by Tod Goldberg
Whatever that was.
8
The difference between being a spy and being a criminal is largely one of sanctioning. But when you've lost your sanction, it's important to know a few people who don't live on the right side of the law and don't care that you, for most of your life, did. Trust is the most important aspect of any relationship, but when you have two people with their particular agendas, agendas that might work at divergent angles, it's also important to have a strong sense of honor.
You like someone, you don't fuck them. At least not in business. You don't always find affinity with the people you work with, so the people you do, well, you foster it. In the end, if there is one, you'll have someone watching your back even if they don't exactly agree with who you are, or what you've done.
Which is why I didn't mind too much when Barry said he'd like to meet me at the Cereal Bowl in Coral Gables for breakfast. It's a restaurant that serves cereal. They also have supersweet parfaits and coffee, but mostly, it's just cereal. Lucky Charms. Cookie Crisp. Trix. And since it's across the street from The U, every college student not on the meal plan is there drying out from the night previous.
When I got to the restaurant, Barry already had two empty bowls in front of him and was looking back over the menu again with a rather studious expression.
"What's your poison?" I asked, sitting down.
"Been mixing it up," Barry said. "First bowl was Kix. Second bowl was something from the Count Chocula family. I'm thinking I might try some of this Kashi stuff."
"I'm a Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch man myself," I said.
"You're out of luck," Barry said. "They don't carry the Peanut Butter Cap'n here. Some union thing."
"It's okay," I said. "I don't actually eat cereal."
Barry pulled down his sunglasses and regarded me. Barry was the kind of guy who wore sunglasses inside. Barry was also the kind of guy who did creative things with his beard, so that it cut across his face in sharp angles. Barry was also the kind of guy who knew things about things you didn't know about, namely of the criminal variety. If Barry had a business card, it would say money launderer on it, but he had a lot of special skills. He was a confidence man in the truest sense: He kept things confidential. "You work out?" Barry said.
"A little," I said.
"I gotta start doing that, get off the cereal, get on the treadmill. What do you think of that Chuck Nor-ris exercise device?"
"Bow-flex?"
"Yeah."
"Couldn't hurt," I said
"Three in the morning, that infomercial comes on?" Barry said. "It takes every fiber of my being not to get on the phone and order one. Chuck Norris is very persuasive."
"Nothing good happens after two a.m.," I said.
"True, true," Barry said. A waiter came up then. Barry ordered something called the Dirt Bowl. I just asked for a glass of juice. "What do you normally eat for breakfast?"
"Al-Quaeda," I said. "Or yogurt."
"Good to know," Barry said.
I could talk diet all day with Barry, but figured I'd get down to it. "If you had a couple million in cash, where would you put it right now?"
"Under the mattress," Barry said. "This recession is killing me."
"Say you weren't that smart."
"Diamonds and art are out," he said. "All that blood-diamond business is making people turn their backs on the bling. And with art, every two weeks someone is getting held up at gunpoint for a Gauguin. Getting shot in the face for water and ink on paper, that's not my idea of wise investing. Gold is a nonstarter. Rare coins have been ruined by eBay. Same with vintage stamps. If you can get your hands on laser-guided missile technology, we could do business. My opinion? Get yourself someone legit as a front and you buy yourself a gas station."
The waiter came back then and dropped off Barry's order, which was completely made up of chocolate cereals, and my orange juice.
"This isn't for me," I said. "You ever hear of a guy named Dixon Woods?"
"Yeah," Barry said. He was trying to figure which milk to pour on his bowl. I pushed the skim milk in his direction, not that it would make a damn bit of difference. "Good example. He was around a lot last year. He fronted cash on a couple retail projects, probably made a killing. Haven't heard his name since."
"You ever see him?"
Barry shook his head no. "Everyone said he lived in a compound out there on the Fish. That he was some bad ass. People threw his name around like a threat. Figured you probably knew him."
"Where'd his money come from?"
"Big-game drugs. What I heard? He had his own opium field in Afghanistan."
"Where'd you hear that?"
"Around," Barry said.
"He move any locally?"
"Naw," Barry said. "He just chilled on the Fish. You ever see Apocalypse Now? I heard he lived like Brando did in that."
"People call Fisher Island the Fish?"
"No," Barry said. "But I do. Ten years ago, no one called diamonds bling." I took a sip of my orange juice while Barry shoveled down some of his cereal. The milk had already turned brown from the chocolate. It literally was like watching someone eating dirt. "You want a taste?" Barry asked.
"I'll pass."
"Anyway, point is, Woods was putting straight cash into projects that weren't likely to get looked at too closely. You know the Fish is privately owned, for instance."
"I didn't," I said.
"You got real estate money you don't want anyone to look at," he said, "you invest in three places: Indian land, private islands or the tourist trade. Bars. Strip clubs. T-shirt shops. I mean, you got a plane, a couple tough guys to fire guns at people, make your way to Africa or Haiti, but you gotta stay Stateside, that's your haven. Plus, a place like the Fish, it's all billionaires out there. You don't get a billion dollars by working straight. So if you've got two, three million to put down in real land to start up an espresso place, you think Bill Gates and Oprah are going to ask questions?"
"They live out there?"
"Metaphorically speaking," Barry said.
I pulled out the photo Fiona cobbled together using the shots from Palm Life. Sam had yet to get the paperwork from his contact at the FBI, so this was all I had. "You know this guy?"
"Don't know if I do," Barry said.
"Would you tell me?"
"Probably not." Barry swallowed up the last bits of his cereal. The bowl was still filled with chocolate milk. "What's the protocol here? Think I can tip it and drink it?"
"What would Chuck Norris do?" I said. That was enough for Barry. He picked up the bowl and slurped its contents down. The waiter came by and asked us if we'd like anything else. "Another bowl of dirt for my friend," I said.
"Easy on the Cocoa Krispies," Barry told the waiter.
"Say you did know this guy," I said.
"Say I did."
"Any idea where I might be able to find him?"
"Wherever there are rich old ladies," Barry said.
"Do you have a name?"
"Ronnie. Bobby. Ricky. Lonnie. Like that." There was a real look of disgust on Barry's face and palpable spite in his voice.
"Did he screw you on something?"
Barry took off his sunglasses, dabbed his napkin into a glass of water and took a few moments to wash off the lenses. The waiter came by and dropped off another bowl of cereal. "Strictly my opinion? You steal from old ladies, I don't care if they are rich, you bring disgrace on the whole criminal profession."
Made sense and I told Barry that. My cell phone rang. It was Sam. I excused myself and stepped outside. A line had formed to get into the Cereal Bowl. I tried to see if I recognized anyone from the line that usually gathered outside my place. Everyone looked familiar. In the future, people would wait in line to wait in line.
"What do you have, Sam?"
"A name," Sam said. "Eddie Champagne."
"That has to be an alias," I said.
"No," Sam said. "It checks. He filed the report on Woods two year
s ago after Woods kicked down his apartment door and smacked him around a little bit, but then dropped the charges."
"There statements?"
"Yeah. Woods says Champagne ripped his mother off, but Woods' mother says it's not true. They were in love. She gave him the money. Regardless, someone got Champagne to pull it back off the books."
"Does Champagne have a sheet?"
"Fraud. Bad checks. Theft. A gun charge."
"There you go. What else?"
"Cricket's call came in," Sam said. "The bad guys are coming tonight."
"Perfect," I said. "What about the picture of Dixon? Cricket recognize him?"
"No. I got my guy to pull Champagne's mug. No surprises there. It's her husband. Or not her husband."
"How'd she take that?"
"Your mom just kept pouring her drinks," Sam said.
"That's always been one of her best solutions. Something's wrong, throw a little alcohol on it. Apart from that, how are they getting along?"
"Like old friends."
"Really?"
"No," Sam said.
"No," I said. "I didn't figure that would be much of a match. Try to keep everyone placated. If you have to, lock my mother in the garage. Just throw in a carton of cigarettes and tune the TV to E! and crank up the sound. She'll be perfectly content."
"There's something else," Sam said. "I got a call this morning from D.C."
"Yeah."
"Whoever Natalya's source is has people listening," he said. "And talking."
"And?"
"That's all they said."
"Any line on who this is?"
"Someone who doesn't want you coming off the blacklist," Sam said.
"Did you tell them it's crap? I mean, Sam, you were there for these things."
"Michael, if I tell them I was there, I'm just as culpable if people really start listening. It's my pension. It's my career. All of it."
"You think I don't know that?" I said.
"I know you do," Sam said.
"Listen," I said. "I think we can take care of all of our problems. Meet me at Cricket's. Bring Fiona, too."
I hung up with Sam and went back inside. Barry was working on his new bowl. It was frankly staffing to bother me in a real visceral way, so I didn't sit back down. "Let me ask you something," I said. "If I wanted to get a legit loan on a property, but get someone to appraise it higher than it was worth, set up dummy mortgage accounts, fake a credit history, how quickly could you set something up without drawing any attention to yourself?"
"If you're good, that's not a concern."
"Consider it implied," I said.
"For you?"
"For anyone."
"Trusted business associates, I could get it done in one business day. Two at the most. Normal friendly percentages, of course. How quickly the bank would fund the loan would be up to the bank."
"Forget the actual loan. Just the approval."
"Same deal. But you need the money, I could probably route that in under a week."
"What about someone who bought you a delicious breakfast and who hates to see the criminal profession disgraced?"
Barry considered this. "Three hours on the dummy stuff and approval. Twenty-four on the loan. Maybe less."
"I'll be in touch," I said.
"I know you will," Barry said. "As always, remember who helped you."
"Impossible to forget," I said.
Used to be, I helped myself. Used to be, I only called in support when I was really cornered, when there were tanks on the horizon and SCUDs in the air. Now here I was, in a cereal restaurant, talking to a guy with funny facial hair.
What was it they used to say? A new world order.
Twenty minutes later, while I stood in the chemical supplies aisle at Lowe's, my cell phone rang again. Perfect timing.
"Hank Fitch," I said.
"Who the fuck are you?" the voice on the other line said. I was expecting a woman. I was expecting Bolts, specifically, but this was a man.
"Hank Fitch," I said again. No reason to give my entire resume.
It was a good ten seconds before the man on the other end of the line responded. "Do you know who the fuck this is?"
"Fascinating question," I said. 1 was looking for a cleaning product that had the appropriate amount of sodium bisulfate in it for a little project I was going to take on later that afternoon.
Another ten seconds went by. "You some sort of joker?"
I hadn't had a conversation like this since high school. I had a pretty good feeling I knew who I was talking to, so I hung up. Judging by the ten-second delay, my guess was that Dixon Woods was calling from Afghanistan, using a satellite phone or bouncing through a computer. Either way, if he really wanted to talk, he'd call back.
Sure enough, two minutes later my phone rang again. "Hank Fitch," I said.
Ten seconds later: "Motherfucker…"
I hung up again. Instead of the cleaning product I was looking for, I found a five-pound cake of sodium bisulfate, put it in my cart and headed for the electrical department when my phone rang again.
"Hank Fitch," I said.
Ten seconds later: "Do not hang up on me."
"Is this a prank call? I'm a very busy man with no time to listen to obscenity."
"You put my name out. Here I am."
"I put out a lot of names," I said. "Hank Fitch is in the business of putting out names." I didn't even really know what that meant, but I liked the sound of it.
"Dixon Woods," he said.
"Oh," I said. "Yes. The international man of mystery. You put me on the news last night. Something I try to avoid, but then you're not easy to get in contact with. I even drove by your mother's house in Jupiter, but you weren't playing in the front yard."
"Bullshit," he said.
"No bullshit," I said.
"She's dead," he said.
I knew I should have had Sam check her out physically. "You should tell your friend Eddie Champagne that," I said. It didn't really matter, after all. For what I was thinking, she could be dead or alive or stuffed and mounted.
"You think I'm stupid?"
Yes. "No, of course not."
"I know what your guy took from my folder. I know what he knows."
He wasn't stupid. "Here's the deal, Dix," I said. "I'm a businessman. I have certain needs. Needs I sense a person in your unique position could assist me with."
"And what's that position?"
I pushed my cart outside into the garden section. Picked up some new flowers for the front of Cricket's house, a couple pallets of daisies, considered some perennials, something to amp up curb appeal.
"I have a lot of money I want to spend on farm machinery," I said, "and I understand you are in the farming business overseas. Just looking to make a deal."
"Your sense is wrong," Dixon said, but there wasn't much conviction in his voice. The version of Dixon Woods that Eddie Champagne had floated out was too specific not to be based in some kind of truth, too believable to people who can actually do some checking if they have the resources.
"I've got three million dollars I'd like to spend," I said. "I will either spend it with you, or I will spend it with someone else. It's little matter to me. But I figured a person like you, Dixon, with your background, would be able to handle this discreetly. As a token, I will take care of Eddie Champagne permanently for you. You might know that he's been putting your name out there, too. And not always in a flattering fashion. Nevertheless, he told me what I needed to know about you and, drama aside, I was compelled."
Instead of the normal ten-second delay, there was a pause of a full minute, during which time I pulled my cart back inside, took a look at some decorative stone work Lowe's had on display, moved toward the window-treatment aisle.
"I appreciate that," Dixon finally said.
"I'm meeting this week with an old friend from way back east who is spending some time in Miami this month. I'd love for you two to meet, see if we can't find a mutual
ly advantageous business arrangement. Stop worrying about inferior products from Colombia and the like," I said, just to see if Dixon would bite, to see if those little tacks on the map of South Beach meant what I thought they meant.
"I can be on a plane in the morning," Dixon said. "In Miami by tomorrow night."
I picked up a box of solar-powered Malibu lights and tossed them in my cart. A nice touch.
"Call me when you get in," I said.
"Don't worry," Dixon said. "You'll know when I'm in Miami." And then, this time, he hung up.
9
Best-case scenario: You have a plan of attack and everything happens just as it is supposed to. Let's say, for instance, you're waiting for men to arrive with whatever it is you need.
A hostage.
Guns.
Money.
Or maybe it's just a message: The definitive new set of rules that dictate that no one shall make bombs defused by using either a red or blue wire but instead everyone will use the much more easily found black wire and that popular myths of bomb defusion shall reflect said change.
That would be a good message. Helpful to the world. Kids would grow up safer. The terrorists and bad guys and evildoers would lose.
The problem is, most messages, if they're delivered to you personally, end up being bad news. So you learn to prepare for the bad news first. You plan and you counterplan. You devise. You configure. You craft.
You alter.
You mine.
Your best-case scenario ends up being that you've prepared the perfect trap and you end up not needing to use it at all. James Bond, he never had a plan. He had gadgets some research-and-development team would have needed decades to perfect. Jason Bourne? A robot in human skin. Every spy you've ever seen on TV or in a movie has the benefit of special effects-when it gets down to business, all you really have is your plan and your ability to throw it out the window and react to circumstance, deal with consequence, keep fighting.
Or, as I first learned: You either follow tradecraft or you create it.
I didn't fully understand that credo then, but now, when all I can depend on is what I can find myself, it's never made more sense.
