South, the birthplace of the Southern belle, the home of hospitality. I was wandering aimlessly, looking for the Art Department, when I stumbled upon Randolph Hall, a dusty pink building with six aging columns rising in front. Old and uneven brick walkways lead from its front stairs out into the lush expanse of green grass and aging oaks that surrounded it. There was still cannon damage from the Civil War on the stucco walls. It was a war no one wanted to forget, and in this Southern city where it all began, I doubted anyone ever would.
A student pointed me in the right direction, and moments later I found my way to the Simons Center of the Arts and was looking at Liz through a glass door. She stood in front of a small class, showing slides. She wore a casual yellow dress cut right above the knees with lime green espadrilles tied around her ankles. (Don’t ask me how I know what the shoes are called.) The look on her face was one I had not seen before. I realized that it was there, in the classroom—in her element, deep in the world of art—that she became who she really was.
She noticed me standing there, told the class to wait, and came outside, beaming.
“Hi there!” She kissed me, bubbling with happiness. “I was wondering when I was going to see you again.”
“You missed me, didn’t you?”
“Don’t push it.”
“Kidding. Are you free today? Let’s do something.”
“Will you wait on me? T
his is my last class. Ten more minutes.”
“Of course.” She kissed me again. Man, I’d forgotten all about heartache. I felt like I could fly.
When her class got out, we rode to my house. From there, we took the Tate’s boat south to Buzzard’s Roost Marina in John’s Island. We got a table outside and sat drinking beers and eating bacon-wrapped shrimp stuffed with crab. It had to be over one hundred degrees and with the humidity, even hotter. Beau calls it the “Sauna Season.” After you’ve lived here for a while, you get used to the sweating. Showers are a waste of time. That Charleston heat makes you appreciate the seasons, though. No doubt about it. There’s nothing like the spring and fall here.
The temperature didn’t seem to bother Liz. She asked, “So what else have you been doing other than chasing me around?”
“Investment advisor things. We’re opening up a shop in Savannah, so that’s on the plate. Other than that, boring normalcy.”
“Maybe I’ll bring you lunch one day this week to break up the monotony. We could eat at your desk, and I could listen to you prophesize about the next market move.”
I nodded but really didn’t think that would be a good idea. Time to change the subject. “Tell me about New York. What’s your routine? Where do you live?”
“I live in the tiniest apartment you’ve ever seen on Bleecker and Charles, above a little French antique shop. It’s smaller than your closet. I get coffee at this Turkish place every morning, and it takes about seven minutes to walk up Hudson to my studio on Little West 12th. It’s the most wonderful walk in the world, and it always puts me where I need to be to paint. No matter what’s bothering me.” She made me smile. “So I did that and had a few hospital meetings and…oh, Wednesday, I touched a Van Gogh.”
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