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

by Janet J. White

  My body stiffened. "No. The housekeeper didn't take it. She's been here for years. I always put my jewelry away before turning in for the night and the ruby ring is the only item missing from a box full of jewelry, including my twenty-dollar gold piece necklace. Somebody wanted just that ring and took it."

  Dick shrugged his shoulders, turned around and left the apartment.

  I recalled, when we first dated, how much Dick had admired the large ruby ring set in a high, heavy gold setting. "It looks more masculine than feminine," he had commented at the time.

  A week later, he strolled into the apartment. "Here, Pussycat," he said, reaching into his jacket pocket. "It's not the ruby ring but I thought you'd like it." In my hand he placed an obviously used and unboxed diamond cluster ring of far less value than my missing ruby ring. A ring he had received in exchange for a night or two of lodging, I surmised. I never saw the Ruby ring again. In my heart I believed Dick stole the ring. Soon, it appeared the affair between Dick and Kim had cooled. Too late. I had begun to detest him. After our lovemaking, I found I wanted to get up and vomit. Whenever he pulled me toward him I didn't deny him, but I knew he sensed that something had changed.

  "Jen, what's going on?" he often asked impatiently.

  "Nothing, I'm just tired, overworked."

  My resolution to be mentally prepared for whatever nasty tricks Dick pulled began to evaporate. The strain began to take its toll. I felt weak and sometimes dizzy while performing my daily tasks.

  In a few days, Dick did an about-face regarding his latest conquest, desk clerk Kim. He ignored her now, making little rumbling sounds of discontent about her job performance, which he claimed had suddenly become slovenly. One day, he abruptly fired her. After that, his behavior toward me became like that of a Cambridge University graduate: cordial, refined, and sedate.

  Although I had not confronted him about Kim, I knew he was sensing our estrangement.

  A few day later he announced that Clark had called him. "He's coming in from Biloxi for a short visit and bringing a female head honcho from the home office. I think they're coming here to give us the once over, so we need to be on our toes."

  Sitting at a desk poring over the books, I looked up at him with unconcern. "You've done a great job and I've done my best."

  Dick paused. "Well, there's a little financial problem here. We've both worked hard at getting this place financially stable, but I need $5,000 more to renovate the last five rooms. I'm going to ask Clark for the dough when he gets here."

  "So, what's the problem?"

  "The problem is that I've broached the subject two or three times over the phone and he's refused to even consider another outlay of money. What I'd like, especially since you do the books, is for you to tackle Clark and the female big shot if the answer's still no when they get here."

  "I'll try, if need be."

  "There's one more thing," he slowly added. "Clark knows that the Cowboy Club Lounge is ready to swing with a live band, like in the old days. He wants us to book the Wilcoo Jones band starting next week for a three or four week engagement."

  "What's wrong with that?" I asked. "Live music would be good for business."

  "Well, Pussycat, here’s the sticky part," he said, smiling wanly. "Wilcoo Jones happens to be Clark’s son.”

  I gasped. "What?" I could feel the adrenaline racing through my veins.

  "I know it's a bind," Dick continued. "But we've got to keep everything going until the bust comes down."

  "Oh no, Dick! It's too risky to have his son right here in the motel when his father is about to be hauled off by the FBI!"

  "I know, but how can I turn Clark down? What excuse would I use?"

  I stood and walked toward the window and gazed out at Killeen. I turned and looked back at Dick. "We've got to think of something. When everything comes crashing down and we turn up missing, Clark's son will be the first to know that you're the informer. Then all hell will break loose. We've got to have some lead time."

  Dick furrowed his brow and began to pace. "The FBI will protect us."

  "Oh, please! The FBI won't so much as give us a pair of shoelaces, much less keep a promise. We'd have a better chance of getting help from 'Peter Pan' or the 'Tooth Fairy.’"

  Dick turned away. He walked toward a kitchen cabinet, drew out a bottle of Jack Daniels and poured himself a stiff drink. I leaned back against the wall, almost reading his mind. If it came to my slowing him down in an immediate need to run, he'd be more than willing to leave me behind and hanging by my toes. "By the way, Dick," I said slowly, "before we left Sarasota, I drew a new Will and left everything to Suzie and Gregg."

  He stared at me for a long time, then threw back his head and broke into peals of laughter. "You know, I've always had this eerie feeling that you would be my undoing."

  I walked out of the apartment and drank tea in the restaurant for an hour.

  The next day Clark and Mrs. Wilson arrived. Dick had two suites readied and all the fanfare he could muster.

  I liked Mrs. Wilson immediately. A woman in her early fifties, she bore an authoritative, yet kindly, manner. Her charm and intelligence became obvious as the four of us sat down to the new chef's best dinner performance. After the meal, we chatted for half an hour, and then I rose to excuse myself with the intention of finishing the day's paperwork.

  With a flourish, Dick jumped to his feet and kissed me on the cheek. "I'll see you later in the apartment, Darling."

  But when he returned to the apartment later he looked doleful. "I took them on a tour of the place. Clark's impressed with the motel and all the improvements and said that I've done a great job, but he's still pulling back on the purse strings. It's your turn, Jen. Mrs. Wilson said she thought you were a talented lady and probably the brains behind the outfit. They also liked the newspaper article. I had sent copies to the home office as well as giving a copy to each of them."

  "It's an awkward situation," I responded. "Any suggestions?"

  "Well, they're driving back to Biloxi around noon tomorrow. Why don't you join us for breakfast? After we're finished, I'll leave the table and you give it a shot."

  Clark and Mrs. Wilson were sipping their first cup of coffee when Dick and I joined them for breakfast the following morning. When the waitress picked up the dishes, Dick ordered a fresh pot of coffee, then rose to leave. "Clark, Mrs. Wilson, I have some calls to make on upcoming conventions. I'll see you both later." Dick flashed me a smile and strolled toward his office, leaving me alone with them.

  I did little more than highlight the benefits of renovating the last five rooms. Clark must have been caught in an expansive mood because he put down his coffee cup and leaned forward. "You and Dick have done a hell of a job here, Jen. And although it's not in the budget, we've decided to supply the additional funds. We'll have to rob Peter to pay Paul, but you've got the five grand. I'll give Dick a check before we leave. Keep an eye on things here. This is the bottom of the money barrel on this project."

  "Dick and I thank both of you," I said. "It's been a great pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Wilson, and so good to see you again, Clark. Have a safe journey back to Biloxi."

  I could still feel the warmth of Clark's farewell handshake as I made my way down the long corridor to the apartment. The thought that this would probably be the last time I'd ever see him again hit me hard. By the time I sat down at the desk, tears had filled my eyes. The disaster for Clark that lurched around the corner assailed my heart. Visualizing that sweet elderly man being arrested and thrown into jail made my body shake with racking sobs. Everything was upside-down and topsy-turvy. Clark and Jackson had been more considerate and trustworthy than either the man I had married or the FBI we had worked for. I tried to step back from the scene of Clark's grieving face behind bars, but the image of this kind, grandfatherly and gentle man haunted me. Oh, how I regretted my participation in this whole rotten business.

  Eyes dried and the payroll checks f
inished, I wondered why Dick hadn't called from his office to ask about Clark's response to the money request. Late in the afternoon, he stormed into the apartment and flipped Clark's $5,000 check on the desk, right under my nose. "Well, lady, they're long gone and you sure blew Clark and the company broad away. Hell, maybe I should pack up and leave this dump for you to run. You think you're so almighty smart! I wonder how you'd handle the rest of the mob scene around here. You wouldn't last a New York second!"

  I stared at him and thought, good grief, whatever happened to thank you? Not responding to his machismo outburst, I closed the ledger and walked to the kitchen, where I poured myself a Chivas Regal scotch and soda. Trying to find some humor in the situation, I told myself that while I might not be enjoying a better brand of husband, I was certainly enjoying a better brand of Scotch. Dick followed me in, stomped around the kitchen, poured a double-shot of Black Jack Daniels and flung it down his throat. Banging the glass on the counter, he tossed down two more doubles, looking like a volcano about to erupt.

  "Have you had dinner?" I asked him in a friendly manner.

  "No! And I don't want any either," he all but shouted.

  "In that case, I'll take care of the banking at the night depository. There's a stack of cash and checks, including Clark's. I'll make the deposit so you can start drawing on it right away."

  He mumbled something and stared at the kitchen floor.

  I poured the Scotch n' soda into a going glass, scooped up my handbag and the bank bag, and headed for the door. Sonny's warning came to mind: "No, I don't think a .380 would stop a man like Dick. He's like a bull in that he'd have to be almost dead before he'd stop coming at you. The best thing to do is to get out of harm's way, if at all possible."

  Returning half an hour later, I found Dick missing again. He didn’t return to our bed until the morning light.

  Dick having no say in the matter, the Wilcoo Jones band arrived in late February. Dick installed Clark's son along with the rest of the band in an upstairs wing at the rear of the motel complex. The band settled in and began playing six nights a week in the Cowboy Lounge.

  "The bar business is really picking up," Dick chirped happily a week later. "Sometimes I'm so busy running this place and get so pleased with the progress, I forget why we're here. I have to remind myself that I hope the band is long gone before Clark's arrested."

  Early in March, Dick said that he thought the bust was going to happen any day. "We need to be ready. Today, I'm having a section of the patio fence cut out and a gate installed. We'll be all set to go out that way when Sonny sends up the warning flag."

  "Did he give you an idea of when that'll be?"

  "No. He just said it would be soon. When it happens, I'll take the padlock off the gate and we'll leave from the back door of the kitchen through the patio to our cars. That way, we won't have to go through the lobby. I figure no one will know what's happening for at least twelve hours, depending on what time of day or night we take off. I'll leave the phone off the hook. It'll be hours before someone has the nerve to knock at the apartment door, much less call the cops or break in. By that time, with any luck, we'll be long gone from Killeen and out of the State of Texas. Sonny has promised to provide at least one escort car, especially if Clark's son is still on the premises."

  I tried to remain calm. "How much advance notice will we have?"

  "Two, maybe three days."

  I sat down. "Even twenty-four hours would be enough. It's time to convert our savings account into cash. I'll take care of that tomorrow. Since we'll be driving separate cars, how about if we both carry half the cash?"

  "Good idea. How much do we have?"

  "A little more than $9,000."

  Dick nodded. "We're going to need it."

  On the 11th of March 1983, at 8:00 P.M., Dick burst into the apartment. "Sonny just called from Biloxi. The bust is going down right this minute. Damn them!"

  It had been just shy of three months since the last money wash in Vegas and the first arrests in various cities throughout the country.

  "What?" I shouted. "What about the FBI's promise of giving us a few days notice?"

  "Forget that, Jen. Start packing. I'll close the Cowboy Lounge early, maybe ten or ten-thirty. Damn the whole bunch of those lying, fucking FBI bastards!"

  "Oh no!" My heart pumped wildly. "And Clark's son is still here! Are they sending our escort from the FBI office in Temple? That's only half an hour away."

  Dick barked, "No escort, damn them to hell. The FBI's not giving us spit. We're on our own. They don't give a shit! We can sink, swim or die as far as they're concerned. We've got to get out of here fast, so stop talking and start packing!"

  Dick's face reddened as he began gathering his clothes and guns, jamming them into large pieces of luggage and cardboard boxes.

  For a moment, I stood still, frantically looking around, not knowing where to begin.

  "Snap out of it," Dick shouted.

  I did.

  Dick pulled our cars around and parked them next to the gate. We literally ran through the apartment gathering our possessions, then dashed back and forth through the kitchen and patio to load the cars. In great haste, at three in the morning, we left the Blue Angel Inn. Dick took the lead, driving like crazy. We drove the breakneck pace for the next ten hours, until I thought I'd pass out behind the wheel of the car. Finally, Dick stopped at a restaurant at one o'clock the next afternoon. I opened my car door and tried to shift my legs. I couldn't move. Dick came over and helped me get out of the car. Holding me by the waist and elbow, he guided me into the restaurant. Once settled in a booth, he ran his hand over his brow. I barely noticed the fear and disbelief that blanketed his face.

  "Once the Mafia knows it's me," he moaned, "it'll be easy for them to get a line on us because of their connections with the Teamsters Union. Trucks are everywhere. All they have to do is put the word out on who they're looking for, and if the target is anywhere on the roads of America, they'll find us in a flash."

  Dick's warning traveled through my mind in a haze. I could barely speak. "What are we going to do?"

  "Eat fast and hit the road again before it's too late, that's what we're going to do."

  I mentally whirled. Reaching the end of my rope, I broke down and became hysterical. I openly cried and wailed into the fried chicken platter sitting in front of me. The waitresses stared at me. Other customers clucked their tongues. I no longer cared. My flood of tears were heated with anger, frustration, exhaustion and a level of fear I'd never known before. I don't quite remember but I think I passed out. I vaguely recall that Dick half-carried, half-dragged me back to my car. I must have followed him like a drugged zombie.

  It seemed like only a minute later that I awakened stretched out on a bed in a motel room somewhere near Gulfport, Mississippi. For three days, I slept, ate fried chicken in bed and watched television. I remember Dick being very thoughtful and solicitous. On the fourth day, I felt strong enough to continue traveling south.

  Finally arriving in Naples, Florida, we checked into a plush gulf-side hotel. I walked the beach alone for hours, the gentle gulf breezes refreshing me. Later, back at the hotel, I opened the door. Dick grinned up at me, in front of him a newspaper with the story of the bust.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Set Adrift by the FBI

  "If one truly has lost hope, one would not be on hand to say so."

  --Eric Bentley

  Dick settled on the hotel bed piled high with newspapers that had been published in various cities around the country. "Jen, we did it!"

  This should have been a time of relief that the ordeal had ended, but instead my eyelids were drooping in exhaustion. "We're not out of the woods yet. Not by a long shot."

  "The worst is over now, Pussycat," he said softly. "You're safe here with me. I'll always protect you. Let's enjoy where we are and each other, and take one day at a time."

  The following day we leased a
tastefully furnished ground floor, two-bedroom condominium on the outskirts of Naples. Decorated in Florida citrus colors of orange and lime, along with splashes of yellow and white, the condo seemed a pleasant place to wait for a while. Twenty steps from the front door, a sparkling clean swimming pool beckoned. Best of all, however, just beyond a downward sloping curved path surrounded by sea oats just across the road, the Gulf of Mexico offered its gentle healing waters.

  "I'll call Sonny and let him know where we are," Dick said as I hung clothes in the closet.

  Hanging up a few minutes later, he shook his head. "Son-of-a-gun He wouldn't or couldn't come up with an excuse for not notifying us in advance of the bust, or even why the FBI didn't give us an escort out of Killeen. The only good news is that he will be making the two hundred-mile trek from Sarasota to Naples at the end of the month with a thousand bucks for our expenses. So for now let's relax, enjoy our free time, and get the kinks out."

  "I guess that's all we can do."

  I tried to remain calm during the waking hours. At night, however, I would jolt awake at least a dozen times. I felt like one big, long nerve ending. Every day we swam in the warm waters of the Gulf or played in the pool. In a couple of weeks, the high stress level seemed to dissipate and wash away in the soothing waters. Beginning to feel human again, I now felt strong enough to review the past year and a half.

  'Operation Fuzzball' had taken over seventeen months. In October of 1981, Dick and I had made first contact with the FBI. In March of 1983, the Feds had closed down one of the nation's largest and most intricate drug smuggling and money laundering operations. Clark. Rainier, Jr. and Jackson Deaton had been arrested in Biloxi; Saul Morey in California; Jacob Davis and his manager Peter Dottore in Las Vegas; Pete Shaffer in Bradenton, Florida; and a William Persival in North Carolina. Another man, a Harry Foster of Sarasota, also named in the indictment fled to Uruguay before an arrest could be made. The ‘Kingpin', thirty-six-year-old Bruce Solomon, had been arrested in Chicago as he stepped off a plane en-route to Detroit. And the new executives of the Blue Angel Inn and Southwest Inns of America were quick to report that Clark Rainier and Jackson Deaton were no longer associated with the motel chains. Numerous additional arrests would be forthcoming. Tampa's Assistant U.S. Attorney, Rodney Morgan, claimed that they knew of at least fifty members in the global drug smuggling network. My awareness of the depth and extent of the operation, how far reaching its tentacles and how dangerous the men involved could be prevented true healing.