by Marc Olden
None of this made Raiser less of a prick.
“Shire, you sound like you gave birth to Miss Constanza or something. I suppose we should have asked your permission first before deciding, but it’s been my experience that we don’t have to consult agents whenever we make policy. But maybe something’s happened since today and yesterday I don’t know about. Still, like I said, it’s your privilege to go over my head, through channels, of course.”
“She belongs here.”
“She belongs where I send her. So your march to glory gets slowed down. So what? Believe it or not, other cities have dope problems too, and since we’re in enforcement, that means we get to fight traffickers all over the country, remember?” Raiser lifted a corner of his mouth in a smirk.
Neil licked his lips. The word around the office was that down in D.C., Lydia’s information was considered super good, but had created a small problem, and that’s why Raiser, called the Razor and Cut-’Em-Up behind his back, had made his move. The deeper the investigation went into Cubans like Mas Betancourt and John-John Paco, the more certain it was that the CIA would begin cropping up in reports. Some of the Cuban dope dealers, particularly in Miami, were CIA-trained, had used CIA funds to get started in narcotics, and had even been approached recently by the CIA to make contact with Cuba regarding anti-Castro espionage. The word was that Raiser, who made a point of staying tight with anyone in Washington who could advance his career, was almost alone in ordering Lydia down to Miami.
In Miami, whatever information she turned up on Cubans would surely reach the CIA as fast as possible. Raiser would see to that. In Miami, he’d see that Lydia was kept on a tight rein. If she turned up anything that was embarrassing to the CIA, they’d have plenty of time to cover up, thanks to Saul Raiser.
Neil knew that Raiser wouldn’t give that as his reason for transferring an informant from one city to another. But it was the truth. You wouldn’t hear it said out loud, nor would you read it written down anywhere, but it was the truth. This was the kind of deal that Raiser, a master conniver, could put over almost before anyone at the bureau knew it was coming down. Neil was going to fight Raiser all the way on this one.
Neil said, “I understand you’ve shifted Walter Dankin from my team to someone else’s team.”
Raiser nodded with exaggerated slowness. “Yes, agent Shire, that is correct. A buy’s going down in a few days with some Latins. Dankin’s being worked in now by the informant, if that’s all right with you. He’s been placed with a new team because he looks young and looks like the type who’d cop cocaine, step on it, then deal it in various singles bars and such places. You might say, agent Shire, that I’m breaking up that old gang of yours.”
Leaving me naked in a blizzard, thought Neil, who remembered that someone once described Raiser as the kind of man who stands around in the john looking at his own turds for half an hour. Anyway, it’s down to the short strokes. Me and him. I’ve got to take him on.
Neil looked at the baseball bat Raiser kept at the base of the American flag standing in the far corner of his office. The bat had a tale to tell, too. The bat, called an Italian .45 because it had been taken from a mafioso drug dealer in East Harlem who’d used it on his girlfriend when she threatened to tell the dealer’s wife about their romance, had also been used on an informant, or so the story went. Used by Raiser.
A few years ago, Raiser’s partner had become friendly with an informant, and one night while having dinner at the informant’s house, the partner accidentally choked to death on a piece of meat. The story—true or false, no one knew for sure—was that Raiser had used the bat on the informant’s kneecaps, blaming the informant for his partner’s death.
Raiser hated informants, a blind, cold hatred he made no attempt to conceal. This meant that if he got away with sending Lydia to Miami, he could still pull strings from New York and give her a hard time. Neil rubbed the back of his own neck, trying to squeeze the tension out.
“Chief Raiser, we were trying to tie Simon Waxler, the bail bondsman, into Mas Betancourt. Lydia was—”
“She isn’t anymore. Besides, Waxler’s spending time in Miami these days. He’s just opened an office down there, remember?”
“He won’t spend all of his time there.”
“And you’re a soothsayer, in addition to your other talents. Look at it this way, Shire. With Miss Constanza out of your hair, you’re being spared the agony of defeat.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You haven’t, let’s say, fucked up since you’ve been in New York. Wouldn’t it be nice to feel all your bad days are behind you?”
Raiser picked up a red pencil and gently rubbed it between the palms of his long, thin hands, gazing at the pencil as if it were about to speak to him. He was throwing Neil’s past record up to him, digging up those times when things had gone wrong. And no matter what the reason, things had gone wrong, and Neil had had to take some of the weight on that. The watchers. Raiser was one of them. Watching Neil, waiting for him to stumble just one more time.
Without Lydia Constanza, Neil would have to wait for another chance to move up, and he was aware that he might wait for a long time. “Sir, I don’t think Lydia can work with anyone else right now. It’s taken me a long time to win her confidence, to turn her and get her to work right. There’s a question here of doing the best you can for an informant and then getting the informant to do the best he can …”
Raiser retained his maddening calm, never once taking his eyes from the red pencil pressed between the palms of his hands. “Shire, why don’t you let me worry about what’s best for Miss Constanza?” He tossed the pencil on a clean green blotter that was minus a single ink stain. The audience was over.
Raiser had followed the rules, which said that an agent had the right to be heard, provided he followed the chain of command. Neil had done that, and Raiser had done his part, and now it was over. If Neil wanted to take it further, he could.
Neil had a hand on the doorknob of Raiser’s office door when Raiser said, “Shire?”
Neil turned and waited.
“You like making waves, Shire?”
“No, sir.”
“That’s nice to know.”
“Yes, sir.”
Alone outside in the red-carpeted hallway, Neil stood still until his hands stopped shaking with rage.
18
LYDIA WINCED AT THE pain in her wrist.
“You’re hurting me.”
“Let’s go outside, you and me. In the hall. We can talk better out there.”
“You’re hurting—”
Neil didn’t let her finish. He squeezed harder, pulled, and made her lose her balance and fall forward until her body bumped into his. Lydia had never seen Neil this angry before. His voice was a low hiss, an ugly sound to be heard only by the two of them and not by anyone else at the party.
“You’re high. Pills. Who gave them to you?”
“P-pills? I don’t know—”
“Cut the shit. You’re stoned, bombed out of your skull. Jesus, how dumb can you be. You’re at a party with I don’t know how many dealers, mules, their women, and you get stoned. What the hell do you think’s gonna happen to you, to us, if you say just one wrong word? Just one. Come on, tell me. I just can’t wait to hear.”
Over his shoulder Lydia saw two couples hesitate outside in the hall, then walk through the open front door and into the apartment. The men and women, all Cubans, smiled at Lydia and Neil, who backed into a wall to give the couples room to walk by.
Lydia was high. So what? It was her life, right? At the moment, she felt good, mellow and relaxed, in the mood to party and cut loose and boogie till the dawn’s early light and to hell with Neil Shire and his federal friends who never smiled.
Inside the huge apartment on West End Avenue, fifty Cubans drank, ate, and danced at a party being given by Enrique Ruiz, a twenty-six-year-old heroin dealer celebrating the birth of his first son. A few weeks ago, Lydia had arran
ged two buys between him and Neil. Enrique was married to a lovely girl who had lost babies in two miscarriages, so tonight was something special for him and his wife, and Lydia knew the party would go on until the sun came up. To a Cuban, the birth of a son was one of the most important things in the world.
Outside in the empty hallway, Lydia listened as the elevator came up, then passed their floor. Fanning herself with a red handkerchief, she breathed deeply, blinking her eyes to clear them so that she could see Neil better. What was he so angry about? It was party time, time to have fun, to dance to the salsa and drink cool white wine and feel a man’s arms around her and hear people applaud when she and one of the men got out on the floor alone and danced their asses off.
Neil said, “You’re still working, you know that, don’t you?”
“What do you mean, I’m still workin’? Hell no, man, I ain’t workin’ tonight. Thish ish a party, don’t you know that?”
“Not for you, not for me. There ain’t no parties until I tell you.”
“Like hell.”
Neil frowned. “Keep your voice down.” The elevator stopped, its doors slid open, and several people got off, laughing as they walked toward the Ruiz apartment. Lydia wanted to get back inside, to dance, to have fun.
She tried to walk around Neil, but he grabbed her arm and roughly pulled her back.
“You were really throwing it around in there,” he said. “You and Morena were burning a hole in the rug with all that bumping and grinding.”
“That’s how Latin people dance. We’re not uptight like you!” Lydia was angry and hurt about what Neil had just said about her dancing—one thing she was proud of, one thing she did well. She turned to him, snorted, then said, “I’m a good dancer!”
“Sure. What I want to make sure of is when you’re high and flying, you can keep your mouth shut. You and Morena have been having some nice little quiet talks all night. Every time I look up, you two have your heads together.”
“You jealous?”
She pointed her chin at him, hands on her hips, the high wearing off as her anger grew stronger. “I do what I say I do for you. Okay, so tonight we party with dealers, talk, listen, ’cause you got to do your job and I got to keep out of jail. Okay. But if I want to have some fun, that’s my business. If I want to dance with a man, talk with a man, that’s my business.”
“Not when you’re with me.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah oh. Tell me something: if you’re working, what’s all the laughing and shit going on between you and Lonnie Conquest?”
“What do you think? He’s in dope, ain’t he? He’s a distributor who’s starting to connect with Cubans. He’s here because he’s been asked to be with them on Mas Betancourt’s deal. He’s also been lucky with his mules. He’s using black kids under sixteen. That way, when they get busted, they don’t do no time, ’cause they’re juveniles.”
“Who told you all this?”
“Morena. He’s one of Enrique Ruiz’s lieutenants. Can I go back inside now?”
“Not yet. Lay off the pills. That’s not a request I’m telling you to lay off.” He was waving a finger at her like he was her father.
She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, then looked at Neil. “Look, you don’t own me, remember that I do what I want. Pills, men, exactly what I want.”
“You’re wrong. I do own you, lady, from your long hair right on down to your nice new platforms. You mess up, and you go down. You ought to know that by now.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“What’s eating you tonight? You’ve been looking for trouble ever since we got here.”
Lydia waited until the elevator stopped and more people got off and went in to the party. It had been building up inside of her for days, and now she let it out She narrowed her eyes, spitting her anger directly at Neil.
“I trusted you, trusted you all the way, and what happens to me? Your people are trying to send me to Miami, and I don’ wan’ to go. They call me in, they tell me I no got a choice, I got to go or I go to jail—”
“Raiser. That son of a bitch.”
“You better believe it, baby. He made me feel like I was nothin’, like I hadn’t done nothin’ for you people, and that ain’t right, man. I work hard for you, I really do.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Lydia pulled at her red handkerchief as though trying to shred it with her bare hands.
“Neil, I’m scared. I no understand what’s goin’ on. Raiser, he’s a crazy man. I can tell.”
He snorted. “It’s that damn Santería religion of yours, that voodoo shit.”
“It’s not voodoo and it’s not shit. I believe it.”
“Okay, it’s real. You’re right about Raiser. He just ain’t nice.”
Lydia sighed, turning her face away to stare down at the floor. “I called you all day, and you weren’t there. Called you at the office, at home …”
He put his hands on her shoulders and made his voice softer. “Lydia, I was out on the range. We’ve got to qualify every three months. I spent the whole day out there shooting at targets.”
“Nobody at the office knew where you were, and nobody answered at your house.”
“The thing with the office is, nobody’s ever sure where anybody is. Cat could be working the street or cheating on his wife. Sometimes an agent just doesn’t tell anybody where another agent can be found. You never know who’s doing the asking, and why. ’Bout my crib, you know I keep two phones there, and nobody’s supposed to touch the special number except me. My wife …”
Lydia looked up quickly. “Why she no like me?”
She saw the look of surprise speed across Neil’s face. “How the hell do you know that? That Santería shit again?”
“It’s not shit! Stop callin’ it that! I look at you, I can tell.”
Neil lifted her chin gently with his fingers. “Now who’s jealous?” He smiled when he said it.
Suddenly Lydia hated Neil. Pushing him aside with both hands, she felt hot tears splash her face, and she ran, ran right into Enrique Ruiz, who blocked her path, his arms wide, a huge smile on his small, handsome face, which was bright with perspiration. A large black Cuban cigar was clenched between his even white teeth.
“Hey, heyyy, you two! Enough of this. I want you should come inside with everybody, see the baby before we put him to bed. My wife gon’ take him downstairs to her cousin’s, so my kid can get some sleep. Hey, Lydia, hey, this no night to cry, this a night to celebrate.”
She felt Enrique’s arm around her as she wiped her eyes. Why had she done that? Why had she pushed Neil, why was she crying? She didn’t hate Neil. What was wrong with her tonight?
Enrique, one arm around Lydia, another around Neil, walked them towards his front door. He was a small man, pleasant and friendly, and had entertained his party guests with excellent amateur magic tricks that he practiced almost every day of his life. Lydia liked him, liked his wife, and was happy for them and their son, their first child.
And then she thought about what she had done, that she had set him up with Neil, that sooner or later Enrique would go to prison because of what she and Neil had done to him. And what would happen to Isadora, his wife, then, to their son?
Lydia twisted away from Enrique’s arm and ran ahead in to the party, disappearing into the crowd.
Enrique turned to Neil, smiling and frowning at the same time, shrugging his shoulders and turning his hands palms up as if to say: What did I do?
Neil said, “Wasn’t you. Just something she and I have to work out.”
“Lydia? Neil.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Where’ve you been? I’m calling since one o’clock this morning. You left and didn’t even tell me you were leaving. Hell, that was embarrassing, I mean, leaving me there by myself, but I … I, well, I thought you might be upset …”
“I’m okay. Okay.”
Neil looked at his watch. Four-fifteen in the morning. He was home,
whispering so as not to wake up Elaine and Courtenaye. Goddamn Lydia freaked out tonight. Just disappeared from Enrique Ruiz’s party, and nobody knew where she was. Neil had worried about her.
He said, “About Raiser, I’m working on it. I’ve submitted my report with my reasons why they ought to keep you here.”
Lydia sighed into the telephone. Her voice was slurred. Probably still high, still bombed out on something. “I got friends in Miami, you know? I talk with them. They say plenty people get killed down there in drugs. They say dealers walk around carrying rifles in the daytime. People wear army clothes, what you call them?”
“Fatigues?”
“Yeah, fatigues. They look like they gonna fight Castro, but they just dress up like that all the time, you know? They shoot you quick in Miami.”
Neil sighed, leaning back on the couch, quickly glancing at the closed door to his and Elaine’s bedroom. “Lydia, you’re not in Miami yet. Hang in there. Give me a chance, okay?”
Her voice was suddenly muffled, as though her hand was over the receiver. Neil heard her say something in Spanish and heard a man reply in Spanish.
Neil said, “Who’s that? Somebody there with you?”
Lydia sounded emotionally and physically tired.
“I don’ wan’ to be alone tonight. I don’ wan’ to be alone.”
Neil stood up, twisting the telephone cord around his right fist, feeling the swift heat of something explode inside of him. Jealous? No way, no goddamn way. But something …
“Morena. Is he there? Did you come home with that bastard, that—?”
“You got a wife, you got somebody. I got to have somebody.”
“Lydia? …”
