"Dick spins around and takes three slow swings at the guy. The fellow ducks each punch and finally swings back, popping Dick on the face. That's where the gash over Dick's eye came from. The fight's over. One blow and Dick's ready to quit. Then I called the wrecker to come get the truck."
"That's awful." Again I could feel my maternal instincts rise up in my throat and burn. I swallowed more coffee.
"You know, Jen, I thought I knew Dick, but I never thought he’d act like that." Tim said, then continued the saga. "About that time, Dick flings Gregg in the back seat of the car. Dick's driving and I'm sitting next to him and I'm afraid to open my mouth. Son of a gun, all the way home, while driving, he kept reaching back to take another swipe at Gregg. The kid did a pretty good job of bobbing around and avoiding most of the blows. I was scared to death Dick would wreck the car on the way home. I figured we'd all end up in the hospital or the morgue."
"Tim, I’m grateful all three of you are alright." I filled his coffee mug and searched his face, "But didn't your mom or dad ever tell you that if you're caught in a situation like that, the best thing to do is to yank the keys out of the ignition and fling them out the window. My father told me that when I was a very young girl. It's a good thing to remember. I understand your fear...still, you could have tried to do something to prevent another accident."
"You're right about that, Jen. I thought about it but chickened out. I was scared stiff that Dick would start in on me."
"I can relate to that. Dick can scare a person half to death."
After the incident, I had noticed that Dick and Tim barely looked at one another. Conversation between the two had ebbed to a trickle, then dried up altogether.
Later that day, I took Gregg to the bank. When Dick arrived home that evening, Gregg met him at the door. "I'm really sorry, Dick. Here's one thousand dollars. It’s every penny I've saved. I hope it's almost enough to buy another used truck."
Pocketing the money, he said nothing. He merely glared at Gregg.
Within a week, Dick suggested Tim move to California and he agreed.
The afternoon of Tim's flight to Los Angeles, Dick and I were on our way to exercise at the fitness center, which meant that Tim would be alone in the house for an hour or more before his girlfriend came by to take him to the airport. Before leaving, Dick told me it would be a good idea to take my jewelry with us.
I was surprised "You mean you don't trust Tim after he's lived with us, on and off, for months now?"
He shrugged. "Who knows? It doesn’t hurt to be cautious."
Following Dick's suggestion, I picked through the large jewelry case that sat on the dresser and removed everything except the costume pieces.
Then Dick and I wished Tim bon voyage and said good-bye.
Late in the afternoon, Dick and I returned to a quiet house. I put my jewelry back in its place, and then we started looking around the bedroom. To my shock and disbelief, we had become Tim's robbery victims. He had taken a costly 35mm Cannon camera from the bedroom closet. His girlfriend had helped herself to my best blouses, dresses and shoes. My bureau drawer had been emptied of every piece of Saks Fifth Avenue lingerie. Tim had even searched the cabinet beneath the bathroom sink, taking prescription pain pills such as Darvon and Percodan. And worst of all, he had stolen my prized Baby Browning 25 caliber pistol with a pearl handle, now a collector’s item. A gift from my deceased Father, the gun would be difficult, if not impossible, to replace due to its precious sentimental value. I sat down and cried.
Six weeks later, the thieving Tim called. Not from sunny California, but from a drab jail house in Chicago. Unbelievably, he had used his one collect call to seek Dick's help. Receiver at his ear, Dick listened for a moment. "Yes, I'll accept the call," he said, signaling me to pick up an extension. I ran to the kitchen and picked up the phone.
"Hey, Dick, it's Tim. Say, can you give me a hand and bail me out of jail?"
"Sure, buddy," Dick said in a friendly tone. "What happened and how much do you need?"
"Well...." Tim hesitated. "I got nabbed for breaking into a house. The cops nailed me right on the spot. Bail is set at $25,000, so I need ten percent--$2,500--to bail out. You know I'll pay you back, don't you?"
"Sure, pal. I know you will. I'll give you a hand."
"That's great, Dick." Tim paused. "Uh...one more thing. I'm really sorry I took some things from you and--"
“Yeah, I know you didn't mean to take that stuff." Dick laughed. "Jen's gotten over it. So, what's that address?"
Tim slowly furnished the name, address and phone number of a bail-bonds company. "Yeah...I can swing that. And don't you worry, little buddy, I'll get you out of there real soon. So long...pal"
"Thanks, a million, Dick. I'll make it up to you. Bye for now."
I hurried back to the office. Dick sat at the desk looking straight ahead at nothing. "What on earth?" I cried. "Tim steals from us and you're going to bail him out of jail?"
Dick burst out laughing. "Don't you get it, Pussycat? Hell will export ice cubes before I'd send that piece of slime a penny. I spoon-fed him that bullshit so the little ungrateful fucker will suffer more. He'll be waiting and waiting for help to come." His laughter rang through the house.
"I'm going for a walk," I said aloud.
I walked in the cool evening air for an hour or more, overwhelmed by sadness that this was the man I had married one year ago. And yet, at this moment, it seemed like a lifetime had passed since saying 'I do'.
Dick's prophetic assessment came to pass. Tim waited for three or four weeks for Dick's help to come. Then he made one last collect phone call from jail. When asked if he would accept the call, he answered, "Burn in Hell, Tim!" and slammed down the phone.
Exit Tim.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The FBI and 'Operation Fuzzball'
"By dint of railing at idiots we run the risk of becoming idiots ourselves."
-- Gustav Flaubert
There was some good news and some bad news. The good news was that, while he still felt confused and filled with insecurity, Gregg excelled in English and math and celebrated his seventeenth birthday with his GED in hand.
The bad news came from Dick. "I've had it with Gregg! I've tried with that kid, but he doesn't listen, pay attention or want to help himself. I don't know how to get through to him. Now that he's seventeen, I think the best thing he can do for himself is to join the service as soon as possible."
Although Dick's suggestion came out of the blue, he had, for the past few weeks, made it quite clear that he wanted Gregg out of the house. And since the truck incident, I had become increasingly fearful for my son's well being and safety, even without the knowledge that most of Gregg's insecurities were rooted in the lies Dick had told him in while we had been in Chicago. "Let me give this some thought," I said.
Laying in bed that night, listening to Dick's deep breathing, I tossed and turned, wondering what would be best for my son. After all, a young person could do very well in the military. By applying himself, four or five years in the service would offer training, plus reward him with funds for a college education. Joining the Marines or the Navy, as his father had done, might very well be the answer. While he was an intelligent young man, capable of being whatever he made his mind up to be, I loved my son and did not wish to see him on his own at such a young, tender age. Still, I also realized that remaining in the same house as Dick limited his opportunity to grow in a healthy way. Gregg needed to escape Dick's quicksand existence.
Military service could land him on firmer ground. My son's well being had to take first priority and I wanted him away from Dick.
"Perhaps you're right, Dick." I said the following morning while Gregg slept. "The military could be the best answer for Gregg."
Within weeks of his 17th birthday, Gregg joined the Navy, eventually qualifying for service on the USS James Monroe, a nuclear submarine. I soon learned that only about ten percent of all Navy
personnel could qualify to be on board a nuclear submarine.
Not surprisingly, this achievement impressed Dick, while motherly pride had me smiling from ear to ear. Most importantly, however, were the glowing messages from Gregg that indicated a new happiness. How ironic that he would be able to soar like an eagle beneath the seas of the world! I prayed nightly that my handsome and kind-hearted son would soon carve out a new life for himself.
Exit my beloved son, Gregg.
Within days of Gregg's bus departure to Orlando for Naval basic training, Dick paced the office while I sat at the desk paying bills. He stopped short, sat down and dropped a bomb. "I've decided to work for the FBI as an undercover operator."
My head jerked upward. I felt a mixture of awe and dread. "Whoa! Where did all this come from?"
Dick, swelling up like a bullfrog with a curled lip, hammered out his mega stomach churner. "I've been thinking about this for awhile now. If Clark won't give me the twenty thousand he owes me, I'll get the dough by setting him up for the Feds. Clark, Jackson, and Reed will have their asses thrown in some federal prison. I'll fix it so the whole bunch of them can spend their time spitting at prison guards instead of making hefty bank deposits. I'll see them knee-deep in a pigsty since they want to hog all the money." Dick roared at his play on words.
I put down the pen I was holding, my mouth going dry.
"I've done some checking," he went on. "The reward monies for an operation like this will make $20,000 look like chump change."
"Hold on a minute," I felt overwhelmed. "I understand your disappointment about the money but I don't see why you feel Clark cheated you. Good grief, Dick, your original agreement with Clark was for you to pick up the pot in Los Angeles, transport it to Chicago and sell it in wholesale quantities for around $65,000 within two or three weeks. That's what Clark expected because that's what you said you could do. The end result turned out very differently, did it not? No luck at all in Chicago and when you returned from Los Angeles, the entire batch sold for only $35,000."
Dick sat down, laced his fingers behind his head and waited for me to go on.
"In addition, Clark shared the money by instructing you to send funds back to me to cover our household expenses for the entire five weeks you were in L.A. All in all, it took close to four months to unload the 144 pounds of pot, and sold for less than half of what Clark had expected."
Dick stood up and shouted at me. "Whose side are you on anyway? It wasn't my fault that it took so long to get rid of the low grade shit they palmed off on me."
I felt queasy watching him work himself into a frenzy. "That sounds like you’re beginning to believe your own press clippings, Dick. And it's not a question of being on your side or his...just the side of logic. Clark and company barely broke even on the deal. How can you expect him to give you $20,000 out of $35,000; less the original cost of the merchandise and unexpected months of expense?"
"That's his problem, not mine." Dick wheezed.
"You know, I didn't want any part of Clark and the drug smuggling business from the get-go. I detested every minute of it, from California's fruit fly scare to the frightening weeks spent at Chicago's Hotel Horrid. The endless sleepless nights worrying about you, Gregg and me being caught and thrown in jail was not my idea of a good way to live."
"See," Dick blustered, "I told you nothing would happen to us, didn't I? Bottom line is this: I spent fourteen months trying to do the job and what did I get? Zilch!"
The facts held no sway over Dick's reasoning. His sense of logic was weighted on a set of scales that had apples falling up instead of down.
"I still put in the time working for Clark. It wasn't my fault that it didn't work out."
"We differ on that point," I murmured.
"Look, Pussycat," Dick said, again in control of his emotions and looking deep in my eyes, "I really do understand how you feel. So far, our marriage has been a bummer for you. It hasn't brought you much happiness or peace of mind. I'm really sick and tired of being on the wrong side of the law. And I promise you, things will be different from now on."
"I'm not sure what kind of 'different' you're talking about. It sounds like you're getting ready to jump from the frying pan into the fire. Surely, you know that playing both ends against the middle is risky business. One thing’s for sure, I don't like it."
As usual, Dick ignored my objections. "I'll tell you what, I've been talking it over with my detective buddy, Ron. He has a friend who knows an FBI agent right here in Sarasota and he'll set up a meeting between the Feds and me. Ron already warned me that dealing with those guys will be a whole new ball game. Certain safeguards have to be taken."
"What does that mean?" I said cautiously, tapping my fingers on the table.
Although his eyes flashed, Dick's face stayed flat and expressionless. "Through his connection with his friend, Ron knows how the FBI works. He says that they're capable of using every dirty trick in the book to shaft a covert operator, especially if he isn't smart enough to protect himself with signed, sealed, and delivered contracts. I might even use Ron's attorney to protect us."
"Us?" I felt a rise of anxiety.
Dick smiled with broad innocence. "Us. We're a team, Jen. Anyway, I've done some checking. The government agencies that would be involved--the FBI, CIA, DEA, and the IRS--offer an eight to ten per cent reward on anything they confiscate. I already know that the Justice Department will screw you out of any reward if they can. That's why I'll be taking certain precautions. If I work it right, I'd get a slice of every house, car, boat, cash, and bank account turned over to the government in a sting operation. As an example, let's say the DEA grabs a drug dealer's house and they auction it off for three million bucks, we'd get three hundred thousand on just that one deal. Think about it! There are a dozen companies and more than a hundred people involved in this operation. The Feds could conceivably seize hundreds of millions of dollars. And eight to ten percent of all that would set us up for life."
"That sounds like pie in the sky to me," I said. "You know what I thought of your being involved with a drug smuggling business or anything illegal. But your reason for turning against your associates and selling them to the Feds for a mountain of money doesn't make sense. They've been more than fair and the whole idea is ghastly. More importantly, working for or against this massive drug smuggling operation puts our lives in danger. You're out of it now, so please, just walk away. Leave Clark and Jackson to their own devices and get into something legitimate. Forget about it."
Dick frowned. "Frankly, I could work a lifetime and not make one percent of what this undercover operation can net us. I deserve better than I've gotten and I'm gonna get it."
"That's up to you, Dick. You have a right to make your own decisions and so do I, so leave me out of it."
"Jen, I can’t go it alone," he pleaded. "Especially dealing with the Feds. There are going to be times you'll need to substantiate my story. I need you to add to the flow of the conversation and agree with whatever I'm saying. You'll also need to convince both sides, the so-called good guys and bad guys, that I'm telling the truth. We'll run some risks sure, but there's a lot of money to be made here."
"No thanks. I'd rather not be the richest woman in the cemetery."
Dick paced again. "We'll be protected. I'll see to that."
"I'm sorry, I'm not convinced of that since-"
"I know, I know. You figure I go off half-cocked and don't want to listen to anyone, that I think I have all the answers all the time. I know that's not so, and you usually yank me up short when I try to pull that stuff on you. That's why we make such a good team. Remember, I know something about the workings of the CIA. The FBI probably operates in the same way so I'm familiar with their maneuvers. I won't let them put us in a trick bag. I'll make sure we're well covered: contracts, witness protection program, the whole nine yards."
"I'm overwhelmed with what you're proposing here," I said. "There's another concern.
I'd like to know if you intend to continue playing poker with Melvin."
He smiled. "I'm glad you asked that. I know how unhappy that makes you, but. I do it for a steady flow of cash. If I start working for the Feds, I'll wind the poker games down to zero. I promise."
"Does that mean you'll give up the cheating card games only if I agree to help you with this proposed sting operation?"
"Not altogether. Sure, it would help, but knowing you're so bummed out about it puts a damper on the whole thing. Guess I'm getting tired of it myself."
"And I'm tired of all the abnormalities in our lives."
"I know," he said tenderly. "This time we'll be on the right track. I just know one thing for sure. I need your help, Baby. I can't do it alone. What do you say? How about giving it some thought." His sincerity moved me for some reason. "Alright, Dick. I'll take a long walk and give it some thought."
"While you're walking, Pussycat, think about this: Wouldn't you rather have me working on the right side of the law for a change?" He had a point and he knew it.
I stepped out into the cool October night. Ambling through the quiet neighborhood, I tried weighing the obvious pros and cons of Dick's dangerous proposal. Let's see, I thought, Gregg's now a young Navy man and far away from any danger. A big plus. But did my husband have what it takes to accomplish an undercover operation? I had no idea what it would entail, although I knew he did have a computer-like memory. Could he handle the stress that would accompany a covert operation? Absolutely. He reveled in intrigue and danger and seemed to be psychologically geared to handle turmoil. Was he motivated? Absolutely.
Tyranny of a Lover...Diary of the Wife of an Undercover informant Page 12
