Tyranny of a Lover...Diary of the Wife of an Undercover informant

by Janet J. White

  "Try to hold off, Baby. We've got to get out of here in a hurry."

  The mask of misery on David’s face revealed his suffering over his mangled and bleeding leg. He moaned, then began to beg. "For God's sake man, have a heart! Don't do anything more to me. I'm hurt real bad. My leg's all torn up. I need help. Please...Dick...get me some help!"

  With narrowed eyes, Dick glared down at his fallen adversary and started laughing, a blood curdling mixture of barks and wheezes. Glazed over with pain, David's eyes stared up at Dick with a new kind of horror.

  Dick turned his back, took my arm and started guiding me toward our car.

  In desperation, David cried out. "Jen, please get me some help. My girlfriend's inside, she'll call an ambulance. Help me!"

  "Dick, we can't leave him here like this."

  "Okay, Baby, if it'll make you feel better. I’ll do it for you, not him. That bastard deserves everything he got and more."

  Dick swung his head around and yelled in David's direction. "Hey, prick, this is your lucky day. You're not going to rot on the spot. Just remember, this isn't the end of our business. You WILL give me the money back. And that you can take to the bank."

  Pounding on the back door of the bungalow, Dick shouted, "Hey, inside. Better call an ambulance. David's hurt himself real bad!"

  Two days later, Dick paid a visit to David in the hospital. With his leg fractured in three places, immobile in a toe-to-thigh cast, and suspended from a ceiling pulley, David must have thought Lucifer himself hovered over him.

  Dick leaned over the prostrate man and spoke quietly. "Look, you little bastard, you've got no more time to jerk me around. I want the money by noon tomorrow. If I don't get it by then, I'll pay you another hospital visit. And I won't bring posies. I'll tear off your other leg and wrap it around your neck like a new kind of necktie. Think about it...and count on it, prick."

  At eight the next morning, the doorbell rang. The young man from a messenger service handed Dick an envelope. Inside were ten crisp one hundred-dollar bills.

  Dick grinned, whooped and hollered. "I'm heading for Clark's office. I can't wait to show this to the boys." He showered, dressed and dashed out of the house within twenty minutes.

  He was back in a short while. "Well, were they pleased?" I asked.

  "Hell, yes!" Dick grinned, poured a Jack Daniels and did a little dance around the kitchen. "All three of them, Clark, Jackson and Reed, stood around and slapped me on the back when I plunked the money down on Clark's desk. Of course, I didn't let the bills sit there too long. I scooped up the pile and told them I'd go to Miami by myself."

  He left the following day, only to return home two days later empty handed. The yacht was gone. Clark's former friend had sailed away into the sunset on his now unencumbered teak and mahogany forty-six foot Bertram beauty. Clark sighed and chalked up the $65,000 as uncollectable.

  Nevertheless, the other three men thought Dick's efforts were nothing less than noble. The four of them spent the afternoon bellied up to a bar for alternating rounds of drinks and backslapping male bonding.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Real Business and a Supplement

  "Men take only their needs into consideration--never their abilities."

  --Napoleon Bonaparte

  According to Dick, Clark, Jackson and Reed now trusted him implicitly. One sticky afternoon, Clark peered at Dick over wire-rimmed glasses from behind his enormous walnut desk at Stateside Equity. "We all work for the 'Kingpin'," Clark began. "A man we call Bruce, from southern California. His worldwide network smuggles drugs into the country on a grand scale. And Dick, I can tell you this: Bruce nets tens of millions of dollars every year in this business."

  Dick, Jackson and Reed lounged comfortably in chairs opposite Clark. Nodding his head, Dick breathed heavily and waited in rapt attention as he silently thanked his lucky stars. The good ship Lollipop had finally docked.

  "What's more," Clark went on, "he's always looking for smart people like you, Dick."

  Clark paused, waiting for Dick's reaction. Dick looked him straight in the eye, grinned and said, "I'm your man, Clark."

  "If you play your cards right," the other man continued, "you could become part of the team. I've spoken with Bruce about you and we've decided to give you a try. Follow directions, use your brains, and do exactly as you're told."

  "I'm more than willing and able. All you have to do is tell me what you want me to do, and you can consider it done. One more thing, fellows," Dick said, glancing at Jackson and Reed. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

  "We'll let you know when the time is right." Clark rose to conclude the meeting. "One more thing, Dick. You can expect a 'trial by fire'. Maybe more than one."

  The four men stood and shook hands.

  Back at the house, he related the foregoing meeting in explicit detail. He squinted his eyes in puzzlement at my next comment. "I thought your association with Clark, Jackson and Reed would be something legitimate. I don't want anything to do with it. Surely, you realize what you're getting us involved in. We could end up dead or in prison for the rest of our lives. Back off. Please!"

  "Jen, I know how you feel and I respect that. This isn't a forever situation, just a temporary something to get us a money fix. Then we'll start a business of our own. Your choice. If whatever I'm involved in gets too much for you to handle, I'll quit. You have my promise."

  Giving in to Dick had become a habit. Still, deep inside, so deep it could not yet be reached, I knew the type of man he was. "Anyway, I'm not involved with anything yet. So right now there's nothing to talk about." With that statement, he ended the discussion.

  The following week David checked out of the hospital. The week after that, Dick came home from Clark's office, fuming. "Wouldn't you know it...there's been a robbery at Reed's million dollar home on Casey Key. The day before yesterday and the police don't have a clue."

  "Oh, no." I shook my head. "What did they steal? Do you think David did it?"

  "You bet he did, that sniveling little prick. Damn if I didn't point out Reed's place to him while driving around and giving him a cook's tour of the area. The bastard got all the good stuff--electronic equipment, gold coins and every piece of sterling silver in the house. Plus, all his wife's jewelry. Everything she wasn't wearing. Reed told me it was worth a king's ransom. She's devastated and hasn't gone to work since the robbery."

  "That's terrible! Does Reed believe it was David?"

  "Yep. Sure does. In fact, he raked me over the coals for bringing David into the inner circle to begin with. Then he asked me if David knew where he lived."

  "Did you tell him the truth?"

  With an impish grin, Dick rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "I told Reed I wouldn't let David, or anyone else know the location of his house because I respect his privacy. Hell, if I told him the truth, I'd be out on my ear."

  "Did he believe you?"

  "I'm not sure." Dick shook his head. "But then I had a stroke of genius and offered to go after David if he thought it would be a good idea. I told him I'd ferret him out and when I found him, I'd break his other leg for Reed’s wife's sake."

  "Did he take you up on the offer?"

  "He thought about it for a minute, then shook his head and said, 'No'.'"

  Exit David.

  Shortly thereafter, Dick came home and announced that Clark had asked him to do a job. "He wants me to collect $43,000 he lost in gambling."

  "What's going on? If Clark lost the money gambling, how can he expect you to get it back for him?"

  Dick clucked. "He lost the dough at a poker game and he thinks the guy cheated. He wants me to ingratiate myself with this professional gambler and find out if and how he bamboozled him."

  I knew that the amusement in his eyes meant something more. "Okay, what else?"

  "The gambler's name is Melvin Pome." Dick grinned. "Isn't he the guy you used to date before we knew each other?"

&n
bsp; "Yes," I said, surprised. "What a small world."

  Before Dick and I met, I had dated Melvin three or four times. I stopped seeing him when it became obvious that he didn't have a scruple to his name. That's when I still used good judgment.

  Dick began his new assignment with gusto. He started attending weekly poker games held at Melvin's home. Some nights Dick won, other nights he lost.

  Early one morning, after playing cards the previous night, and between mouthfuls of bacon and scrambled eggs, Dick and I were discussing the situation. "I don't know yet whether or not Melvin cheats at cards, but he is starting to confide in me. He told me about this great arrangement he has with the Playboy Casino in the Bahamas. What happens is this: Melvin books a planeload of high-flying--pardon the pun--gamblers, for a fun weekend in Nassau. Before they take off for the return trip back to the States, the Playboy Casino pays Melvin a percentage of whatever they lost on the tables. He confessed to me that he would keep a lot more of the money if he could stay away from the crap tables.

  I thought for a moment, remembering Melvin Pome as the only man I'd ever known who could honestly list his vocation and avocation on the same line. If you drew a composite picture of a gambling man, he would win hands down: Dark and rather sinister looking, he had a "David" look about him. And like David, he, too, hung large slabs of gold from various parts of his body. On the cutting edge of style, Melvin looked like he had stepped out of a fashion magazine. He drove an expensive sports car and lavishly entertained a lady on a dinner date. Notably, he also had an annoying habit of whipping out a pocket comb and running it through his shock of inky black hair every half hour or so. Oh yes, I remembered Melvin.

  As planned, Dick soon had all the parts to the current puzzle. "Yes! Yes! Yes!" He raised his arms in victory. "Melvin cheats at cards like crazy."

  Clark Rainier planted a sunflower seed and expected a blossom. Instead, crabgrass grew in the form of Dick, who chirped gleefully. "I've decided to hell with the idea of trying to collect Clark's forty-three-thousand bucks. I'm gonna be Melvin's partner. I look at it this way: It's an honest way of cheating. I'm not making any dough with Clark right now, and I've got to make a living. There's no reason I can't work with both of them. Melvin finally let the cat out of the bag that he uses marked cards." Dick lowered his voice in conspiratorial fashion. "His cards have the face amount superimposed on the backs. Before the game, he puts on a special pair of tinted glasses so he can read a player's hand from across the table. And get this; he gets his supplies from an outfit in Sparks, Nevada. They're all stretch wrapped and sealed, so when Melvin passes a deck of cards to a player to open, he thinks that it came right off the production line."

  Dick then told Clark he was sorry that he and Melvin hadn’t hit it off. "Looks like I won't be able find out if he cheated you. Guess you’ll just have to write off that forty-three grand."

  "I know you did your best, Dick," Clark had said. "I guess we can't win them all."

  Wednesday evening, after dinner, Dick dressed for his first card game as Melvin's partner. "I can't wait. We've got the details all worked out. From now on, Melvin and I play to win. He's the dealer and the bank. I'm the shill."

  "How will it work?" I asked.

  "Well, I'll be sitting in on every game. For the first game of the evening, Melvin will open a fresh deck of cards in front of all the players when we sit down. That way, everybody's comfortable. We've practiced our word and hand signals, regardless of whether we're playing poker or blackjack, Melvin will win some hands, and I'll win some. And just to keep the suckers coming back for more, we'll both fold once in a while and let a mark win a hand or two." Dick paused the explanation and grinned. "Every once in awhile, Melvin will pass a new deck of cards for somebody to open and deal with."

  The crooked card games began on a weekly basis. A couple of months later, on a Thursday morning, Dick turned over in bed and nudged me at the break of dawn. "Get up, Baby. I've got something to show you." He bounded out of bed and started dressing.

  "What's going on?" I asked, half asleep. "Yesterday's game lasted most of the night."

  "Hey, Pussycat, I know it's awfully early. I couldn't wait. Throw something on and come outside. Hurry...hurry!"

  A black Lincoln Continental Mark V sat in the driveway. Opening the door, Dick ran his hands over the soft grey leather seats. "It's only a couple of years old," he said, like a little boy at Christmas. "And it's in great shape."

  "It's beautiful. Is it yours?"

  "Yep. I hit the jackpot last night. It used to be Melvin's. He bought a Lincoln limo to shuffle some of his best players to and from the airport on his Nassau gig; plus he's got a new Alfa Romeo. In lieu of my share of last night's winnings I took the Mark V off his hands."

  "I'm happy that you finally have a car. Still, I don't like the way you got it. Aren't you concerned someone will catch on?"

  I saw amusement in his face. "Won't happen, Pussycat. When the game breaks up for the night, I leave first or head out the door with the other players. About twenty minutes later, I come back for our fifty-fifty split of the night's winnings. Nobody has a clue that Melvin and I are partners."

  "Oh...Dick, what you're doing is so very wrong!"

  "Get a grip on reality, Pussycat," he said, patting my arm. "These guys have so much money they'll never miss a few bucks. They all think they're so smart just because they're lawyers, doctors, and big shot businessmen. Don't kid yourself, they're all stealing from some other poor slob to get the coin to lay down a bet. All I'm doing is helping to recycle the bucks. It's the American way."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A Trunk Full of Marijuana

  "This is the punishment of a liar: He is not believed even when he speaks the truth."

  ---Babylonian Talmud, The Sanhedrin

  While Dick waited for his golden opportunity with Clark, he and Melvin bilked the ever-changing and ever-unaware group of poker players on a weekly basis. Every so often, one or two savvy men suspected, as Clark had, that they laid their money down at a dishonest card table.

  However, no one discovered the conspiracy connection between Dick and Melvin, nor caught on to the bag of tricks used to thin their wallets. Dick still had a few hours a day of spare time that needed filling, so he began to close the gap by working for a private investigator, a fellow named Ron Wade.

  "It's great fun," Dick said. "Especially peeking in bedroom windows on divorce cases. Ron says he has many more wives who want their husbands tracked than husbands who are trying to get the goods on their wives. He also claims that when a wife suspects her hubby is messing around with another woman, she's usually right."

  "Do you really want to be doing this sort of thing?" I asked.

  "Suits me," he said. "Besides, I've met some interesting characters working with Ron. For example, I met a gal named Michelle, a low class and cheap broad wearing a pair of tight jeans and a tank top with no bra. She has no visible means of support," he added, chuckling at his own little pun. "Honestly, I don't know what Tom sees in her."

  "Who's Tom?" I asked.

  "Tom Luke's a pilot friend of my detective buddy, Ron. Michelle flies with Tom, in more ways than one."

  "Does this Tom Luke make a living flying?" I asked, trying to get a handle on this new batch of names.

  "Not anymore. He used to hire out his four-seater Cessna for charter. Today, most of that business has fallen by the wayside. Now he runs a couple of laundromats around town."

  "So what you're saying is that this Michelle, Tom's girlfriend, wouldn’t be found listed on the society page of the Sarasota Times."

  "No way." He yawned. "She used to be part of an escort service game run by her ex-husband. I understand the city drove him out of business."

  "That's understandable."

  "Yeah! Everyone knows the escort business is just a cover-up for prostitution. I'm sure Michelle worked in the trade."

  Looking at the angular lines of my husb
and’s face, I had to wonder why he had mentioned Michelle to me at all. "Hmm. I wonder if I'll meet her sometime."

  Dick dropped down on the bed and stretched out lazily. "I hope not. She's not your type, Jen. You've got too much class to be in the same room with that bimbo."

  Not anymore, I thought. I shook my head at the irony of Dick's compliment. "So, do Tom and Michelle live together?"

  "Nope. She has an apartment and her daughter lives with her, along with a male roommate."

  "Not exactly an everyday arrangement. How old is her daughter?" I asked.

  Dick's manner remained pleasant. "I'm not sure. Maybe eleven, twelve. I mean, how would I really know?"

  The Florida sun was beating down with blistering heat the day Dick and I drove to the private airport where Tom kept his small plane.

  "Tom wants to check out some kind of business in Miami and invited me along for the ride. We'll be back this evening, Pussycat."

  "What kind of business?" I asked.

  "Couldn't say."

  Parking the car, Dick hurried ahead of me into the tiny terminal. As he rounded a corner inside the building, I heard the lilting and flirtations voice of a woman.

  "Hello, Dick," she sang. I recognized Michelle by her tight jeans and bra-less tank top.

  Dick abruptly halted, waiting for me to catch up to him. "Michelle's going with us to Miami. She's Tom's girlfriend, you know?" Dick whispered.

  "So you've said," I responded, trying to ignore a slight prickling sensation.

  That evening, I picked him up at the airport. When I inquired about the trip, he gave me a blank stare and mumbled, "Oh, it's nothing. Just something that didn't work out. Not worth talking about. But I can tell you that that Michelle's a huge pain in the ass! Nothing but a two-bit whore. Still, she's useful since she has a handle on what's happening around town. Other than that, she's a big fat zero."

  Something about his comments about Michelle perturbed me. Something I couldn't quite put my finger on. What I did know was that his energy level increased in direct relation to his mounting number of involvements.