“Is there anything you can do to prevent it?”
I leaned across the table. “This is a life-or-death confidence, Mr. Garcia. But I know I can trust you.”
“Of course. It goes both ways. Tell me.”
“I got the Suffolk County District Attorney’s office involved. The deputy D.A. is coordinating everything with the federal authorities. This is gang-related criminal conduct across state lines. It’s also international smuggling and a RICO violation on a large scale. That means he was able to get the FBI and the Coast Guard directly involved. When the ship pulls into the dock north of Boca, they’ll have a surprise welcoming committee.”
He leaned back with a smile and lifted his glass. “Felicidades, Miguel. Buen trabajo.”—“Good work, Michael. Well done.”
I touched glasses with him. “Quizá. La semilla es plantada. Esperemos que se necesita.”—“Perhaps. The seed is planted. Let’s hope it takes.”
Actually, that was a silent prayer. All I said out loud was, “Gracias, Señor Garcia.”
* * *
The next day, I felt like a juggler who has a couple more balls and clubs in the air than he can keep flying. I had to get my feet on solid ground with at least one of them.
I took Terry to lunch at the No-Name Restaurant on the Boston docks for a revitalizing, overflowing plate of the best fried whole clams this side of Ipswich.
Terry gave me an account of the mind-boggling details she had been nailing down for the wedding, which was on for four p.m. the following day. An amazing number of guests, some going back to our grammar and high school days, had altered schedules and travel plans to be with us on “our day.”
I realized then that the shortening of our wedding date meant that Terry was engaged in a juggling act that rivaled mine. The only noticeable difference was that if she made a miscue, none of our guests were threatening to blow our brains out.
* * *
The following day was D-Day. It was crunch time in so many different directions. I was grateful for the superstition about not seeing the bride on the day of the wedding until she came down the aisle. It left me the freedom to accomplish what seemed impossible before four o’clock.
The previous night, Harry and I had flown the private plane Billy Coyne’s funds were still providing to a small airport on the southern end of Key Largo. We rented a car and drove to the docks by the inlet on Garden Cove across from Rattlesnake Key toward North Creek Sound. We each took turns sleeping while the other scanned the coast for the lights of a ship.
Just as the sun was beginning to cast thin rays of light over the horizon, the ship pulled into the deserted dock. Harry called Chico in Mayagüez to have him notify the ship’s captain that we were to be permitted aboard to examine the merchandise before unloading.
The word must have been passed. No one stopped us when we boarded the ship and went right to the hold. We descended the steps with flashlights. The odor was less pungent this time. Each of the cages was covered with a tarpaulin.
Without lifting the tarp, Harry picked a cage at random and used a knife to dig a small hole in the side of what looked like a solid base. When the knife penetrated, a tiny trickle of white powder flowed out. Harry touched a damp finger to it and tasted it.
He made a face that could mean anything.
I whispered, “What, Harry?”
“These bozos have tapped into the mother lode. This stuff is the purest of the pure.”
“And you’d know?”
“Take it on faith.”
I did. I dialed the cell phone of Chico. The boss of the gang was with him waiting for the call. I let Harry talk.
“The shipment looks good. I’ll take it. Give me the number to wire the money.”
Harry wrote down the number and hung up. He dialed another number and set up the immediate transfer of funds—specifically, $50,000.
We waited. My phone jumped in three minutes flat. Harry answered it. It was Chico. “What the hell is this? I could get $50,000 for a tenth of one case on any street corner. We had a deal.”
“We still have a deal. The rest is coming. The $50,000 was just to be sure of the transfer numbers. Just send back a formal acceptance of the money and I’ll send the rest. Do it now.”
Harry nodded to me as he hung up. “He accepted the first payment.”
I grabbed the phone and hit the number for Billy Coyne. He caught it on the first ring. “It’s done. He took payment for the drugs. The crime’s complete. Let it rip.”
Billy Coyne was on it. “I hit the button, kid. It’s a go on both fronts.”
I ignored the “kid” and hustled Harry up to the deck and down the gangplank for a front row seat in the shadows.
Billy was on top of his game. Men and women with the big letters “FBI,” on both sides of their jackets came out of nowhere with guns drawn. They poured onto the dock and up the gangplank.
The quiet of dawn was pierced with shouts of “Drop it!,” “Hands up!,” “Down on your knees,” all over the ship. We heard the FBI leader tell the captain that the ship was confiscated for smuggling drugs.
A line of the crewmen with hands cuffed behind them started moving down the gangplank and into the waiting federal vehicles. I could hear pieces of Miranda warnings echoing all over the ship.
Harry grabbed my arm. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Time is running.”
I was about to run with him, when I saw something that had to be done. I ran back up the gangplank past the line of arrested crewmen to get to the FBI leader. I made my strongest lawyerly pitch in rapid-fire whispers. He held firm until I told him what the black African crewman, Martin, who was then halfway down the gangplank in cuffs, had done to save the animals and the two Brazilian stowaways, Ansuro and Ancarit.
He finally relented and shouted an order. One of the agents uncuffed the African, who looked back in surprise. He saw me and understood. He bowed to me, and I returned it, before he ran down the gangplank to his personal freedom.
Before Harry and I left, most of the cages had been stacked on the dock to be guarded and picked up by government trucks later. I got a nudge from Harry. “Hey, Mike, what about the animals?”
“Go take a look.”
Harry ran down the row, lifting tarp after tarp to stare into empty cages.
“Where the hell are the animals?”
“Come on, Harry. I’ll explain on the way.”
THIRTY-FIVE
OUR CHARTERED JET was headed top throttle back to Boston when I got the call from Billy Coyne. God willing, the second of many shoes was about to drop. My hopes rose when I detected a grin in his voice.
“Smooth as silk, kid—Michael. I had the FBI office in Puerto Rico on alert. It didn’t take much when I told them whom they were about to bring down. When you gave me the word that Chico Mendosa and the top brass of that gang of scum had accepted the payment for the drugs, the FBI troops stormed their headquarters like Patton’s army. They’ve been trying to break that animal smuggling operation for years.”
Now I was grinning. “Way to go, Mr. Coyne.”
There was a pause. He said it quietly. “No, Michael. I have to admit it. This was yours. You set them up like tenpins for us. That partner of yours is going to be busting his buttons when I tell him about this.”
That was the part that put the smile deep in my heart. Two down, one to go.
When we landed, I drove Harry back to Ritz-Carlton—he’d made no offer to move out of the lap of luxury he now no doubt felt he deserved. I had one more door to close before I could give every ounce of my attention to Terry and our wedding.
I drove directly to the El Rey de Lechón Restaurant in Roslindale. The lunch crowd of old-timers was just breaking up. I joined Mr. Garcia at his table just as the last of his companions went out the door. Chef Ben was in the kitchen.
“What would you like, Michael? Ben’s kitchen is still open for you.”
This was the most bittersweet moment I could remember, and the bitter
part was weighing heavily on my heart.
I said this completely in Spanish. “Mr. Garcia, I’m so sorry. I’m going to break your heart.”
I could see lines of pain form on his forehead. I kept on in Spanish. “I’m speaking now to your chef, Ben Capone.”
“I don’t understand. Ben’s in the kitchen. Shall I call him here?”
“There’s no need, Mr. Garcia. Ben is listening to everything we say. He has been every time we’ve spoken in confidence. Look under the table. I’m sure you’ll find a listening device. And he understands Spanish perfectly.”
I could see disbelief as well as shock on Mr. Garcia’s face. I put my hand on his arm. I went on in Spanish.
“I’m speaking to you now, Ben. I know you hear and understand every word. You’re a traitor to Mr. Garcia and to the Nyetas. I know you passed everything you heard us say on to the insectos. That first day when Manuel, the bartender at Pepe’s, sent a message to Mr. Garcia that I was meeting Paco at Jamaica Pond, you delivered the message to Mr. Garcia. Then you notified the insectos so they could have a man there to kill Paco and me. You and Mr. Garcia were the only ones who knew about the meeting, and Mr. Garcia would never deal with the insectos.”
Mr. Garcia stopped me. “Esto no puede ser verdad, Miguel.”—“This can’t be true, Michael.”
“I had to be sure, Mr. Garcia. I had to test it. A few days ago, I came here to tell you I was meeting my client, Victor, at the same place at Jamaica Pond. It wasn’t true. I was going there alone. I said it privately to you, but Ben must have overheard it in the kitchen. That night, an insecto was there again to try to kill me. He’s in police custody now. He named Ben Capone by name.”
I could read pain in every line of Mr. Garcia’s face. “But know this, Mr. Garcia. Ben’s treachery served a purpose. It was the key to breaking their entire scheme. The last time you and I talked here, I knew he was listening. I specifically told you that they were planning to smuggle the animals ashore at the place north of Boca Raton. I said the federal troops would be waiting there. That wasn’t true. I didn’t know which of two places they’d choose. I figured Ben would relay the information to the insectos and the mafia so they’d use the other point, Key Largo, as the smuggling point. That’s just what happened. The FBI’s troops were waiting there to round up their whole crew.”
Mr. Garcia looked toward the kitchen door. The look on his face was burning anger. He started to rise. “And what about Ben?”
We heard the sound of running footsteps and the slamming of the kitchen door. I knew that Ben had heard every word. He apparently decided that it was time to cut and run for his own life. And that was all right. I knew he’d be running right into the arms of the FBI team Billy Coyne had arranged to have there to block his escape.
* * *
I beat the clock by five minutes. The drive from Roslindale to my apartment to dress, and from there to Monsignor Ryan’s Sacred Heart Church in Charlestown would take a non-Bostonian a good hour and a half. It would take a Bostonian an hour. It took this Bostonian forty-five minutes.
Father Ryan was a close boyhood friend of Mr. Devlin. We had even shared a few adventures with him in the past. He was there in full priestly garb to meet me at the side entrance at five minutes of four. He gave me a three-minute briefing to take the place of the usual rehearsal that in my case had been out of the question.
I had no time to explain why I was shaving the time so closely. Just before we went out to the altar he stopped me. “Are you sure you’re ready to enter into this, Michael?”
I thought of the past three weeks. The only bright spots that bubbled up out of the morass of evil and pain were the moments I had spent with Terry. “Like gangbusters, Father.”
He laughed. “Then let’s do it right now.”
We took our position at the altar. From somewhere, Harry Wong appeared at my side with a hug. I looked at that long, lean, smiling figure, who had proven yet again that he would ride into hell for his closest friend. The emotion got the best of me. I could only return the hug silently from the bottom of my heart.
Terry’s maids of honor, Pat Plese and Helen Lee Potter, joined us at the altar. Big Daddy Hightower joined us to stand beside Harry. The stage was set.
At four, the ancient bells in the church steeple tolled the magic hour across all of Charlestown. My mother was in the front pew with Victor and my other cousins. I knew we would all be together soon for a memorial Mass for Roberto. I looked out at pew after pew on the right of faces that had influenced and brightened every era of my life from grammar school through law practice. There were more smiles and nods than I could return in those precious minutes.
And then they all disappeared. My heart jumped until I thought my body couldn’t hold it in. I think there was organ music, but I can’t even remember that. I can only remember seeing my entire life from that moment on in the smiling face that radiated whatever is beyond beauty coming down the aisle toward me.
She held the arm of Mr. Devlin, who was standing in for Terry’s father since her parents were deceased. He was bringing me the greatest gift since his friendship. He kissed her gently before putting her hand in mine.
The ceremony began. I can recall that Father Ryan seemed to take immense personal joy in fusing the three of us—Terry and me and God—into one being.
* * *
The reception in the grand ballroom of the Parker House under the personal supervision of Terry Griffin was beyond flawless. Janet Reading looked like she had just brought off a second invasion of Normandy with four days’ planning. She had one request. “Don’t ever do this to me again.”
I looked at Mrs. Terry O’Brien Knight sitting beside me at the head table. “Janet, I doubt that it will ever be an issue.”
Weddings come in all different types. This one could only be called “joyous.” I was so proud to introduce Terry to the friends of every phase of my life, and she did likewise to her friends. The wine flowed, and stories from our friends about things either Terry or I had done since childhood—some of them true—brought barrages of laughter.
The laughter was suspended when my best man, Harry Wong, stood to make the toast. I could never recapture the words here, or even the depth of spirit in which he said them. I only know that when he raised the glass, if there was a dry eye in the house, I didn’t see it. Of course, I was looking through moist eyes myself.
It was time for our first dance as a married couple. We walked to the floor and stood waiting for the band to begin. I saw the musicians putting down their instruments, as the bandleader said that the music would be supplied by a very special friend.
We heard the sound begin to come from an organ in one corner of the room. We looked at each other and knew that John Kiley had kept his promise to play for our first dance. We both blew him a kiss, as I took Terry in my arms to dance to John’s gift of “It Had to Be You.”
I wondered if Terry was also thinking of that night at the Molly Waldo Restaurant when, as we danced to John’s music, he said, “Michael, if you don’t propose to this beautiful lady this evening, I’ll personally have you committed.” And I did.
* * *
It was around eleven o’clock when Terry and I left by limo for the airport. I was uncertain about answering the call on my cell phone, but I’ve always been glad that I did. I heard the voices of Nestor and the Brazilians, Ancuro and his grandson, Ancarit. They were beyond jubilant. They kept cutting in on each other to tell what had happened at the warehouse where the animals had been kept.
As I pieced what they said together, it seems that once I gave the word to Billy Coyne about payment being made for the animals, he had a force from the Puerto Rican office of the FBI ready to join Nestor. Nestor led them to a point in the road a few hundred yards out of sight of the warehouse. As soon as Chico accepted my payment, his gang loaded the cages of animals that now held the heroin as well, onto the three trucks. When the trucks moved out of sight of the warehouse toward the docks, the FBI
force intercepted them with a full show of armament. They arrested the men, seized the trucks, and held them there.
What I didn’t anticipate was that the agents of the FBI then brought Ansuro and Ancarit back to the warehouse in the darkness. They gave the Brazilians four packages to sneak into the back of the warehouse by a small door they had been using to spy. Under orders, the two planted the packages inside and ran back into the woods.
When the moment was right, one of the FBI agents pressed a remote switch button. The four packages inside went off in successive explosions that shook the tin of the warehouse roof. The men inside who had loaded the animal cages ran full tilt out through the front door as if their feet were on fire. They ran smack into a line of FBI troops with assault rifles that brought them to a dead stop. Within fifteen minutes, they were handcuffed and ready to be transported to FBI headquarters.
That much I got mostly from Nestor. When he finished, Ansuro and his grandson broke in, one on top of the other, to tell the rest. They were as excited as children home from their first day at school, wanting to tell everything that happened. After a minute of both talking at once, Ancarit let his grandfather tell it.
“The animals. I never dreamed of it. I thought when they drove off, they’d mostly die on the journey. It was heart-breaking. Then, after they arrested the men at the warehouse, we saw it coming from the road. The trucks were bringing the animals back to the warehouse. We ran to help the FBI men unload them. Now we’ve turned the whole warehouse into a clinic for the animals.”
When Ansuro’s emotions tightened his throat, Ancarit picked it up. “They helped us build pens so we could let all of the animals out of the cages and be as free as possible. Some of them we could help right away. But a lot of them needed help we couldn’t give.”
Ansuro was back. “They’re bringing veterinarians in from all over Puerto Rico. Some will even come from Brazil where the animals came from. They’ll bring them food and bandages . . .”
Fatal Odds Page 29
