by Tod Goldberg
I expected that, at any moment, he'd refer to New York as the Apple, Paris as the City of Light and Beirut as the Paris of the Middle East, and that he'd use air quotes each time. I also expected that if we somehow got back to his job in Los Angeles, he'd drop City of Angels and Tinseltown in the mix, as if La La wasn't enough. If he managed to work his way to Reno being the Biggest Little City in the World, I was going to throw him off the building.
"Yeah," I said. I had to gather myself a little. The air quotes had me dizzy. "Listen. Daisy and I appreciate your time. Gunther was always so helpful, and we've had such a great relationship with the magazine over the years, and so I hope you can do me the smallest favor."
"Mr. Gatz, I'm happy to do anything you need. It's just an honor to meet you. I'm a fan of all that you do," he said. "And even though we're changing the direction of the rag, we'll always have space for you and your-" James stopped midsentence, as if he wasn't quite sure where he was going in his conversation with me, which was possible, since he had already professed to being my fan. He looked at Fiona. He looked back at me. Had some cosmic convergence, continued on. "And your"-air quote- "lady"-air quote-"as long as I'm in charge of the art. Though, candidly, we're going to be moving more toward a photojournalism vibe… toward a feeling of…" He started searching for words again, but I was afraid he was only given to one cosmic convergence a day, my sense being that James Dimon only knew about a hundred, hundred and fifty independent words, and the rest were catchphrases.
"Being present in the moment?" Fiona suggested.
James Dimon snapped. As in, he actually started snapping. "Yes! Yes! That certain pate de foie gras you just can't find in other magazines out here. Gritty. Real. That's where I'm headed with Palm."
"Wonderful," I said. And I meant it, so I put air quotes around it, let James know we were of the same mind-set.
"Stunning," Fiona said.
Fiona turned and gave me a coy glance that, in the past, has meant that the fuse is lit and we have twenty seconds to get out of the building before it comes crashing down around us. I figured it was more of an interior fuse in this case, so I said, "Wonderful," again, because if James Dimon truly hated everything that had come before his arrival-and I suspected his stay would be short enough that he'd probably want to hold on to the boxes, lest he announce that anyone or anything else had a pate de fois gras-he probably would have no problem whatsoever letting me look through the photos of Cricket O'Connor tripping the light fantastic for literacy. In fact, I suspected that if I said tripping the light fantas tic, he'd start snapping again, which was something I wanted to avoid until I really needed it, as an idea was beginning to take shape in my mind about how I might use someone of James Dimon's particular… skill… down the line. If he wanted gritty, realistic, present in the moment shots of South Beach's glitterati, I thought there'd be some opportunities for us both to benefit. "About that favor, sport," I said.
"Anything, Mr. Gatz."
Once you've infiltrated a hostile enemy environment, the best way to find out if anyone cares about anything is to be as general as possible. Have specifics ready in case the conversation should devolve, but on the strong chance you're dealing with someone who clearly only has eyes for themselves- which, in the civil world (or the world not possessed by top secret documents, locations of missing nuclear warheads, stashes of drugs and guns) is the majority of the population-all you'll need is earnest banality rendered in the blandest colors.
"There was a benefit we attended last year; and Daisy just adored the ice sculpture. We were hoping we might take a look through your file photos, perhaps make a copy or two, so that Daisy can show it to an artist she has in mind for our own event." I reached over and put my hand on Fiona's, to let James know this was all her fault, that we were just two guys who knew that when our ladies wanted something, well, we did what we could.
"What was the gig?"
The gig. I wondered if I was on camera somewhere. "A fund-raiser for literacy held at Love/ Blue," I said.
"Yeah, yeah," James said. "What month was that?"
"May," Fiona said.
"May, and they had an ice sculpture?" James said. He shook his head like he was trying to get water out of his ears. "Cuh-razy." James gave us both an incredulous smile.
"Tell you what," I said. I was pretty much done being Jay Gatz. "Why don't you go get that magazine, figure out where you keep the photos and maybe bring me and my lady a bottle of water?" A yogurt wouldn't hurt, but I figured I shouldn't push it. Not that James Dimon would feel the push. He wouldn't have known if I broke two of his ribs. He'd just keep on keeping on. I added, "Please," however, just to be cordial.
"Hey, pas de probleme, Mr. Gatz." James stepped outside his office for a moment and came back in with the issue in hand. A moment later, an assistant walked in with water for both of us. I wasn't thirsty, but I liked asking James to get us water. "Yeah, yeah," he said. He had the magazine open and was scanning each image, commenting page by page. "Lighting was all wrong. Can't tell if it was a party or a funeral. Too many saggy-baggies. Gunther, always an F-stop off."
"James," I said. "Sport. That favor. The pictures."
An hour and forty minutes later, we found what we were looking for. James Dimon was long gone, as even he had quickly tired of our patter as we sifted through the photos-I said sport at least twelve times, Fiona used darling as a verb, noun and adjective, sometimes in the same sentence-and left us in the art morgue after the first five minutes, saying he had to get back to the renovation of the moment. I told him I'd be in touch. Fiona kissed him on both cheeks. He sent in his assistant with coffee and even more bottled water. It was like being on vacation.
After searching through contact sheets and stills filled with photos of young women dancing with old men, old women dancing with young men, young men dancing with old men, and young men dancing with other young men, all in the name of literacy and, it appeared, very shiny clothing, we finally found a photo of Dixon Woods and Cricket O'Connor.
It wasn't from the original photo in the magazine that first drew us into the office of Palm Life, but one that was taken as the guests were first arriving at the event. There were actually four photos taken of the couple, all a millisecond apart. In the first photo, Cricket and Dixon can be seen holding hands and looking straight ahead, but already Dixon's hand is rising up to cover his face, by the last photo he's fully concealed. There isn't a single shot of his entire face, but rather four shots of his face in varying degrees of cover.
"You can piece these together into a head shot?" I asked Fiona.
"Easy," she said. There was a more serious tone to her voice than I expected.
"Do you know him?"
"No," she said.
"He's not Special Forces," I said, though he had his game down, at least in terms of photos.
"No," she said, "he's not."
"I'd guess he wasn't even ROTC."
Fiona rearranged the photos on the table, put a hand over Cricket, then over Dixon's hair, then again across his midsection.
"Is there a reason he'd want to buy guns?" Fiona asked.
Before I could answer, my cell rang. It was Sam.
"Mikey," he said, his voice a barely audible whisper, "I'm in a bit of a… situation."
"Where are you?"
"Offices of Longstreet Security," he said. He gave me the address. It was near the airport, just a few miles away.
"Armed?"
"Them?"
"You."
"Not enough."
I checked my watch. "We'll be there in fifteen minutes."
"At the gate, if they ask, tell them you're with Chazz Finley," Sam said. "That's two Zs."
5
When you're Sam Axe, certain things come easy.
Women.
Free drinks.
Trouble.
Before he called me asking for help, Sam had spent the afternoon doing two things: One: getting Cricket O'Connor out of her house and into a safe t
emporary location, which, in this case, meant Veronica's place for a few hours, so he could… Two: learn as much as possible about Dixon Woods in hopes it would lead him to the man scamming Cricket.
He figured a trip down to Longstreet's offices would be as good a place as any to search for a man who, according to the government, didn't exist. Well, that's not entirely true: The FBI told Sam that Dixon existed from 1966 through 1984. Then existed in a number of different authorized government capacities. And then, upon discharge, some unauthorized capacities before latching on with Longstreet. But none of these roles had managed to require a valid passport, credit history or permanent address.
"Born in Portland, Oregon. Moved to Fort Lauderdale with his parents during high school. Entered the Army at age eighteen," one of Sam's sources told him, and then ran down the same information Sam already had. Strictly HR stuff. Sam's source was a guy named Kyle. Sam had never met Kyle in real life, thought that if he ever did meet him that he'd be about five foot one and ninety-seven pounds but would drive a Corvette. Sam had him pegged as a "nice-car-sorry-about-your-penis" type-a real compensator. That's why he'd always been such a great source for Sam over the years, even before the FBI made Sam my de facto watchdog, because Sam would regale Kyle with stories about hot missions and hot women and other hot lies, and Kyle would get all hopped up over them. He'd ask for minute details, which gave Sam the impression Kyle was using the stories for some other purpose in his after-work life. Whatever. None of it was true, but if the kid liked it, who was Sam to pass judgment? Kyle was a computer jockey who liked to give Sam information in exchange for stories, and Sam was happy to comply. He hadn't even needed to actually tell a true story yet.
"You got a photo of him there, Philly?" Sam always called him Philly, because Kyle once told Sam he was originally from Philadelphia, so Sam figured the kid might like a nickname, and there was no way to make Kyle sound cool.
"His file has been wiped. All I can get you is his first driver's license photo."
That was a start. Better than anything else, Sam supposed, but not better than whatever Longstreet probably had. Sam tossed out one other thought. "There any Interpol reports on him?"
Sam could hear Kyle breathing hard on the other end of the line. Freaky kid. Getting off on this stuff probably, but whatever. Doing fine American service. "No, but there's a police report out of Jupiter, Florida, from two years ago. Misdemeanor disturbing the peace and assault. Charges were dropped. That's the only official line that's not sealed."
Jupiter was a hundred miles up the coast, but a very long way from Afghanistan. Odds were, if Dixon Woods got in trouble in Jupiter for something, it was the same guy Cricket O'Connor was married to, or was somehow connected to her. Guy like Dixon Woods, if he got caught doing something really severe, odds were fair he had enough government chits that he could call in a few favors. Sam knew something about that, for sure, which made him think of something else.
"What about a marriage license? To a Cricket O'Connor?"
There was nothing. Sam thanked Kyle, gave him a brief story about taking down a terrorist cell in Montreal-a little-known group of French-Canadian separatists, Sam told him-and when even Sam realized how absurd this was all getting, hung up and headed to the offices of Longstreet.
Longstreet was hardly an anomaly in Miami. Since Iran-Contra, the war on drugs, the first Gulf War, and then up through the second war on drugs and the war on terror, private paramilitary firms have popped up all over the world, essentially offering the same service everywhere: military expertise on an a la carte basis. But since the destabilization of Iraq and Afghanistan, groups like Longstreet have also become multimillion-dollar corporations willing to drop trained personnel into a hot zone for an appropriate fee. Diamond mines, opium fields, small cities and anywhere private security was needed. In Iraq, the United States actually subcontracted out firms to do the dirty work the military couldn't, by rule of international law.
Miami was home to a half dozen such firms. The reasoning was both natural and mundane: Florida works like a vortex for the international criminal trade, which is one of the chief employers of these firms, but it is also an easy access point into and out of the country to the unstable countries of the Caribbean, Africa and the Middle East, where most business is conducted. A flight from Miami to Dubai is just fifteen hours. An ambien away. Simple. Guyana, eight. Haiti, two.
And, in the realm of the mundane, there's no state income tax in Florida. Which means more money.
You want to find rich assholes with guns, find a state with no income tax, lax laws on personal firearms and easy access to one of the worst-secured ports in the country. That's Miami.
Plus, when people (or nations or warlords) want to hire you, appearances matter. A Miami address? That says sun, splash, Don Johnson and superfit hired killers.
What Sam found, however, was a warehouse in an industrial park adjacent to the airport district. Surrounding the warehouse was a barbed-wire fence and a front entrance that looked particularly fortified.
Gaining entrance to a secure facility is about understanding how security consultants and the people who've hired them to design their alarm systems think. The first issue is that they are most concerned about keeping you out. So they make the front door look imposing.
Sam saw a keypad.
An infrared camera.
Titanium bars over blast-safe glass.
A sign that warned unwanted visitors that an armed response was already on the way.
Average crooks see these things, the first thing they are going to do is decide it's not worth the effort. Average sales person cold-calling cold-calls someone else.
The second issue is that like any other profession, security consultants are sloppy and human and prone to doing things in a half-assed way if they think appearances will be enough to stop inspection.
And that means, if you're lucky, all of the above will be proctored by a man with a clipboard sitting on his ass next to a plywood arm letting cars into and out of the facility, which is precisely what Sam found.
Fortunately, Sam hadn't bothered to change his clothes from the morning's activities, nor had he bothered to dip into a sports bar for a few hours. So he looked and smelled fresh, which worked to his advantage when he pulled up to the gate.
"Chazz Finley," he said to the guard. Sam stared straight ahead, trained his eyes on the cars in the parking lot, noted that it looked like a giant had crapped out the same ten brown Hummers right in a row.
The guard flipped through the papers on his clipboard. "Don't have you down here, sir," he said.
"Of course you don't," Sam said. He faced the guard now. Trying some of that Jedi shit. Confident. Stern. Not taking no for an answer. Official. After about twenty seconds of that, he said, "Are you going to wait here all day or do I have to drive through this gate?"
"Sir, I'm afraid you're not on the list." The guard put his hand on his gun, a real gun, not a toy like most security have, a little snub. 22 or something. No, this guy was holding a. 357. "Which means you're not getting in."
This was harder than Sam had anticipated. Usually, a guy working a gate is susceptible to double-talk, since at nine bucks an hour double-talk was too much trouble to fight with for most people. But this guy, he was some sort of monk with his mind-control abilities. He hadn't been trained. He'd been conditioned, and Sam actually appreciated that.
Nevertheless, Sam tried lobbing a grenade at him just to see the look on his face, hope for an inch of collateral, take a centimeter of recognition. A rat can get into a building if there's enough space under a wall for light to shine through. Sam figured Dixon Woods might be that light.
"I'm here about Dixon Woods." Sam spit out the name, figuring, Hey, it's true. Let's see what happens?
"Oh, yes," the guard said. He moved his hand from his gun like it was suddenly electric. "Very sorry." And like that, the plywood arm rose, and the guard went back to his post. Didn't even bother to get on the phone. Just
went back to imagining it was five o'clock somewhere. A sentiment Sam could get behind, for sure.
Sam parked next to one of the Hummers, his Cadillac suddenly a dwarf. He never understood the desire people have to drive Hummers, particularly ex-military types. They always reminded him of the back pain he felt for the entire Cold War period he was involved in, hunched as he was in HumVees in places a helluva lot worse than an industrial park in Miami. You felt every bump in a HumVee. A Cadillac, well, that was like driving a Long Island iced tea. Power, grace earned through years of performance and, ultimately, comfort.
At the employee entrance to Longstreet was, predictably, another guy with a clipboard. At least this guy wasn't armed. He didn't even look of drinking age. Sam took a look at the guy's uniform and saw it was from Action Response Security.
Longstreet, one of the most powerful security firms in the world, with operatives in every conflict known and unknown, used rent-a-cops. But then, there was the natural question of just what they were keeping under cover. If there was anything with an outsized importance-ten thousand pounds of cocaine, maybe an actual poppy field grown hydroponically, things like that-they'd have their own guys at all points of entrance.
"Chazz Finley," Sam said to the man with the iron-on badge. His name tag said his name was Harvey. Harvey. Who named their kid Harvey anymore?
Harvey handed Sam a visitor's pass to clip to his shirt. "Keep this on you," he said. "It's my ass if you're walking around without it."
Sam winked, because that's what a guy like Chazz Finley would do, and Harvey opened the door for him. Before Sam walked in, but after seeing how empty and unsecure the corridors looked, he had a thought. "My associates will be joining me shortly," he told Harvey.
