by Philip Carlo
He, the surfer, drove straight to a B-rated strip club on Astoria Boulevard. Jim sat outside wondering what to do. He decided to go in and see what was up. Inside, it was air-conditioned and the cool air was a much welcome change. The place was empty. The surfer was sitting at the bar near the door. Jim audaciously walked over, sat down right next to him, and ordered a beer.
“How you doing?” the surfer said.
“Good, good. Yourself?” Jim said.
They began to talk about the weather. The surfer introduced himself as Giles and they shook hands. As Jim enjoyed the cold beer, the surfer ogled, somewhat excessively, the broken-down stripper up onstage. Out of the corner of his eye, Jim eyeballed the surfer—he was looking at a somewhat baby-faced, innocuous man who didn’t seem capable of hurting a fly. Jim would soon find out that his appearance was a far cry from the truth. Jim soon finished his beer and left. In his gut, Jim felt for sure that something big was in the air. It was one of those things you could not learn in school. It was a gritty, gut-like sensation—some would call it a sixth sense, some would call it street sense. Jim wasn’t sure where this would go but he would take it seriously. He called headquarters, told his boss what he had seen, and asked for backup. Within minutes, two teams of DEA agents, Jim’s colleagues, were speeding toward Queens with their sirens on and red lights flashing. While Jim sat in the car waiting for his people, his beeper again sounded. It was again Maria. He called her right back.
“Hector called and said he wanted to meet me,” she said.
Jim knew Hector to be a Colombian coke dealer.
“I met him in the restaurant. He was with two guys. One of them was Mafia. I’m sure he’s Mafia. His name was Vincenzo. The other one was this blond guy, Giles—”
“I met him,” Jim said, “in a bar a couple of blocks away.”
“Well, this Giles guy, he’s a fugitive, and a very dangerous man, and the thing of it is that he wants to buy cocaine. A lot of cocaine. They want, like, two hundred kilos. The problem is that Hector can’t get what they want right now, so he lied, he lied and said he bought a lot of cocaine from me ten times. He lied and now he wants me to come up with cocaine. All two hundred kilos. What should I do, James?”
“I want you to play them. You’re very good at what you do. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure nothing happens to you. Tell them you’ll get the drugs no problem. You understand?”
“I understand,” Maria said in her peculiar Brazilian accent.
“I’ll get back to you,” Jim said.
Jim’s people drove up. He quickly ran down what was happening. As he talked, Giles the surfer left the club, got into his car, and pulled away, not noticing the agents. Jim and his colleagues decided to follow him. He led them all the way to Secaucus, New Jersey, then went into a town house. They ran his plates. The car was a rental car registered out of Florida under the name Vincent Mancino. At that juncture, that meant nothing one way or another. They eyeballed the house for several hours. A woman in her thirties left, got in a car, and drove away. Near midnight they decided to wrap it up and begin early the next day.
Still, Jim was not sure where this would go, but in his business, fortuitous situations could fall from the sky and they had to be worked diligently. He did not like the idea of taking his attention away from the Pitera case and its cast of characters, but Jim was in the business of responding quickly, being malleable, when potential situations arose, and fighting fires whenever and wherever they burned.
The day had been long, hot, arduous, and somewhat nerve-racking. When Jim’s head hit the pillow, he had no trouble falling asleep.
The following day, Maria Polkowski, big and round and colorful, wearing far too much makeup, clownlike, showed up at the DEA’s office on Fifty-seventh Street. Jim and Tom sat her down at a desk and listened to her story. She first talked about Vincenzo. She described him as a good-looking man with dark hair, definitely in the Mafia, married to a Canadian woman. He was on the lam, she said, and lived in Canada. She said, too, that Hector was creating problems for her. She didn’t have coke like that. She didn’t want to be put into a position where she was asked for something she could not deliver. Jim calmed her down, told her she was the best they’d ever had.
“If anyone can pull this off, you can. I know you can,” he reassured her. “I will make sure nothing happens to you, I promise,” he said.
She looked at him long and hard. She liked Jim, trusted him, had a bit of a crush on him.
“Okay,” she said.
Jim told her to phone him the moment she heard anything further, that he’d be at her beck and call twenty-four hours a day. Bolstered by his kind words, she left, a newfound spring in her heavy step. Jim proceeded to call an old contact/good friend of his—Mike Spataro, a retired NYPD detective out of the Organized Crime Unit who was now working for the DEA. Nobody knew more about organized crime characters than Mike. He had a memory like a steel bear trap. He had copious notes that included aliases, nicknames, tattoos, etc. Jim asked him about this Vincenzo. He said he was good-looking, in his forties, had dark hair, and was married to a Canadian woman. Spataro told Jim that he’d see what he could find out and then get back to him.
With no new developments in the case Maria had just brought them, two days later, Jim and Tommy were back in Brooklyn’s Gravesend, continuing their surveillance of Tommy Pitera and the jaded constellation of bad guys that revolved around him. They were still working out of the house in Bensonhurst that monitored all the many taps they had on cars and homes relevant to the case. They had come to know that Pitera was far more devious than he seemed on the surface. Over and over again, Pitera had warned all his people about talking on phones or in their cars. They, the Pitera strike force, noticed Frank Gangi—that he was a “Pitera regular,” as they started calling his people, and there seemed to be something…unhinged about him. They already knew that Gangi was from a Mafia family, that he had uncles in the Mafia and his father had been immersed in that world. They knew, too, that Frank had been involved in a murder—the killing of Arthur Guvenaro.
Still, recorded conversations Judy Haimowitz had with XXX porno lines came in on a regular basis.
They noted that the Canadian woman Jim and Tom had met outside of Angelo’s house that first day had suddenly gone missing. Her mother had been calling both Judy’s house and the Just Us looking for her daughter. The agents heard her pleading with Judy.
“Where is Janice? Have you seen her?”
Jim, Tommy, and the task force could not help but wonder if Pitera had something to do with her disappearance.
Some five days after Maria first contacted Jim, she called him again.
“Oh my God!” she said. “The Colombian guy called and they’re coming to my house.”
“They know where you live?” Jim asked.
“Yes, I told them. You know that’s how I get people’s trust.”
Jim didn’t like this. He shook his head. Rather than admonish her, he said he’d be right there. Jim and his boss Ken Feldman sped over to Queens. As they pulled up in front of the house, by pure happenstance, the yellow convertible pulled up and Giles walked into the house with a green duffel bag. This piqued the agents’ interest in a large way. What, they wondered out loud, was in that duffel bag? Within minutes, Giles exited the house, got back into his yellow convertible, and took off unconcerned, seemingly unaware. With that, Jim got out of his car and went upstairs to see what was up. He knocked on Maria’s door. She opened it. Her eyes were all wide.
“My God,” she said, “look what he gave me!” She opened the bag and inside was four hundred thousand Canadian dollars. Jim looked. He was as shocked as she was. Maria continued. “He gave me this as a down payment for the two hundred kilos.”
This, Jim knew, changed the complexion of the case. These were serious players. If they were willing to just drop off almost half a million dollars as a good-faith deposit, they were the real deal.
“What am I going to do? What a
m I going to do?” Maria asked.
“Just relax,” Jim said. “I’ll help you through it. I’ll guide you through every step. You’re the best. Just remember that.”
“Okay, James, okay,” she said, seeming more relaxed.
Jim had an uncanny way of getting people in his business to like him, warm to him, trust him. He now took the bag from Maria. He would take it to the office, where it would be marked as evidence. As he made his way downstairs, shockingly, Giles the blond surfer was coming up. They passed each other. Giles was so wrapped up in thought he didn’t notice Jim or his bag. Jim was shocked. Surely, he thought he’d make him.
Outside, back in his car, Jim put the duffel bag in Ken’s lap and said, “You’re not going to fucking believe this. He brought up this bag, gave her four hundred thousand Canadian dollars as a deposit, good faith. I took it from her, and as I’m walking down the stairs, he walks right past me. We walked right past each other. We touched shoulders.”
“No,” Ken said.
“Yes,” Jim said.
“Four hundred thou?” Ken asked, opening the bag, his eyes wide.
“Four hundred thou.”
Jim immediately called Maria. He wanted to know what was up.
“Is everything okay?” he asked.
“Yes, there’s no problem. Everything is okay. He came back to give me the phone number to call in Canada.”
“In Canada…where in Canada?”
“Canada,” she said.
“Where in Canada?”
“Toronto…I think,” she said.
“You think? You don’t know?”
“Toronto, I know.”
“Are you sure, Maria?”
“I’m sure…Toronto.”
As proficient as Maria was, Jim knew her to be, as he would later explain, “crazy.”
He explained it like this: “That is, she was somewhat spaced out. Out to lunch.”
“So let me get this straight,” Jim said. “He wants you to bring him the drugs in Canada…in Toronto…and call this number that he gave you when you get there.”
“Right.”
“Okay. We can do this, we can make this work.”
“James, with your help, I’m sure we can,” she said.
Jim hung up. He turned to Ken.
“It looks like we’re going to Canada,” he said.
“Okay,” Ken replied.
Next, Jim called the Canadian authorities, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. He got the head of the Mounties, Sergeant McDonald, on the phone and ran down the situation in quick cop-alese. That very day, Maria, Tom, and Jim boarded a plane for Toronto. The Pitera case, for now, was out of sight, but not out of mind. As Tom and Jim sped to Canada, DEA agents were circling Pitera, watching his minions, looking for that weak link—looking for his Achilles’ heel.
When Tom and Jim and Maria arrived in Toronto, they went straight to meet Sergeant McDonald at Mountie headquarters. Sergeant McDonald had a feeling he knew about whom they were talking. The first thing the sergeant did when Jim and Tommy and Maria arrived at his office was show them a picture and ask, “Do you know this guy?” as if he already knew the answer, his tone somber and overtly serious.
Jim took one look. The man in the photograph had a thick head of dark hair and a beard, but it was obvious that it was Giles—the surfer.
“That’s him,” Jim said, showing the picture to Maria. She took it. She agreed with Jim that it was this Giles character.
Sergeant McDonald shook his head as though he’d just been given some very bad news. “Well, we have a serious problem here,” he said. “This man is one of the most wanted men in Canada. His real name is Yves LaSalle and he is a cop killer. He killed a police officer during a robbery in Houston, Texas, and then three security guards during another robbery he committed after having escaped from a maximum-security prison here in Canada where he had been serving a life sentence.”
“Holy shit,” Jim said. “I was so close to him I touched him.” Jim felt bad for not having cuffed him the day they first met. Jim hated cop killers. Both the good guys and the bad guys understood you don’t kill a cop. To do so was a cardinal sin. Not only had this Giles guy killed a cop, but he had killed three other men in uniform. At the very top of the list of bad guys were—cop killers.
Sergeant McDonald said, “The problem is that we see this guy, we’ve got to arrest him on sight. There’s no way, I mean think about it, that we can play out a sting with him.”
Both Jim and Tom knew his argument had merit. If Giles got away when they had an opportunity to arrest him, the Mounties’ careers would be on the line. Jim and Tom decided not to make an argument of it right now. They would work the case to see how it played out. Sergeant McDonald explained that they believed Giles had connections to the Mafia—to the Bonanno crime family. This, of course, Jim and Tommy found endlessly interesting, having no idea that this would all lead back to Brooklyn…to Tommy Pitera. Sergeant McDonald agreed to help them with the understanding that if Giles showed up, he was theirs. Jim immediately turned on the charm. If anyone could convince Sergeant McDonald to cooperate with them, let them play this out—trail Giles and in the end arrest him—it was Jim. This all had to do with the fact that Jim was truly being sincere, wasn’t playing anybody. He knew what he was doing, was a professional, and would, one way or another, get the job done. Jim, in this case, wanted to have his cake and eat it, too.
When Jim, Tommy Geisel, and Maria left Mountie headquarters, they checked into a nearby motel. Now Maria called the phone number that Vincenzo had given her. She said she was looking for Vincenzo. She was told he wasn’t there, that she should call back in an hour. When, an hour later, she phoned back and asked for Vincenzo, a man with a very gruff-gravelly voice answered. He identified himself as Vincenzo. She said she had come to Canada as per their agreement…was in Toronto with “the goods.”
“What? Toronto?” he said incredulously.
“Yes, Toronto.”
“What are you doing there?”
“He told me to come here, I’m here. That’s what he said.”
“No, you were supposed to come to Montreal.”
“Nooooo,” she said. “He told me to come to Toronto. I know he told me to come to Toronto.”
“My God,” the man with the gruff voice said. “Look, I’ll call you back.” He hung up.
“This guy’s crazy!” Maria said.
Jim, knowing that Maria was somewhat unhinged, knowing her perceptions were occasionally off base, asked “Maria, are you sure they said Toronto?” He immediately accepted that Maria had somehow made a mistake.
“Jim,” Maria said, “they said to come to Toronto.”
Jim was not about to argue with her.
“Look, Maria, you’ve just got to convince them to come here. It will make everything a lot easier. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said.
Before she called the number again, Jim spoke to Sergeant McDonald. He explained that apparently the bad guys were in Montreal, not Toronto. Sergeant McDonald said that opened up a whole Pandora’s box of more trouble. Again, as per Jim’s instructions, input, Maria called the number. Vincenzo answered. She explained that she had done what was asked of her, that the goods were in Toronto. He explained that did no good for anyone.
“Well,” she said, “my driver and I came up. The material’s in the car. I had no idea I had to come here and now I have to go there. That changes everything. I don’t want to go. You want it, you come here.”
“Look, Maria, I don’t know who told you to go to Toronto, but that was a mistake. We’re here, our operation is here,” he said in his gravelly voice.
“You need to come here,” she said.
Maria, Jim, and Tom discussed their going to Montreal, the different ramifications of the trip. In that it was a mistake for them to be in Toronto to begin with, Jim decided they ought to push for it. With that, Maria called back Vincenzo and said she’d drive the car to Montreal. He was grat
eful, said thank you, and hung up. Jim next called Sergeant McDonald. Maria soon called Hector and yelled at him, saying he told her to go to Toronto and now they wanted her to go somewhere else. Hector denied that he ever said Toronto. It went back and forth for quite a while. Ultimately, Hector said he was going to Montreal and would figure everything out for her. He said he would arrive on a seven P.M. flight.
Sergeant McDonald put Jim and Tom in contact with higher-ups in the narcotics division in Montreal. He explained, briefly, what was going down, and Jim, Tommy, Maria, and two Toronto Mounties were soon on their way to Montreal. The Mounties were there to make sure Jim and Tom got what they needed, cooperation and help, and that the surveillance on Hector was carried out correctly. Jim and Tom had decided to follow Hector, see where he went. They were certain Hector was the key, that he would bring them to Vincenzo and Giles.
When they arrived at the airport, they hurried from the plane and were met by a dozen Mounties connected to the narcotics bureau. Each was dressed in plain clothes. Their boss was named Sergeant Martin. He was a tall, strong-looking man who had obviously been around the block several times. He was seasoned and well versed in the workings of the criminal mind. Jim and Tom took an immediate liking to him. The feeling was mutual. Sergeant Martin explained that four surveillance teams were set up outside, that they had guys dressed as hard hats and blue-collar workers and women pushing baby carriages. Jim liked what he saw and heard. They found the gate from which Hector would be disembarking. There was a somewhat crowded bar nearby. Martin, Jim, and Tom made their way up to the bar and ordered beers. Jim quickly brought Sergeant Martin up to speed. Sergeant Martin reiterated what Sergeant McDonald had said in Toronto: if they came upon Yves LaSalle, they had to arrest him.
