The Informant

by Marc Olden

  Margaret reached for a glass of water and a small vial of pills. “Two million dollars. And all they did was show it to the Cubans?”

  “That’s all. A flash roll, something to impress the people so they think Neil’s a big dealer. Only the feds got that kind of green, believe me. Neil’s been down there two, three times, and Cristina’s all over him, takin’ him around, introducing him to people. Our boy Neil is hot shit in Miami.”

  Margaret swallowed two pills. “Nothing for you to be ashamed of. You’ve done all they’ve asked of you. You couldn’t do more.”

  The sun came through Venetian blinds, leaving yellow and black stripes across Margaret’s bed. “Money. Fucking money. That’s the name of the game, ain’t it? Feds got it so they get to work one hell of a snitch. Russell Gormes dies because he didn’t have enough, and you—”

  “I’ll be fine, Edward, just fine.”

  “That isn’t what you said yesterday. You said—”

  “You’ve got enough to worry about. Now, I said the office is checking to see if I’m covered under their employee medical program; I may not have been there long enough to—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. And if you’re not covered, you end up owing a fortune. You know what the feds are paying Lydia? She’s been averaging something like five hundred a week, for, Jesus, let’s see. This is almost the end of February and they’ve been working her since September. Christ, that’s almost six months. I’ve got nearly ten years in, and right now she’s making more a week than I do.”

  “Edward?”

  Katey shrugged. Margaret had that down-with-your-pants-and-spanky-spanky look. Don’t be bitter, she had said. It’s all God’s will. What happens to you, to me, it is all God’s will.

  God’s will my ass, replied Katey. God doesn’t have to worry about his pension or about something growing inside of him that could snuff out his life inside of a year. Let God do twenty with the NYPD, then come and talk to me.

  “I’ll be all right,” she said, smiling at him. Her smile seemed worn, like a tattered Sunday best she still had some pride in. Christ, Katey thought, she must be hurting. The pain. What the fuck am I bitching about? She’s the one who just came out from under the knife.

  He clapped once, leaning forward, aiming a forefinger at her. “Tell you what. After this thing goes down, you and me, we take a week and go somewhere. Would you like that? I’ve got mucho leave coming.”

  She used the smile again, nodding, and Katey felt good seeing her do that. “Where’re we going?” she asked.

  Katey, who hadn’t thought about going away with Margaret until now, had no answer. He was about to say we’re going where my ex-wife’s lawyers can’t find me, but he decided against it. Looking into the sun coming through the Venetian blinds, he frowned, shading his eyes with his hands. “Somewhere warm. That’s all I know. Just somewhere warm. All it takes is money.”

  “And suitcases,” added a grinning Margaret.

  That got a smile out of Katey.

  34

  IT’S GOING DOWN TODAY. Right now, this minute, the deal’s going down in Miami. Neil’s copping now, the biggest score of his life, and it’s almost over. Almost. God above, let him live, watch over him. The gods of Santería, protect us all.

  A frightened Lydia, ignoring her promise to Neil to cut down on smoking, puffed twice on her fifth cigarette in minutes, frowning at its menthol taste before stubbing it out in the motel’s chipped, dirty ashtray. She stopped pacing to look down at Olga, who slept quietly in one of the twin beds, knees to chin, her back against the huge black-and-white panda given her by Neil. Lydia managed a small, quick smile; Olga had tied her own watch on the panda, using a thin blue ribbon to get it around the panda’s thick wrist.

  The bureau had had Lydia under twenty-four-hour guard in a Queens motel since last night and would keep her here until the day after tomorrow, when she’d be moved to another safe house. She’d been pulled off the set, her part in the Mas Betancourt case finished. Neil was in Miami to make the biggest narcotics buy in federal-law-enforcement history: two million four hundred thousand dollars for the thirty keys of uncut white. With this buy the arrests would begin. The time for just taking names was over. The trail had come to an end.

  Today, tomorrow, the next day, everybody on Neil’s list was getting popped, and it wouldn’t be long before people connected Neil to these arrests, and after Neil, Lydia. You couldn’t fool the street long. Sooner or later everybody you know, especially with a case this size. Lydia and Olga would have to leave New York, relocate in another city, under another name. The bureau would help, giving her money, a new identity. After today she’d need it, because this case was going to be dynamite.

  Neil placed his hands on her shoulders, smiling. “Baby, you are some kind of talker. Three days down in Washington, and you come back and we get the word. We can go get Logroño, we can squeeze him if we want.”

  She glowed with his pride in her, and touched his hand with hers. “All I did was tell the truth. They ask me, I tell the truth. Logroño is Kelly’s mule. I say there is a very good chance he is carrying.”

  “Yeah, well, we’d better be right, is all. We can pop him, but he’d better be carrying white heroin and not a handful of picture postcards. We get him on top of forty-five, fifty people, Jesus, this case is gonna go through the roof.”

  “Neil, don’ forget the dope. You get that, you doin’ okay.”

  “Me doing okay? What about you? We have to pay you if we confiscate enough of it. Did you know that? You’re gonna have a nice piece of change coming.”

  She shrugged, eyes meeting his. “We help each other, huh? I help you, you help me. You notice I don’ smoke so much anymore, don’ wear short dresses all the time, and I throw ’way that purple lipstick you don’t like.”

  He ruffled her hair, grinning. “You are lookin’ good, baby, lookin’ good. Okay, get your coat. Time to hit the bricks. Tonight we go to the opening of King Raymond’s new restaurant. Just the thing for a nice white boy: guest of honor at a new Harlem restaurant. If my mother could see me now.”

  “You? What about me, a nice Cuban girl from Miami. Did you know my mother wanted me to be a ballerina? Sí. Es verdad. Is true.”

  With her back against the motel-room door and her eyes closed, Lydia listened to the low hum of conversation coming from the hallway on the other side, where the two agents guarding her sat in folding chairs, one with a shotgun under an overcoat on his lap, the other with a Colt .45 APC Commander between his legs and hidden by the newspaper he read. The first week in March, still cold outside, but the snow was all gone, and it would be spring soon. To stop her hands from shaking, she hugged herself tightly, wishing she had a drink, wishing she had a blow of cocaine, and smiling when she thought of the agents’ reaction if she were to ask them to bring her coke. You don’t drink this through a straw, baby, you snort it through a straw.

  She still did coke once in a while. Never in front of Neil, and not as often as she used to, but once in a while. If Neil suspected, he was cool, never bugging her, but chewing her out when she had showed up too stoned to work with him. She’d stopped doing that. Now whenever she was with him, she was straight. No drugs.

  A grinning, sweating King Raymond leaned over their table, one arm around Lydia, the other around Neil. “Got some dyn-o-mite shee-yut fo’ you nice people. Y’all wan’ li’l taste?” He was high on coke and offering Lydia and Neil a blow.

  Lydia smiled, shaking her head. “No, we’re straight, King. Big crowd you got here. This is a nice restaurant.”

  He looked around, glassy-eyed, still leaning on Lydia and Neil. “Damn sure oughta be. Put a lot of green in this place. Me, my wife’s cousin, and an aunt. Aunt’s gonna be doin’ the cookin’. Man needs investments. Speakin’ of cookin’, say, Hunnerd Dollah Man, hear y’all goin’ to Miami next week. You be cookin’, gettin’ yo’sef straight.”

  Lydia watched Neil smile, nod, then shrug. He was so good at scoring dope now. Laid
back, street-smart, and together. You believed him. Everybody on the street believed the Hundred Dollar Man.

  The crowd buzzed and laughed around them, bass-heavy soul music booming from a brand-new jukebox. King Raymond put his lips close to Neil’s ear. “Y’all come up short, you check me out. I be gettin’ well next week, too.” He winked at Lydia, who said, “Oh? Cristina says she’s got what Neil needs, he won’t have to go anywhere else.”

  “Hell, woman, lots of people be well next week. All of it’s comin’ in next week, some the same day as Neil’s shit, some the day after. Cris-Cristina ain’t the only one gon’ be holdin’. Man, you oughta be comin’ to me, you know that? Lyd-ja, you tell him me and the brothers can take care of him. Go on.”

  “What do I tell him, King?” She smiled, eyes on his face, drawing him to her, willing him to talk to her. She’d been doing it long enough now to know when she was going to get lucky, to hear something Neil needed to know. She could sense it, feel it, almost taste it.

  King Raymond snorted, rubbing the back of his hand across his nose, scratching it, looking quickly at his hand for traces of blood, and smiling when he saw none. “New York, man. Brothers be pickin’ up their shit in New York. You gotta travel outta town to get yo’ shit. If you be smart, you deal with us, you stay in the Apple. New York. So nice they named it twice.”

  Lydia watched Neil’s eyes become alert, then saw him blink, smile. She said, “Neil, when you come back from Miami, think you’ll need anything else?”

  Neil sipped scotch and water before answering. “Depends.”

  King Raymond leaned between the two of them again. He smelted of lime cologne. “I’ll have lots of white. Check me out.”

  Lydia touched his arm. “When?”

  “Thursday. Day afta Hunnerd Dollah Man here come back from Miami. People wif me don’ be goin’ to Union City or Washington or Miami. Get yo’ goodies right here in the Apple.”

  Lydia kissed him on the cheek. “Who’s going to Washington?”

  “Anybody coppin’ from Alfredo Donat be goin’ to Washington. Cubans be goin’ there, Union City, Miami. Brothers be goin’ to Manhattan and Queens. Five places to get what yo’ need, pretty mama. Say, you people ain’t eatin’. Lemme get y’all some food.”

  He stood up and had stepped away into the crowd before Lydia could ask him anything else. The excitement was enough to make her cry out. “Neil—”

  “Yeah, I know. Stash points. Cool it, we know enough. Jesus, you’re great.”

  “Neil?” She leaned close to him, taking his arm, her lips against his ear. She could hardly speak. “Five cities. Queens, here, Union City—”

  “I know, I know. Just keep quiet. Oh, shit, here he comes with food. Eat it, force yourself to eat it. We’ll talk later.”

  A smiling King Raymond set two plates heaped with soul food in front of them. “Smothered poke chops, collards, candied yams, gravy, potato salad. Eat up. More where that came from. Like I done tol’ y’all, I give y’all what y’all need.”

  Lydia looked out of the motel window at the parking lot below, at a woman bending over to fasten a child’s winter coat before the both of them got into a station wagon and drove away. Behind Lydia, the television set droned on as actors in a soap opera recited long pages of dialogue to each other and looked pained. Neil. He could be dead now. No, don’t think like that He was protected. Lydia had made sure.

  “Lydia, if the guys see me wearing this, they’ll fall down laughing.”

  “Neil, wear it. I beg you, wear it.”

  He held up the necklace in his left hand, staring at the tiny red and white beads. “What’s it called again?”

  “Collar. Coe-yar. A sacred necklace. The colors red and white belong to the god Changó. He is the God of Fire, Thunder, Lightnin’. He will help you conqueror your enemies.”

  “Lydia—”

  “Neil, these people are dangerous. Tomorrow you go down to Miami and you end this case. They will not like it when you arrest them.”

  “Tough. That’s what I get paid for.”

  “You don’t know Cubans. Six months with me, and you don’ learn. They won’t like it when they find out you betray them. Wear this, please? Promise me you’ll wear it?”

  “I’ll be wired when I meet them. I don’t know if I can wear it over the equipment. Might interfere. Okay if I just carry it with me?”

  She shrugged. “Yes. I guess so. Have you found Dávila yet?”

  “No, goddamm it. We want him off the set, same as you. He’s disappeared. When he called you, did he say where he was going?”

  “No. He jus’ said that he wanted me to go away with him now, before this case went down. He said he was afraid, really afraid this time. A lot of people have much money in this deal. He is afraid of what might happen to him if they find out he informed on them.”

  “If we work it right, no one will ever know he worked with us. I’m getting arrested when it goes down, no way out of it. They’ll make me soon enough. Better later than sooner. Don’t want the word out on me for a few days. You’ll be under guard in a safe house, and Dávila … Jesus!”

  “Neil, he is really frightened of Cristina. He said he already has his ticket, he’s going away. When I wouldn’t go with him, he refused to tell me where he was goin’. He don’ trust nobody.”

  “Panic. Goddamn fool. Changó, huh? Hope Changó doesn’t hit me in the ass with one of his lightning bolts.”

  “Neil, this is serious. These things are real, they can help you.”

  “So can a gun. You take care, too. I’ll call you soon as I can.”

  She blinked away tears and went to him, into his arms. They kissed, and she tore herself away from him, hands covering her face. “Go, please go,” she whispered.

  He stood and looked at her back. “I’ll call you.”

  She heard the door close, and only then did she turn around, the tears hot on her face.

  She asked the agents if she and Olga could go outside for a walk, and they agreed. In the sharp March winds, one agent walked beside her, the other behind her, holding Olga’s hand. Lydia said, “How long can we stay out?”

  “Not long.” The big agent with the hand radio in his pocket didn’t look at her when he answered. Out of habit, his eyes were everywhere at once. The danger wouldn’t start until after the busts, but the agent had begun to be alert now.

  “It’ll be all right,” he said, still not looking at her. That’s what he thought she wanted to hear.

  When they heard the noise, Lydia screamed, both hands in front of her mouth, and the agent stepped in front of her, hands tight around the newspaper-wrapped shotgun. “Car,” he muttered, hard blue eyes scanning the quiet neighborhood of small wooden houses. “Nothing but a damned car backfiring.” The agent behind him relaxed, hand almost out of his overcoat pocket, his thumb sliding the safety back on the Colt .45 APC Commander.

  A shaken Lydia said, “Let’s go back.”

  The big agent nodded.

  Cristina Reina pointed to the heroin on the twin beds. “Virgin. Pure white. You can step on it twice and still be dealing excellent merchandise.”

  Neil nodded. Had to agree with the skinny bitch on that. White heroin in clear plastic bags, each bag 2.2 pounds, one kilo. Dozens of bags. Snowfall on two green bedspreads in a Miami motel room. A dream come true, a bust to blow your mind, an orgasm on top of an orgasm, and Neil Shire was going to be the man to do it to them. He stood with two agents and Katey behind him, his people, his protection, his Italians, and behind them, on the floor, two suitcases of marked hundred-dollar bills. Two million four hundred thousand dollars’ worth of evidence to be used in court just as soon as Cristina Reina and her three Cuban friends touched it, accepted it, left their fingerprints on it, and did it all in front of witnesses.

  Neil took a deep breath, eyes on the white heroin. This is what it’s all about. My pot of gold and my rainbow. This is what my ass is on the line for, what I’ve pissed away a marriage for. Now I’
m a winner, and it fucking feels good.

  Neil gave Cristina a big smile, jerking his head back toward the suitcases.

  “Start counting.” His chest itched; had to have it shaved so that the recorder could be taped to him. Better an itchy chest than to pull adhesive tape from a hairy chest.

  Cristina smiled back, signaling her men to go for the suitcases. She would count the money first, then Neil would be free to walk out with the dope. Neil felt the tension in his stomach, his throat, his brain, even his asshole. Honest to God, his asshole was tightening. The room was quiet as the Cubans counted slowly, carefully. Neil imagined he could hear himself sweating, but to be truthful, it was a cool scene, no dialogue, no big deal. That’s how it was on this level, with professionals. You did business quickly, quietly, and then you went on your way. Heavy dealers never got ripped.

  The three-hour meals in restaurants were over; now it was hand-to-hand. Money from Neil, white heroin from Cristina. Jesus, it was actually going down. Lord, it was all so sweet.

  He said, “John-John ought to be happy with that,” nodding at the money.

  Cristina sat on the edge of one of the beds, her back to the men doing the counting. “He’s never happy. No matter how much dope he deals, he is never happy. He will retire soon, like Mas Betancourt. Go to Spain and watch olives grow. Have you ever been to Spain?”

  “No. Plan to one day. Maybe I’ll look up Mas when I get there.”

  “Don’t bother. He’s not very sociable. None of his people are.”

  “So I hear. I hear Luis DaPaola is rough.”

  “Yes. He likes to watch people die, likes to look into their eyes.” She shivered. You ain’t my starship, either, thought Neil. You’ve planted a few people in the ground yourself, lady.

  Cristina said, “You want to test a bag? Pick out one, doesn’t matter.” She crossed her legs, smoothing down her skirt.