Unsafe Harbor

by Jessica Speart

  “Holy shit. You gotta be kidding me,” Vinnie said in a hushed tone. “Are you talking about the Chinese Godfather? Michael Leung’s old man?”

  “The one and only,” I verified.

  “For chrissakes! Whaddaya out of your mind?” Vinnie exploded. “Did the old man have any idea who you were?”

  “Of course not,” I said, though I couldn’t be certain.

  “Unbelievable, New Yawk. I can always count on you to shake things up,” he retorted with a snort.

  “This is important, Vinnie. I really need to stop this guy. You know damn well that Leung’s bad news,” I replied, trying to drive my point home.

  “Like father, like son, I suppose,” Vinnie responded. “When do you want this done?”

  “It has to be today. The shipment is being picked up tomorrow morning,” I reported.

  Vinnie seemed to think about it for a moment. “Okay. I can probably pull a few strings and help you out with the longys. But it’ll have to be after hours, and no way in hell are you going by yourself to the docks tonight.”

  “That’s no problem. I’ve already arranged to have someone accompany me,” I informed him.

  “Yeah? Who’s that? The Ragin’ Cajun?”

  “No,” I answered a little too sharply.

  “What’s the matter? Trouble on the home front?” he asked.

  “It’s just that I’d rather Santou didn’t know about this. I don’t want to worry him,” I lied.

  “If he doesn’t like to worry, he’s with the wrong chick. So, who’s the chump that’s going with you then?” Bertucci persisted.

  “A wildlife inspector,” I said, hoping that would satisfy him.

  “And what’s the guy’s name?” Vinnie continued to quiz.

  “Connie Fuca,” I responded, figuring her first name could swing either way.

  “Connie? Is that like in Constance or Constantine?” Vinnie demanded.

  “All right, Vinnie. You got me. Connie is a female inspector. I’m going with a woman. Okay?” I finally admitted, tired of playing the game.

  “Another broad? What a relief. Now I can relax, knowing you’ll be well protected,” Vinnie derisively retorted. “Listen up, New Yawk. It ain’t gonna happen. Not unless she’s six foot three, is built like a refrigerator, and has hair on her chest. Other than that, I’m coming with you.”

  Sometimes I wondered if Vinnie was my guardian angel or a three-hundred pound albatross. Part of me also couldn’t help but wonder if this might not somehow be a setup. For all I knew, Vinnie had been involved in Bitsy von Falken’s murder. Still, I’d had no choice but to trust him in Hawaii, and he’d finally come through—though it had been touch and go for a while.

  “Listen, I’ll be fine. You don’t need to worry about me.” I tried to persuade him.

  But Vinnie wasn’t buying it.

  “That’s the deal if you want my help, New Yawk. Take it or leave it. But I’m not gonna have this crap on my conscience,” he said, laying down the law.

  There wasn’t a shot in hell that a longshoreman would cooperate with me out of the goodness of his heart. I needed Vinnie’s muscle and Mob connections, if I was going to see this thing through.

  “Fine. You can come along,” I conceded.

  “Oh boy. Lucky me,” Vinnie said, as though he were insulted. “All right, here’s how it’s gonna play. We’ll have to go late when there aren’t too many people around. I’ll pick you up at your place around ten o’clock tonight.”

  “Okay. See you then,” I agreed, hoping that Santou wouldn’t be home.

  Rather than take a chance, I decided to call up and find out.

  “Hey, chere. What’s going on?” Jake asked, sounding distracted as he answered the phone.

  “Have I caught you at a bad time?” I questioned.

  “When isn’t it bad these days? Things are a little crazy here right now,” he admitted.

  “Does that mean I shouldn’t expect you home for dinner tonight?” I asked, hoping for once his schedule would work in my favor.

  “With the way things are going, you’ll be lucky to see me for breakfast,” Santou said. “What say we make up for it over the weekend? With any luck, maybe things will break and I’ll get some time off.”

  “Okay. But I’ll miss you,” I said, relieved that the coast would be clear.

  That was it. I was now going to hell for all of my lies.

  “Just keep those fuzzy handcuffs close by,” he added with a low growl.

  “You’ve got a deal,” I replied, and felt myself begin to blush.

  That done, I quickly phoned Connie.

  “Okay. Everything’s taken care of. Let’s meet in the Fish and Wildlife parking lot about ten thirty tonight,” I told her.

  “Wow. I’m impressed. What, do you know someone with the Mob or something?” she inquired with a laugh.

  “I suppose you could say that,” I replied.

  “Really?” she asked curiously.

  “Well, he used to be. But these days he’s an actor.”

  Who knew? Maybe with the right case, and a little luck, even I would manage to get a movie deal one of these days.

  “By the way, he’ll be coming with us tonight,” I added, almost as an afterthought.

  “Then this is going to be exciting,” Connie said to my surprise.

  Obviously, neither of us had a very thrilling social life.

  The hours seemed to drag by as I waited, giving me plenty of time to think. I spent it trying to dredge up stories that Charlie Hickok had told me.

  Half the time, I hadn’t bothered to listen as he’d prattled on. But there’d been one particular tale about Leung that I now tried to remember. What the hell was it, anyway? I swore it was floating around in there somewhere, playing hide-and-seek, tottering on the edge of my brain. I was just about to give up when I finally recalled it.

  Leung had once hidden ivory tusks in the false bottom of a truck carrying copper scrap that was traveling between Botswana and Zambia. The driver was stopped by a border guard, the truck was searched, and the ivory was found. As was routine, all the tusks were confiscated. However, that hadn’t been Leung’s main concern. Rather, he’d been desperate to recover the truck itself—so much so that he’d offered a minor fortune for its return.

  Perhaps Leung shouldn’t have been so overly eager. His fervor prompted yet another search, and this time, a clandestine compartment was found—one that was packed not with ivory, but with a hidden cache of diamonds.

  That was all Charlie had known. But it was enough so that another piece of the puzzle now began to fall into place.

  I thought back to one particular place that David Isaacs had taken me to that morning—the Chinese diamond-cutting firm.

  Damn. What had been the name? I wracked my brain. It had something to do with the planets. Then my eyes landed on a jar of strawberry jam that had been left on the kitchen counter. That was it! Red Sun.

  I wasted no time, but grabbed my notebook and located the home number for Bill Saunders, the other special agent at Fish and Wildlife in Newark.

  Though he was Jack Hogan’s buddy, the guy was more importantly a bona fide computer geek and that’s exactly what I needed right now. Word had it he could track down a company’s business records in no time flat. Calling him would be a gamble, but I knew that I had to take the risk. Either he’d choose to help, or would sell me out.

  “Hello?” a young boy answered the phone.

  “Hi. Is your dad at home?” I asked.

  The receiver was thrown onto a table with a loud clatter that resounded in my ears.

  “Hey Dad! Some woman wants to talk to you!” the kid screamed.

  Terrific. I’m sure his wife would be pleased.

  “Hello. Who’s this?” Saunders asked, as he came on the line.

  “Hi, Bill. It’s Rachel Porter.”

  I suddenly felt tongue-tied, hoping that I was doing the right thing. Hogan could effectively shut me down if he got wind o
f what I was up to. But my curiosity refused to let me squirm out of it now.

  “Rachel. This is an unexpected call. Is everything all right?” he asked.

  “Fine. I was just wondering if you’d be willing to do me a favor,” I replied.

  “I guess that depends on what it is,” Saunders tentatively responded.

  What in the hell was I thinking? It wasn’t as if I were his favorite person in the world. In fact, this was the most we’d spoken in the past week. Still, I had no choice but to hope for the best, grab a deep breath, and take the plunge.

  “I was hoping you’d check something for me. I’d like to find out if a few different businesses are owned by the same parent company. One is based in South Africa, the other in Hong Kong, and the last one here in New York,” I said.

  “Sure. I can do that. Fire away,” Saunders congenially agreed.

  “The names are Africa Hydraulics, Tat Hwong Products, and Red Sun,” I divulged.

  “That sounds like some sort of exotic combo dinner,” he joked. “Are you checking into something to do with hydraulics or traditional Chinese medicine?”

  “It probably involves Chinese medicinals. Though I’m not really sure yet,” I lied.

  “Fair enough. I’ll call you back in a while,” he said, and hung up.

  My stomach performed somersaults as I waited, wondering if I could trust Saunders to get the information without reporting it to Hogan.

  I was out of Oreos, there were no potato chips to be scrounged, and just like old Mother Hubbard, my cupboard was bare. I was about to break down and eat something healthy, when the telephone rang and I lunged for it.

  “Hello?” I nearly shouted over the wire.

  “Okay. I’ve got the information you wanted. Yep. Africa Hydraulics, Tat Hwong, and another company in Manhattan are all tied together, along with a number of other businesses. However, one of the names that you gave me wasn’t correct. The company in New York isn’t Red Sun,” Saunders disclosed.

  Damn! My hunch had been wrong and I was back to square one.

  “Their official title is Red Sun Diamonds,” he revealed. “So tell me, what does a diamond-cutting business, a hydraulics company, and some sort of retail shop all have in common?”

  “Probably nothing,” I said, though my heart was pounding. “Thanks for the information, Bill, but I have to run.”

  “Hold on a minute. Is this something you’re working on with Hogan?” he asked, before I could hang up.

  “No. I don’t want to bother him unless it turns out to be worthwhile, and it’s not looking very good at the moment,” I replied, hoping he’d leave me alone.

  “That doesn’t matter. Jack should probably know about it,” he lectured, ever the proper Fed. “By the way, all these businesses are owned by one family, the Leungs. Any idea as to who they are?”

  “Absolutely none. But I’ll keep you posted on what I find out,” I fibbed, anxious to get off the phone.

  “Thanks, I’d appreciate that,” he said in an odd tone.

  I was willing to bet his next call would be to Jack Hogan. I decided not take the chance, but turned off my cell phone and left the apartment, not wanting to hear Hogan’s angry bellows over my answering machine. Instead I sat at a diner and drank coffee until it was time to meet Vinnie.

  Eighteen

  I was shivering on the corner when Bertucci pulled up in a flashy black Cadillac Escalade the size of a tank. Sinatra was crooning on the stereo.

  “So, what’s the deal? You like freezing your ass off? Or were you afraid I’d come to your door and your boyfriend might see me?” he asked.

  “Neither. I didn’t want to be inside if my boss called,” I revealed.

  “That’s easy. Just don’t pick up the phone,” Vinnie advised. “Screen your calls on an answering machine like everyone else.”

  I nodded, unable to explain to him a little thing known as Jewish guilt.

  “So, aren’t you gonna ask me how my day went?” he nudged as we hit the road.

  “Okay. How was your day, honey?” I joked.

  “Terrific. There’s gonna be a sequel to the movie Goodfellas, and it looks like I might get a major role,” he reported. “Of course, that is if it doesn’t conflict with my shooting schedule for Godfather Four.”

  My thoughts wandered as Vinnie prattled on about his latest accomplishments. Could Leung be buying blood diamonds through his company, Red Sun? It would certainly be a clever way in which to launder all the illegal profits he made from shahtoosh and ivory.

  The other question I had was, Why didn’t Santou want me snooping around the Diamond District? And who was Tiffany Stewart informing on these days?

  My mind spun with endless conspiracy theories as we arrived at the port. We made our way into its heart where I directed Vinnie to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife parking lot. Connie was already there waiting in a beat-up blue Ford.

  “Now that thing looks like it actually fell off a truck,” Vinnie said with a snort.

  I motioned for her to leave the car and join us. Connie walked over, properly dressed in her U.S. Fish and Wildlife jacket and uniform.

  “You know what? You’re the only one here who looks official, so you should probably sit up front,” I suggested, and scrambled into the backseat.

  I waited until Connie climbed inside and closed the door before making introductions.

  “Connie, this is my friend Vinnie Bertucci. Vinnie, this is U.S. Fish and Wildlife Inspector Connie Fuca.”

  They looked at each other somewhat askance.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Connie finally said, and offered her hand. It swam in Vinnie’s king-sized paw.

  “Same here,” he said, and sat up a bit straighter in his seat. “Make sure your seat belt’s on. I wouldn’t want nothing to happen to a Fed in my car.”

  The Escalade pulled out onto Fleet Street, and we headed for Starr Terminal.

  “So, where you from?” Vinnie asked, breaking the silence.

  “Kearney, New Jersey,” Connie replied.

  “No kidding? So’s my mother,” he retorted. “You know, they got the best pork store in that town.”

  “You must mean Satriale’s,” Connie guessed.

  “Yeah and that means you gotta be Italian,” Vinnie responded, beginning to loosen up.

  “I also know a good place for cannoli,” she added.

  Vinnie snuck another peak at her and smiled. “Those are my favorite pastries in the world. I guess I’ll have to try it.”

  “I’ll be happy to give you the bakery’s address,” Connie replied.

  “Or maybe you can just take me there yourself sometime,” he casually suggested.

  Was I imagining it, or was Vinnie actually trying to hit on a federal wildlife inspector? I put the thought aside for now as we arrived at Starr Terminal.

  “Pull up to the gatehouse. I know the guard,” Connie instructed.

  Vinnie did as told.

  “Hey, Bobby. How you doing tonight?” she asked, and flashed her badge while leaning across Vinnie.

  “Evening, Miss Connie. Everything all right?” he inquired, closely scrutinizing the hulk that sat behind the wheel.

  “Everything’s fine. We’re just here to check out something on the pier. Don’t worry. We won’t be long,” she assured him.

  “No problem. Take your time,” the guard told her, waving us in.

  Vinnie harrumphed as we passed through the gate. “Did you see the look that guy gave me? What’s his problem, anyway? What’s he afraid of? That I know which container the big-screen TVs are in, and plan to hook it up and drive away?”

  “Probably something along those lines,” Connie confirmed.

  I was glad she was here to guide the way, as we drove through what could easily have been a maze. Starr Terminal is the largest facility on the grounds, comprising 445 acres. Bordered by Elizabeth Channel and Newark Bay, Starr receives 30 percent of all containers shipped into the port.

  Vinnie followed Con
nie’s directions to an area that would have been bustling during the day. Tonight it was as quiet as a grave, except for the sound of ships being loaded and offloaded in the distance. Their industrial song conjured up visions of freighters, their rust-stained hulls continually attended by massive cranes that stacked containers as easily as if they were enormous toy blocks. The process continued around the clock. Time is money when the cost can run $200,000 a day to dock and unload goods at the port.

  Giant lamp poles cast a ghostly glow as snow began to swirl, lending the docks an otherworldly air. Rows of long metal boxes stood packed eight containers high, looking like oversized coffins. Meanwhile, other units sat loaded on chassis, where they patiently waited to be hauled away first thing in the morning. All I could wonder was how we’d ever find the right unit among this mountainous lot.

  A frigid wind nearly took my breath away as we piled out of the Escalade and were instantly wrapped in a taut sheet of bitter cold. The chill factor alone must have been 15 degrees below.

  “For chrissakes, it’s bad enough out here to freeze my nuts off,” Vinnie grumbled, while slapping his arms across his chest to try and stay warm. “Either way it’s your fault if this weather makes me sick or sterile, Porter.”

  I didn’t reply, but wrapped a flannel scarf around my neck and buried my nose in its wool.

  “Okay. What say we save ourselves a whole lotta time and trouble. Why don’t you just tell me exactly what it is you’re looking for?” Vinnie advised.

  “I can give you the name of the company and the container number,” Connie replied, and wrote the information down on a scrap of paper.

  Vinnie took the slip from her hand and waved to a figure that appeared from out of the darkness.

  “Stay here. I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, and made his way toward the longshoreman.

  “How’d you ever manage to get the container number?” I asked, as Vinnie trod away through the snow. He looked like the Jersey version of the Pillsbury Doughboy, clad in a heavy down jacket.

  “It pays to have a friend with Customs. Of course, now we owe him a humongous favor,” she retorted.

  I glanced to where the longshoreman leaned against a bobtail, used to pull container-filled chassis around the terminal. Vinnie stood beside him, his hands deeply entombed in his pockets, his feet stamping out a flamenco beat.