The Organ Broker

by Stu Strumwasser

  I snickered. “Juan, could this be done?”

  “To kill a guy in Rio? You mean, that part?” he asked and laughed a little. “It’s probably easier than throwing a good dinner party.”

  ◆

  On the flights coming back from Brazil I had a lot of time to think things through and weigh my options, and the potential consequences. I knew who Wallace Kendrickson was but he didn’t even know my real name… . I surely had the advantage. If the choice was between Wallace being eliminated by his own immense hubris, and a procession of innocent bystanders turning up dead in Alexandra, which was the lesser of two evils? I could coordinate it with Harold Lauer through Mark. We could get on that plane and tell Wallace we were heading for South Africa but simply fly to Brazil. What could he do? Once he got on the plane there would be nothing he could do. We’d exit in Rio and be followed from the airport by some of Juan’s friends. At some point they would pull us over and ask me and Wallace to step out of the car—and they would put a bullet in his head. Then we would rush his lifeless vessel to the transplant hospital run by Juan’s friend where his heart would be transplanted into the matching recipient waiting at the top of the list, freeing up the next O positive heart with matching MHCs for Philip. He would have a good chance. He’d make it. I believed that. Guillermo would see to that. I wouldn’t be able to return to the states for a while but there are worse places to spend a year or two in exile than Rio. Michelle. I didn’t know about Michelle. It’s too much, probably. And there would be just one other thing—Royston. Even without Wallace, and without my help, Wolff and Kleinhans would not go back to sitting on their hands. I had shown them the blueprints and given them the keys to the city. They would have to be handled as well. And so, when I got to JFK, I reluctantly made the call I had hoped I would never have to make.

  CHAPTER THIRTY:

  WHO TALKS TO WHOM

  The phone rang twice. There was a click and then a man’s voice said, “Vinny Pearl.”

  “Vinny, your name is?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Who’s calling?”

  “My name’s New York Jack. Do you know who I am?” There was silence. “Hello?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “Really,” I said, more to myself than him, disappointed.

  “Really,” he replied.

  That’s how things start sometimes.

  “And organ trafficking is your thing?” I asked.

  “It’s one of my things. I didn’t think I’d ever get to speak to you in person, Jack.”

  “Me neither,” I said flatly.

  “So now what, Jack? You want to maybe come here and we can talk a little?”

  “Oh, Vinny. That’s not what this is about.”

  “You don’t want to get together? Then why’d you call me, Jack?”

  “Just getting the lay of the land.”

  “Jack,” he said, a little more sternly, “We should talk, and it’s better if you come here. If I have to find you one day, that could be unfriendly. Don’t think that you’re smart because I haven’t found you. Before now no one was really looking.”

  “Vinny, one quick question: how old are you?”

  “Forty-nine. Jack, one quick question: you really from New York?”

  “You know I am,” I said, and I turned off the phone. I took out the SIM card and slipped it into my pocket—so I could dispose of it safely later—and placed the phone on the floor. Then I casually smashed it with the heel of my shoe.

  ◆

  I still needed to show Wallace and Wolff that things were progressing so after I returned from Brazil I also scheduled the trip to Jozi. I intended to meet with Wolff and Pierre Kleinhans and lay out the details of the plan—the plan they and Wallace wanted to hear—allaying any concern that we weren’t moving ahead. That would buy me a little time. I was trying to figure out a way to save Philip without participating in murdering some innocent kidney seller, but I also wanted to spend more time with Mark, and with Michelle.

  ◆

  Only a week later, in the second week of October, I strode through the opulent lobby of the Michelangelo Hotel in Sandton again. I thought about what the black Africans living in shanties in the townships might think if they ever saw where men like me and Wolff and Pierre Kleinhans sipped our Scotch. When Mandela took power he was resolute about moving the country forward without retaliation for apartheid. He did the people a favor. The poor in South Africa have made more progress peacefully than they would have otherwise. Yet, taking in the ostentatious fixtures of that palace of a hotel, I thought that if they could just see it in person, each of them, just one time, they might still storm the castle.

  When I entered the main bar I found Wolff and Pierre already seated, a Scotch and a glass of water in front of each of them. Wolff’s drink was nearly empty and Pierre’s was full. It was not their first. They had probably met early to discuss strategy before I even joined them. As I approached, Wolff stood and smiled. Kleinhans remained seated. I said, “Hello, gentlemen,” and nodded slightly.

  “Jack, old friend, good to see you again so soon,” Dr. Wolff replied.

  I kept my attention directed at him and immediately asked, “Why are you talking to Wallace?”

  “Wallace? Your friend?” he asked, still smiling. “He’s your associate, isn’t he?”

  “Mel,” I said, flatly but politely, “we know each other a long time. If we are going to work together I need your communications to go only through me. I can’t have anyone going around me. I am the only point of contact.”

  “Jack, what do you mean—if we are going to work together? That’s not necessary between old friends.”

  “Please don’t ever go around me,” I said, calmly, and took a seat on the bar stool beside Wolff.

  “Jack, you misunderstand. This Wallace, he was concerned about our progress. So were we. He said he had trouble reaching you. No one meant any disrespect.”

  I demurred. “You can avoid such misunderstandings by talking only to me. I’ll discuss the same with him when I’m back in the States.”

  “That’s fine, Jack,” Wolff said.

  “Let’s please be polite, Jack,” Pierre said. “Let’s have us a drink, please.”

  “Of course, Pierre.” I said, turning toward him. “You look snappy today.”

  “What?” Pierre asked.

  Wolff laughed slightly, breaking the tension a little. This might be the last time I would see either of them, I thought. One way or another that kid was getting a good heart, and one way or another my days as a broker were drawing to an end.

  My drink came and we clinked glasses and then I asked Wolff, “Did you receive the charts I faxed?”

  “Weeks ago,” he replied.

  “Okay. Good.”

  “That’s why we were concerned, Jack.”

  “Okay. Is everything arranged?”

  “Easily done, Jack,” Pierre chimed in.

  “You have the part?” I asked Kleinhans.

  “We have the seller,” Pierre responded. “He’s ready.”

  “So we can move forward when the client comes to Royston?”

  “With two days notice,” Wolff said.

  “It’s much easier now than you think, Jack,” Pierre said, smiling.

  “Oh?”

  “We’ve got over five hundred sellers screened and tissue-typed in advance from whom we can now pull anything we might need. Five hundred in advance, ready to go—”

  “Five hundred?”

  “They’re just waiting their turns. They’re from this area but also neighboring townships. When they get their turn they think they won the lottery. We are all about to make a lot of money, Jack.”

  “Pierre,” Wolff said, “Spog nie aan hierdie man.” Then to me, he said, “Jack, let’s focus on one thing at a time. This transaction is a great opportunity for everyone.”

  “Not for the seller,” I said. Wolff looked like he had finally taken offense. There was a moment when no one spoke. I sipped my drin
k, wiped my brow. It felt hot, despite the air conditioning.

  Pierre finally leaned in and said, “The world won’t miss one more fucking kaffir.”

  Kaffir was the Jozi equivalent of nigger, perhaps a bit worse. It was even worse than “floppy.”

  Wolff said, “Pierre, please,” then turned toward me and said, “Jack, let’s focus on this thing first. Not get distracted. There is a lot of money to be made for all of us and in the end we are saving this young man from New York and that is what is most important.”

  Wolff stopped doing surgery personally a few years ago. I wondered who would do the procedure. I wondered about their paperwork, and how he was handling the fact that they were anesthetizing a healthy patient and then removing his still-beating heart. I imagined Pierre in his white suit, with his short-brimmed hat, his cheesy smile hidden behind a surgical mask and clutching a small machete in his hand in place of a scalpel.

  ◆

  “I’ll need a week or two to organize everything with the hospital he’s in now, square it with the family in New York. Wallace needs to coordinate payment of the advance. It’ll be a couple of weeks, but don’t worry. We’ll be coming back to Royston very soon,” I said, looking down, speaking into my glass.

  “Good, Jack,” Wolff said. “That’s excellent. Bring that young man to Royston. As soon as you can, Jack. Let’s help him.”

  ◆

  I knew that the best thing I could have done would have been to turn and leave that bar, leave South Africa and go home, home to Tucson—not New York—and live out a quiet life, but I turned toward Kleinhans and said, “Pierre, can you get me Thaba on the phone?”

  “What’s that, Jack?” Wolff asked, smiling sweetly and turning back in my direction.

  Pierre looked at me and seemed to be assessing whether the time had finally come to put a bullet in my face. “He speaks to me,” he said.

  “Who is Thaba?” Wolff asked.

  Pierre said something to Wolff in Afrikaans and I interrupted. “No Afrikaans. Let’s be polite, shall we? I need to talk to your associate so please get him on the phone for me.”

  “You want to talk to the native herder,” Pierre said, angrily. “Fine. I don’t give a shit.” He took his cell out of his jacket pocket and dialed and handed it to me. “Talk, Jack. I don’t care.”

  Wolff said, “Jack, Jack… .” and reached out toward Pierre’s cell phone.

  “Wait,” I said.

  “All right,” Wolff said calmly, gathering himself up to leave. “Call me at Royston when you’re done here.” He stood to leave.

  Thaba did not answer his phone. I handed the cell back to Pierre.

  “Is everything all right, Jack?” Wolff asked paternally.

  “It is, Mel. I want to talk to Pierre’s man, but everything with the transaction is fine. Get your donor ready. I’ll be coming back to Royston with suitcases full of American dollars.”

  Wolff again seemed offended. He nodded and excused himself.

  I turned to Pierre. “I need to talk to Thaba. Can you text him and give him this number to call?” I asked, and read off the number on my new South African cell. Pierre typed it into his phone without comment. He sent the text, took a last swig of his drink, and said, “See you, Jack,” as he got up and exited the bar.

  “Yes. Au revoir, Pierre,” I said. It always seemed to annoy him when I addressed him in French. I ordered another Scotch and before the barman returned with my drink the cell rang. I answered it and said “Hello,” but there was no response.

  “Thaba? This is Jack. New York Jack.”

  “I know who you are. Why don’t you call Pierre Kleinhans?”

  “I needed to talk to you.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Thaba, I need to go back to Alexandra.”

  “No, Jack. That is not good.”

  “I need to go back and I would appreciate it if you would come with me. I know I can’t keep going there and not come out missing an arm soon.”

  “You can’t go there anymore. You saw Alex. Now go back to New York. It’s not for you.”

  “I need to talk to that boy, Lesedi.”

  “Lesedi?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Thaba was silent for a moment, then he said, “Lesedi is dead.”

  I exhaled involuntarily. “From infection?” I asked.

  “Jack, call Pierre. I cannot help you with this.”

  “How did he die, Thaba? Was it from infection?”

  “You don’t know the townships. This is not New York City—”

  “How did that kid fucking die, Thaba?” I yelled, right there in the middle of the bar at the Michelangelo, drawing a stare from several of the guests scattered at the tables.

  “He killed his self,” Thaba said loudly. “He cut his own troat.” I shook my head a little in disbelief. “In the square where you see him play football. And stand there. With the people. You know the truth. You are New York Jack. You took his kidney. I take. Pierre take. Royston Clinic. But now you want to be his friend?”

  “No.”

  “Now he is dead. Don’t you call my number again.”

  I said nothing, and he said nothing, and after another minute I realized he had already hung up. I pictured Lesedi with that ear-to-ear grin of his playing soccer with a ball made out of tape on a pitch made out of dirt. I imagined him walking into the square one day, the sun beating down on the dust, Lesedi pulling a large knife from underneath his shirt. He had been ostracized, exiled without leaving. His own sisters would not speak to him because he had sold a kidney in the hope of buying them running water and a better life. For them, for God’s sake. And this is what they do in some communities. Did he leave a note to explain himself? Did he make a speech, standing there in the dirt of his last day, his only pulpit a makeshift soccer field between one-story concrete dwellings? Probably not. Only an American would think anyone would care to listen. I’m an American, and I’m writing a note to explain myself that has now become hundreds of fucking pages long—but Lesedi was a kid who would have seen no value in committing his final thoughts to a piece of paper that no one would ever care to read.

  I noticed the bartender then, cleaning glasses and looking away from me, determined not make eye contact. Wolff was on his way home to his mansion where he lived near Sandton on an estate with an iron gate surrounding lush grounds with an armed guard on duty at all times. Pierre was on his cell telling the seller how much money he would get for a kidney. How he would get women. I realized then that I was crying. I slumped back onto the barstool and sobbed. I think that is the moment when my reluctance finally broke, snapped like smelling salts. Like a glow stick cracking into luminescence, I broke. I never had anyone to cry for before meeting Mark, and before Michelle. Only someone with love and something to lose can feel that kind of pain.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE:

  TIME IS LIMITED

  The second time I called Vinny Pearl, it was through an interchange in Europe I hadn’t used in a long time, and wouldn’t be able to use again.

  “Vinny Pearl.”

  “Vinny, this is New York Jack.”

  “Where are you, Jack?” Pearl asked casually.

  “Funny.”

  “Thailand, Jack? Nice beaches there.”

  “You’re wasting time. It’s going to cost me another cell phone if you don’t stop.”

  “Okay. I’m listening. I thought I might not hear from you again.”

  “I have information for you now,” I said. He listened patiently and I added, “Do you know what I do, Vinny?”

  “New York Jack is a black market organ broker.”

  “I’m a seller’s agent,” I said.

  “Call it whatever you want, Jack, but it ain’t legal, and we know who you are now.”

  “And you’re triangulating the call, so we don’t really have time to argue semantics. If it’s so illegal then what about the Man from Dallas?”

  “Coburn?” Pearl asked, a bit incredul
ously. “That guy’s just a travel agent. Plus, he’s a helpful guy sometimes. You wanna be helpful? Doing that could help a guy like you avoid a lot of stress.”

  “Yes, I want to be helpful.”

  ◆

  Vinny Pearl is a Special Agent with the FBI. He has more in common with an accountant than a secret agent, but it is the patient and persistent ones who uncover the hidden gems. Gems like me. In the never-ending clusterfuck known as the war on drugs, our soldiers are so camouflaged that they sometimes struggle to even recognize themselves after a while. In the “war on terror” there’s no reason to put on costumes or fake mustaches—it doesn’t matter when so few can even speak Farsi. And investigations into violations of the National Organ Transplantation Act of 1986 fall under the more workaday division of the FBI that oversees Interstate Commerce. Very modest resources are directed at this area of law enforcement, and very few investigations ever yield any promotion-worthy results. The agents rarely go under cover; they carry regular 9mm handguns and they wear suits to work. The Manhattan Field Office for Interstate Commerce Violations is on Seventeenth Street over by the West Side Highway, a half a block down from a huge Manhattan Mini Storage that dominates the cobblestoned street. Unlike several clandestine facilities set up in nondescript office buildings all over the city by the FBI, Homeland Security, and the DEA, shrouded by shingles with the names of fake marketing agencies or data storage companies, the building on Seventeenth Street has a black metal plate right next to the door that says, “Federal Bureau of Investigations, New York City Field Office.” I got the number for Vinny Pearl a few years ago. I got it from The Man from Dallas during the one conversation we ever had subsequent to that meeting back in 2000. I had let it fester in my contacts waiting to see if it might one day get called upon—and hoping it would not. Until now.

  Despite the fact that I had called him, I didn’t think Pearl expected me to make such an offer—“to be helpful”—and I caught him off guard.

  “Great,” Pearl said in a measured tone, “but you need to come in here and we need to sit down with the DA and write it up. If you are the guy I think you are, and you’re willing to really help, I think we can offer you a lot in return.”