Jungle Of His Choosing

Transcription

JUNGLE
OF
HIS
CHOOSING
SHELDON YAVITZ
JUNGLE
OF
HIS
CHOOSING
SHELDON YAVITZ
Miami
The characters, events and institutions
depicted in this book are wholly fictional or are
used fictitiously. Any apparent resemblance to
any person alive or dead, to any events or
actual events described herein, and to any
actual institutions is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 Sheldon Yavitz
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever
without permission in writing from the publisher
except in the case of reprints in the context of
reviews.
Published by Grand Lifestyle Publisher
PO Box 558250, Miami, Florida 33255
www.GrandLifestyle.com
publish@GrandLifestyle.com
You are invited to subscribe to our FREE news
journal by visiting www.GrandLifestyle.com.
Manufactured in the United States of America
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO
CATFISH AND BOSTON
In three words I can sum up everything
I’ve learned about life:
It goes on.
Robert Frost
(1874-1963)
American Poet
The Characters
Pierre Achilles
Port-au-Prince, Haiti lawyer
Laura Atwood
Bahamian call girl and Stan Pollard’s lover
Carlos Bianco
Powerboat racing champion and drug dealer
claiming to be an aircraft broker
Harry “Wink” Bird
Dutch’s errand boy and jack-of-all-trades
Buddha Blanton
Drug trafficker imprisoned in Cuba;
Stan Pollard’s client
Herndon Boxall
Grand Turk Island lawyer who services
off-shore corporations
President Fidel Castro
Cuban dictator
Luther “Goldie” Clampton
Heavy equipment company owner imprisoned in Port-au-Prince for drug smuggling;
Stan Pollard’s client
Webster Cox
CIA control agent
viii
THE CHARACTERS
Edward “Ed” Crawford
Criminal lawyer and associate of Stan
Pollard
Thomas “Dutch” Durant
Formerly Donald David “Dutch” Van Dyke,
formerly Barry Parton, born Joseph John
Callahan; drug kingpin; friend and personal
client of Stan Pollard
Gerald Faulkner
CIA station chief
Christabel Forster
Stan Pollard’s divorce attorney
Alvin Godofsky
Known as Frank “Pop” Durfee; dean of drug
pilots
Ginger Gray
Exotic dancer and girlfriend of Stan Pollard
Roberto Gustavo, “El Patron”
Colombian drug boss
Colonel Gabriel Haro
Cuban Air Force officer
Richard “Rich” Lanza
IRS agent, Criminal Investigations
Reynaldo Martinez
Sue Ann Pollard’s boyfriend
T. Clement Mayfield
Bahamian lawyer
Ace McGonigle
Retired mercenary, drug pilot and operator
of a charter airline
Fitzgerald Moore
Journalist and author
THE CHARACTERS
ix
Henri Piaget
Well-connected, dapper Frenchman in
Port-au-Prince
Stanton “Stan” M. Pollard (1943-1987)
Criminal lawyer in Miami; also uses alias of
Sergio Ponton, a Venezuelan journalist and
John Hensley of Fort Worth, Texas
Sue Ann Pollard
Wife of Stan Pollard
Victor “Vic” Pollard
Brother of Stan Pollard
Karen Poston
Buddha Blanton’s Miami lawyer
Raymond “Roy” Rodgers
New York hood and bar owner; friend of
Stan Pollard
Remo Rodriguez
Major drug smuggler
Clinton “Hog” Scroggins
Formerly Clinton “Hog” Biggs; former
cell mate of Dutch and now his bodyguard
Antonio Torres
Sue Ann Pollard’s divorce attorney
Martin P. Wilkinson
Special-Agent-In-Charge, DEA Miami field
office
PROLOGUE
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 6, 1987
MIAMI, FLORIDA
A gold Mercury Sable, headlights on, entered
the drive to Crescent Wood Cemetery. Diagonal
sheets of rain beat against the windshield. The vehicle slowed at the directory, then edged along a wiper
blur of shade trees and tombstones.
Fitzgerald Moore sat behind the wheel peering
intently into the tropical downpour. Tall, thin and
suntanned with wavy brown hair, his beard neatly
trimmed beneath intense, too alert eyes. Journalist
and author, he was a regular contributor to several
major national magazines with five marginal novels
to his credit. “Do you really believe he’s dead?” A
compact tape recorder rested on the split-bench seat
between him and Raymond “Roy” Rodgers.
Roy peeled the cellophane from a large cigar.
“What a dumb question.” He bit off the tip, lowered
the rain streaked window, and spit.
“Now come on.”
“Whaddaya mean?” Roy raised the window.
“A flaming car crash in Jamaica, a charred body.
No funeral or religious service.”
“So what!” Roy lit the cigar, puffed a gray
smoke haze. “He wuz cremated. Da ashes scattered
at sea.” His huge bulk smothered the passenger seat.
JUNGLE OF HIS CHOOSING
11
“Stan wuz getting divorced. His fuckin’ ol’ lady
didn’t give a crab’s ass.” His jacket fit snug around
massive shoulders; his belt buckled low under a large
beer-belly bulge. He was in his mid-forties and bald
as a cue ball. A droopy mustache promoted a roughhewn image.
“Maybe, just a writer’s curiosity, but I’m not
satisfied.”
“Ya read too much into dis shit.”
“Well, it makes for a good article.”
“If you say so.” He carelessly thumped ashes,
powdering the seat and carpet.
————
As the precipitation let up, both men exited the
car and walked along the soggy gravel path towards
a burial vault.
“You were his friend and client,” Moore said,
tape recorder in hand. “I had attempted to interview
him, but he refused.”
“Dat’s Stan.”
The sky remained overcast, the humidity oppressive. The bushes glistened from the rain. An overhead branch snagged the sleeve of Roy’s jacket.
He brushed it aside, cussing under his breath. He
scanned the niches until pointing out a name plate:
STANTON M. POLLARD, 1943 to 1987.
“Not much to show. Not even a flower. And you
tell me his ashes were scattered at sea.”
“Shit, that proves he’s dead.”
To Moore, Roy epitomized the classic New
York hood. His pronounced Brooklyn accent, claim
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SHELDON YAVITZ
to being mob-connected, off-the-record references to
loan sharking and “fronting an after-hours club for
the Boys,” when accepted at face value, easily established a mobster’s persona. Moore would later write
that Roy Rodgers could take off your head, then go
out and eat dinner. But at that moment, Roy’s face
seemed to soften, a crack in his voice. The writer
decided otherwise. It didn’t fit the tough guy profile.
“He wuz a sharp sonofabitch,” Roy said, selfabsorbed, referring to a time when the “classic hood”
ran a drug smuggling operation in South Florida. “Ya
see, the Coast Guard boards my boat. I’m up to my
ass in weed. Stan had told me that if a ship’s boarded,
and dope found, da captain takes da fall. Never be a
captain, he sez. So, just before they climb on, I go
down an’ handcuff myself to da bulkhead.”
“More of Pollard’s advice?” Moore asked, raising the tape recorder volume.
“Fuckin’ marijuana’s every fuckin’ place.” Roy
responded, the remark ignored. “Da scum bag crew’s
snitchin’ and fingerin’ me, but there I wuz, handcuffed. At trial, Stan’s got dis great defense. Like,
I wuz hijacked and held captive. Da jury’s out for
two days. I’m sweating bullets, lived in da shitter.
When dey sends out a question: Can a kidnap victim
be responsible for da acts of his captors, Stan just
smiled at me,” Roy said, brushing cigar ashes from
his shirt front.
“Did you win?”
“Did I win?” A bushy eyebrow raised as the
writer’s face reddened realizing the faux pas. “Does
a broad have a pussy?”
13
————
They walked in silence to the car. Moore
unlocked the passenger door, turned, and with
renewed confidence, asked, “Did you know his
friend, Dutch?”
“Only knew him as Dutch. Never used a last
name. Even if he did, it wuz an alias.” He hesitated,
grinned faintly. “Ya sure done your homework.”
“That’s my business. It’s an important story,”
Moore added, trying to impress. “Did you work with
him?”
“I’d deny it,” Roy answered with an acknowledging wink. “A fuckin’ kingpin, the biggest. Grass,
den coke, thousands of kilos.”
“I heard Pollard was involved with him.”
“Don’t quote me.” A rubber sole shoe ground
a cigar butt into the gravel. “I think Stan made him,
wuz the brains.” He leaned forward and whispered.
“That’s real inside info … ah, it could get us killed.”
He caught Moore’s expected reaction, the timorous
nod of an impressionable wannabe.
————
The bright neon sign flashed TREASURE
CHEST LOUNGE. Even from the Palmetto Expressway you could not miss the bar. They followed
an exit ramp and continued along the service road,
parking in front of a converted warehouse which
had been painted pink and trimmed in blue. It had
a matching entrance canopy. “STYLISH ADULT
ENTERTAINMENT. Open until 5:00 A.M.,” a mar-
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SHELDON YAVITZ
quee proclaimed.
A successful journalist is a good listener, and
Roy was talking about Stan Pollard. “The best, big
balls. Got his kicks getting dopers outta foreign slammers. Break ya out, bribes, da whole nine yards.”
Roy sensed a sucker who would put the name of his
lounge in a major publication, a wealth of free publicity, and milked the interview.
“Park right here, in front, between da cones. Dis
is where Stan’s girlfriend and brother bought it.”
They were out of the Mercury. Roy animated. “I
wuz one of da first on the scene. I’d heard the shots
and ran outside. Dis gray sedan speeds off. Stan’s Jag
shot to hell. Vic slumped over da wheel full of holes.
Ginger crumpled like dis rag doll. Real pro hit.” He
hesitated. “Cowboy shit, automatic weapon, maybe
an Uzi.”
————
As they entered the lounge, Roy nodded to
the doorman. The hostess embraced him pecking
his cheek. “You’ll do,” he said, squeezing her right
breast. She smiled accommodatingly. The lounge glittered with chrome and brass. Pulsating lights played
crazily across mirrored walls in time to loud, upbeat
music that mixed with boisterous voices and laughter. An overhead banner boasted “38 BEAUTIFUL
SUNTANNED NUDE DANCERS.” Roy claimed
to have spent over 800,000 dollars on remodeling.
Moore adjusted his four-in-hand necktie and patted
his hair.
“Da place for tits. Dat’s our motto.” Roy’s nor-
15
mally dour face beamed. “Men love tits. Won’t find
a flat-chested bitch in da house. I’ve measured each
knocker,” he chuckled.
Long-legged, taut bodied, firm-breasted girls,
wearing the minimum clothing the law allowed, high
heels, danced on the stages and table tops. Other
scantily clad dancers shared drinks and conversation
with customers at the tables and mahogany bars.
The clientele was a blend of business-suited
executives and professionals, their collars unbuttoned, ties askew and faces flush; rowdy, beer guzzling blue-collar workers; drug dealers and drugstore
cowboys, indistinguishable in jeans, boots and gold.
The bartenders, male and female, wore dark pants,
dress shirts and bow ties. The hostess and waitresses
scurried about in black net stockings, pumps, miniskirts and translucent tops.
Moore would later write: If you were a woman
in this establishment, you were either a dancer, waitress, gay, or out-of-place. A man’s world of dreams
where unhappy and insecure beauties are starlets for
eight hours. The rules are strict. Look, but don’t
touch or don’t touch much; legs closed, movements
slow, and no shaved pussies. A liquor license is at
stake.
They sat at a cordoned off, rear wraparound
booth. An Absolut vodka for Moore, a Coors for
Roy.
“There wuz dis time we needed dough,” Roy
remarked as Moore slipped a new cassette into his
recorder. He paused until the journalist closed the lid
and pressed the record button. “I asked Dutch to buy
16
SHELDON YAVITZ
in. Da ass hole sez he don’t peddle flesh. Can youse
believe that crap from a fuckin’ drug dealer?” The
writer shrugged. Roy stretched his arm across the top
of the booth, faced toward Moore and spoke confidentially. “We all knew da hit wuz meant for Stan.
Fluky, his brother and Ginger got whacked. Who’d
hire a shooter to do-in a shoe salesman and dis broad
wit’ sawdust for brains. Damn nobody, that’s who.”
Moore nodded in agreement, straining to hear
above the noise. The music halted abruptly; the deejay’s voice came over the sound system. “What’s
the difference between your wife and your job after
two years? … Only your job still sucks!” The stereo
blared again. A fog and laser-light show occupied the
main stage.
“I sez to Stan. Da ya need money? Da ya need
protection?” Moore maneuvered his tape recorder to
more adequately capture the bar owner’s comments.
“No thanks, he tells me, as calm as ya please.”
“Just an act, right?”
Roy rubbed a jagged scar on his chin. “He wuz
a cool one. Never saw dat boy rattled.”
“Level with me,” Moore radiated a conspiratorial smile. “What’s the lowdown on the shooting?”
“No offense to Stan, who’ll always be a stand-up
guy in my book,” he said, groping for words. “For
starters, no one puts out a contract on a lawyer unless
there’s a rip-off or he’s turned rat.”
Moore’s face tightened. He listened with rapt
attention. “Da way I see it,” he continued, drawing
on his stogy. “Stan’s ass wuz in a wringer. Da Feds
were after him big time, looked like he’d be indicted.
17
Dat divorce costing him a bundle. Da poor guy’s in
shit up to his neck. He musta fucked up bad.”
“What do you make of it?”
“Well, let’s say ya get a big attorney’s fee,
couple hundred thou, and blow da case, or maybe,
your client invests much dinero in some cockamamy
deal of yours and it falls to shit, or say you’re handling a large sum of money, a mil or more, and it’s
lost or stolen, or you get greedy, pocket da bread, and
some wise guy gets steamed. Stan’s clients don’t sue
your ass. Deez dudes think they’re bulletproof, ten
feet tall, take no crap. If they don’t blow ya away
demselves, they hire a kamikaze with an Uzi.”
“Pretty terrifying scenario.”
“Usually der de nicest guys in da world. Just
like me.”
Roy’s lips twisted into a harsh grin. “Dat’s bidness. Stan knew it better den any of us.”
“Roy, could it be that his death wasn’t an accident, but murder?”
“Now you’re talking, Mr. Writer, but don’t quote
me.”
————
Moore gawked at her cleavage as she whispered
in Roy’s ear.
“Tina’s on a vegetable and fruit juice diet,
lost over nine pounds,” Roy said, smiling benignly.
“Look, babe, why don’t ya do a number for Fritz.
He’s dis gynecologist from Boston so dere’s no
reason ta be shy,” he winked, patted her hand.
“’Sides, dis will gimme a chance to check out dat
18
SHELDON YAVITZ
new figure.”
The journalist was up on his feet, extending an
assisting hand as Tina gracefully negotiated a chair
on her way to the table top. Her ripe, full body straining against the stretched lace minidress as it crept
seductively up her legs.
As she danced dreamily to the music, lost in
her mirrored image, Roy bragged how Stan rescued
a drug pilot shot down while flying over Cuban controlled airspace. Moore listened half-heartedly, muttering, “Uh-huh,” having previously read a similar,
local newspaper account which rumored of Stan’s
link to the CIA and ties to the Medellin Cartel.
“How Stan got inta Cuba wuz a mystery.
Nobody wuz getting in at da time, but he sure did,”
Roy said, continuing a one-sided conversation. Tina
had slipped the dress off her shoulders and was
slowly peeling it away from her breasts. Moore fantasized her saucer-like eyes and parted lips sliding
down his belly, then lower. “He’d not only got dat
boy out, but sneaked him back into da U.S. of A.
without de DEA none da wiser.” Tina stepped from
her outfit throwing it casually across a chair. She
caught Moore’s lustful stare and blew him a kiss.
“Stan comes back. Won’t tell me shit.” Roy
mashed his cigar in an ashtray. Tina had draped her
G-string over Moore’s shoulder. He toyed with it,
fixated on her neatly trimmed mound. “Den, one day
I’m talking wit’ Dutch. He’s telling me about dis
powerful connection Stan’s made in Cuba. A colonel,
uh … a general, or something.”
Moore smiled uneasily, diverted by Roy’s new
19
twist to the story. “Connection? Connection for
what?”
Tina leaned forward cupping her breasts in
her hands, legs parted. Roy flashed an annoyed
look, and a crude gesture. She grasped the message
and resumed dancing, thighs together, once again
engrossed with her mirrored reflection.
“Why, for air flights, refueling stops, protection,” he enlightened with a drug world sophistication. “Unheard of, a doper’s bonanza, a prized
shortcut, and here’s Dutch on da ground floor.”
“And Pollard?”
“Pulling da strings, ya know what I mean.”
“No. I don’t?”
“Fritz, my man, Stan put the deal together, made
it work.”
“Can you prove it?”
Roy’s eyes rolled upward. “Tina youse got fat
thighs, girl.”
————
While Roy attended to business and visited with
several bar patrons, Moore interviewed dancers who
had worked with Ginger and remembered Stan Pollard. By the time Roy rejoined him, he was on his
sixth vodka, fifth dancer and out-of-pocket 250 dollars. He had exhausted his supply of cassettes and
resorted to a note pad, with a collection of trite
comments ranging from “Stan being a nice guy, not
like most of the schmucks we have to deal with”
to Ginger memorialized as a “real loss to the dance
world.”
20
SHELDON YAVITZ
“Ginger was good,” Roy reminisced. “Could’ve
earned a grand a night, but she’d rather smoke pot,
get suntanned. I’ll tell ya dis. She had da prettiest,
natural blond monkey, dis come-fuck-me face.” He
grabbed his crotch. “Makes my banana hard thinking
about her.” Moore swallowed his drink and grinned
sheepishly. “After Stan busted up with dat bitch of
his, he would come in, sit over in da V.I.P. section.”
Roy pointed in the direction of a horseshoe-shaped
bar. “One night, Ginger sits down wit’ Stan. They talk
’till closing. I don’t pay dem much mind.” The writer
nodded, feeling queasy. “Dis goes on for a couple of
nights. My manager’s mad as hell. Ya see, da girls tipout da manager, bartenders, bouncers, and if she isn’t
working, they’re losing dough.” Moore’s glassy eyes
now riveted on a curvaceous redhead twirling her
G-string and clicking her heels to a Latin beat. “It’s
bad for bidness to make exceptions.” Roy scowled,
puffed defiantly on another cigar. “But it’s Stan. So, I
sez, fuck it. Put on an extra girl.” Moore beckoned to
the redhead. “I figure a piece-of-ass sure, but they got
nothin’ in common,” Roy continued talking as the
writer clumsily twisted a ten dollar bill in the girl’s
garter. “I sez to Stan, bro, she’s a bimbo.” He crushed
an empty aluminum beer can in his huge fist. “Hasn’t
being hitched to Sue Ann taught ya nothin’. Do ya
know what he sez?” Moore shook his head. “He sez
she wants him to stop saving criminals and save da
whales.”
————
21
MONDAY, OCTOBER 12, 1987
FORT LAUDERDALE, FLORIDA
A major publication had bought the magazine
article, 5,000 words, 10,000 dollars, and hopefully
the centerfold of the year issue. The money was
encouraging, and meeting the deadline, a priority.
Unfortunately, Stan’s wife reportedly still vacationed
in Mexico. The U.S. Attorney’s Office had refused an
interview with a terse written response denying that
at the time of his death, Stan was the subject of any
federal investigation.”
With granny glasses perched on the tip of his
nose, he returned to pounding on an old IBM Selectric.
“Pollard was the prime suspect in a call girl’s
death,” he typed. “His brother and girlfriend murdered gangland style. A reputed CIA operative with
links to Colombian drug lords. A federal grand
jury probe surprisingly fizzled. His divorce made
headlines. Now he is dead. Was it an accident or
murder?”
He reached for a coffee cup and glanced out his
condo window. A sportfisherman rocked lazily dock
side. He tore the sheet from the typewriter. “Dead!
Bull!” He crumpled the paper.
————
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 23, 1987
MIAMI, FLORIDA
The suite was encased in stainless steel, tinted
glass and concrete amid office towers and high-rise
condominiums.
22
SHELDON YAVITZ
Palm-lined Brickell Avenue, once an Indian trail
and now a congested thoroughfare, bustled eighteen
stories below. The U.S. Customs Riverside complex
was within walking distance. The federal courthouse
readily accessible by monorail.
Law Offices of Stanton M. Pollard & Associates, in four-inch brass lettering, still graced the
massive oak double doors. An antique wolf’s head
knocker provided an odd flair.
Moore would describe the waiting room as comfortably expensive and conservatively elegant, and
characterize the secretary as shapely and efficient.
He would depict Edward Crawford as exuding selfconfidence with that subtle superiority so typical of
the legal profession.
The interview ground rules had been prearranged: no tape recorder or photographer and a onehour time limit.
He masked his irritation. The disallowance of
the tape recorder had cramped his technique. A
time limitation would hinder an in-depth interview.
An uncomfortable chair and mile-wide desk nurtured Moore’s negativism. Two bitter divorces and
a career damaging libel suit had long ago jaundiced
his objectivity toward lawyers in general. The verdict
remained out on Stanton Pollard, but subconsciously,
he honed his pen to a bloodletting instrument. He
went straight for the jugular hoping for a kill.
“From my own investigation,” he said, pen
poised, note pad resting on his lap, “Pollard seemed to
not only represent high profile criminals, but openly
associate with them. One federal agent claimed that
23
he was as crooked as his clients.” The writer took
poetic license basing his assertion on a third-hand
comment.” What do you say to that?”
Crawford tilted back on his swivel chair, his
eyes scanned the ceiling.
“Would you prefer taking the Fifth?”
A wry smile crossed the lawyer’s face. “You
have asked four questions.” He was an athletically
trim five-foot-eleven, thirty-four years of age and
had been associated with Stan since graduating from
law school. “The answers are: no, yes, no and no,” he
laughed.
Moore shifted uneasily, and sought a more neutral course directing his inquiry to the practice of
law, another mistake. Bored, he watched the hour
tick away while Crawford provided a lengthy, scholarly dissertation on trends in constitutional and criminal law and significant judicial decisions skirting
any reference to the deceased senior partner. In midsentence, a buzzer sounded. The attorney pressed the
intercom, listened and then informed his secretary to
hold all calls.
Moore reviewed his notes and looked up. “Can
you brief me on the Pollard divorce?” He felt the tension ebb.
“I didn’t represent him, but from what I understand, his wife’s ongoing affair made reconciliation
impossible, but he had tried for an amicable settlement. In fact, he offered her a fortune. Got
nowhere.”
“How much?”
“Two million. Considered four.”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“That’s unusually generous for a financially
strapped husband with an adulterous wife.”
“Stan didn’t want a confrontation.”
“Something to hide?”
“Let’s say, he did nothing without a reason.
Actually …”
“I’ve read,” Moore said interrupting, “that during
this period Stan was also the target of a federal investigation, and as pointed out by one of his colleagues,
the divorce furnished a means to invade his business
records and client files opening the door to an IRS
tax audit.”
“Initially that was the impression, but I can tell
you this, the effort backfired.” He tugged the bridge
of his nose. “Stan had more on the government than
they had on him. Just like his wife, they were tucking
in their tails and running.”
“What do you mean?”
“No comment,” Crawford replied, withdrawing
behind a professional curtain.
“I heard the double homicide severely impacted
on his situation?”
“It made Stan more reclusive, more guarded. He
knew who committed the murders.”
“Who?”
“Like everything else, the secret died with
him.”
“You’re not being very helpful.”
“I intend to remain among the living.” He
cleared his throat. “Mr. Moore, I suggest you keep
that in mind.”
The writer shrugged skeptically, but changed
25
the subject. “Did you know Ginger Gray and Pollard’s brother, Vic?”
“I met Victor, once or twice.” He leaned back
in his chair. “A salesman, I think,” he hesitated, concentrating. “From up North, also going through a
divorce, unfortunately, here on a visit.”
“And Ginger?”
“Now she was something else. Young enough to
have been his daughter, long blond hair, almost to her
waist,” Crawford grinned, a broad smile. “This great
body. A knockout.” His hands descriptively outlining her figure. “I got to tell you this story.” Moore
nodded, and Crawford related how one evening, he
had gone to Stan’s town house to discuss a pending
case. “Ginger opens the door wearing nothing but
this tiny, frilly, French apron with a big bow.”
“Nothing else?”
“Oh, high heels,” he chuckled. “Stan’s playing
with Sherlock, that’s his pet cockatoo. Ginger’s serving us drinks and cooking dinner. I kid you not. I had
a hard-on.”
“And Pollard?”
“Relaxed, cheerful. Just don’t get her started on
acid rain, the rain forest or whales, he says.”
A rap on the door. Crawford hesitated, his smile
faded. The efficient secretary peered in, said good
night and was gone. Moore glanced at his watch,
exactly 5:00 pm. They had talked for more than an
hour and a half.
Crawford walked over and opened a wooden,
louvered partition revealing a wet bar and ice maker.
“How’s about a drink? No reason to fight rush hour
26
SHELDON YAVITZ
traffic.”
“Splendid idea,” Moore agreed, up, moving
about, perusing the well-stocked liquor cabinet. “If
you have a little time, I would like to see Stan’s
office. Insight, a glimpse of his personality.”
————
“Actually, this suite has less square footage than
our original place,” Crawford remarked as he and
Moore toured the premises. “We moved it over lock,
stock and barrel.”
“The divorce forced the move?”
“Drove us off the marital property.”
“I read that the office was in his home?”
“No, a separate house. He had a huge estate, but
Sue Ann made a big stink. I preferred the change.
Stan hated it.” The conference room resembled an old
courthouse library with wall-to-wall bookshelves, an
imposing, massive table and leather armchairs. He
peeked in the paralegal’s office and the one for the
private investigator. “The law business must be big
business.”
“It was.” Crawford returned a worrisome
frown.
Moore would characterize Stan’s private office
as a western movie set with a cluttered, antique roll
top desk, Tiffany lamp and a high back, leather swivel
chair. A stuffed wild turkey and other game birds
graced a credenza. Above were animal mounts.
“Some hunter,” Moore said, gazing at a twelvepoint Whitetail deer trophy. “Isn’t that an American
black bear?”
27
“It appears so.” Crawford encouraged the illusion.
Rifles and handguns adorn the opposite wall
and a floor to ceiling window provide a breath-taking panorama. Three comfortable chairs, a turn of
the century barber chair and a petrified wood coffee
table completed the furnishings.
“Stan always spoke to his clients around this
table,” Crawford recalled, seated in the barber chair.
“He objected to your typical law office formality.”
He adjusted the mechanism, tilting back with his legs
slightly elevated.
“Interesting.” Moore moved about the room
examining the decor and oddities. “What was he
like?” A finger followed the ridges of a Haitian wood
carving.
“A brilliant trial attorney, a clever strategist.”
He picked up the statue, examining the base. “I
mean out of the courtroom.”
“A private man, more at home with his children
and animals. Not a people person.” Crawford rose
from the barber chair. “We socialized very little.”
“You were with him for years.”
“I need another scotch,” the lawyer said. “Want
a refill?”
“Sure. Make it a double.”
When Crawford returned carrying drinks, Moore
asked about a taxidermic crocodile at the window
edge.
“Over nine feet long. It arrived mysteriously
one day.”
“The grenades?”
28
SHELDON YAVITZ
“Deactivated, a Cuban extortionist after his
acquittal.”
“What about the human skull?”
“From a client.”
“Dutch?” He held the skull in one hand and
opened and snapped shut the spring-loaded jaw with
the other.
“How did you guess?”
“Fits. So tell me about the elusive drug kingpin?”
“I really don’t know him.” Crawford looked
searchingly out of the window at Biscayne Bay
and the Miami Beach skyline across the causeway.
“Never met him,” he answered, regretting having
mentioned the name and annoyed by the repetitious
clacking of the enlivened jaw. “Spoke to him on the
phone, nothing more.”
“C’mon, Ed.” The writer stepped up beside him;
the head cradled in his arm. “I don’t get it.”
“It’s simple. He was Stan’s personal client.”
“Personal client?” Moore asked, holding the
skull at eye level, staring at his link to Dutch.
“Look, this is not germane. Let’s change the
subject.”
The writer gently put down the skull. “There’s a
side to Stan you haven’t mentioned.” He removed a
1859 percussion revolver from a wall bracket. “The
CIA agent and world traveler.”
“Well, he had an appetite for intrigue far beyond
our normal law practice.” Crawford sat at the roll top
desk sipping a scotch and soda. “Unexplained business trips all over the Caribbean and South America.”
29
He absentmindedly shifted through a stack of papers.
“So many clients, like Dutch, who were simply identified by a voice or nickname.” He tossed an envelope
in a wastebasket. “Then, there were all Stan’s government contacts, especially in foreign countries.”
“I read he was in Cuba.”
“So they say.”
Moore cocked the hammer. “Why are you so
evasive?” He squeezed the trigger.
“I wasn’t privy to that circle.”
“Do you suspect that his wife knew some dark
secret?” He slowly tracked from one animal mount
to another searching for a target.
“He didn’t confide in me. I have no idea what
Sue Ann knew.”
“Could Stan’s alleged accidental death have
been murder?” Moore asked, dropping to one knee
and taking aim at a ring-neck pheasant.
“Very possible.”
Moore’s eye narrowed on the gun sight. “Could
he still be alive?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Just a writer’s curiosity.” The trigger clicked.
“His death is well documented.”
“It’s too convenient.” Moore raised the gun
barrel to his lips and blew imaginary smoke from the
black powder weapon.
“Crawford mustered a faint smile. “I think our
interview is over.”
————
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 4, 1987
30
SHELDON YAVITZ
SOUTH MIAMI, FLORIDA
The Pollard residence abutted a narrow, tree
lined street ending in a cul-de-sac. Fitzgerald Moore
spotted the numbered mailbox and pulled in the
driveway entrance barred by a large, white ornate
gate. A stone wall and high hedges surrounded the
property.
Following Sue Ann’s instructions, he rang the
outdoor intercom and spoke into a speaker phone.
A soft voice with a mellifluous southern drawl
answered, and the electric gate parted and swung
wide. Moore spied a surveillance camera but failed
to notice the “Beware of Dog” sign.
He drove down the seemingly endless brick
drive. “Three acres at least,” he dictated into his
tape recorder. “The heavily wooded grounds resembled a park. There’s oaks, pines, ferns and palms,
profuse tropical foliage, a footbridge over a pond,
and beyond, a sprawling two-story plantation-style
home. Wood, stone, French doors, shutters and a full
circumference sun deck suggestive of another era.”
At the rear, Moore parked his automobile in
front of a carriage-style five car garage, a Jeep Wagoneer in an open bay. He slipped the tape recorder
in a shoulder bag, stepped from his vehicle pressing
the power lock button. He slammed the door, instinctively turned. In rank stood three guard dogs and a
mammoth Great Dane.
“Oh, shit!” He frantically tugged at the locked
handle, then froze, fearful that the slightest movement would provoke the pack. His eyes darted,
seeking an escape route. Beads of sweat dotted his
31
forehead. The two Dobermans on his right edged forward, snarled, gnashing their teeth. Moore’s heart
thumped. To his left, a Rottweiler emitted a deep,
guttural growl. The Great Dane advanced to within
arms length, its imposing head at belt level, a drool
dampened muzzle. Foul phlegm stuck in the writer’s
throat. He gulped, too macho to scream and afraid
not to, pinned like a hood ornament to the Mercury.
Suddenly the dogs halted, ears perked, heads
tilted. With a pale face and stomach churning, he
watched as they moved off, then scattered.
“Don’t be frightened, sugar.” A voice called out.
He looked searchingly toward the house. “They only
eat lawyers.”
On the terrace, Moore sighted a glamorous
blond, wearing a designer pantsuit. “Are you Mr.
Moore?” She waved a bejeweled hand. He choked on
his words, unable to answer.
————
They were seated in the living room. Moore on
a cushioned wicker chair. Sue Ann on the couch.
An irregular, high glossed driftwood table between
them. Wicker and rattan furniture, oak and cypress
paneling, a high beamed ceiling and overhead fans
gave the living room a feel of warmth and comfort.
He removed his tape recorder. “I hope you don’t
mind,” he said, smiling disarmingly. “It’s a tool of
our profession. We find it makes for greater accuracy.”
“Honey, you sure are a serious author.” She
brushed a strand of hair from her forehead.
32
SHELDON YAVITZ
“Later, if you would provide several recent photographs of your late husband, it would be most
appreciated.” She sat erect, arms folded across her
bosom. “If you agree, I will send our magazine photographer to take pictures of you.” She crossed her
legs, a pensive expression. “Mrs. Pollard, I hope to
make you the star of my article.”
“You’re so sweet, sugar. How can I say no.” Her
drawl punctuated shoulder length, platinum blond
hair. Expressive green eyes heavily shadowed and
lashed. Her beauty ageless, cosmetically smooth
complexion flawless. Moore demanded an imperfection. He found a trace of wrinkles on her neck.
“That ring is exquisite.” A seven carat marquise
drew his interest.
“Oh, Stanton just loved diamonds and gold,”
she said in a molasses-slow voice. “He would take
them as fees and just give them to me. It really didn’t
cost anything.” Sue Ann caught his sneer and added,
tossing her head. “Honey, I’m not stupid. They’re a
smart investment.” A white baby grand sat in the far
corner.
She offered him a drink, and the housekeeper, a
dark, stout Haitian woman, responded with a chilled
carafe of wine and a platter of cheese and crackers.
Lightly fingering her glass, Sue Ann related how
she had grown up in a rural Mississippi town, an only
child of straight-laced parents. She went on to reveal
that she had run away from home, married a soldier
and had her first child before eighteen, and a second
by her twentieth birthday. She had worked as a waitress, manicurist and model until all she could see was
33
a divorce and freedom in her future.
“Stanton wasn’t my first husband, but I may
have been his first client. He had just started practicing, had this dumb, cubbyhole office. Stanton
handled my divorce. I thought he was so cute, so
clever. Her lips spread in an ironic smile. “Boy was I
naive.”
“Stan must have been difficult to live with.” His
tone sympathetic. “According to court records, you
accused him of fraud and deceit, hiding assets, creating dummy corporations to avoid taxes and conceal
ownership,” he continued, reading from a small note
pad withdrawn from his bag. “You claimed he was
violent and abusive, even obtained a restraining order
removing him from the residence and closed down
his home office. Can you tell me about this from your
own point of view?”
“Oh, pooh!” She rolled her eyes, motioned
with her hands, her gestures feminine and dramatic.
“That’s lawyer talk.
Antonio Torres is a very sharp attorney. He told
me exactly what to say. If you want Stanton out of
the house, he said, you got to talk shit. That’s the way
it’s done, honey,” she winked.
Moore munched on a cracker and Munster
cheese. “From what I gather your divorce was never
final, and you, more or less, inherited everything.”
“I earned it,” she said defensively. YOU WANT
HIM DEAD. IT’S GONNA COST. YOU KNOW
WHAT I WANT. Sue Ann sipped her wine, appeared
distant. YOU FUCK IN FRONT OF A CAMERA.
The scent of her perfume seductive.
34
SHELDON YAVITZ
“What can you tell me about Stan’s law career?
“Her eyelashes fluttered, she yawned.
————
Attempting to revive the interview, Moore
inquired as to a large, expensively framed seascape
hung above the fireplace mantel and other oil paintings. In his opinion, they all seemed amateurish. He
feigned praise and asked about the artist.
“Stanton just loved my artwork.” She paused,
wrinkled her nose. “He insisted that they all be
framed and hung. We finally ran out of space, so I
stopped. Tired of his shit,” she sighed.
————
From where they stood, Sue Ann pointed out
the swimming pool and beyond, Stan’s former law
office, a smaller building, architecturally similar to
the main house. “I simply hated Stanton’s office,” she
said, drawing out each word in a syrup-slow drawl.
“So close, always underfoot, invading my space.”
“But it’s over a hundred yards off, a separate
building.”
“You don’t get it,” Sue Ann pouted. “Everything’s Stanton. If he wasn’t working, he was playing
with his dogs, fiddling with his nasty birds, toying
with all his damn cars, worried about his darn trees,
annoying his kids. Shit, he was a pest.” She had a
pained expression. “We couldn’t wait for him to be
gone.”
Moore listened, nodded in agreement. He
35
noticed that she was braless, and moved closer. She
lifted a family portrait from an end table and showed
it to him. “That’s my son, Thomas,” she pointed.
“He’s handling our investments in Mississippi, near
grandma. Kimberly’s away in college. The boy’s now
in private school. That’s me, sugar, that’s,” she glared
at the picture, “him.” She laid it face down on the
table.
“Between you and I,” Moore said, resuming his
seat. “Off-the-record, if you wish.” He appeared to
press the stop button on the recorder. “What is your
worst complaint about Stan?”
“Why, he wouldn’t take out the garbage, wash
dishes, change a diaper.” She pressed a perfectly
manicured finger against her lower lip. “Stanton just
wasn’t normal.”
“Then, you were very fortunate to have a housekeeper.”
“Uh-huh.” She looked at him puzzled.
“Did he have any good points?”
“No,” she said without hesitation.
Sue Ann appeared to grow uneasy, then impatient. She fingered a diamond Rolex, crossed and recrossed her legs.
She excused herself and was gone for about ten
minutes. When she returned, Moore would note that
she seemed “wired,” her speech more rapid, movements slightly exaggerated. She rubbed her nose,
sniffed.
“Do you know Dutch? I believe he was one of
your husband’s most notorious clients.”
She scowled. “He’s such an animal!” NO
36
SHELDON YAVITZ
MOVIES, NO STAN … HARD-CORE PORNO
… OUR PRIVATE SECRET … SO DIRTY YOU
WON’T DARE SAY A WORD.
“Then you do know him?”
“Honey, he’s a crude pervert.” She gnawed on
her lip. “I was forced to put up with that horrible
man.” ALL I DO IS FUCK WITH A CAMERA IN
MY FACE. “Stanton’s damn fault. He caused me so
much shit.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Pollard, if I upset you, but
would you care to elaborate?”
“I don’t wish to discuss him, period!” SNAKE,
GET THE CAMERA. OTIS, THE WHIP. PUNISH
THE BITCH! … REALISM … PUTA, WHORE.
She sat in silence and didn’t seem as young; her
face a touch lined. She fidgeted; the welts on her buttocks throbbed; a warm, wetness between her legs.
“Can you offer any insight into the murders
of your brother-in-law and Ginger Gray?” Moore’s
voice broke the stillness.
She stiffened, took a deep breath. “It’s too ugly to
talk about.” STANTON’S ALIVE … YOU FUCKIN’
KILLED HIS BROTHER. IT WAS SOMEONE
ELSE … YOU KNOW THE KING WOULDN’T
MISS … I’LL DO IT MYSELF … DEAD, WHEN
THE LAST FLICK’S FINISHED … “That girl was
nothing but a gold digger.”
Moore looked past Sue Ann as a thin, handsome,
boyish man wearing a red, silk bathrobe descended
the staircase, and walked towards them. He bent forward, whispered, loud enough to be overheard. “Mi
amor.” He nuzzled her neck and kissed a waiting
37
cheek.
“I thought you were still asleep,” she said, turning to Reynaldo. Her face brightened. “Oh, sugar,
I’d like you to meet Mr. Moore. He’s a wonderful
author.”
Reynaldo smiled and caressed her shoulders,
observing her tense body and offering a massage.
“Te miras muy tensa; dejame dar te un masage.”
“Honey, fill my glass and join us.”
He poured a glass of wine and sat down beside
her. Sue Ann cuddled in his arms, eyes closed,
weary of the interview, and seemingly oblivious of
her guest. IT’S ME, IN KINGSTON … STAN’S
DEAD … WENT OVER A CLIFF … BURNED
TO A CRISP … I IDENTIFIED THE BODY …
SEE, DUTCH, I TOLD YOU STANTON WAS IN
JAMAICA … YOU’RE SO GUTSY, SO CLEVER
… DOUBLE INDEMNITY … WE’RE STARTING
A NEW FLICK … HELL NO! … I’VE PAID
… SHUT UP! … REMEMBER, I’VE GOT THE
MOVIES … YOU PROMISED! … PROMISED
SHIT! … MEXICO, YOU’RE GONNA LOVE IT.
“One last question. Is Stan dead?”
Sue Ann’s eyes opened wide. “God, I hope so.”
She squeezed Reynaldo’s hand.
“Oh, by the way, how was your vacation in
Mexico?”
CHAPTER ONE
A dust-coated Suzuki Samurai screeched to a
stop, rolled forward, the front bumper hugging a
chain link fence. From behind the wheel slid a wellbuilt, muscular man, running to fat and double chins.
His fingernails manicured and teeth capped, a shaggy
mustache and a three day growth of beard. A faded,
flowered sport shirt, shorts and well-worn boat shoes
mixed incongruously with thick, gold chains and
a diamond bezel watch. Aviator glasses concealed
cold, gray eyes.
He scrutinized the parking lot and scanned the
sky: four unoccupied vehicles rusted before their
time, and no one in sight. To his far left, a huge corrugated steel hangar and several private airplanes. The
sun exploding off the sea, but no inbound aircraft.
He sauntered toward a rudimentary, cement
block, tin-roofed building, bilious green in color, that
functions as an airport terminal, and entered a waiting area of wooden benches and squeaky overhead
fans. He glanced at the deserted airline reservation
counter. A placard read “No flights today.” A janitor
swept the floor creating neat piles of dirt. Dutch sat
down at the two-stool snack bar and asked for a cola.
The young, tawny-skinned waitress handed him a
39
paper cup and a soft drink can.
“Ice.”
She arched an eyebrow.
“Ice!” He repeated, swatting at a fly buzzing his
ear.
She turned her palms upward.
He slammed a dollar bill on the bar top, rose
to his feet, and without looking back, walked from
the terminal. Upon returning to the sport-utility vehicle, Dutch removed his sea captain’s cap. Perm-set
curls masked a receding hairline. “Where the fuck’s,
Stan?” He wiped his moist forehead with the back of
his hand.
————
As the pilot ran through his preflight check,
Stan Pollard settled awkwardly into the copilot’s
chair, fastening his seat belt. The telltale, pungent
odor of marijuana lingered in the cabin. A delayed
fueling, thorough vacuum cleaning and installation
of the rear seats had not erased the scent of an earlier
drug flight.
The Cessna Skymaster moved to the warm up
spot and turned into the wind. The pilot exchanged
a crisp, clipped communication with the tower and
upon instructions, taxied to the end of the designated
runway. After a brief wait, he received clearance for
take-off. The engines roared, the landing gear hammered against the paved surface as the high-winged,
light twin raced forward, power applied smoothly,
then full throttle as the nose wheel lifted off the
tarmac and the plane gently climbed.
40
SHELDON YAVITZ
“This is one of the safest planes in operation,”
the pilot said matter-of-factly, once airborne, “unless
the rear engine fails on take-off.” He had a distinct
European accent, blue and gold epaulets on his shoulders. From the corners of his eyes, he watched Stan
for a reaction.
Stan grinned a half-smile, leaned back, captivated by the unique “electric mixer” thrum of the
twin engines, one in the nose and a second at the rear
of the cabin. Below, Port-au-Prince retreated as they
flew toward the North Haitian coastline. The weather
clear, clouds high, visibility eight statute miles or
more. The wind less than ten knots. A perfect flying
day. Ninety miles due north over the Atlantic lay
Grand Turk Island, British West Indies, and Stan’s
rendezvous with Dutch. The time: late summer of
1985.
————
Stan first met Dutch in the winter of 1969 after
an automobile collision brought him to Stan’s cubbyhole law office. If Sue Ann considered herself
his first client, Dutch, then Joseph John Callahan, a
used car salesman and part-time college student, was
unquestionably the second. A product of Chicago’s
Southside, the eldest son of an alcoholic father and
Jewish mother, he had just turned twenty-one.
Stan saw it as a major case. Dutch envisioned
the accident as a money-maker. He complained of
constant pain, wore a neck brace and used crutches.
Therapy became a ritual and hospitalization a must.
A high, five figure settlement gave Stan his first big
41
attorney’s fee and Dutch a taste of the good life. He
threw away his neck brace and crutches, and invested
the insurance proceeds in a silver Ford Thunderbird,
a Miami Beach condominium and an appliance store.
Within a year, his business verged on bankruptcy; the
car repossessed by the finance company and apartment in foreclosure. He blamed it on the economy
and bad luck, discounted women, extravagant parties
and liquor, and decided that crime was the optimum
alternative and a way to get even.
A bungled attempt to burn his failing appliance
store for the insurance caused a warrant to be issued
for his arrest. A fraudulent scheme to purchase a
yacht with bogus cashier’s checks and export the
vessel to a foreign country resulted in a federal
indictment. Dutch fled to Mexico. Stan prevailed
upon him to return and face the charges. The trials
were a fiasco; the deceptions unraveled like cheap
novels, and conviction followed conviction. He was
branded a career criminal and sent to federal prison.
Stan never again persuaded a fugitive to return.
A month before his arrival at the U.S. Penitentiary in Atlanta, a local newspaper’s headline
cried: PRISON DEATH TOLL RISES. The story
charged that behind imposing granite walls and guard
towers murder ran rampant, inmates in control, and
accused several guards of being paid contract killers. It reported how a senate committee had come
to investigate, and found a dead convict, his throat
slit, lying in a pool of blood at the associate warden’s doorstep. Built in 1902 for 500 inmates, by the
mid-seventies the penitentiary was a city unto itself
42
SHELDON YAVITZ
housing over two thousand of the roughest, hard-core
criminals in the country.
Dutch had not read the article and if he had,
what were his options once condemned to handcuffs, a belly chain and leg irons? He was ordered
to strip naked and was bodily searched: hair, ears,
mouth, tongue, palms of his hands, soles of his feet,
genitals and anal cavity. Then photographed, fingerprinted, administratively processed and assigned to
Cell Block C, Range 4. A guard led him up eight
steep flights of iron stairs that resonated with each
footstep, through a locked gate, past a noisy fan, and
along a catwalk protected by a railing and steel mesh.
Shadowy faces peered from behind thick iron bars.
He heard a low, long wolf whistle. The guard stopped
before a four by seven foot cell, walls, floor and
ceiling like a ship’s riveted bulkhead. An iron bunk
bolted to the floor, sink, toilet and one bookshelf.
“Keep it clean or you’ll go to the hole.” A sliding,
hydraulic, barred door slammed shut with a jarring
thud. Dutch put his bedroll on a sodden, sagging
mattress, and read the graffiti: If this is living, I’d
rather be dead.
Upon his release after serving two years and six
months of two four-year concurrent sentences, Dutch
seemed hardened, his boyish charm gone. He bore a
jail house tattoo, a deep scar on his brow, and took
pains in describing what happens to pretty boys in
prison. “No one touched me. You can bet your sweet
ass,” he laughed. “Shaved my head, grew a beard,
took up weight lifting, made a shank out of coldrolled flat steel, ground the edge razor-sharp,” he
43
elaborated, but a listener couldn’t help suspect his
bravado.
While working as a used car salesman, a customer bought a Corvette for cash. Dutch noted his
scruffy appearance, jeans, gold chains and unkempt
hair indicative of a drug smuggler. He asked him for
a job and was hired to off-load a marijuana laden
vessel. As a simple bale chucker, he earned more
for two days work than he could in a year. “At that
moment, I realized I had found my true calling,” he
later remarked with a zealot’s fervor.
On his next off-load, the Florida Marine Patrol
boarded his vessel near Hillsboro Inlet in sight of
lavish high-rise condominiums. Drugs were confiscated and the novice smuggler arrested. He called
Stan from jail. Their first conversation since having
gone to prison. “No hard feelings,” Dutch said, as
if pardoning his lawyer’s failure. “Just get me out.”
Stan obtained his release on bail, and Dutch disappeared. A Federal Express package followed containing cash and a cryptic message. “Thanks.”
Undeterred, Dutch reemerged as Barry Parton.
Along with Skipper Bob Krause, he had sailed to
Colombia and brought back one thousand pounds of
marijuana packed to overflowing on a 28-foot sailboat. At 275 dollars a pound, in bulk, wholesale, he
found a new lease on life, and again Stan received a
parcel with a cash retainer and a terse note: “Just in
case there is a next time.”
A second trip resulted in disaster. Broke,
stranded, the contraband lost, Dutch telephoned Stan
from Jamaica. “I’m shipwrecked, lost the bananas.
44
SHELDON YAVITZ
My partner drowned, the dirty bastard. Help me. You
know I can do it.”
Maybe Stan felt guilty, or maybe it was friendship, or possibly greed, and a recognition of ambition, but he agreed, made a call and furnished Dutch
an introduction to a client, a local Jamaican drug
dealer. Dutch had been in the right place at the right
time, and Stan took a gamble. From then on, they
were in business.
————
The wheels lowered, and with a thump locked
in position. The pilot banked left, turned into his final
approach lining up with the runway. The blue ocean,
aquamarine surf gave way to pink and white sand,
cactuses, sparse vegetation and asphalt. The nose
wheel lifted into a landing attitude as the aircraft set
down with hardly a shudder and moved toward the
ramp. Stan removed his dark sunglasses and rubbed
his eyes. His second day of island hopping and he
already felt tired. An air flight to Haiti the previous
morning, a trying jail visit with his client, and an evening of negotiations with the local lawyer, and now
Dutch and business.
One would not describe Stan as handsome.
Rather, he had what could be termed an honest face:
firm chin, a trace of age lines, and a broad forehead.
His neatly trimmed sandy hair betrayed a hint of
gray. He was medium height, appearing taller in
western boots, and although not overweight gave a
stocky appearance. He dressed casually in a sport
jacket, jeans and pearl button shirt. He had an air of
45
confidence, a quiet calm to his voice, and a criminal
trial attorney’s unflappable demeanor that extended
from the courtroom into his everyday life. He had the
look of a man you neither questioned nor doubted.
While the pilot headed off to pay landing fees
and secure return flight clearance, Stan proceeded
through immigration followed by customs. A heavyset inspector rose sleepily from a chair as Stan lifted
his luggage placing it on a hardwood table. The agent
unzipped a carry-on and without even looking zipped
it shut. “Good to see you, my friend.” He offered a
warm handshake. They exchanged pleasantries. Stan
had cleared customs.
When he stepped from the terminal, Dutch was
waiting at the curb, motor running. “How’s Goldie
doing?” He asked, as Stan laid his baggage in the
rear.
“Not good.” He slid onto the passenger seat.
“Weak asshole!” Dutch gunned the engine.
“Can’t handle a Haitian jail. Looks like hell.”
“Sonofabitch!”
The vehicle sped across the parking lot. Dutch
stomped the accelerator as they approached a stop
sign and shot through the intersection.
“Rough, a bug infested cell, forty plus men, no
beds, a can for a toilet. Have his food brought in, or
he’d starve on the garbage.”
“Pissant! Would of been dead meat in Atlanta.”
The Suzuki turned onto a narrow, paved road
toward Cockburn Town.
“Goldie tried to buy his way out with guns. The
Tonton Macoute did a number on him.”
46
SHELDON YAVITZ
“Dumb faggot!”
“It’s under control.” A faint smile crossed Stan’s
face. “Lawyer, judge, everything worked out.”
“Should’ve killed his ass,” Dutch muttered, then
silence.
They passed the telephone and cable company
with its maze of antennas and satellite dishes, the
only gas station and one of four banks. The road
skirted the abandoned, brackish salt ponds that bordered the town center, an island of salt and corrosion.
“Everything’s a go, but he’s short of money.”
“I knew it!” Dutch slapped his palm against the
steering wheel.
“Otherwise, I’d have him out.”
They were traveling twenty miles over the
posted speed limit. The pothole road had shrunk to
barely two lanes. The vehicle bumped and rattled;
Stan’s lizard-skin booted foot pressed against the
dashboard. Overhead, the vague outline of clouds
and the cry of lazily, wheeling sea gulls. The muffled
thud and hiss of ocean waves within earshot.
“I expected you to step in and go part of the
bill.”
“Fuck him!” Dutch swerved the vehicle onto
the verge. A goat leaped out of its path as the
Suzuki sideswiped thick, coarse bushes, painted
metal screeching, sand flying until swinging back on
the pavement.
“Relax. It’s a done deal with or without you.”
Stan brushed dust from his jacket.
“Hate goats.” Dutch broke into a shrill laugh.
47
————
Stan’s Jamaican connection fueled Dutch’s success in the drug world. He followed it with an introduction to another client, a smuggler out of Santa
Marta, Colombia. The marijuana loads rose from five
to ten to twenty thousand pounds and with his newly
found wealth, Dutch lost any vestige of humility.
Stan remained detached and enjoyed the profit.
For Dutch, the Parton alias was inadequate.
It hinged on a stolen driver’s license with obvious
resulting limitations. Now, flush with money, he
obtained Stan’s help in perfecting a foolproof, textbook alias identification. A small town graveyard
tombstone provided the key to a birth certificate of
a deceased child. An extensive background investigation concluded that the death went unrecorded
and, in addition, both parents died leaving no kin
and therefore, no witnesses. With the risk of detection reduced to a minimum, Dutch applied for and
obtained a driver’s license, voter’s registration and
Social Security card, which in the late 1970s were
issued without question. A passport followed and
Dutch emerged, Donald David Van Dyke, birth date
July 20, 1947, place of birth Fremont, Wyoming, the
son of Samuel Van Dyke and Mini Morgan, his wife.
By December 31, 1980, Donald Van Dyke, now
nicknamed “Dutch,” owned his own freighter, a rusty
island trader, named the CHUTZPAH. That evening, the all black, steel hull, double deck, pilothouse trawler crept up the New River making its way
through Fort Lauderdale, Florida, a city known as the
Venice of America. With an eerie presence it sailed
48
SHELDON YAVITZ
past condo canyons, working-class districts, middleclass homes, even the courthouse and one marina
after the other. Drawbridges raised to allow its passage. From the pilothouse, Dutch waved to onlookers. He had joined the vessel off the Florida coast
for hands-on supervision of the off-load. Less than
a mile from the city’s police station, just before Sailboat Bend, in the narrows of the river, the vessel
found refuge alongside a once posh home, now sagging and decaying amongst overgrown hedges, Live
oaks, palms and Geiger trees.
While a televised broadcast from Time Square
heralded the New Year, a wizen-faced woman put
down a beer glass and shuffled to a window, pulled
back the curtain, and cranked open the jalousies.
From her second floor vantage, she peered out on the
tea-colored water. An ominous black trawler caught
her attention. She wiped her pursed lips on a bathrobe sleeve, squinted, reading out loud the name on
the stern, CHUTZPAH, Panama.
Suddenly, a flashlight’s beam intruded. She cowered, still watching as shadowy figures on the ship’s
deck tossed bale-like objects to the dock. Others carried them down a makeshift gangplank. She would
make an anonymous 911 call reporting a burglary in
progress.
A Fort Lauderdale police cruiser responded to
the alarm, but hesitated at the sight of a well-attended
party. Then, through the dense shrubbery and tree
shrouded yard, the officer caught a glimpse of men
loading trucks and vans. He called for backup and
continued his surveillance.
49
As he watched more vehicles arrived as others
departed. From the squad car, he radioed descriptions
and license tag information. A Ford truck and Chevy
van were stopped by patrol units, searched and the
occupants arrested upon the discovery of thousands
of pounds of marijuana.
Uniformed officers and detectives converged on
the scene, flanked the residence in a pincers movement encircling the startled smugglers, their backs
to the seawall. Some suspects ran; others threw up
their hands; several jumped into the river; and one
crashed his truck through a barricade. In total, twenty
persons, including a man found crouched beneath a
neighbor’s jalousie window, were apprehended, and
almost eight tons of contraband seized along with
vehicles, walkie-talkies and assorted weapons.
Ten minutes into the raid, and two blocks from
the house, the police fished an individual from the
New River. He gave the name, Donald Van Dyke.
“I’ve been mugged, almost murdered,” Dutch
sputtered, coughing up water. “Two men, masked.
One had a gun. Other spoke Spanish.” He begged for
a doctor, dramatically slumped to his knees. He was
detained, then arrested for possession with intent to
distribute marijuana.
Within hours, Stan had arranged bail. Dutch
walked from the jail. An NCIC check under the name
Donald David Van Dyke had failed to reveal his
true name, criminal record, warrants, and any known
aliases. Although now badly tainted, his assumed
identity had proven watertight.
A newspaper featuring the New Year’s Eve drug
50
SHELDON YAVITZ
bust quoted a detective as saying that a criminal
genius masterminded the operation. He estimated
that less than a third of the load had been confiscated.
Dutch read the article. “A damn smart cop. One
always appreciates a professional compliment.” Yet,
he worried about the narcotic agent’s comments.
“He’s fuckin’ with me, playing with my head.” He
became moody, snorted cocaine and lost his appetite.
The more cocaine, the more convinced that he had
been betrayed by an informant in his organization.
Dutch fled to Canada and a forced hiatus,
learned to fly and made future plans. He continued
to masquerade as Dutch Van Dyke, and occasionally
Dutch Dutchman, and set about creating a new identity, his way. He frequented flophouses and rescue
missions in Halifax, Nova Scotia, and soon located
a drifter, Thomas Martin Durant, who matched his
own physical description. When a check verified no
criminal and military record, neither a passport, wife
nor close relatives, they entered into an agreement
whereby Dutch purchased and assumed this man’s
identity and silence. The price, an estimated 50,000
dollars, Canadian, paid in installments. Before the
final payment, the real Durant vanished. Dutch resurfaced in Nassau, Bahamas, and as Thomas “Dutch”
Durant resumed a full-scale smuggling operation.
He would once again turn to Stan, who, this time,
opened the door to the Medellin Drug Cartel.
————
Near the north end of the island, less than two
51
hundred yards from the shore, Dutch had rented a
ranch-style home, run-of-the-mill by American standards, but opulent for Grand Turk. The winter retreat
of a Brit, since disenchanted by the dissolute paradise.
Smoke waffled from an outdoor barbecue as
Dutch mothered steaks adding garlic and seasoning.
Stan reclined on a lounge chair, a rum and coke in
his hand. “What happened?” He asked, pointing to a
dead stump where a shade tree once stood. Logs, and
dried leafy limbs heaped on a trash pile.
“Cut it down.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Whistled at night, kept me awake.”
“Rental guy shit a brick,” Wink butted in. “Mad
as hell.” Harry Bird, usually called Wink, functioned as Dutch’s errand boy and jack-of-all-trades.
A youthful 27, with shaggy-brown hair worn in a
ponytail and one earring, he held a joint between his
thumb and index finger.
“Fuck him!”
Stan shook his head. “I don’t blame him.”
“Fuck you!”
“Tell him about Max,” Wink interjected. “C’mon
Boss, tell Mr. Pollard about Max.” A celery stalk had
replaced marijuana.
Stan nodded as if interested. Dutch’s eyes twinkled. “Do you recall Maxie Kessler?” He asked,
looking up from the grill. “Kessler, Chicago.”
“No.” Stan reached in a potato chip bag.
“Well, Max’s been a longtime customer. Sold
him twenty keys. Took a chance, gave him ten on
52
SHELDON YAVITZ
credit. He paid part, dodged me for the balance,
almost two hundred thou. One lame excuse after the
other.”
“Bullshit, right, Boss?”
“Bullshit, Wink. So Hog and me pay him a
visit,” Dutch continued, malice in his smile. “We hire
a local thug, built like a fireplug, strong as an ox.”
He flipped a steak, watched it sizzle. “Max lived on
the thirty-fifth floor of this swank condo. I said to
Maxie. Where’s my money? He tells me he’s broke.
I look around the apartment. It’s a damn palace. So, I
pick up his cat and go over to the balcony.” As Dutch
spoke, he dramatized the action, gripping an imaginary feline by the scruff of the neck. “Some cat, long,
white hair. I’m holding the pussy over the railing,
freaked out.” His fingers rigid in a claw-like mimic,
eyes big as saucers. “I let it drop!” Dutch’s arms shot
straight out, wrists flapping. “Flying, grabbing for
air. Whoosh! Falling like a rock.” He looked down; a
hand shading his eyes in a scanning pantomime.
“Splattered like an egg. Right, Boss?”
“Yeah, right. Anyway, Max got this real honey,
big tits, ass for fucking. She’s screaming. Hog backhands her, picks her up by the cunt and nap of the
neck, hoists her over his head and goes out on the terrace.” Dutch’s expression cold as a lizard. “I look at
Max. The little shit’s pissin’.”
“Like a baby. Right, Boss?”
“Right, Wink. Hey! The steak’s burning. I hope
you like yours well-done. Oh, shit!” He forked the
charred meat on a platter, then returned to his story.
Stan nibbled on a potato chip, drained his glass. “I
53
said. You’re running out of time. First, the bitch, then
you. Maxie goes to the bedroom. I follow. He opens
a wall safe, comes up with the bread. Pretty as a picture. I kid you not.”
“Tell him the rest. C’mon, tell Mr. Pollard the
best part.”
“Hold it,” he said with a chef’s preoccupation.
“Okay, lets see,” he continued. “I take 25 Gs for vig
(vig is interest owed to a loan shark). Tell the boys to
take whatever stuff they want as a bonus. You know,
Hog’s got balls. He gets this security guard to help
carry the shit: TV, stereos, cameras, arms full.” Dutch
smiled broadly. A couple of weeks ago I see the same
chick in Chicago. She called me a sonofabitch, and
worse, a cat killer. I told her I’m sorry. I’m a pussy
lover. An accident, had nightmares since,” he said,
feigning a downcast air. “To make a long story short,
I got her up to my hotel for some real slut fucking.”
He paused, cleared his throat. “She loved it.”
————
They ate dinner outdoors. The three men gathered around an umbrella-covered patio table. Dutch
was in good form, still talking about women. “You
know what?” He waited until Wink stiffened to attention. “I’m going to Santo Domingo and buy myself a
whore, set her up in this house.”
Wink put down his fork. “No shit!”
“Shit yeah. No pig-ugly, a beauty, train her my
way.”
“Oh, fuck!” Wink gasped.
Dutch snickered, then launched into a disserta-
54
SHELDON YAVITZ
tion on Dominican Republic prostitution. Wink listened with his mouth open; Stan ignored the patter,
while Dutch cited statistics, prices and the economic
and social conditions which could make such an
arrangement possible.
“Killer idea. Get two.”
“One’s enough. We make her the house whore
and call her a maid if my wife ever shows up.”
“What do you think, Mr. Pollard?”
“Slavery is illegal.”
“Fuck you, Stan.” Dutch pounded a fist on the
table.
————
On Grand Turk Island the nights pass at a
snail’s pace. They had moved to the living room.
Dutch paced. Stan slouched on the sofa, boots off,
feet propped on a bleach-wood coffee table. Wink’s
solution, high-grade marijuana, Jamaican sensamilla.
Dutch abruptly left the room, shortly to return with
his cocaine stash. He placed a tray near Stan’s feet,
poured the white substance on the plexiglass surface. “Ninety percent pure,” he bragged, chopping
and cutting it into neat lines with a credit card. “Did
you see the flakes?” He leaned over inches from the
tray and with a thin, gold plated, custom-made straw
took a snort. He inhaled again, then again, wiped his
nose with the back of his hand.
Wink hesitated, waited, crushing the minute
remnants of a marijuana joint in an ashtray.
“Don’t worry about the counselor,” Dutch
smirked, giving the straw to him. “The closest Stan
55
gets to coke is in his drink.”
Wink looked up from the plexiglass tray, sniffed.
“Tell Mr. Pollard the Bungee joke.”
Dutch smiled, a condescending grin, and requiring no further prompting, the perennial storyteller
related a tale which would appear years later as
a smugglers’ fable in Fitzgerald Moore’s magazine
article about Stan Pollard. He told it with relish and
much animation. It was reported as follows:
Ignoring repeated warnings, three missionaries
had gone to an island. They were soon captured
by hostile natives and tied to trees. The tribal
chief confronted the threesome and offered
them a choice, bungee or death.
Knowing the meaning of death, but ignorant
of the term, bungee, the first missionary chose
bungee. He was brutally raped in full view of
his brethren.
The chief offered the second missionary the
same option. He feared death and had witnessed the outrage. Wanting to live, he submitted to bungee, surviving the ordeal, distraught
and humiliated.
The third poor soul more concerned with his
dignity and manhood elected death.
Upon hearing those words, the tribe went mad
like sharks in a feeding frenzy. The missionary
trembled. Only the chief stood between him
and the bloodthirsty throng. He watched as the
chieftain demanded silence.
A hush followed, spears rose in the air. “Men,”
the chief shouted, “DEATH BY BUNGEE!”
56
SHELDON YAVITZ
“Isn’t that the greatest story you ever heard?”
Dutch asked. Stan sipped at his rum, didn’t answer.
“It’s so true. It should be taught in every law
school.”
“What about warning the broads you bungee?”
Wink chortled, still on his knees bent over the
cocaine. Stan raised an eyebrow struck by the snide
remark, rubbed the bridge of his nose between a
thumb and forefinger as his gaze wandered from
Wink to Dutch.
“Asshole! That’s not what I mean.” Dutch gritted his teeth, eyes distant, arms folded. “Arrest, trial,
jail, prison that’s bungee. If you’re caught, you’re
fucked. Of course, you wouldn’t know that, counselor.”
————
On his second day in prison, Dutch met Big Jay,
a hulking weight lifter with a spider web tattooed
on each elbow. His cohort, Rudy, the studious chess
player and connoisseur of pornography, seemed a
mismatch, but Dutch welcomed their friendship and
aura of protection. For a week, Big Jay supplied
him with cigarettes, candy bars and spending change
— valuable commodities to anyone incarcerated. He
considered it a loan until personal funds cleared
the commissary. Big Jay saw it otherwise. “You’re
movin’ in my house.” His meat-hook hands gripped
Dutch’s shoulders. “Got the hack’s okay.” He smiled,
a yellow-tooth grin.
“I don’t get it?”
57
“Hey, kid, you wanted my protection.” He
forced a bear hug. “You like the way I treat you.” He
grabbed, pinched. “I want this tight ass.”
Dutch broke from his grasp. “I’ll kill you!” He
looked for an object to use as a weapon, and found
none.
A hard, head twisting slap threw Dutch back
against the wall. “Better show up tomorrow, on your
knees; mouth open.” Jay turned, stalked off shoving
the lanky con to one side. “The big fucker’s mad.”
Rudy’s eye twitched. “Take my word, you’re giving
head, or we go up in ya.”
“Faggots!” Dutch spit into the bird-like face.
He clutched at the iron bed post, knuckles white, as
a cold sweat crept over him. “Get out!” His shriek
echoed through the crude cage.
It seemed like years, but it was only days. Dutch
got careless. They found him alone in the shower,
a double-wide, tile cell with an iron bar facade and
three shower heads. He caught a glimpse of Rudy’s
lopsided smile and prominent Adam’s apple. Then a
knife edge chop to the back of his neck and he went
numb. A massive fist to the side of his head sent him
reeling. His legs wobbled and he couldn’t focus. He
was struck in the upper stomach, fought for breath
and tasted bile in his throat. Repeated blows from
a tube-sock sap concealing padlocks brought him
to his knees, gasping, bleeding as a pain-wrenching
weakness swept over him. He battled to clear the fog
from his brain, saw the stained tiles swimming and
everything went blank.
They draped him over a stainless steel bench,
58
SHELDON YAVITZ
shoved a soap cake in his mouth. His eyes bulged
in a face grotesquely distorted as Big Jay smothered
his body and thrust into him. His sexual ardor spent
in seconds, Rudy entered him next sodomizing with
staccato timing. Dutch found himself strangling on
acerbic tasting soap foam, thought he saw jeering
faces and heard the taunts of his assailants. His
muffled screams reverberated through his skull. He
lost control of his bowels. A vicious blow from the
sap rendered him senseless. He awoke in a daze,
crumpled on the slime-encrusted tile floor. The word
“PUNK” scrawled in feces on his backside.
————
Wink had gone into the kitchen, took a beer
from the refrigerator, twisted the cap, tossed it and
missed the garbage. He rejoined the others, sprawling before the television, staring at a screen of pulsating, horizontal lines mesmerized by the image.
Dutch looked at him, shrugged, and shoved a
videotape cassette in the VCR. “I want this place
clean before we leave tomorrow.” Wink yawned and
blinked. “No seeds, powder or shit of any kind. If the
maid finds anything, it’s your dumb ass.”
“Cool, Boss. No problem.” Wink giggled,
absorbed in a murder mystery unfolding before him.
Dutch opened the sliding glass partition beckoning to Stan. He pulled on his boots following him
out on the patio. “Watch out for the tree stump,”
Dutch snickered.
Stan stretched out on an easy chair. Dutch studied the sky: clear, luminous and moonlit. “There’s
59
Polaris,” Dutch said, pointing. “The North Star to
you layman at the tail end of Ursa Minor. Over
there’s Ursa Major, the Big Dipper.”
“They all look the same to me,” Stan replied,
distracted by the lights of a distant vessel.
Dutch pulled up a seat and sat down. “Did you
hear the joke about the lawyer and the gorilla?”
“Probably not.” He continued tracking the ship
across the horizon. “Why don’t you tell me a funny
story about you, and Goldie,” Stan said, referring to
his client jailed in Haiti.
He nervously cleared his throat. “Can’t you ever
forget business?”
————
Dutch had contracted with Luther “Goldie”
Clampton to smuggle marijuana from Colombia to
an off-load site in the Bahamas from where the vessel
would be met by smaller boats used to facilitate the
final importation into the United States mainland.
This was their first joint effort. Goldie came wellrecommended. Dutch accepted him on face value,
more impressed with his 78 foot motorsailer than the
man.
Goldie agreed on a flat-fee of 575 thousand dollars, ship and crew included, to be paid contingent
upon delivery of the contraband. He felt it a low-ball
price, but needed the money.
Later, he persuaded Dutch to advance fifty thousand, and employed an inexperienced Jamaican crew
to minimize expenses.
Prior to his departure, Dutch inexplicably lost
60
SHELDON YAVITZ
confidence in his partner, made backup arrangements, changed the off-load location and over strenuous objection, Goldie’s route. He said that he acted
on a hunch, but in actuality, Goldie had inadvertently
mentioned an uncle, Big Jay Clampton, a biker with
spider web tattooed elbows, who had spent time in
federal prison. “Don’t know him,” Dutch muttered,
concealing his hatred, and latent fear of exposure.
Goldie had made an enemy and would never know
the reason.
Well in advance of the smuggling operation,
Wink had traveled under an assumed name to Barranquilla, Colombia, then driven to Santa Marta on
the northeast coast. From there by jeep, and after
on mule up the north mountain slopes of the Sierra
Nevada. He lived amongst the marimberos, marijuana growers, selecting the product, supervising the
packaging in plastic and burlap, weighing and marking bales with Dutch’s half-moon symbol and bale
weight. Dutch had the clout to pre-select and package. Quality meant money, big money. As Dutch
explained. “Never trust a beaner. The bastard will
show a mouth-watering sample, then screw you with
dried, low-grade shit. By the time you complain, it’s
been trucked to the U.S. You yell, argue, pay the bill,
make it up on the next trip. That was the business.
I’ve changed that. No one fucks with the King.”
On a cloudy night in a secluded anchorage,
approximately 35 kilometers from Santa Marta,
Goldie awaited the cargo. He stood with binoculars
in the wheelhouse scanning the lush mangroves, listening to eerie sounds and cries of the jungle and an
61
occasional splash in the blackened lagoon. On shore,
Wink maintained contact by HF radio, a Sonaire 850
with 850,000 channels, overkill for secrecy.
The marijuana arrived by a military-escorted
truck convoy and ferried to the ketch in dugout
canoes manned by compesinos. Now at the stern, the
loud, brash Georgia boy, in a thick Southern drawl,
barked orders. He checked and counted the bales,
preparing a weight list comparable to a ship’s manifest. The contraband stored forward in the crews
quarters, the three staterooms, head, lazarette, and
main salon, obscuring the warm teak interior glowing
with layers of hand rubbed varnish. The weight distributed primarily amidship and to the stern. Crawl
space provided access to the galley and engine area.
The pilothouse kept free of the illicit cargo. Sea
cocks to through-holes closed to prevent flooding.
He halted the loading at 437 bales, four thousand
pounds short of the contracted thirty thousand pound
load, deciding that additional weight made the vessel
unseaworthy.
When subsequently informed via marine radio,
Dutch flew into a rage, flinging a chair. To comprehend his anger, one must understand the unique marijuana smuggling trade forged on high profits, equal
high risk and a drug of little value until imported to
the United States. The Colombian suppliers offered
it on handshake, payment upon sale with two exception: verifiable loss by arrest and seizure or natural
disaster. In Dutch’s particular situation, thirty thousand pounds of commercial grade marijuana could
gross between eight and nine million dollars sold
62
SHELDON YAVITZ
in bulk, wholesale. The Colombian’s share approximated a quarter, fixed transportation costs, which
included vessels, crews, off-loaders, storage, and
security, and losses attributable to spoilage and
mishap another million and a half dollars or more.
Goldie’s decision signaled an estimated 900,000
dollar loss in gross profit.
With protection paid as a necessary expense
of doing business, the motorsailer cleared Colombian waters unhampered by the navy and local shore
patrols. It sailed north rounding the southwestern tip
of Haiti, and crossed the turbulent Windward Passage, where at one point Haiti and Cuba are but
fifty five miles apart. After a 700 mile, uneventful
voyage, Goldie approached Great Inagua in the lower
Bahama Islands chain, a stone throw from Dutch on
Grand Turk.
From then on the facts became muddled. As
Dutch would say “truth is relative,” and offered his
variation.
Fearing that he had been detected by a U.S.
Coast Guard cutter, Goldie reportedly reversed course
to a southeasterly direction. Darkness, fog, a heavy
sea and rain proved a mixed blessing. He eluded a
coast guard boarding, but sailed into a tropical storm
with gale force winds exceeding 50 knots.
They had furled the sails, battened down the
gear and hatches, and attempted to make fast the
unorthodox cargo. The excessive weight severely
limited maneuverability, dangerously reduced freeboard, changed the vessel’s center of gravity and
configuration, caused instability and increased the
63
risk of capsizing. Goldie clung to the wheel blinded
by the downpour and 20 foot waves in a white foam
sea. The crew huddled in panic. The boat heeled and
pitched, plunged and rose, and bobbed like a cork out
of control. He fought to keep the ship headed into
the wind and swells. If the heavily laden ketch turned
crossways, a rollover was certain.
Thrown off course, the vessel ran aground. The
mizzenmast cracked and plummeted astern. In a
futile effort to lighten and refloat the motorsailer,
Goldie sacrificed the prized cargo throwing it overboard. As bales washed ashore near the small village of St. Luis du Nord, rumors circulated as far as
Cap-Haitien of a blond sea captain, a vessel breaking apart on the reef, and a fortune in marijuana
on the beach. The military arrived. Goldie and his
crew were arrested and charged with drug trafficking
within the territorial waters of Haiti.
————
“The beaners dispute the loss. The schmucks
claim it’s been off-loaded.” Dutch subconsciously
rubbed a two-inch scar on his forehead. “Jose D’s
bungeeing me.”
“To be candid,” Stan replied, “I haven’t been
able to verify the entire amount.” He held up his hand
and bent back his fingers, one by one, to emphasize
each point. “Four to five thousand pounds either on
the boat, beach or water. Probably fifteen hundred
ripped-off by the military. Maybe, a couple thousand
more dumped over the side and gone.”
“What’s this can’t be accounted for crap?”
64
SHELDON YAVITZ
“Benefit of the doubt, make it twelve.”
“It’s gonna cost me a cool two mil-two, out-ofpocket, bottom line, and you tell me you can’t document it.” His voice strained, seething; Stan shaking
his head. “Bullshit!” Dutch smacked his right fist
into the open palm of his other hand. “You can say
anything. They trust you.”
“Can’t be done,” Stan answered, deceptively
calm. His hazel eyes weary, a hint of crow’s feet at
the corners.
“Oh, I see. You’re bustin’ balls since I won’t
kick in on Goldie.”
“I told you it can’t be done.” He sipped his rum,
shrugged, unsympathetic.
“Are you telling me it can’t be done or won’t be
done?” Dutch countered unconvinced.
Stan toyed with his glass, revolving the ice
cubes, listening to the clink. “I need a refill.” he got
up from the lounge chair, and walked back into the
house. He returned to find Dutch pacing; his face
drained of color.
“You figured it out.”
“Sure,” Stan said nonchalantly. “Almost fourteen thousand pounds off-loaded from the sailboat
to two of your trawlers. I suspected it when you
used the Windward Passage. Too risky unless you
intended to split the load. So, I checked.”
“Shit! Who snitched? That puke, Goldie?”
“Nope,” Stan smiled. “I have my sources.”
Dutch’s shoulders sagged. “Stan, I would have
told you later, paid you your piece.” He slumped
down in a chair. His burly hands, paw-like, rested on
65
his knees. “How often do I get the chance to profit
from a bad deal, put one over on the beaners, get rid
of a shit like Goldie, all at the same time.”
“I don’t like it. Pay the bill.”
“That’s not the point. It’s too late. Took a hard
line, can’t back down.”
“Interesting problem.” Stan isometrically pressed
his thumbs together. “Let’s take a walk.”
————
The surf gently splashed and swept the shoreline. Stan stopped, tracing the movement of a crab as
it scurried from his path.
“We’re in this together, counselor.” Dutch stuck
out his tongue and made a slashing gesture across his
throat. “Our necks.”
“Yours, Tonto.”
“God, Stan, you’re cold.” The crab crawled into
its hole. “What’s it going to cost?” A mild breeze
stirred.
“You owe me twenty dollars a pound.” Stan
kicked at a beached tire. “280,000.”
“Off-loaded less.”
“Make it an even three hundred, interest
included, just like Max Kessler.”
Dutch nodded, grinned faintly.
“Plus twenty five percent on what I save you.”
“That’s highway robbery for paper work.” Dutch
bent down, picked up a brownish tinged bottle, studied the label. “Ten percent.”
“Instead of a percentage,” Stan paused, scratching his chin. “Four-forty, make it an even five hun-
66
SHELDON YAVITZ
dred. Like the sound of that number.”
“Fuckin’ extortionist!” He spit, pitching the container out onto the ocean.
“Clean up your own mess.”
“Damn it! You got the connections.”
“Then, what are you arguing about?”
“Hell, I’m not paying Goldie. That’ll save five
hundred thou.” Dutch emitted a dry chuckle. “Screw
the beaners out of two point two.” He rubbed his
palm together. “Not bad.” He stepped over a waterlogged blanket. “You win. Fixed the shit!” He looked
at his watch. “Almost midnight, Saturn’s directly
overhead. Hey, let’s go back, and get out the telescope.”
CHAPTER TWO
An elegant brass and mahogany plaque read:
BOXALL & CROOK, Solicitors, Barristers, Attorneys at Law, and CAICOS MANAGEMENT SERVICES, LTD. A directory of corporate names, which
used the office as a business address, adorned a wall
adjacent to the entrance.
A receptionist announced their arrival over
an intercom. Dutch paced, impatient; Stan flipped
the pages of a magazine. Shortly, Herndon Boxall
appeared. A tall, slender, slightly stooped man,
impeccably dressed in a hand-tailored white linen
suit and dark tie. Prematurely gray hair, a pencilthin mustache and unusually large ears accentuated
an angular, suntanned face.
Boxall, a former, struggling London solicitor,
had six years before relocated on the island. Now
with over four hundred active off-shore corporations
serviced by his office, at an average start up fee of
3,500 dollars, exclusive of costs, and a minimum
management charge of 1,200 dollars a year, he had
found prosperity in isolation.
Grand Turk was a tax haven. Over 5,000 such
companies operated from the island, literally one per
capita, with far-flung, worldwide assets and activi-
68
SHELDON YAVITZ
ties, and not an office, store or factory to be seen.
Simply names on a wall, documents in the registrar’s
office, money in the banks, and lawyers like Boxall
providing their specialized service.
“Jolly good to see you, Stan,” Boxall smiled,
extending a handshake. He greeted Dutch with a gesture. “On time, I see, Mr. Durant.”
They were ushered into his private office. The
furniture contemporary, an uncluttered desk dominated by a nameplate.
“What do you say to dinner tonight?” The
lawyer asked, addressing Stan. “Agatha would love
to see you.. You’re our link to civilization.”
Dutch pulled up a chair, gritted his teeth, staring
out a seaside window at a derelict fishing boat and
rickety pier.
“I’m sorry, but in the afternoon Dutch and I are
flying to Nassau.”
“Then lunch.” He turned to Dutch. “I’m sure
you won’t mind.”
Dutch gestured vaguely. “Shit, no.” He stiffened
feeling slighted.
Stan accepted the invitation, then left to attend
to personal business. As he closed the door, Dutch’s
voice could be heard. “Did you get it, or do I have to
break heads?”
————
He made his way up Front Street to a bleached
blue, white trimmed bank building, entered the lobby,
made out a deposit slip and approached a teller. She
raised a discreet eyebrow, nodded politely, acknowl-
69
edging the six figure check. With the transaction
completed, he walked over to the safe-deposit box
counter, provided a box number, and signed the
ledger on behalf of an off-shore corporation. A short,
stout woman, dark complected with jiggling breasts
and a bouncy step, led him to the vault area. He withdrew a large strongbox from the wall receptacle, carried it into a small alcove, latched the swinging half
door, and put it on a table. Upon opening the lid, he
placed the deposit slip with an assortment of papers,
including a passport in the name of Hensley. From
his attaché case, he removed packets of twenties and
hundreds wrapped at both ends with elastic bands.
The money added to existing stacks of cash. He
squeezed the lid shut. Need another box, he made a
mental note. Also a new company, a new bank. Over
lunch, I’ll arrange it with Herndon.
The money had come from Dutch, a sizeable
partial payment in cash and draft. Reluctantly paid,
but paid nevertheless.
Stan saw it as a game of one-upmanship. Dutch,
a psychopathic hard-core criminal, who lied, connived and cheated less from greed and more for the
sport of it. He kept Stan on his guard, always a step
ahead, checking, making Dutch squirm, making him
pay. There was nothing humane about the drug business. He had learned to live and thrive in that jungle.
————
Stan found Dutch seated on a seawall, hunched,
hands folded in his lap, a dejected expression.
“They’ve fucked me,” he said. “The Business Licens-
70
SHELDON YAVITZ
ing Committee denied me a rent-a-car permit.”
“There’s only one car rental on the island.
They’re protecting the home boy.”
“Tried to buy him out. The crook’s price so
damn high I wanted to puke.”
“Forget it. They’re doing you a favor,” Stan said
with a sympathetic pat on the back. “See you at the
airport.” He turned, and re-crossed the street, counting three parked automobiles, two of which were
rusty eyesores, and one relic of a man supported by
a post. To his right, the old, gray wood courthouse
reduced to an historic landmark. A reminder of a
time. The British decimated the forests, cultivated
the salt meadows laying waste to the island.
“A gold mine, a tourist Mecca,” Dutch called
after him.
Stan stopped abruptly, looked over his shoulder.
“A treeless desert, thanks to you.”
“Wiseass.”
“Lunatic,” Stan muttered, not loud enough to be
heard.
————
As a pilot, Dutch was a late-bloomer. After fleeing to Canada, he reassessed his entire operation,
concluding that smuggling by vessel would become
obsolete and aviation the viable alternative. He purchased aircraft, hired pilots and in his mid-thirties
learned to fly.
While other novice pilots might be content with
weekend short-hops. Dutch amassed hours flying
the Caribbean and Central America. He crisscrossed
71
the United States, flew back and forth to Canada,
participated in practice airdrops and takeoffs from
remote jungle airstrips. With grueling determination,
he sought to perfect his flying skills, but regardless of
his efforts, Dutch remained mediocre.
————
The single-engine airplane leveled off at 8,500
feet, cruising altitude, speed 185 mph. Stan occupied the co-pilot’s seat; Wink in the rear, asleep,
his head resting on soft luggage. Dutch, the tightlipped, absorbed pilot, unresponsive, hidden behind
aviator glasses and headphones with a sea captain’s
cap jauntily positioned.
“Wanna watch TV?” Dutch finally said. “That’s
radar. Little weather, but I can turn on ground mapping.”
“Maybe later.” Stan briefly focused on the stateof-the-art avionics, became bored, his eyes roamed.
A jet’s contrail off to the East and high above. A
vessel’s shape and wake below. He listened to the
monotonous drone of the engine. What does Dutch
call Sue Ann? His mind wandered. The Southern
Baptist Jewish Princess.
Sue Ann made scant impression that first meeting at his law office. A young mother, a high school
dropout, who wanted to escape an unhappy marriage.
The wife, of course, innocent and devoted; the husband, obviously at fault.
Yet, their second encounter stood clear in his
memory, except he could not recall why he had gone
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SHELDON YAVITZ
to her residence. There were divorce papers to be
signed, and he was trying to impress, but why the
house call?
He visualized her home, as he thought about
it, a simple, two-bedroom, one-bath tract house in a
lower middle-class suburb. A beat-up Chevy in the
drive, and a living room so messy and threadbare that
he felt embarrassed for having intruded.
Sue Ann stood in the doorway, barefoot, in cutoff jeans. A braless, flimsy tee-shirt punctuated by
nipples. Not the frowzy housewife in the shapeless
dress holding a squalling baby, who had come to his
office.
They sat on a velour, Goodwill sofa amidst
overstuffed pillows, baby toys and a calico cat. Sue
Ann curled up, legs tucked beneath her. He gave her
the legal papers. She immediately signed them.
“Don’t you want to read the divorce petition?
There must be questions?” Stan recalled asking.
“I trust you, honey,” she murmured, kissed him,
took his hand, and without a word led him to her
bed.
Now, so many years after, high above the Atlantic, he could feel the heat of that night’s lovemaking,
smell the scent of her hair, and taste her breath. What
went wrong?
He wondered to himself. He still felt the same,
as attracted to her as that first time, but to Sue Ann,
he had become flawed and unbearable.
A visit to a marriage counselor had brought
all his faults to the surface. In response to a therapist’s question, Sue Ann produced a two-page list on
73
yellow, legal pad paper.
To satisfy her complaints, Stan would have to
change his law practice, representing criminals was
vulgar and embarrassing, and should remove his
office from the residence. She disapproved of his
hobbies, too many cars, birds and animals, his lifestyle, and constant traveling. She wanted him at
home, but not in the house. Sue Ann preferred him
thinner, his hair dyed to cover the gray, contact lens
and cosmetic surgery to slow aging. She described
him as unfeeling and thoughtless, bad-tempered and
sex-mad, as she termed it, reclusive, a poor conversationalist, too demanding, literally a tyrant, who paid
her too little attention or too much. She was uncertain which. He didn’t cook, never changed a diaper,
fed a baby or gone with the children to a ball game or
circus. He was neither a typical father nor a normal
husband. The man that she had married had become
a cross to bear.
The counselor peered over half-glasses at Stan,
then informed him that he must change and recommended lengthy therapy. Later, on the drive home, he
said to Sue Ann. “If for one hundred bucks an hour, I
can’t even get laid. Screw that quack!”
“You’re talkin’ shit! You said I was perfect.”
“I lied.”
Sue Ann lapsed into silence, refused to speak to
him for almost a week. Her communications relayed
through the children and housekeeper. One night, she
became the passionate lover. Her cash had run out.
She knew Stan’s weakness, and he knew hers.
————
74
SHELDON YAVITZ
Justifiably cautious, Dutch preferred one of
the out islands for clearing Bahamian customs as
opposed to busy Nassau International Airport.
“Too many fuckin’ DEA,” he remarked with the
air of a seasoned smuggler. “You probably can’t, but
I can smell a Fed’s stench, and I tell you, those bastards are crawling out of the woodwork.” He smiled,
a wily grin. “Fuck ’um where they live.”
He chose George Town on Great Exuma Island,
approximately 125 miles southeast of Nassau, eight
hundred local inhabitants and a laid-back environment. Sailing waters and unspoiled beaches rivaled
a holiday brochure. A modern, glass and cantileverroofed terminal emphasized the tourist trade.
A customs inspector flashed a gap-toothed grin.
Dutch scowled and presented his travel documents.
As the inspector officiously checked and rechecked
the papers, he scratched his bald pate as if reassessing
the situation. Then glancing at Dutch’s implacable
expression, he unceremoniously dumped the contents of his luggage on the table, rummaged through
the clothing and sniffed an after-shave bottle. His
eyes narrowed, squeezing a tube of tooth paste. He
deftly fingered the interior walls and seams of each
suitcase in a quest for a hidden compartment or false
bottom.
Stan looked on with a mask of indifference.
Dutch stared, jaw set, arms folded across his chest.
The inspector noticed Wink squirmed, and his determination soared. He ordered Dutch to empty his
pockets. His wide nostrils flared as keys, a thick
wallet, brass knuckles, and a roll of bills topped by
75
a one hundred, wrapped with a rubber band, were
placed before him.
Wink tendered the now grim-faced inspector the
required forms and a crumpled birth certificate. “Get
real, dude,” he winced, watching the official ravish
his nylon duffel bag literally turning it inside out.
A second agent was called and hustled Wink
to an adjacent room for a body search. Stan cleared
without incident. The word “attorney” on the immigration card, a passport with page after page of
Bahamian entry and exit stamps, an expensive briefcase, conservative sport jacket and a quiet confidence
spelled influence and contacts. Harassment decidedly
a useless, if not detrimental gesture, and anyway,
who else could arrange for the payoff. The hopes of
which were rapidly fading.
When Wink returned, he whispered to Stan,
“That guy knows bungee.” His eyes blinked uncontrollably. “Cost me every buck in my billfold.”
Of course, they do, Stan observed with a
Cheshire cat grin. Drug dealers are fair game and one
good bribe could financially make an agent’s year. If
Dutch insists on clearing customs profiled as a doper,
sloppily dressed and layers of gold, with a slovenly
ponytail companion wearing a diamond in his ear,
he is either going to pay or get harassed. That’s the
Bahamas.
A third customs officer walked out to the aircraft, made a cursory inspection of the baggage compartment and cabin. He reported to the gap-toothed
inspector, who nodded, shook his head, shrugged
resignedly, then stamped the transair. “You’re free
76
SHELDON YAVITZ
to go,” he said with a dismissive gesture. “Welcome
to the Bahamas,” he added in a mechanical tourist
greeting. “Have a nice day.” He returned their travel
documents.
Dutch stalked out of the terminal. Wink followed wrestling with the luggage. Stan lingered. The
gap-toothed agent called to him. They stood near
the door, conversed and shook hands. Stan stored
for future reference: Custom inspector Kendall, good
contact.
Once airborne, Dutch became analytical. “First
I got pissed, then I saw your shit-eating grin, realized
that ass was jerking my puck. I guess I should wear
a fuckin’ suit like I do entering the States. Fuck the
gold.” He paused, smirked. “Fuck that prick. Let’s
party!”
“Sounds good. I’ve got a date with Laura.”
“When did you talk with her?” He coughed, a
nervous cough.
“Monday. Called from Haiti.”
“Did she,” he hesitated, “say anything?”
“Not really.”
“You’ve spoiled that whore rotten. Another
bitch-dragon like Sue Ann. I wouldn’t give her the
sweat from my balls.”
Stan heard Wink titter.
“Glad to hear you’re so selective.”
“Do yourself a big favor. Drop her like a hot
rock.”
“I’m not in the mood for sermons.” Stan turned
his head, withdrawing from the conversation. A string
of islets and cays providing a momentary distraction.
77
————
At the Casino on Paradise Island, Nassau, Stan
first met Laura Atwood. Her profession no secret,
a mutual client had made the introduction. They
shared a drink, chatted. She offered him her telephone number. He tucked it in his wallet, and the
memory lingered. Maybe it was her soft brown eyes,
head-turning figure or the prospect of an uncomplicated sexual relationship that held the attraction.
Then again, Stan had a weakness for flawed, beautiful women, and no one could say that he had a happy
marriage.
He needed an excuse and found it. The family
had gone to dinner at a neighborhood restaurant.
During the meal, Stan casually remarked that he
would be in Nassau during the week, and asked Sue
Ann to join him.
She tossed her head. “Honey, if you want company, go fuck a whore. I’m not paid enough to put up
with your shit.”
The older children giggled. The au pair’s face
flushed with embarrassment. Stan concealed his
anger. “You made your point,” he said. The next day
he called Laura.
————
At fifteen miles out, Dutch contacted Nassau
Approach Control. Stan listened to the seemingly
unintelligible exchange between the pilot and tower.
Less than five miles from Nassau International
Airport, now in sight, the Cessna 210 began its
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SHELDON YAVITZ
descent, landing gear down and flaps lowered to the
fullest position. Forty degrees, if Stan remembered
correctly. They were flying into a setting sun; a discomforting glare burning swirls in the windshield.
The glide path appeared steep. The horizon too
high. Not a pilot, but an inveterate air traveler, Stan
studied the artificial horizon instrument with its simulated aircraft. It confirmed his suspicion, an exaggerated slope of descent. The vertical speed indicator
read 1,000 feet a minute.
He glanced at Dutch, observed his typical,
absorbed pilot’s demeanor, concluded that he had
misread the gauges, chided himself for second-guessing. He heard the sharp, metallic sound of Wink
struggling with a seat buckle, wheeled about noticing his sallow color, a hand over his mouth, visibly
airsick. Stan stiffened.
“Don’t sweat it, counselor,” Dutch said, sensing his apprehension. “This is how we pros do an airdrop. Watch and learn. You too, kid.”
“Wink bent forward, gagged, spewing his lunch
over the control console.
“Sonofabitch!” Dutch wiped his soiled right
hand across his shirt front as the runway rushed up to
meet the whirling propeller. The windshield, a blur
of pavement. He reacted instinctively, yanking back
on the wheel. The plane stalled, losing lift, a matter
of feet above the tarmac.
A stomach churning abruptness racked the passengers. Stan’s body snapped forward and upward,
straining against the seat belt. Wink slammed into
the pilot’s chair, bounced off the ceiling, crumpling,
79
wedged between the seats.
“Hail Mary, full of Grace,” his voice could be
heard praying.
“Dutch’s face turned ashen; a fatalistic smile
crossed Stan’s lips. What a stupid way to die, he
would later recall thinking.
The Cessna pounded the ground on all three
tires. Its landing gear shrieking, contorted by the
impact. The aircraft shuddered, vibrated, then lifted
off, airborne, skimming above the landing surface.
Dutch eased forward on the yoke lowering the nose,
poured on the power to overcome the stall, setting
it down with a hammering thud. The plane roared
along the runway. Brakes applied until slowing to a
crawl.
“That fuckin’ little asshole almost got us
killed!”
“Great job!” Stan punched Dutch on the shoulder.
The Cessna taxied to the ramp.
“Shit happens,” Wink muttered.
————
Basking in seclusion behind high stucco walls,
the exclusive Regatta Club sprawled with its back
to the harbor and Dutch’s yacht, the CATCH ME,
berthed at dock side. Dutch hurried to his yacht.
Wink had to be assisted to his quarters on a trawler,
and Stan checked into a guest cottage. He would say
that he preferred his privacy, but like any vice Dutch
had to be taken in moderation.
He telephoned home. Sue Ann was out, the chil-
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SHELDON YAVITZ
dren fine. A second call to his answering service produced a cryptic message: Pop Durfee, Urgent. Will
call later.
Relegating Pop Durfee to tomorrow’s agenda,
he dialed 5-7431, and asked for extension 652.
“When did you arrive?” The sultry voice asked.
“Just got in, or dropped in,” he chuckled, without further explanation. “Pick you up at 9:30.”
“Can’t wait to see you.”
“Dutch is holding a birthday party. So dress for
dinner.”
“Stan,” a long pause. “Do we have to go?”
“Looks that way.”
“I don’t feel that well. I won’t be any fun.”
“I don’t want to call anyone else. Can’t go
alone.”
An audible sigh. “It’s up to you.”
“We’ll escape early, I promise.”
“Love you.”
“Thanks, baby,” he said, hanging up the
receiver.
————
In the restaurant vestibule, Hog Scroggins and
Kitten Brewster, his Bahamian girlfriend, awaited
Dutch and his party. The hog farmer appeared a
new man and attributed it to his Kitten. His hair
blow-dried’, a double-breasted Armani suit, silk shirt
and tie and Italian boots, that added inches to his
already immense height, six foot eight. He adjusted
his French cuffs by jerking his arms forward, shooting the cuffs, Mafia-style. He extended a bond-crush-
81
ing handshake to Stan, then gripped Dutch by the
shoulders. “Happy Birthday, Boss,” he winked slyly.
————
It had been a chance meeting in a seedy bar
on a Halifax back street. Dutch immediately recognized his former cell mate and weight lifting partner,
Clinton “Hog” Biggs. The crew cut had given way
to long shaggy hair and a full beard. Farmer’s overalls failed to disguise his titanic, muscular bulk. They
reminisced about prison days, and brought each other
current on their lives of crime. At the time, Dutch
hibernating in Canada after the New Years Eve drug
bust, and Hog, a convicted bank robber, a fugitive
from murder and extortion charges.
“How would you collect a bad debt?” Dutch
asked bluntly, turning the subject from women to
business.
“With pliers and a blowtorch,” Hog shot back.
Dutch hired him immediately as a bodyguard
and collector. A new, viable and plausible identity
was created for the fugitive, and Clinton “Hog”
Biggs, also known as Clarence Boggs, became Clifford “Hog” Scroggins. Later, sold on the idea that
hogs eat everything “from shit to your enemies,”
Dutch financed a hog farm, Sunshine Piggery in
bleak Nova Scotia.
Living in Nassau put Hog in touch with the
nightlife and glamour. Kitten strongly influenced him
from dress to manners. In a tourist setting, a seven
figure bank balance made one socially acceptable.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
————
The restaurant provided a Mediterranean ambiance: hand-crafted, baroque furniture, mosaic tiles
from Spain, Italian stained-glass windows, bubbling
fountains and serenading musicians. Corks popped
to magnums of Dom Perignon. Waiters hovered over
Dutch’s party, serving course after course of gourmet
cuisine, vintage wine, cocktails and beer.
Dutch monopolized the dinner conversation
with jokes and bawdy stories. Hog and Kitten to his
right in rapt attention. On his left, Angela, his date,
wearing a call girl’s professional listening expression. At the opposite end, Stan and Laura preoccupied with one another.
“The other day in Miami, I dropped in Roy’s
topless bar,” Hog said, chewing, a fork in one hand,
a champagne glass in the other. “Jammed with hot
pussy.”
Kitten, a bank clerk, reacted with a judgmental
scowl. Her dark eyes flashed as under the table, she
kicked Hog’s leg. “How crude,” she whispered, loud
enough to be overheard. He gulped his food, recalling her caution never to speak with a mouth full.
Dutch wiped his mustache with a napkin. “Roy
in a topless bar is like a eunuch in a harem.” He
looked about the table, but no one was laughing, nervously coughed, then continued in a mock-serious
tone. “Ol’ Roy accidentally shot-off his penile projectile. That’s prick, Kitten,” Dutch smirked. “Useless
as a capon. Would put all you whores on welfare.”
“Boss, there’s a lady present,” Hog muttered,
responding to indignant kicks.
83
“That’s your opinion. I always get what I pay
for.”
————
For desert, a large birthday cake, served to the
accompaniment of singing waiters and guitar-strumming musicians. Dutch staggered to his feet, face
florid, and blew out the candles. He lurched, leaned
forward, planting his palms on the table. “Leave it
to Hog to pick a big buck pigsty,” he glowered, food
stains on his shirt front. He motioned to a waiter to
clear the table. “Pronto, asshole.” His mood ugly.
“This dive isn’t fit for a shithouse!” He complained
about the food and service, berating, in turn, the
maitre d’, manager and owner, until extracting an
apology.
Peeved, he slumped in his chair, staring at
Kitten, her jet-black hair in a stylish chignon, lips a
soft-silver-brown berry color. He ogled her cleavage.
“Is that a tit-job or melons stuffed in taffeta?”
“Implants,” Hog stuttered, anticipating another
boot to the shin.
“I bet Angela’s are real.” Dutch’s fingers groped
her breast.
“You’re so right,” the redhead smiled. She wore
a short, asymmetrical trendy hairstyle, too much
makeup, glistening in a gold mini-dress and cheap
costume jewelry.
“How’s about a freebie tonight?”
“We all know you’re a marathon man,” Angela
giggled. “I couldn’t afford it.” She fidgeted with an
earring.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“Filthy pervert,” Laura muttered.
“I heard that, you little slut,” Dutch spit.
“Haven’t learned your lesson yet?” She picked at her
cake and tried to ignore him. “C’mon, bitch, open
that jacket and show us those titties.” She brushed a
strand from her forehead, wrinkled her nose. “Why
don’t you show Stan that striped ass.”
“That’s enough! I don’t think you’re funny.”
“Ungrateful tramp!”
Kitten gasped, raising a hand to her bosom.
“Dutch, we’ve heard enough.”
“Fuck that cunt!” He pounded the table to clinking, vibrating glasses. “That spoiled whore needs to
be broken.”
“Calm down!” Hog’s massive hand gripped
Dutch by the arm. Kitten’s eyes darted from person
to person.
Laura rose to her feet. Stan caught her wrist.
“Sit down!” He broke into a smile. “Nobody moves
’till we toast the King.”
Hog sighed, relieved; Kitten had a confused
expression. Laura’s eyes smoldered. Dutch hesitated,
lifted up a fallen glass, and drained a champagne
bottle. He studied the effervescence. “Let’s forget it.”
He sipped slowly. “Don’t know why I got so upset.
I guess I’m having my period,” he forced a snicker.
Then wrapping an arm around Angela, he murmured
in her ear.
She raised an eyebrow, patted his hand. “That’s
gonna cost, Dutch baby.”
“Money’s no object for a topflight performance.”
85
————
After midnight, the girls withdrew en masse to
the powder room. Dutch got up, unsteadily, moved
over and sat down next to Stan. He beckoned to Hog,
who joined them. “Sorry about the scene,” he said,
slurring his words. “A bad joke. Too much liquor and
blow in the shitter.”
“Sure, I understand, but what really happened
between you and Laura?”
“Fucked her.”
“So what,” he countered, knowing that wasn’t
the answer.
“We both did her.”
“That’s her business. She’s a working girl.”
“You callous bastard.” His voice no longer edgy.
“Stan, I thought you’d be mad.”
“Tell me what happened.” His tone calm and
professional. “The last thing I want is a whore’s side
of the story.”
“He’s right,” Hog chimed in.
Dutch nodded, hesitated, then related that he
and Hog had been out drinking and ran into Laura at
the Casino. “She was having a slow night, Reggie’s
in England. When the wife’s away, time to fuck,”
he winked. “We invited her to the yacht, had to find
out why you treat her so damn special. Shit, she was
expensive. Two thousand large for a couple of hours.”
His lips puckered in a whistle. “We took turns,” he
said, observing Stan, whose face remained impassive as he played father-confessor to another criminal. “When she wanted to go, we took her again,
double-teamed her, did her doggie-style, dry up her
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SHELDON YAVITZ
ass. Had her performing like a circus animal. I know
she loved it,” he added with jaunty self-assurance. “I
swear to you she loved it.”
“Boss, tell him the rest.” Hog puffed on a large
cigar, watched the smoke curl.
“Dutch fingered a suit button. “Somehow her
dress got torn,” he said with a smirk. “Lips swollen,
nose bleeding, butt striped like a zebra.” He cleared
his throat. “I don’t know how it happened,” he
shrugged defensively. “So, being good sports, we
settled for about six thousand.”
“Tell him how you trained her.” Hog tapped
cigar ashes in a water glass. “How she was pissing on
herself, begging to do us.”
“Shut up! Dumb bastard!”
The restaurant chatter died abruptly, heads
turned, eyes focused on the men. Dutch glared,
waved aside an inquiring waiter. He shifted uneasily,
mopped his forehead. Too much booze, coke, he kept
thinking, mind muddled, not getting this right.
“The truth!” Stan’s demand broke the silence.
“She’s fine.”
“Cut the crap. You know I’ll find out. Better we
settled it now between the three of us.” He probed,
prying not from a depraved curiosity, but to fix
blame, and eliminate a problem before it festered
out-of-control. There was too much money involved
to fight over a woman, but Laura … damn it!
“Stan’s got a good point. It’s his whore.”
“Okay.” Dutch nibbled on a fingernail. “We both
had your tramp. Hog’s dissatisfied.”
“1 rated her average, definitely not as good as
87
my black Bahama girl.”
“I’m boiling-mad. Over-priced,” he spit, examining the cuticles on his right hand. “Acted as if she’s
punching a time clock.”
“We were up in the main salon,” Hog added, his
tone conspiratorial. Stan could smell liquor on his
breath and an annoying cigar aroma. “We’re drinking, doing lines. She down below dressing. The Boss
said he’s going to teach her a lesson.”
“Plan it tonight for Angela,” Dutch cut in, a
maniacal glint in his eyes. “You saw me tell her.
She’s hot for it. Now, that’s a real whore; not like that
spoiled rotten bitch of yours.”
“Maybe.” Stan paused, as coffee was served.
“Should have made a video.”
“What do you think, Stan?”
“Why don’t you explain it?” He laughed cruelly, felt the sudden urge to kill.
“You start with your basic ass whipping,” Dutch
remarked as he added cream to his coffee. “The
first, while dressed, for shock value. Next, bare-assed
to make her submissive, later, for discipline,” he
grinned, scanning the table for a sugar substitute.
“I knife-stripped her for humiliation, examined her
prison guard style for health reasons.” He called to
a waitress and asked for saccharine. “When training
a slut, there’s no room for subtlety. You’ve got to
be crude, even brutal, but no permanent damage.
SOP in whore training, spelled out by experts.” He
spoke in a clinical mood, his voice laced with arrogance. “I used techniques employed by white slavers,
New York pimps, some bad boys from Chicago.”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
He munched on a slice of birthday cake; frosting
smeared on his chin. “If you read Jordan’s book on
whore mastery, you’ll find a complete endorsement
of my therapy: tied helpless, shaved bald, forced anal
and vaginal douches, clothespins for arousal.”
“Adult book store garbage, sick pornography?”
“You’re pretty naive.” He licked icing from his
fingers, wiped his mouth on a sleeve.
“You should see the Boss’s library.”
“On torture and rape?”
“S&M, B&D, a lifestyle, my smart friend.” He
slurped his coffee, made a face, added more sweetener, and savored his fingering sado-masochism and
bondage with discipline.
“I don’t know, Stan. Once the Boss got her
attention, she handled it like a trooper.”
“Bull!”
“She loved it!” Dutch brushed a crumb from his
mustache. “Laura’s just afraid to admit it. A closet
bottom, brought her out of her shell.”
“Stan thumped his fingers on the table. A frown
wrinkled his brow; his jaw tightened, observing the
women reentering the dining room. “I did it for her
own good,” Dutch said. “Took away her inhibitions.”
Stan paid Dutch no attention. He beckoned to a
waiter and told him to inform the ladies that the
men were discussing private business. He suggested
that they have a drink at the bar and return in about
a half hour. “A couple of more sessions that’s all
she needs.” Stan tuned him out, his mind elsewhere.
From a distance, he studied Laura’s appearance: long
brown “bedroom” hair, so natural, loose and subtly
89
sexy, pale white skin gently sun tanned. A form fitting pin-striped jacket strategically buttoned and an
ankle-length, slim skirt slit to display a well-turned
leg. She seemed refreshed, radiant, not the shattered
victim. Hell, you don’t tattoo ‘raped’ and ‘battered’
on your forehead. He loosened his tie. “I’ve heard
enough.” He unbuttoned his shirt collar. “How are we
going to resolve this?”
Dutch and Hog exchanged glances. “I paid her
big money. It’s finished.”
“Get off it! She didn’t agree to be raped.”
“That’s her fault. I gave her a choice. I told her
what I wanted. I had all kinds of suggestions.” His
eyes wandered, lust turned to fury. “She kept refusing. I offered her more money. She thought her shit
didn’t stink.” His hands wrung a napkin. “I said to
her: I bet you’d do it for Stan. She said you can do
anything you want to her.”
“Laura was just upset. Didn’t mean it.”
“You’re wrong! I asked her again and again.
Can Stan go up you like a prison punk? Can he
whip your bare ass? If that’s what turns him on, I’d
let him,” Dutch babbled, mimicking a high-pitched,
feminine voice. “She called you her lover; me a
fuckin’ pervert.”
“So, you two big guys tortured her.”
“Not me. I was only a spectator. Kitten will tell
you, I respect women.”
“We were consenting adults.” Dutch’s voice
betrayed uncertainty. “A business deal, pure and
simple.”
“Let’s look at it this way.” Stan leaned back in
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SHELDON YAVITZ
his chair. “You ruined my dinner, probably my evening.” He flicked a speck from his jacket sleeve.
“If you expect an apology, forget it, counselor.”
“You missed the point. As they say in the ghetto,
I’ve been disrespected.” He spoke coldly, in a matter-of-fact tone, more like a criminal than a lawyer.
“That’s the second time this week. First Goldie, now
Laura. I’m losing my sense of humor.”
“What do you want?”
“You can’t undo it. Your apology’s worth crap,”
Stan said, removing his eyeglasses. He slowly wiped
the lenses allowing the tension to heighten. A trial
lawyer in search of a verdict. A man in need of a temporary victory to assuage his anger and placate his
gnawing conscience. “Money’s the answer.”
“I paid her. She didn’t complain.”
“Not enough. She’s still bitching.”
“Fuck her!”
“We’re talking about what satisfies me.” He
used his glasses to punctuate the comment. “Thirty
five thousand seems appropriate.” He was not suggesting but dictating.
“You’re crazy!”
“Stan got up from his chair. “Think it over,”
he said, turned from the table and walked slowly
across the room. At the maitre d’ station, he paused,
counting measuredly to one hundred to mollify his
temper.
“He’s in love with that whore,” Hog said.
“He’s an asshole.”
“You know, Boss, if you’d done that to Kitten,
I’d have to kill you. Money wouldn’t matter.” He
91
cracked his knuckles. “Maybe she’s not that important. It’s a matter of honor. Stan thinks like a mafioso.”
“Shit, he’s more criminal than any of us.”
“He said you disrepected him.”
“Fuck him up his ass.”
“He’s making you millions. The dough’s chickenshit.”
“Yeah,” Dutch shrugged. “No big deal when
you look at it that way. Can charge it off to the beaners, fuck him on a flight. The King always finds a
way,” he said, his mind a blur of schemes. A cruel
smile formed at the corners of his mouth. “It was
worth every dollar. I can’t begin to tell you how
much I enjoyed it.” He folded his arms. “Go get the
schmuck. Tell him he wins.”
“Does that mean you’re through with the
chick?”
“Not by a cunt’s hair,” he smirked, rubbing his
palms together. “When she sees all that money, the
slut will be back.”
“Shrewd, Boss.”
“Damn clever.”
CHAPTER THREE
Stan glanced at his watch. Almost 8:30 am. Laura’s arm was wrapped around him; their legs intertwined. He could feel her breathing and the warmth
of her body. He eased himself from the bed. A sound
sleeper like Sue Ann, he smiled, rubbing his eyes. He
located his eyeglasses on the bed stand, put on his
trousers and went looking for his robe.
He shaved, showered and dressed in a beige
sports jacket, jeans and a pair of ostrich-skin boots.
Then standing over the bed, he watched Laura as she
slept. Only hours before, his bought and paid for fantasy had taken on real-life dimensions.
A tropical night sky had afforded the patio illumination. He leaned against a wrought-iron railing
peering out on the marina. The lights were dim on
Dutch’s yacht. He became aware of Laura moving
about the guest cottage as she turned off a bedside
lamp and closed the curtains. She called his name,
but he didn’t answer. He hesitated.
She came to him placing her arm in his, lost in
an over-sized, red silk bathrobe, just a trace of fingertips and a glimpse of bare toes.
“Are you practicing to be a nun,” he laughed,
a soft chuckle, trailed his fingers across her cheek,
93
down the side of her neck. He kissed her lips.
“I love you,” She responded thrusting her tongue
in his mouth. He untied the sash; the robe parted.
“Stan, wait.” She gathered the fabric tightly around
her.
He feigned a perplexed expression, sat down on
a cushion, resin armchair. “Still bruised?” He said,
forcing the issue. He would have the funds tomorrow, but he needed answers. Left unexplained, the
money would be bereft of meaning and subject to
misinterpretation, a lawyer’s thinking. He grasped
her hand and brought her to his lap.
“I fell off a horse. That’s all.” She buried her
face deep in his shoulder. “Even the best horseman
can have a fall.”
“Dutch confessed!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He
could feel her body tremor. “To what?” She shook
her head, confused.
“To rape, abusing you.”
She looked up at him. “Bragged, you mean. Did
you all have a big laugh?” She shot him an angry
look.
“I didn’t think it was funny.”
“Did he tell you how much I enjoyed it?”
“Nope.”
“What did he say? How much he paid?” Stan
nodded. “That he can have me anytime he wants.”
Tears welled in her eyes.
“Being a rape victim is no crime.” He dabbed
her tears with a handkerchief. “It’s over. He won’t
touch you again.”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“He made me,” her voice quivered. “If I told
anyone, he’d …”
“Have you kidnapped, sold.” He pressed a finger
to her lips. “Set up, arrested, deported, a thousand
variations. All big mouth garbage.”
“How do you know?”
“Like Frankenstein I created the monster.”
————
At the far end of a pier, Dutch’s Hatteras lay
moored in the company of a 137-foot Feadship, a
luxurious Bertram and a Burger flush-deck cruiser.
While other vessels may have been newer, larger
or more pretentious, his was outrageously expensive. It had been refurbished, redecorated and custom
modified with the flybridge redesigned, but the classic motoryacht profile still retained. She carried an
array of navigational and communications equipment
rivaling any pleasure craft. Dutch described her as
the finest in the Caribbean with a world-wide range.
The first time out, he ran the yacht aground, damaging a prop and a rudder. From then on, the CATCH
ME never left port, relegated to a glorified houseboat.
Stan made his way up the gangplank, boarded
through the semi-enclosed afterdeck. He entered the
main salon strikingly finished in solid teak and shimmering brass.
Attired in a loosely-tied bathrobe and barefoot,
Dutch relaxed on a leather sofa reading a newspaper. A half-eaten breakfast on a silver serving tray
spread before him on the coffee table. “Good morn-
95
ing, counselor,” he said, putting down the paper.
“Noticed your whore’s big improvement?”
“You gave her an annoying stutter, made her
cross-eyed.” His expression deadpan as he poured a
cup of coffee from a sterling silver urn. “Where’s
Angela?”
“Gone home.” Dutch reached for a Danish
pastry. “Striped like a zebra,” he muttered, munching. “Anyhow, your money’s on the bar.”
Stan walked over and glanced at seven packets
of bills, five thousand dollars each, subdivided by
thousands, secured by rubber bands, a drug dealer’s
trademark. He randomly selected one, thumbed
through it. Then another, and nonchalantly tossed the
funds in his briefcase. “Want a receipt or a school
named in your honor?”
“She’ll be back,” Dutch laughed. “Next time, I’ll
make a video for your benefit.” Stan shrugged indifferently, cynically admitting the possibility. “Make
her sign a consent form so no smartass lawyer can
extort me.”
Stan raised an eyebrow, pulled up a chair. “I’m
going back into Cuba,” he said, resting his cup on the
table.
“Where’s your saucer?” Dutch’s tone persnickety. He called to the maid. A middle-aged black
woman in a white uniform responded. “More coffee,
saucers, cups, napkins. Stan, do you want orange
juice, toast?”
“Fine,” he nodded, then waited until the housekeeper departed. “It’s a good idea to bring our
account current,” he said.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“She’s new,” Dutch interjected.
“You’ve paid through August, but missed one
flight in July,” he continued.
————
Stan had arranged for protected air travel over
Cuban controlled airspace. No flight plan required,
no air force interference and an allowance for emergency refueling and landing. The net result: fuel and
timesaving, shorter distance, increased payloads and
less chance of detection. When one of Dutch’s drugladen aircraft flew across the island, the airplane’s
transponder squawked a code (a sequence of numbers). As the airborne black box received the Cuban
radar site interrogation, it responded by flashing
a high priority signal, the identifiable blips which
insured unmolested passage. Stan derived 225,000
dollars from each flight, including the payment to
his connection, a Cuban colonel in Air Force Intelligence.
————
Dutch yawned, stretched his arms toward the
ceiling. “You mean I missed one?” His bathrobe separated revealing his broadening girth.
“Yep. You flew six, paid for five.” Stan reached
in his jacket breast pocket, removed a small note
pad. “If you want, I’ll give you the date, N number.
The Colonel’s sharp,” he chuckled, playing a hunch
with information received from one of Dutch’s pilots.
There was no accurate confirmation system, but that
97
was Stan’s secret.
Dutch closed his robe, fastened the cord. He
tugged at his nose. “You’re right,” he smirked. “A
slight bookkeeping error.”
“Now how many flights are planned for the balance of the year?”
“What are you worried about?” He interlaced
his fingers, cracking his knuckles. “Don’t trust me?”
His eye narrowed, his beefy jowl twitched. “Still
upset about that slut?”
“Look at it this way,” Stan’s voice cold and
deliberate. “Your bookkeeping errors are going to get
me killed.” Dutch eyed him skeptically. “The Colonel’s nervous. Do you expect me to walk into Cuba
off on the count? Why don’t you go in yourself? It’s
a fun country.”
“Shit no, I’m not crazy!”
“Then stop arguing.” Stan got up and poured the
last of the coffee. “We’ve already done thirty since
January first.”
“Smooth as a baby’s ass.” Dutch knuckle-tapped
the table. “You’re better insurance than Lloyd’s.”
The yacht roughly undulated and pushed against
the dock; fenders banging and ropes creaking. Stan
steadied his cup. Dutch swung around facing the
window, brandishing a fist, shouting “Asshole” as a
sportfisherman sped by trailing a wide wake. “Bastards! Where’s the cops when you need them?”
————
Over the next half hour, Dutch detailed the yearend schedule. “Up to 500 keys per flight. Gives me
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SHELDON YAVITZ
a hard-on talking about it.” Stan took notes, but
upon leaving the vessel would destroy the written
record. His memory was safer, not incriminatory,
but the appearance of note taking tended to keep
Dutch honest. “That’s 17 to 19 through December,
including the July trip. Approximate 4.2 million,
your end, round numbers. I’m making you a multimillionaire,” he belly laughed, spreading his arms
magnanimously.
“I do it for kicks.”
“Bullshit! If …” Dutch paused, cocked his head.
The sound of footsteps on the deck caused an abrupt
halt to their conversation. They looked toward the
cabin door. A knock, and a hotel clerk entered.
“A message for Mr. Pollard,” he said. “A woman
calling for Pop Durfee.”
“Have her call back in ten minutes. Direct it
to my cottage.” He tipped the messenger. “I left
word with my office,” Stan remarked as an aside. “I
wonder if Laura’s asleep,” he thought out loud.
“She’s still here?”
“Forget Laura. Your maid needs the training.”
“Dutch returned a puzzled look. “Oh shit! She
forgot your juice and toast.”
“I suggest you tie her to the refrigerator, cut off
her apron,” Stan said, his eyes cold and voice humorless.
————
The Cove Grill, Regatta Club, 12 o’clock noon.
Stan selected a table and sat with his back to a
window preferring a view of the dining area rather
99
than the marina.
Ann Bennett arrived late. A woman in her twenties, not beautiful but attractive, bronze-tanned, little
makeup, and a no-nonsense hairdo, dressed in pleated
shorts, sandals and a tanktop. As she spoke to the
hostess, a man walked in behind her, made a quick
pivot and stepped back.
Stan noticed his reaction with a practiced eye:
a furtive glance when he beckoned to Ann, smirked
when they embraced. He noted the stranger’s attire,
casual and cheap, neatly trimmed hair and an athletic
build.
“Pop’s hiding!” Her voice verged on hysteria.
“The DEA’s after him. We’ve been trying to get you
since Tuesday.”
“Relax.” He patted her hand. “Please, sit down,
order something to eat.”
The man chose a table within eyeshot, and
would nurse a beer.
Over lunch, Stan listened, asked few questions,
made no notes, and at times appeared distracted, but
would remember the details probably better than his
client.
————
According to Ann, Pop Durfee’s sailboat, a
59-foot Hinckley Sou’wester, lie berth at Hurricane
Hole Yacht Harbour on Paradise Island. On the previous Monday, two men, who identified themselves
as a U.S. Drug Enforcement agent and an Inspector
with the CID, the Bahamian Criminal Investigation
Division, boarded Pop’s vessel asking for Alvin
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SHELDON YAVITZ
Godofsky, known by the alias, Frank “Pop” Durfee.
They showed a photographic display to a person
claiming to be the boat’s captain. He gave the name,
Fred Glancy, but in reality was Pop Durfee. After
seven years, Godofsky’s appearance had changed
dramatically from the pictures: a beard, thinning hair,
weatherbeaten face, a more muscular physique, and
he went unrecognized. The captain said that he knew
Durfee, but didn’t expect him for at least another
week. The officers seemed satisfied, left their telephone numbers, and requested immediate notification upon Durfee’s return. Fearing arrest, Durfee
decided to set sail. The need for travel funds, provisioning of the vessel, and an unexpected repair produced a one day delay.
The following morning upon returning from a
local coffee shop, Durfee recognized the same two
men on the dock near his sailboat. He stopped at a
distance. They saw him and called out: “Godofsky!
We want to talk!” Durfee bolted, fleeing on foot with
the DEA agent and CID inspector in pursuit. He
cleared a hedge, ran into the street. Cars braked and
swerved to avoid him. Durfee flagged a cab, and sped
off, making his escape.
————
“I will take you to Pop. He’s got to see you.”
Stan called to a waitress, and ever alert to a
possible police tail, paid the bill in cash. Signing a
guest check would have revealed his identity. Arm
and arm, they left the restaurant, followed the curved,
marble staircase to the lobby. At the main entrance,
101
reminiscent of a castle moat, a pith helmeted, parking attendant brought up her car.
Stan spied the stranger in his periphery. Then
looked for his partner, the CID investigator, or a
New Providence police unmarked unit, an American
Chrysler product with a beefed up law enforcement
package. He found the second half of the team, a
black man in a plaid jacket, behind the steering wheel
of a late model, gray Plymouth sedan. Right on point,
he said to himself.
They proceeded west on Bay Street amid twoway traffic paralleling Nassau Harbour. Ann buzzing
with idle chatter; Stan preoccupied with the Plymouth six or more car lengths behind.
“Pull into that gas station,” he directed.
“We don’t need gas.”
“Ad-lib. I think we’re being followed.”
The car passed. Within several blocks, Stan
spotted it again emerging from a side street and
entering the westbound traffic pattern. “Make the
circle. Go over the bridge,” he said as they neared the
roundabout to Mackey and Bay Streets, and Paradise
Bridge. At the tollbooth, he again caught sight of the
car, partially obscured by a bus and a taxi. “Make a
left. Let’s confirm my suspicion.”
————
Chalk’s Airline operated from a seaplane base
on the southwestern shore of Paradise Island. As they
drove into the palm-lined parking lot, a white and
blue striped amphibian splashed down skimming the
water. They entered the small, Art Deco-style termi-
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SHELDON YAVITZ
nal: charming soft pastel colors, glass block, scallop
shapes and some symmetry.
He touched Ann’s elbow steering her to the reservation counter, spoke briefly with a ticket agent
and picked up a flight schedule. “There’s one,” he
said. “Don’t stare.”
Ann clung to his arm. “Are we going to be
arrested?”
“No.” He returned a reassuring smile.
They exited the building. The Grumman Turbo
Mallard had taxied to the ramp. Its massive engines
mounted on wings spouting pontoons. “When you
called me this morning, where were you?” His eyes
roamed the crowd of disembarking air travelers,
spectators and airport personnel.
“With Pop. Then I came to see you.”
“You must have made a stop.”
Ann ran her fingers through her hair.
“You probably went to the sailboat, picked
up things. Skirt, blouse, cosmetics,” he suggested,
recalling seeing such articles on the rear seat of her
Mazda.
“How did you know?”
“There’s the other one talking to a custom
agent.” He slipped an arm about her waist. “Loosen
up, act like we’re lovers.”
Her arms hugged his neck, tongue darting
between his lips. She embraced him with a passion
that caused heads to turn.
————
When they drove from the seaplane base, Stan
103
had taken the wheel. Within minutes, the Mazda
pulled up the ramp to the Casino’s portico entrance.
Afternoon traffic was light, pedestrians few. As he
stepped out of the car, Stan observed the Plymouth
making a U-turn.
En route, he had explained that they would have
to split up, and in the event of an emergency furnished the name of a local attorney. He requested
Pop’s address, telephone number and a few directions. Then offered a little lawyerly advice: Unless
you elude them, you will be questioned. In the
Islands, it’s best to cooperate. Make your comments
short. Don’t volunteer information. If you don’t know
Pop’s whereabouts, whatever you say is probably
harmless. As to me, I’m just a friend. Forget about
the lawyer business. It will raise too many questions
and impair my effectiveness. In doubt, contact the
attorney.
Ann slid over to the driver’s seat.
“I think you should go shopping,” he said, leaning in the car window. “Looks innocent. Be careful.”
Ann grasped his head in both hands and kissed
him. “Call me sometime.” Her voice soft and breathless.
“Tonight, I want a full report.”
He waved like a tourist, lingered and watched
like a lovesick suitor until her vehicle reached the
street exit, and turned south in the direction of the
bridge. The gray sedan lurched, braking abruptly.
The passenger door swung wide, a moment of indecision. The stranger got out and strode hastily up the
driveway as the CID inspector continued trailing Pop
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SHELDON YAVITZ
Durfee’s girlfriend.
In the Casino, Stan had quickened his pace.
He avoided the roulette wheels and blackjack tables,
headed toward the cashier’s booth, then made a right
and walked briskly between banks of slot machines.
By the time the agent had entered the lobby, Stan
was in the coffee shop. His jacket flung over an arm,
and sunglasses in a shirt pocket. At the curb side
entrance, he got in a taxi. “Straw Market,” he said,
his adrenaline pumping. He put on his glasses and
took a long look. “So far, so good.”
The taxicab inched and braked through the
downtown congestion. A pink and white town with
a sense of history and colonial enchantment. At the
two-story Straw Market on Rawsom Square, the cab
discharged its fare. Stan wandered amidst the hundreds of vendors hawking their wares from straw
hats and baskets to wood-carvings and jewelry. Upon
emerging wharf-side, in sight of the cruise ships, he
wore a straw hat and carried an embroidered straw
bag stuffed with his jacket. He mingled with the tourists, street vendors and dock workers, and caught the
first available taxi outside the palatial, pink British
Colonial Hotel, once the site of Fort Nassau, and the
backdrop for a James Bond movie. “Sunshine Twin
Theatre,” he said to the cabby. “Near Blue Hill Road
and Wolff Park.”
————
In the theater parking lot, Stan paid the driver,
added a tip, and tore a twenty in half. “Be back in one
hour for the other half,” he said, handing him part of
105
the bill. “Twenty more for each half hour I keep you
waiting. Do a good job and bonus of a hundred.” In
the movie house rest room, he abandoned the hat and
straw bag. An emergency door provided a surreptitious exit. A two block jaunt brought him to Wood
Avenue, a narrow street of cracker-box homes.
Pop Durfee’s hideaway was the third house
from the corner, pastel blue in color with a chain
link fence and a junk car in the yard. He opened the
squeaky gate, walked up and knocked on the door. A
dark-skinned woman in a housecoat answered; Pop’s
bearded, craggy visage looming behind her. “Thank
God!” Fatigue and worry etched his face.
The screen door creaked on rusty hinges. The
room emitted a musty odor. Drawn shades darkened
the living room. One dimly lit floor lamp silhouetted
the meager furniture. Stan followed Pop to a rear,
equally dingy bedroom.
“My good friends are charging more than the
Hilton,” he grinned, sarcastically, plopped down on
a sagging mattress. “Don’t sit in that easy chair.” He
grabbed his groin and grimaced.
“Ann told me what happened.” Stan drew up an
armless, straight chair. “We were followed. Had to
split up,” he added, straddling the seat, his arms on
the backrest, then recounted the precautions taken to
shake the tail.
“What do you think?” Pop reached for a pack of
Camel Wides.
“My guess, a new charge, using an old fugitive
warrant to insure extradition. What troubles me is
how they knew your true identity.”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“I haven’t used Godofsky for over seven years.”
He lit a cigarette, took a drag, exhaled a plume of
smoke. “Been racking my brain.” He studied the cigarette pinched between his fingers. “Are you saying
there’s an informer?”
“When they arrested Sky, they also knew his
real name.”
Pop flicked ashes on a scatter rug. “Nobody
knew. Not even Sky.”
“Someone does.”
“Remo.” He crushed the cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. “Can’t be him.” A bottle of Jack
Daniel’s and an unwashed water glass glared from
the bureau top. “I trust him with my life.”
“Sky said the same.”
————
Many in the smuggling trade considered Frank
“Pop” Durfee the dean of drug pilots having flown
in excess of two hundred and fifty flights during his
illicit career. Only 38 years old, the nickname “Pop”
was attributed not to age, but his longevity and survival in a high-risk occupation.
A fugitive from an earlier stateside arrest,
Godofsky had adopted the Durfee alias, and sought
refuge in the Bahamas, initially flying drugs for Maximilian Luna, also known as Mr. Moon. When Luna
suddenly retired, the story goes, his heir apparent,
Remo Rodriguez, took command of the organization.
He joined forces with Carlos Bianco, another up-andcoming drug smuggler. They operated from a base on
Great Harbour Cay in the Berry Islands, strategically
107
situated between the major island cities of Nassau
and Freeport. Even Dutch had been impressed with
their growth and success.
Pop Durfee, Sky Mellow and Timothy “Ace”
McGonigle formed the original trio of pilots that
helped make the Rodriguez-Bianco partnership a
multimillion dollar business. Later, as their own,
individual reputations and wealth increased, the three
pilots broke from the organization and became freelance agents, contract pilots to the high-bidder.
Sky Mellow branched out on his own until
apprehended flying cocaine into North Florida. Stan
represented him in a pending criminal case. Durfee,
semi-retired, worked on a limited basis. Ace McGonigle flew for Rodriguez, Dutch and others. Within
the past eight months, Rodriguez and Bianco had
severed their affiliation sparking rumors of ill-will
and open hostility between them. Bianco had moved
his operation to Haiti. Rodriguez continued to flourish, bold and brash as ever, on Great Harbour Cay.
————
“What do you want me to do?” Stan asked.
“Find out how much trouble I’m in.” Pop massaged his temple. “Find me a new home, say Antigua
or Martinique.” His mouth twisted slightly. “A place
with a good harbor. Where nobody knows me.”
“Okay,” Stan nodded, paused, smiled faintly.
“Maybe, just maybe, I can short-circuit this investigation.”
“Really! You can do that?” His eye twitched.
“You name it. I’ll pay it.”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“I said maybe,” his grin broadened. “But, I got
other commitments.”
“You know I got money.” He was up, on his
feet, pacing. “I need time.” He reached for the liquor
bottle. “Got money in the bank, new I.D. Can’t reach
them.” He took a long swig of Jack Daniel’s. Having
some boys break into my boat tonight.” He took
another swallow. “Can you imagine having to bust
into my own sailboat to get my shit?”
Stan shrugged; Durfee removed a ring from
his right pinky. “Better take this as a retainer.”
Stan looked at the diamond, his expression indifferent. “Four carats. Cost over twenty thousand.” He
watched as the lawyer placed it on his little finger.
“If you can block those suckers, I can get the money
tomorrow.”
Stan shifted the diamond to his ring finger. A
better fit, would easily pass customs without arousing suspicion. “I’ll change my plans,” he sighed,
toying with the ring. A great gift for Sue Ann, make
a beautiful pendant, he thought. “I need the names of
the DEA agent and CID cop, who paid you a visit.”
“Shit! I can’t remember.”
“Try.” Stan flashed a vexed look.
Pop rummaged through his wallet. “Here it is.
Hunt, and Inspector Edgecomb,” he said, handing
their cards to Stan.
————
It was 3:45 pm by the time Stan returned to the
movie house. Twenty minutes later, a smiling cabby
dropped him off in front of a small office building.
109
He climbed a flight of stairs to the chambers of T.
Clement Mayfield. After learning that the attorney
was still in court, he agreed to reset the appointment
for an hour later. Then, impatient, he decided to walk
the four blocks to the courthouse. On the way, Stan
made a stop at a jewelry shop, bought a pair of gold
earrings and had the diamond appraised.
————
White block letters painted on a blackened
window storefront read Magistrate’s Court No. 3.
The nondescript structure, dilapidated by use and
deteriorated from age, abutted a third-rate hotel and
shared an alleyway with a boutique and a shop selling local craft products. The court sat, unnoticed,
across the street from Parliament Square with its
marble statue of Queen Victoria, and an elegant complex of classic colonial-style buildings housing the
Bahamian Parliament and Supreme Court.
Stan entered the Magistrate’s Court and took a
seat toward the rear. He surveyed a room color-coordinated in shades of brown, black and beige. The
cheap wood paneling splintered and peeling. The
hardwood dulled and scarred with names and initials
carved in the benches and railings. A broken window
pane encouraged a ray of sunlight. Noisy overhead
fans made hearing difficult.
At that late afternoon hour, the courtroom
appeared nearly deserted. A clerk fidgeted, drumming his fingers on the desk. In a far corner, the bailiff and a constable conversed in whispers.
On his feet, T. Clement Mayfield delivering
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his final summation. He wore his traditional red
tie and three-piece, black suit, penguinesque with a
strong African heritage. The defendant, his client,
stood ramrod straight, frozen in the dock. The judge
dozed, his jaw drooping. At the prosecutor’s table, the
Crown attorney, slouched and chewed on a pencil.
When Clement concluded his argument, the
magistrate, as if on cue, blinked and awoke. “Very
convincing, Mr. Mayfield.” He gazed solemnly down
from the high bench. “I shall take this matter under
advisement. Notify you gentlemen of my decision.”
He adjusted his white wig and strode from the courtroom.
Stan caught the eye of the short, rotund, balding barrister. They greeted each other with a handshake and a hug. He waited while Clement spoke
to his client, who would remain in custody pending
the court’s ruling. The man seemed distraught. Clement appeared confident. At 60, he ranked among the
most prominent attorneys on the island. With Bahamian independence in 1973, he had risen rapidly in
the Pindling government. From prosecutor to Solicitor General, later a member of the House of Assembly and a renowned criminal defense attorney. Stan
treasured their friendship, valued his advice and paid
for his influence.
————
As dusk settled, the two friends exited the courthouse, and turned into the alley, a shortcut to Clement’s office. “That poor bugger was apprehended
with 336 bags, almost fourteen thousand pounds of
111
gunja,” he said with an affected British accent. “My
defense was brilliant. In two weeks, the old boy shall
decide in my favor.”
Clement stated a fact, neither bragging nor
unduly optimistic. The results were guaranteed. First
the money, then the favorable court decision, but
never an admission of compromised behavior.
They walked through a now vacant carpark;
Parliament House visible in the distance. Clement
unzipped his trousers, withdrew his penis, and
relieved himself without slackening his step. “The
art, Stan, is never piss in the wind.” His eyes twinkled. “With that in mind, what can I do for you?”
Stan grinned, an odd grin, then briefly explained his
client’s situation and the surveillance. He mentioned
Bianco and Rodriguez, recognizable names. “Pop
will probably need local representation. Obviously
you.” His voice flattened. “Do you know Edgecomb
of your CID?”
“Of course, I know Daryl quite well. A splendid
chap.”
“I figured you would,” Stan smiled faintly.
“Would you say he’s the right man at the right time?”
Clement nodded. “Then first, I need to know what’s
behind the investigation, and second, how they plan
to handle it.” Stan spoke with deliberate slowness.
“The money to be made is in preventing Durfee’s
arrest. If I’m correct, without Bahamian cooperation, the DEA can’t detain him.” He looked at Clement, who nodded affirmatively. “If so, all we have
to worry about is a potential kidnapping.” Clement
shrugged. “If we can get it done by tomorrow, I’ll
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have you paid before I leave the island.”
Clement’s face brightened. “Come up to my
chambers. Let us see if I can ring up the dear chap.”
————
Victorian furniture, red velvet fabric mixed with
gold brocade drapery, and gilt-framed paintings provided a bordello touch to the distinguished chambers.
At the wet bar, Stan served himself a drink and
listened to a one-sided conversation between Clement and the inspector. He gazed out the window overlooking Bay Street with a bird’s-eye view of Prince
George Wharf and Nassau Harbour.
“I will be meeting with him this evening,” Clement said, upon hanging up the telephone. “Call me
tomorrow before 7:30, my home.” He rubbed his
palms together. “The private line.”
“Sure,” Stan mumbled, seemingly absorbed in
the arrival of a cruise ship. “One other matter,” he
paused, staring. “My friend, Laura, has come into
some money — 35,000 dollars to be exact.”
“A life-time membership,” Clement smirked.
“Provocative idea, but no cigar.” He turned to
face him.
“Let me tell you how I want it handled.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Upon returning to the Regatta Club, Stan
received a call from Ann, who informed him that
while shopping, she bought a blond wig and new
dress, and in disguise “strolled right past the investigator.” She insisted on a meeting. A matter so serious
that it could not be discussed over the telephone. He
reluctantly agreed and as an afterthought, suggested
the Casino, midnight, at a blackjack table.
Dutch, too, had left an urgent message. As Stan
neared the yacht, the new maid, lugging a satchel,
trudged down the gangway. Dutch on the afterdeck
waving a clenched fist. “Bitch! Maggot!” His complexion, a beet-red.
“Tied her to the refrigerator,” Stan said, smiling.
“Quit on me.” He dropped wearily in a folding
chair. The maid, an intolerant recipient of his temper,
had mutinied. The tantrum, as he shortly explained,
induced by an airplane crash in Canada and the loss
of the illicit cargo. “The fucks left the load, 150
keys,” he would say, pacing. “They should’ve burned
the shit. It’s all over the front-page.” He handed Stan
a week-old Toronto Star newspaper which carried
a photo of a Piper Aztec belly-landed in a pasture.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
One wing severed; props bent; the vertical and horizontal stabilizers wrecked, and plexiglass windshield
shattered. The article detailed the broad scope of the
investigation, referred to it as a manhunt, and mentioned that to date, it was one of the largest cocaine
seizures in that nation’s history. The Royal Canadian
Mounted police (RCMP) vowed to bring the drug
smugglers to justice.
“Lucky, your men got out alive,” Stan remarked.
They had moved below deck, forward to the ship’s
galley. Stan seated at the dinette. Unbreakable, nonskid stemware hung overhead from ceiling-mounted
racks.
“Wish the bastards were dead.”
“Could be fingerprints. The plane could be
traceable.”
“Worse.” Dutch scraped food from a plate into
a garbage can. “One of the assholes thinks he left his
wallet in the Aztec.” He put the dish in the sink. “Got
to find a maid before Reggie gets back.”
“Are you certain?”
“Reggie will throw a shit fit.” A frilly apron
draped his expansive waist.
“No, about the billfold. It’s hard to believe.”
“Schmuck lost it.” They exchanged concerned
glances.
“You got to get control of them, new IDs, relocated. Put a pilot in handcuffs,” Stan frowned, “and
you have to slap him to shut him up.”
“I’ll discuss that with Daddio. He’s down from
Toronto.”
————
115
Dutch opened the freezer and removed a frozen
pizza. “I had him check into another hotel, just to be
safe.” He hesitated, his cold expression slowly turned
to a grin. “The pilots are his boys. I don’t know either
of them.”
“Good. Now, all you have to worry about is
Daddio McGovern.”
“He’s the best.” Dutch tore the tab from the
wrapper. “Want to join the powwow?” He set the
timer on the microwave oven.
“I already have dinner plans,” he said, rising
from the table.
“Laura?”
“Keep me informed. Watch your back.”
————
The restaurant, a secluded, converted mansion,
provided a romantic ambience: dining under the
stars, a kidney-shaped pool and palm trees as a backdrop, and flickering candles in yellow lanterns.
Laura rubbed her toes against Stan’s leg. She
gazed at him with a sensual, thoughtful expression.
To the casual observer, they appeared as lovers, a
middle-aged man and a girl, old enough to be his
daughter. In reality, he bought the relationship, but
to Stan, it didn’t matter. As he would say with the
air of a cynic, you pay for everything, sex included.
It need not be in money. There are always strings
attached. At least with Laura, it was straightforward
and honest.
“Close your eyes.” Her face glowed with excitement as she held his right hand inside her own. He
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could feel her gentle touch and a ring slip over the
knucklebone of his pinky.
He opened his eyes, beaming, staring at a richly
green emerald. “Beautiful, unbelievably expensive,”
he blushed.
“You’re no longer my client. From now on
you’re my lover,” she said, her voice little more than
a whisper. Stan sat in silence. “This is for real.” There
was a feverishness in her tone and a twang of uneasiness. “It made it all worth-while,” her eyes flashed.
Stan slowly shook his head. His simple pay for
romance had become a complicated affair. “It’s unbelievable!” He leaned across the table; their lips met.
Her mouth soft and sensuous and the kiss lasted.
“You saved me. I had no way out.” He could
sense the resentment, wondered if the ring like the
one from Durfee (deposited in the hotel safe) was the
cost of protection. “I couldn’t go to my bosses. They
wouldn’t understand.” She gripped his hand, pressing it to her lips. “I was so afraid I’d go back to him.”
She returned his gaze. “You’re so …”
“It’s over. Nothing to be afraid of.” He heard
himself reciting the same words as the night before.
Stan sipped his black coffee laced with Sambucca.
“Now, I have a gift for you.”
“I don’t deserve it.”
“Don’t tell me what you deserve.” He paused,
taken aback by his snappish response. “One’s quite
simple,” he forced a grin. “The other requires a bit of
explanation.” He withdrew from his jacket pocket a
small, velour textured jewelry box. “This is for love,”
he said, offering it to her. “I think that’s important.”
117
She raised the lid. Her fingers trembled, removing a pair of gold, hoop-shaped earrings. “May I try
them on?”
Stan nodded, surprised by her timidity.
“I’ll wear them just when I’m with you,” she
said, inserting the prong through a pierced earlobe.
She pulled her long, brown hair back and off an ear,
tilted her head, stretched her neck, posing.
He slid his wicker chair closer. She greeted the
move with a flurry of kisses. “I have a real surprise,”
he said, giving her a sealed envelope. He watched her
expression grow intense as she tore it open, unfolded
the paper and read the contents.
Dear Ms .Murphy:
This office has the privilege to inform you that
you are a beneficiary of the Estate F. Nobel,
deceased, to the sum of approximately 26,923
pounds, or 35,000 dollars, the U.S. equivalent,
at the present rate of exchange.
You are requested to contact my office at the
earliest convenience.
Yours truly,
(Signed) T. CLEMENT MAYFIELD
Barrister and Solicitor
“How did he know my real name?” Her eyes
burned with suspicion.
“I’ve seen your Canadian passport.” Stan sipped
at his coffee.
“I don’t have any relatives who could leave me
so much money.” A glint of a smile vanished. “I don’t
know the dead person,” she said rereading the letter.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“Let’s say that it’s from a Dutch uncle.”
“What are you talking about?” She held a hand
to her mouth. “He’s paid me.”
“This is different. He had to learn a lesson in
respect.” He fingered the empty cup. “I arranged it
as an inheritance,” he paused, “Document. So your
people can’t claim you earned it. Even Dutch can’t
prove a connection.”
“Why?”
“It’s important to me. You’re important.”
She buried her face in his shoulder and wept.
————
The nine of clubs sat face up; the king covered.
Stan made a pass gesture with his hand. He felt
a warm breath, lips nuzzled his ear, and scented
an unfamiliar perfume fragrance. He looked about,
momentarily failing to recognize the blond standing
behind him. She wore a red, skintight mini-dress cut
down to her navel.
“It’s me,” Ann smiled seductively.
“Right,” he nodded. “Oh, I like you to meet
Laura.” Her eyes narrowed; Ann ignored her. Stan
handed Laura his chips and additional money. “Play
for a while,” he said with a kiss. “Won’t be long,” he
shrugged, rising from the blackjack table.
————
Ann clung to his arm and affected a wiggle.
Laura’s eyes followed them to a small, noisy cocktail lounge barely off the casino floor. Patrons two
119
to three deep at the bar, stools blocking the aisle. A
well-tipped waitress arranged for a booth. Ann snuggled up to him and played with his hair. “I thought
you would be alone.” She slowly ran her tongue over
her lower lip. He was conscious of her breasts pressing against him.
“Only human, one of my faults.” He ordered
a rum and coke and a martini for Ann. “Tell me
about your adventure,” he said, then regretted having
asked.
In minute detail, she exuberantly described the
police tail, her shopping spree, disguised appearance, and eluding the investigator. Ann said that
she was staying with a friend and driving his car.
Stan listened, glancing repeatedly at his watch. “I’m
impressed,” he yawned. “Be sure and call me at my
hotel, eight-thirty sharp. By then, we should have
formulated a game plan.”
“I remember that girl.” She nibbled on the edge
of a fingernail. “Why are you wasting your time on
that mousy hooker?” She raised her glass and darted
her tongue over the rim. “We can spend the night
together and I won’t have to call you.”
“Very efficient.”
“Pop won’t care.”
“The mouse will.” He pointed to the emerald.
“Can’t blame a girl for trying.”
“Don’t worry. You will be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am positive,” he grinned, a reassuring, professional smile.
————
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At the blackjack table, Laura’s seat was occupied by another. The dealer acknowledged him with
a nod, then a misplaced smirk. Stan went back to the
lounge and found an empty bar stool. The crush of
customers had noticeably thinned. Above the bar, a
television blared a music video. He ordered a drink,
felt increasingly moody. It had been so much simpler paying Laura. As for Ann, he dismissed her as a
lawyer’s nightmare recalling the classic admonition
never to become involved with your client’s woman,
or for that matter, a female client. Sue Ann was living
proof of that lesson.
“May I join you?” He recognized her voice.
“Sure.” He stared into his liquor glass.
“I thought you were going home with that bitch.
You can do it. It’s none of my business.”
“Thanks.” He didn’t look at her.
“Let’s get out of here.” She childishly tugged
at his jacket sleeve. “You will have to cash in your
winnings,” she said, handing him a leather handbag
bulging with chips. “It’s against the house rules for
me to do it.”
He peered over the rim of his eyeglasses. She
had changed from a dress to a textured, boxy, oversized sweat-shirt, slim jeans and high heels.
“Do you want me to change? Take them off?”
She was saying, her voice uneasy, but he was thinking of the chips and the card dealer’s strange expression.
“Yeah, sure,” he muttered. She smiled and
embraced him.
————
121
By the time, they had driven through the tollbooth, Laura had wriggled out of her jeans. “I love it
when you’re demanding.” Stan looked on, shrugged.
At the crest of the bridge, she had pulled the sweatshirt up and over her head.
Bay Street lamp lights danced on her suntanned
body curled in the bucket seat. “You’ve got me
so excited,” she cooed, caressing his fingers. She
pressed his palm to her breast. “I love you.” She
moved his hand inside her lace, string bikini bottom.
“I never dreamed you were so proficient a gambler.”
She winked, tilting the leather seat back.
“Forty-eight hundred,” he said as she slipped
out of her panties. “You’re some card shark.”
“I couldn’t lose your money.” She eased his
hand between her legs, moaning and rhythmically
moving to the strokes of his fingers. “I guess I owe
him a favor.”
Stan grimaced at her words. A sideways glance
caught her eyelids flutter, erect nipples, her body
stiffen and slight shudders. He turned his eyes to the
road, blinked at glaring, oncoming headlights.
“Honey, I’m going to get your seat wet.” She bit
her lip; her breath labored.
“Don’t worry. It’s only a rental.” He could
feel her body convulsed in one continual orgasm.
She called his name, thrashed her head, and sunk
exhausted deep in the cushion.
“I did it for you.”
He turned his face away, embarrassed.
————
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T. Clement Mayfield rose ponderously to his
feet. “I have made splendid progress,” he said, gesturing with a chubby, ring-adorned hand. “You will
appreciate my brilliance.”
Stan grinned, and set down his attaché case.
According to Clement, Inspector Edgecomb had
confirmed that their client was wanted on an old
fugitive warrant for importation of marijuana, and a
recent conspiracy indictment emanating from South
Florida. Edgecomb further confided that with his
cooperation, the DEA intended to snatch Durfee,
deliver him to the airport, declared persona non
grata, and put on a Miami-bound airplane. “When he
arrived in the U.S., arrested,” Clement added with an
explosive gesture.
“They’ve done it before, Guatemala, Mexico.”
“My timing was perfect. The Inspector saw the
error of his ways, washed his hands of those rascals,”
he said as he beckoned to a secretary. She stood in
the open doorway, hands on broad hips. “Coffee or
tea?” He asked Stan.
“Coffee, black.”
“Tea, my dear, for now.” Clement ogled her
well-rounded, expansive bottom accentuated by a
tight skirt and high heels. “A randy bird,” he remarked
after she had gone. “Do you ever have it on with your
secretary?”
“No.”
“That’s a pity. As I was saying,” Clement continued, “I have spoken to the Attorney General,
a decent chap, a college chum, best man at his
wedding. My son dates his daughter.” He coughed,
123
cleared his throat. “He intends to lodge a formal protest, demand an investigation, expulsion of the DEA
agents involved, political repercussions, all that rot.
A top-draw show,” he chuckled, rubbing his palms
together. “Durfee will be free from arrest, and if any
change, I will be informed, of course.” He paused,
while his secretary served tea and coffee, whispered
in her ear, then pinch her derriere. She giggled,
smoothed her skirt and backed out of the office. “A
tasty morsel,” Clement said, settling in his chair.
“Which reminds me, one hundred thousand for now
seems more than reasonable.” He folded his arms
across his corpulent middle. “Any further fees will be
dependent on your country’s action.”
Stan sipped his coffee. “A little steep,” he said
as he placed the cup and saucer on the desk.
“This is a matter of extreme delicacy.” Clement
pursed his lips; his double-chins receding into a
flabby neck. “A mere pittance.” He brushed off his
sleeve for emphasis. “Ninety-five, no less.” His brow
wrinkled, studying Stan’s dour expression. “I will
represent your girlfriend as a favor.”
“Forty, today. The balance after I see Pop’s actually protected.”
“Have you no trust in your faithful servant, who
is willing to treat your strumpet like a daughter.”
“You’re a gracious man.”
“You, a cruel skeptic.”
“Not really,” Stan shrugged. “I simply want to
be certain we’re not pissing in the wind.”
————
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SHELDON YAVITZ
Closed windows, drawn curtains combined with
stifling heat and a strong pungent odor nurtured Pop’s
paranoia. He greeted Stan with darting eyes and a
sweaty palm. His forehead beaded in perspiration;
his sport shirt soaked at the armpits.
Ann, now wearing a long, black wig, a skimpy
striped T-shirt and blue shorts, sat on the couch painting her toe-nails. A low wattage bulb provided scant
illumination. A vintage, oscillating fan, planted in
front of her, barely stirred the air. She threw Stan a
coquettish glance, and invitingly patted a seat cushion. He smiled, but chose a shabby, overstuffed armchair occupied by a fat, yellow cat. He settled in,
the cat on his lap, then briefly related what he had
learned about the investigation.
As he spoke Pop paced back and forth with the
ferocity of a caged animal. The cat stretched and
kneaded.
“Extradition is based on a treaty,” Stan explained,
attempting to keep the legal aspects simple and basic.
“It requires a formal demand from the United States,
your arrest and a Bahamian court proceeding. The
problem the U.S. has is that the Bahamas, like most
countries with a British heritage, refuse to recognize
conspiracy crimes as extraditable offenses.” Pop’s
expression changed from anguish to relief. “Which
means the Bahamian court should bar your extradition to the States, at least on the new case.” He
plopped on the sofa, flung his arm around Ann. She
smudged her white nail polish and made a face.
“That was the good news. However,” Stan
paused, “the old marijuana charge, which we call a
125
substantive crime, is extraditable, and kidnapping,
unless we nip it in the bud, a real threat.”
Pop emitted a cold groan in self-pity, hunched
over, elbows on his knees. “I thought you could help
me.”
“We’re on top of the kidnapping,” Stan said,
playing with the cat. It gently nipped at his fingers,
pawed with sheathed claws. “We have connections to
block extradition.”
“Did you hear that?” Pop grabbed Ann’s forearm. She dropped the nail polish bottle. The white
fluid spotted a nap worn scatter rug. “Fuck it! They’ll
never notice.”
“Nail polish, they’ll notice. Cat piss, your
friends won’t.” She dropped to her knees, attempting to wipe up the spill with a Kleenex tissue. “I
can understand the arrest part.” She looked at Stan
quizzically. “But if Pop’s kidnapped, who pays the
ransom?”
“Dumb cooze!”
“I’m no lawyer. Don’t pick on me.” She got to
her feet, scurried over and sat on the arm of Stan’s
chair. The cat hissed, jumped from his lap and disappeared in a darkened corner.
“Ann’s got a point,” Stan said, supportive of her
naivete. “Typically, the motivation is money.” She
childishly stuck out her tongue. Pop sneered. “In this
case, it’s a Machiavellian end justifying the means.”
Ann looked puzzled. “I won’t pay,” she pouted.
“He’s too mean.”
“Me, mean!” Pop shook an angry finger. “You’ll
sing a different tune when you’re busted.”
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“Arrested! Me! Why?” Her chin quivered.
“If I go down, they’ll take you with me.
Right?”
Stan didn’t answer, fiddled with his new emerald, moving the ring on and off his finger, awaiting
the end to their bickering.
“What have I done?” She chewed on the knuckles of her right hand.
“You’re an ungrateful bitch, an accomplice,”
Pop yelled as tears flooded her eyes. “Who, the fuck,
knows!” He flung a garish, porcelain vase smashing
against a wall. The yellow cat scampered across the
living room. The black landlady timorously entered,
a dish towel in her hands, a horrified look on her
face. “I’m sorry. I’ll pay for it.” The woman shook
her head, and hastily retreated.
“Nothing is going to happen to Ann.” Stan
patted her hand. “I’ve already checked. Definitely
not involved.”
“They followed her!”
“Would have happened to anyone who went
on the sailboat,” he said with a dismissive gesture.
“For the immediate future, all Ann has to be is discreet.” Her mouth puckered in a kiss. Stan pressed a
finger to her lips. “Wear a wig, don’t drive the rental,
stay off the boat, and don’t run around with Pop in
public.”
“I won’t be caught dead with that shit brain.”
“How’s about a cold drink?” Stan asked, looking at Ann. “Ice water, coke, anything.”
She nuzzled his cheek, then made her way to
the kitchen. Her walk, an exaggerated wiggle; her
127
short shorts delineated her buttocks like a painted-on
second skin. Stan waited until she was beyond earshot. “Protection is not free. Bahamians respond only
to money.”
“Thieving bastards!”
“If you’d rather rot in this cesspool until you’re
dragged off screaming, it’s all right with me.” He got
up from the chair. “My conscience is clear.”
“No, I’ll pay it!” He crushed a cigarette out on a
table top. “This shit’s driving me crazy.”
“I never would have guessed.”
“It’s true,” he smiled faintly. “I just look calm,
that old professional pilot cool.” He stroked his
bearded chin, moved forward with a hand shielding
his mouth. “I haven’t gotten laid since I’ve gone into
hiding. Lost all interest, dead as a doornail.” He shot
a glance toward the kitchen. “Can’t blame Ann for
being hysterical. She’s scared to death.” He placed an
arm about Stan’s shoulders. “I’m doing this for her.”
“One hundred and fifty thousand well-spent,”
Stan said.
“Oh, God!” Pop made a beeline to the window,
jerking back a curtain. “I thought I heard a car,” he
muttered, peeking out, motioning for quiet. “Only
the neighbor,” he slapped his forehead. “I can’t stand
this!” He walked back to the sofa and collapsed. “I’m
a nervous wreck.” He buried his face in his hands.
“Fuck the expense!”
“Actually, it’s one-seventy, considering the ring.”
As Stan would later remark, the more he dealt with
Pop, the more his whining annoyed him, and the
higher the fee quoted.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“Just save me. You can have Ann as a bonus.”
“You’re too generous.”
“I’m serious.”
“I’ll settle for the money.”
Ann sauntered back into the room, brushing a
cold glass against her warm forehead and neck.
Stan checked his watch. “We’re running late.
Let’s get this show on the road.”
————
Pop would write a coded letter to his banker.
Ann served as the messenger. It would take nearly
two hours before she returned with bank-wrapped
U.S. currency. From Durfee’s home, Stan drove to
a downtown bank, obtained a cashier’s check, and
deposited the balance less Clement’s retainer in a
safe deposit box, then kept his appointment at the
lawyer’s office.
“Yes, old chum, we have plucked our poor client
from the brink of doom.” Clement wet his thumb and
continued counting the cash payment, making neat,
crisscrossed stacks of bills.
“I have the balance on hand.”
“You know how to satisfy my genius.”
“We will see.”
“You are a pessimist.”
“I know our enemy.”
“This is the Bahamas.”
“Fortunately.”
“You have my assurance.”
“I can live with that,” Stan said, rising from his
chair. They cordially shook hands.
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————
Laura had packed his luggage, an unexpected
time-saver. Instinctively, he searched through the garment bag, and found, as he suspected, a love note
stuffed in a jacket pocket. His grin faded, envisioning the embarrassment had it fallen into Sue Ann’s
hands. Well-intentioned, but stupid. He tore the note
into pieces. She’s acting like a girlfriend rather than
a call girl. He quickly removed the emerald from
his finger and thoroughly examined the ring. Fortunately, not engraved, he sighed, relieved. He thought
of calling Laura and staying over another evening,
but decided against. She had packed his luggage, he
shrugged, hanging up the receiver.
————
At the airport, Stan pre-cleared U.S. Customs.
A 35,000 dollar cashier’s check folded and tucked in
his wallet, four thousand dollars in cash in his pant
pocket, the diamond and emerald rings on his fingers, and a seasoned business traveler’s demeanor.
Customs inspectors search for undeclared liquor,
drugs, cigarettes, currency over 10,000 dollars, and
in a free port, such as the Bahamas, jewelry which
warrant a custom duty. Stan did not declare the rings.
He considered them gifts: one from Laura, the other
for Sue Ann. Anyway, who would question the jewelry worn by an attorney, whose briefcase cost the
equivalent of the average man’s monthly paycheck,
and as Stan would say, the more obvious the article,
the less it is noticed. He was correct.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Bahamasair 737 jet required less than fifty
minutes to reach the gate at Concourse H, Miami
International Airport. Hardly enough time for a
Bacardi and coke. After a stop at a toy store in the
main terminal, Stan exited the building on the arrival
level, and made his way to the sixth floor of a multilevel car park, and a 1977, mint-condition, silver
Cadillac Seville.
The car had been a birthday present from Sue
Ann. “The newest, grandest Cadillac in the whole
world,” she had said smothering him with kisses.
“I hunted everywhere, sugar, until I found the most
expensive.” To Stan, the fact she had grossly overpaid seemed inconsequential, but that was years ago,
and times had changed. The automobile now one of
many in his growing car collection, and a gift from
Sue Ann no longer given with such exuberance.
————
The car moved slowly down the red brick driveway. The sprawling house partially obscured by the
darkness and the shadowy visage of trees and shrubbery. Stan lowered the window to the familiar sound
of honking geese. Guard geese, he called them. Bark-
131
ing, frolicking dogs surrounded the Cadillac. His
speed reduced to a crawl. The massive Great Dane’s
brindle coat glistened in the throw of the headlights.
Stan pulled into one of two vacant car stalls; Sue
Ann’s Jeep Grand Wagoneer absent from the other.
He depressed a button popping the trunk lid, and
slid from behind the wheel. An old English bulldog
lapped at his hand. Stan stroked the head of the Rottweiler, clapped the flanks of one of the Dobermans.
With luggage in hand, he approached the house by
the rear entrance. The dogs at his heels and a gaggle
of geese observing from a distance. A tabby cat, licking a paw, sat on a stone ledge; a straight-haired
domestic peered down from the rooftop. At the door,
Maria, the housekeeper, plumpish, in her mid-forties, dark hair knotted in a bun, greeted him with a
fixed smile. Matthew, his youngest son, hugged his
leg. Bryan, slightly older, recognized a plastic shopping bag, and soon sat on the floor with his brother
unwrapping their presents, remote control miniature
autos, identical except for color.
A shower, a change of clothes, and Stan was in
the playroom watching his boys race toy cars that
whirred around furniture and zoomed across the tiles.
Matthew, with a salon coiffured haircut compliments
of his mother, had Sue Ann’s oval face and delicate
features. Six years old and lanky, growing like a proverbial weed, dressed in play shorts and a T-shirt.
The quick-witted one, the born lawyer, Stan would
say. Bryan, the eldest, resembled his father, even to
his western garb: pearl button shirt, jeans and boots.
He was stout for his age, tough as nails, and more the
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SHELDON YAVITZ
plodder, quiet and easygoing.
“Gross, Dad,” Matthew scowled. Stan had joined
them, overturning one of the vehicles in a mini-car
chase.
“Can’t you drive?”
Stan banged the little car against a wall.
“Outta the game,” the youngster gestured with a
thumb.
“Gimme a break!”
“No, Pop. My word’s final.”
————
Stan withdrew to the kitchen. Maria, hunched
over an island work area with a pie plate and coffee,
asked if he was hungry, her smile in place.
He shook his head, and inquired about his wife
and step-daughter. Sue Ann had been gone since
mid-afternoon; Kimberly staying overnight with a
friend, she informed him. He shrugged and wandered
off to the solarium, a glass enclosed tropical garden
with an indoor tree and marble fountain. He walked
the cobblestone path amid exotic foliage, stopped to
check seed and water trays on the bird stand of a
brilliant colored toucan. He hand-fed a redheaded
Amazon parrot perched on a tree limb, then chatted
with Sherlock and Watson, as if conversing with a
person. Sherlock, a large white Moluccan cockatoo,
alighted on his arm and aggressively moved up to his
shoulder. Watson, the macaw, responded with flapping wings and squawks.
————
133
By the late summer of 1985, the Pollards had
lived in their home for almost eight years. The residence occupied three acres, literally in the heart of
South Miami. A secluded tropical forest surrounded
by high stone walls, fencing and six foot hedges,
shaded by countless trees, so dense, even the strong
Florida sun was eclipsed.
Since the initial purchase, the main house had
been extensively remodeled; the law office constructed and a swimming pool added; the garage
extended and a separate structure built to shelter
Stan’s burgeoning car hobby. Dogs and cats, ducks,
geese and wild turkeys freely roamed the estate.
The house, itself, had a checkered past. First
owned by an author, who committed suicide, and left
vacant during years of litigation. Next, purchased at
a distress sale by Stan’s client, an advertising executive turned drug dealer. He used it as a marijuana
stash house until a nosy neighbor reported what
he described as “suspicious goings-on: flash-lights
and cars at the otherwise empty house.” A patrol officer investigated the call. He walked up the drive,
gave two parked cars a once-over, and unannounced
entered the home through the back door. In a dimly
lit bedroom, he surprised three men weighing packages on a commercial scale, and radioed for backup.
The occupants were arrested and an estimated three
hundred pounds of marijuana seized.
At a motion to suppress hearing, Stan would
argue that the search was incident to an unlawful
arrest, no probable cause and the absence of a search
warrant. The court granted the motion and the case
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SHELDON YAVITZ
was dismissed, but to the drug dealer, the house
became useless. It sat idle, the yard an overgrown
jungle, the buildings in disrepair, an un-salable eyesore. On the verge of foreclosure, Stan purchased the
residence for the price of the existing mortgage.
Stan perceived his home as oasis, an island
refuge in the city. Sue Ann called it Stanton’s fiefdom. “He’s everywhere,” she moaned to a girlfriend.
“His shit’s everywhere: animals, damn birds, cars,
fuckin’ office.”
Behind his back, she referred to him as a reincarnated feudal tyrant, who could only be overthrown
by a revolution. She was not joking.
————
With dinner under his belt, Sherlock on his
shoulder, and carrying a briefcase, Stan walked out
to his office; the dogs sniffing and wagging, forming a procession. Upon entering the reception area,
he turned on lights and the central air-conditioner,
continued past the secretarial station and library to
the double doors of his sanctuary. To the left of the
entrance, a large picture window furnishing a view
of the main house and screened pool deck. On the
right, narrow book laden shelves, a firearms display,
and a 100 gallon aquarium containing an enormous
catfish.
His antique rolltop desk had its usual clutter.
The center cleared for new bills, legal mail and
court pleadings accumulated during his absence. He
browsed through the papers but soon lost interest;
then unlocked a small desk drawer and extracted a
135
remote control gadget. He pointed the device toward
a monstrous, stuffed crocodile that seemed more
alive than part of the decor. With a press of a button,
the huge crocodilian head rose revealing a cylindrical safe within the giant carcass. Stan knelt, dialed
the combination, heard tumblers click, and the vault
door sprang open. From the body of the beast, he
removed a pair of gloves, a ribbon cassette and typewriter printwheel.
With the dogs about him, he moved to the secretarial area, sat down before an IBM typewriter, raised
the cover and replaced both the existing printwheel
and ribbon. He pulled on the extra thin latex gloves
and reached for a sheet of paper. “CIA business,” he
said, talking to the bird.
Sherlock squawked an unintelligible guttural
jargon. The dogs jockeyed for position: the Great
Dane by his chair, the twin Dobermans together in
a corner, and the Rottweiler behind a counter halfdoor. The bulldog crept under the desk, and a Persian
cat jumped up beside the typewriter, spread its front
paws, and made itself comfortable.
Stan pecked with two fingers and an all too frequent tap on the erase key. He wrote about unrest
in Haiti, forecast a coup within a year, probably a
military insurrection, but conceded that he lacked
details. He reported that in the Bahamas, the DEA
was resorting to extrajudicial kidnap tactics, and predicted a high-level complaint lodged by that government. The memo included political gossip from the
Turks and Caicos Islands and advised of his contemplated trip to Cuba. The document closed with the
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SHELDON YAVITZ
unsigned cryptogram, SHADES.
A second typewritten letter also from SHADES
complained about the unsatisfactory service received
at a car wash.
Both correspondence were photocopied; the
originals sealed in envelopes: one unmarked, the
other directed to Mr. Rich, Manager.
————
On the following Tuesday, after a court hearing,
Stan drove his black Lincoln to Tropical Auto Wash,
located a mile off the I-95 Expressway on Commercial Boulevard in North Fort Lauderdale. While the
Town Car was being washed, he dropped the letter to
the manager in a complaint box. The envelope held
by the sharp edges to avoid any discernible fingerprints. The next day, he received a phone call apologizing for the service and an offer of a free wash and
wax. The caller requested an exact date and time.
“Friday, 3:30,” Stan replied, and as agreed kept
the appointment. A newspaper tucked under his arm.
As he watched his car pass through the automated
spray wax, a tall, thin man, wearing an off-the-rack
gray suit, stepped up beside him.
“Satisfied, Shades?”
“No,” he said above the roar of the drier as
beads of water raced along the Lincoln’s highly polished finish. “I prefer it done by hand, detailed.”
“I like mine dirty. By the way, have you finished
with your paper?”
“Sure. Interesting article in the local section,”
Stan said, giving him the Sun Sentinel with the CIA
137
memo concealed in the folds of the daily journal.
“We’ll be in touch.” The control agent turned
and walked off.
————
Nearing twelve thirty, Stan came back to the
main house; the dogs scattering to begin their nightly
vigil. He returned Sherlock to his perch, and in pajamas, silk robe and slippers, retired to the den and late
night television. He flicked the channels, bored, then
dozed in a rocker until awakened by the sound of
barking, followed by the rear door closing.
Sue Ann clad in a formfitting, low-cut dress
peered in and glared at him. “Had your fill of whores
and scum?” She tossed her head indignantly, and was
gone. He heard her hurried footsteps on the staircase,
a bedroom door slam and Matthew crying.
He hesitated a moment, then turned off the television, climbed the stairs and entered his son’s room.
“Matt, it’s only dad. Okay, if I stay here?”
“Are you afraid?” The youngster rubbed his
teary eyes.
“Not when I’m with you, big guy.”
————
With his son asleep, Stan quietly opened the
door to the master bedroom. Soft, indirect lighting
played on shimmering black lacquer, Art Deco-style
furniture. He caught a glimpse of Sue Ann’s reflection in the wall-to-wall, sliding mirrored closet glass.
“Sue Ann’s domain. I only sleep here,” he would
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often remark with a shrug and a grimace.
She sat propped against oversized satin pillows
wearing a sheer negligee. One of the spaghetti straps
had slipped from her shoulder baring a breast. Granny
glasses perched on the tip of her nose, a 10-power
jeweler’s loupe in her right hand, the diamond in the
other. Earlier, Stan had placed the ring on the night
stand.
“It’s gorgeous, Stanton. VGS-1, slightly imperfect, round, four carats. Wish it was larger,” she
winked. “About 12 pennyweights of gold. I’ll have it
melted.”
“Make a wonderful pendent.”
“Hum, you might be right, sugar.”
“I guess you’ll need a wide gold chain to go
with it.” He removed his bathrobe and slippers and
laid down beside her. “I love you,” he said, stroking
her luxuriant blond hair. He kissed the small of her
neck. His obsession seemed younger and more beautiful than ever.
“Not now.” She pulled away. “Can’t you see
I’m busy.” He nibbled at her ear. “It’s late. I’m tired,
Stanton.” He gently kissed her soft cheek, her pale
complexion creamy and flawless. “You monster! All
you do is have fun while I’m home slaving!” The
scent of her perfume seductive.
“Hush.” He brushed his mouth against her lips.
Sue Ann stiffened. “Whoremonger!” He smelled
wine on her breath. She turned her face from him.
“Damn it! Not even a thank you!”
“You’re ruled by your prick!” She shoved at
him, dropping the ring.
139
Stan reached over and picked up the diamond.
“Looks good,” he smiled, slipping it on his finger. “I
think I’ll wear it.”
“You don’t like jewelry, silly.”
“Maybe I do.” He showed her the emerald. “No
more gifts.” He swung his legs off the bed. “I’ll sleep
in the guest room.”
“Indian giver!” He fumbled with his robe and
house shoes. “Asshole!” He strode from the room,
closing the door silently behind him.
“Cheap sonofabitch!” Sue Ann sat upright, head
cocked, waiting, listening. “Stanton.” A brooding
expression crossed her face. She fidgeted with her
gown and repeatedly clicked her long, lacquered fingernails. “It’s my ring!”
————
The door to the guest room squeaked as it
opened. Sue Ann’s curvaceous figure silhouetted in
the hall light. She seductively ran her hands over
her breasts and the curves of her body. The negligee
straps swept from her shoulders. The delicate, tailored gown drifted to the carpet. She stepped out
and over the crumpled fabric and drew near the bed.
“Stanton, are you awake?”
Still in his bathrobe, he laid sprawled on top of
the quilt cover. “Stanton,” she whispered in her slow
Southern drawl, but again no answer. On hands and
knees, she straddled his body. Her pale, silvery blond
hair gently grazed his chest. “All right, you bastard.
Go ahead, fuck me.”
“I’ve lost interest.” His eyelids tightened.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
She slid her hand within the folds of his silken
robe. “Liar!” She fingered his erection.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Give me my ring back!”
He shrugged in response. “So sorry.” His hands
roamed the cheeks of her upturned bare buttocks.
“Good night.”
‘’I’ll fuck for it. Anyway you want, sugar.” She
forced a smile. “Just give me my diamond.”
“Tell me what I get for such a costly proposition.”
She cooed in his ear sexually explicit suggestions laced with obscenities.
“A diamond for a one-night stand, a quickie. I
pass.”
“I’m worth it!” She pouted.
“You’re not worth twenty thousand dollars.” His
voice flat and callous. “For love, yes, but not if it’s
business.”
“Stanton, don’t punish me.”
“I want two weekends alone with you.” His
hand eased between her legs, moist and open. “At a
hotel, on vacation, or the bedroom. I simply want to
be with you.”
“Throw in the emerald.”
“No. I decided to wear it.”
“You’re a rotten shit!” Her eyes smoldered.
“Fine.”
“I hate you!”
“We have nothing more to talk about.” He took
a deep breath, fighting the urge to strike back.
Her long, thick eyelashes fluttered. “I love
141
you, sugar.” She sucked on his fingers. “But you’re
so annoying.” She fondled the diamond; his hand
clenched. “You got a deal,” she sighed, rolling her
eyes. “I’ll be your best whore.” She tugged at a
pajama bottom string.
“You’re my only whore,” he said.
CHAPTER SIX
It struck Stan that in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, he
could not recall seeing a dog or a cat, and the only
rooster was pencil-thin, feathers included. He had
returned on business. Laura had joined him that midOctober, 1985.
In the past, he had stayed in the central district
within walking distance of the Palace, the prison and
courthouse, but found the convenient location intolerable. He could not leave the hotel without being
accosted by beggars, tour guides and street peddlers.
Show a little compassion and you become a PiedPiper, never left alone. Later, his hotel accommodations were along the coast highway. That too became
unacceptable. Repeated car trips through the city
were more than depressing.
This time, he would relocate in Petionville up in
the hills overlooking the capital. A town of 40,000,
with fine hotels and restaurants, art galleries and souvenir shops, and grand villas in sharp contrast to the
slum quarters and abject poverty so preponderant in
Port-au-Prince. In Petionville, amongst Haiti’s elite,
Stan could become “Haitianized” and ignore reality.
He chose the St-Tropez, a fashionable, secluded
resort of Mediterranean architectural design. A coral
143
fireplace dominated the lobby; Italian marble graced
the stepped entrance. A BMW sat in the drive; other
European luxury cars dotted the parking area.
“Poverty and garbage flow downhill,” Stan
said.
“No complaints,” Laura smiled as a uniformed
attendant opened the passenger door.
————
He had invited Sue Ann. “When you have
another diamond, give me a call,” she said, rubbing
against him, her tongue in his ear.
“I’m working on it,” he smiled, a weak grin,
then phoned Laura, perplexed by the role reversal
between his wife and call girl. He frowned, recollecting his paid for affair with Sue Ann, and their
first extended weekend spent in Key West. Technically, she complied with the bargain, he would admit,
but overall, it proved an ordeal. She complained
about the hotel and the service, restaurants, food,
the weather ad infinitum. Upon returning home, she
claimed to have developed a kink in her neck and
insisted on the diamond for her pain and suffering.
“Your damn sports car made me a cripple.” She
backed up her affliction with visits to a chiropractor,
a masseur, and evenings in bed encased in pillows.
“Sue the auto manufacturer. A deal is a deal.”
For the second weekend, Sue Ann selected the
bedroom. “Pussy for sale,” she said with a saucy
smirk, garbed in a bustier, spandex leggings and
spike heels. “See if you can find me a good, fat
stiff prick.” She stood before a mirror modeling her
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SHELDON YAVITZ
outfit.
Kimberly, their daughter, a Sue Ann look-alike
with natural blond hair, calls him a “sick man.”
“Mother’s told me everything,” she stared
through him; her eyes narrowed to slits, a deep scowl
on her face. Tom, the eldest son, took him aside suggesting that he see a psychiatrist. Sue Ann’s girlfriends paraded in and out of the room of prostitution.
“I won’t let him kiss me. Prostitutes don’t kiss,” she
said. “I wouldn’t give that shit the satisfaction.” Stan
escaped to his office to avoid their gawks and giggles.
He ignored her all weekend and slept in the
guest room. Again, she demanded the diamond. “I
don’t have any interest in a street walker,” he said.
“Deal’s off. I’m giving the ring to Kimberly for her
birthday.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” She gaped in disbelief.
“Try me. I won’t be made a fool of.”
“Give me another chance, sugar. I’ll be good.”
He paused, thinking, then proposed a week in
Asheville, North Carolina, a rented chalet, alone, and
home cooking to avoid complaints regarding food,
hotel and service. An air flight and a full-size American car rental to eliminate back strain. “The weather
will be cooler, but the house heated. Forget the nightgowns and bustiers,” he added. “You won’t be wearing anything.”
“You’re going to be a real shit.”
“Consider me a stranger and you a high-priced
call girl.”
“You’re going to treat me like a tramp?” He
145
nodded. “Work my butt off?” The nod repeated.
“Make me do terrible things?” He smiled, and she
accepted the offer.
Stan would later say that it was the best time
that they had spent together in years. He couldn’t
remember Sue Ann so wild and passionate, but once
back in Miami, at the airport, he noticed a difference.
“A subtle, perceptible change, a call girl’s aloofness,
disengagement,” he described it, “as she exchanged
her whore role for my wife. Strange,” he shook his
head. Sue Ann had no comment, but the ring became
a diamond necklace, a favorite, that she wore religiously to bed.
————
Their dining room table overlooked the hotel
terrace with its illuminated pool, crossover footbridge and waterfall grotto. Laura offered a toast to
“our vacation.” White-suited waiters, like feudal vassals, fawned over them responding to the slightest
beckoning gesture.
On a Haitian weekday evening, even the best
restaurant had a paucity of customers. Yet, one caught
Stan’s attention.
“Someone you know?” Laura inquired.
“That’s Carlos Bianco and his toadies,” Stan
replied, identifying a short, stylishly dressed, muscular man. “The one to his right, looks like a weasel,
Camaron Ortega, his accountant.” As they watched,
another individual, nondescript, in a plaid jacket,
approached Bianco and his entourage. He spoke with
exaggerated gestures. Wine bottles were moved and
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SHELDON YAVITZ
a portion of the table cleared. A burly henchman got
up and assumed a vigilant position. A briefcase was
placed before Bianco, who opened the lid. Ortega
looked on; his eyes darted.
“Holding court?” Laura observed.
“Business, bold as brass.” Stan thought he
detected Bianco counting packets of cash.
“He has the swagger of a drug dealer.”
“He claims to be an aircraft broker, a self-made
millionaire, won a couple of powerboat championships. It’s best we leave it at that.”
“I’ll remember.” Stan knew that she would.
“I’d be interested in meeting him.” He absentmindedly tapped a knife against a water glass. “But I
don’t want him to know who I am.”
Laura glanced in Bianco’s direction. “A lecher,
likes young girls.”
Stan made a face. The pool water shown iridescent blue in the glow of flickering oil lanterns.
“That’s normal for a Colombian.” The lush landscape
darkened to a blur. “Also, a few of us Americans.”
Far in the distance, the lights of Port-au-Prince.
“Your friend thinks he’s a ladies’ man.” She
playfully squeezed his hand. “Probably gets off in
five minutes.”
“I value your judgment.” He pecked her cheek,
watching out of the corner of an eye, Ortega with the
briefcase and escorted by a bodyguard exit the restaurant. “You’re the expert.”
“Thanks, I think.” She swirled her wine glass
for a second. “He’s been noticing me,” she grinned
provocatively. “Give me an hour, you will have an
147
introduction.”
“He thumped his fingers on the tablecloth. “Are
you sure you want to do this?”
“Don’t worry. I’m good.”
“Too good.”
She laughed.
————
Stan left Laura perched on a rattan stool before
a magnificently carved mahogany bar. A platform
pump dangled from her red lacquered toenails. Her
neckline plunged, back bare, a slit in her black dress,
showing off a shapely suntanned thigh and leg. His
Lorelei, bait, for Bianco’s libido.
Upon his reentering the lounge, Laura’s bar
stool stood empty. Stan’s heart momentarily pounded.
He chided himself for this surprising outburst of anxiety. His boot heels clicked, resonating on the mosaic
tile floor. Now crowded with local residents, the once
warm, intimate atmosphere felt alien and impersonal.
Stan squinted, adjusting to the dim light, uttered a
sigh sighting Laura and Bianco. He approached their
candlelit table and pulled up a chair.
Bianco’s arm enfolded Laura in a possessory
grasp. His dark, hostile eyes buttressed a sardonic
smile.
She introduced Stan as her good friend. Her
tone lovingly emphatic.
Stan extended his hand. Bianco returned a firm
grip. An invitation to test who had the strongest
handclasp. How aggressive, Stan thought, this little
man, five foot two at best, so unmistakably Latin.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
His thick black hair combed back partless, thin lips,
and a broad nose. “I heartily applaud your taste in
women.” He spoke with a decided Spanish accent;
his eyes undressed her.
“Then we have something in common.” Stan
feigned a smile, caught Laura’s wink and relaxed.
————
Bianco sipped cognac; Stan drank rum and
coke. Laura sat between them appearing attentive.
She smiled, laughed when appropriate, said little and
heard less, as Bianco monopolized the conversation;
a self-declared authority on economics and foreign
affairs, Haiti and the Caribbean. He described his new
air cargo operation, lectured on the airplane market,
and fielded Stan’s questions with obvious expertise.
He trumpeted his victories in offshore powerboat
racing, but never the slightest innuendo to cocaine
smuggling. Drug Enforcement agents dubbed him
a Napoleonic caricature. Those who knew him portrayed Bianco as arrogant, quick-tempered, but a
shrewd businessman. His enemies, the police numbered among them, claimed he was ruthless and
deadly crediting him with at least five unsolved, drug
related murders. He personified a “Dutch” stereotype,
but far more flamboyant, debonair and worldly.
As an afterthought, he asked. “What has brought
you to Port-au-Prince, mi amigo?”
“Vacation and business.” Stan toyed with a lock
of Laura’s hair. She read his mood, moved close and
stroked his thigh.
“What is your business?”
149
“Simply business,” Stan replied dryly.
“Ah, I see. We do have a lot in common.”
————
The following day, Bianco flew from the Island,
but his curiosity had been whetted as Stan suspected, and as Edward Crawford later reported. His
associate had flown to New York City to visit his
parents. While shopping at an exclusive Manhattan
men’s shop, Bianco also a customer, walked up, and
introduced himself. He inquired whether Crawford
worked for Stan. When he replied in the affirmative,
Bianco told him to give Stan his best wishes.
“Didn’t Bianco win the U.S. Powerboat Championship and recently the Offshore Challenge?” He
asked; Stan nodded. “Since when are you involved
with sports figures?”
“When he’s a drug smuggler,” Stan grinned.
“As you know, a little public relations work doesn’t
hurt.”
Crawford threw a jaundice glance.
“Clients with his kind of money do not grow on
trees.”
————
After a brief shower in downtown Portau-Prince, the sun-baked sidewalk steamed. Stan
removed his jacket and flung it over his shoulder. His
shirt clung from perspiration. As he waded through
the throng of pedestrians and pushcart peddlers, he
wrinkled his nose smelling the curbside garbage and
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SHELDON YAVITZ
gutter raw sewage. At an intersection, he stopped,
and while mopping his forehead, noticed a man defecating less than twenty feet away. A Third World
toilet with a modern metropolis traffic congestion, he
said to himself. Luxury motorcars mixed with junk
heaps, bicycles, donkey carts and colorful jitneys,
converted mini-pickups, tap-taps they called them,
mass transit. A rattletrap bus, the roof rack stacked
with green bananas, splashed standing water. Stan
timely sidestepped.
The lack of street signs caused him some disorientation, not lost, but misdirected. Stan dropped 50
centimes, a U.S. dime, in a one-legged beggar’s hat,
looked up and saw at the next corner a familiar landmark, the Cathedrale de la Sainte-Trinite, one block
from his destination, On one of his previous visits, he
had toured the church finding it an interesting commentary on that country’s perspective. The mural
walls depicted biblical stories against a Haitian background with Christ and the Apostles pictured as
blacks and mulattoes, and only Judas a white man.
On the Rue des Miracles, Stan stood before a
pastel colored, stucco building. The facade faded,
cracked and peeling like most in the city. The ground
floor sported metal louvered windows; the interior
cooled by an oscillating fan. Above, a gurgling, dripping air conditioner announced Pierre Achilles law
office. In describing Port-au-Prince, Stan would say
that he could recall but one high-rise, and the most
appealing modernistic architecture housed a German
car dealership.
He put on his jacket and fiddled with his damp
151
shirt collar. He turned the latch to an ornamental,
wrought iron screen door and entered. The bare wood
steps creaked under the tread of his boots. Achilles’
office had an unpretentious air: basic and functional,
shoddy by American standards, but typical for the
island.
His meeting with Goldie Clampton’s local attorney lasted less than an hour. They discussed the
progress of the case, confirmed a trial date, and
the availability of money. Then, Stan asked about
Goldie.
“Monsieur Goldie is doing fine,” Achilles
returned a cherubic, ebony face grin. “Lives like a
king in prison.” He leaned back in his executive-style
chair, hands behind his balding head. “They cater to
his every whim, even his perversions.” He paused,
gesturing with a fat, feminine hand. “A vulgar lout of
a man.” Stan nodded, his professional nod. “One is
forced to deal with such trash in our business,” Achilles sighed, folding his arms, peered through rimless
spectacles.
“I hope this makes your job easier.” Stan withdrew a cashier’s check from his billfold. Achilles
lurched forward. He had a white-toothed grin. “Next
time, the balance in cash,” Stan said. “One other little
matter. Did Goldie sign the statement?”
“In both English and French, never even read
it.”
————
Stan retraced his steps to the rental car. The
vehicle guarded by scruffy children protecting it
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SHELDON YAVITZ
from their own mischief. He paid them no attention,
escaped behind a locked door and started the engine.
A thrown can glanced off the hood; a rock struck a
fender. At a red light, a small boy, stretching on tiptoes, washed his windshield. The more he wiped, the
dirtier it got. Stan gave him a quarter, the equivalent
of a Haitian dollar.
Haiti was an adventure. Not as outwardly violent as Colombia, or in his quasi-spy role as life
threatening as Cuba, but fraught with peril. In his
prior trip, he had just left the prison. The night dark
and clammy, a light shower. The avenue deserted. It
was pouring by the time he reached his rent-a-car.
Within the next five blocks, the weather had turned to
a torrential rainstorm. The streets flooding; the power
had gone out. The downtown pitch-black. The traffic lights, the few that there were, ceased to function.
Water was cascading down from the hills, swirling,
rising and forming mini-rapids at the intersections.
Rain flooded the windshield between sweeps of the
wipers. He could no longer detect the street lines and
curbs. Cars and buses stalled and abandoned.
He swerved, avoiding a truck and ran over an
obstruction. On impact, the right rear tire blew, but
the car continued on, swept by the current. Water
scaled the wheel wells, seeping in the doors and
entering through the rusty undercarriage. He would
later say: “I was steering a Japanese compact boat,
laughing like a fool.” He found it exhilarating, thrilled
by the sheer excitement and the fact he couldn’t
swim.
Along the coast road, the high water subsided.
153
He pulled the Diahatsu off the roadway; the gravel
crunching under its wheels. He left the motor running, hand brake set, door open and walked to the
rear. Buffeted by rain, hands in his pockets, Stan
looked at the tire, glanced about at the shacks, shanties and dark peering faces, and got back in the car
driving the remaining mile to the hotel, and dinner
with the Haitian lawyer.
————
In sight of the police barracks, not far from
Heroes Square, where once emperors were crowned,
he turned onto a familiar tree-lined avenue and
parked in the shade. Only thick, fortress-high walls
and a passing olive drab police Land Rover betrayed
the tranquil atmosphere. Three steep steps, topped
by a narrow door provided the sole visible entrance.
No children or beggars hung around the prison;
just downtrodden women carrying food pails to the
inmates.
He was directed to a corporal and requested an
interview with his client, Goldie Clampton. Captain
Grimard had made arrangements, and had left a message that he was busy, but would see him on his way
out. A Spartan interrogation room afforded privacy.
Stan sat on the edge of a hardwood table, and waited,
running a finger over what he perceived as a voodoo
symbol, a snake carved in the furniture surface.
————
Raising the defense funds for Goldie, as Stan
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SHELDON YAVITZ
would later comment, had all the earmarks of unraveling a jigsaw puzzle, hampered by a lack of cooperation.
Initially, he met with Goldie’s mother, Pansy,
who lived west of Fort Lauderdale, Florida in a once
rural locale, now a burgeoning suburbia that encircled her modest, wood frame home, batten board
fence and vegetable garden.
“Ya all, Luther’s lawyer,” she greeted Stan.
“C’mon up, sit a spell.” She had drooping jowls
and wrinkled flesh, a potbelly and sagging breasts,
draped in a floral print housedress. Her hair, a frizzy
bleached blond with an orange tinge.
They moved from the rickety front porch to the
living room. Pansy sunk into a wooden rocker; Stan
chose a wing chair. She ploddingly read a letter of
instructions from her son. “Can’t write a lick.” She
peered through bifocals. “Dumb as a rock. See the
damn fool car he bought me,” she muttered, referring
to a midnight blue Mercedes decked out with wire
wheels and dark tinted windows, parked in the front
yard covered with mango leaves and fruit stains.
As a cuckoo clock heralded the hour, Stan had
brought her up to date on Goldie’s predicament assuring her that his release was contingent on obtaining
the money, his money.
“Ain’t able to help ya.” She bent forward and
switched on the television.
“Where’s the papers to his house and business
records?” She shrugged, changed the channel. “He
said that he left them with you.”
She shook her head, slowly rocked, engrossed
155
in a 700 Club broadcast. “I’m a sick ol’ woman.” She
scratched a pendulous breast. “Boy’s got no sense.”
She reached over and selected a bottle from the medication on an end table.
“He’s your son.”
“A dimwit.” She snapped a container lid. “Nothing but trouble.” She gulped down a pill with lukewarm water, then, slowly rose and sluggishly waddled
from the room. Stan heard doors bang, the shuffling
of boxes, an object crashed, breaking, followed by
swear words. Finally, she returned, struggling with a
carton. “Found it in a closet.” She dropped the cardboard box on a shag rug. “His crap.” She resumed
rocking, watching the television program, and spoke
not another word.
————
It would take almost a week to research Goldie’s assets, including time at the courthouse spent
by Crawford reviewing real estate deeds and property tax records. He discovered that Goldie’s home
appeared to be owned by a stranger, P.T. McSweeney, an alias, a relative, possibly his mother.
The house, itself, posed problems: overbuilt
with drug smuggler’s flamboyance; the market value
impaired by a low middle-class neighborhood.
Stan requested his investigator to find out the
maiden name of Mrs. Clampton, run a background
check on McSweeney, and sought out a mortgage
broker. As Stan explained: “The house will take a
beating at a sale. Can’t arrange a bank loan with
a tainted ownership. A private lender, no questions
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SHELDON YAVITZ
asked, is the answer.
In the meantime, Stan drove out to Goldie’s
heavy equipment company located beyond the city
limits in an industrial park. A large sign read: GOLDIE’S HEAVY METAL. An employee with the name
“Jose” embossed on his mechanic overall directed
him to the manager. He located Morte Conte beneath
a hydraulic lift repairing a vehicle.
He watched and waited; Conte took his time.
“Goldie doesn’t know from shit,” he said, punctuating his discourse with an air impact wrench. “I’ve
had to revamp the frigging operation.” He had a brutish, brawny appearance, a receding hairline, bent
nose and scarred chin.
Once in the office trailer, Stan inquired as to
accounts receivable.
“Forget them.” He swiveled back and forth in a
chair. His eyes concealed by mirrored safety glasses
with wraparound brow and molded-in side shields.
“Goldie bled the accounts to pay for his case.” He
propped his muddy, steel toed shoes on the desk.
“What’s left, we spent. Big payroll, man. Couldn’t
fire any of the boys. Do you expect us to starve ’cause
Goldie’s in the slammer.” He grinned insidiously, got
up, walked over, and put his arm on Stan’s shoulder.
“We all know how Goldie makes his money. One
good deal, he makes it all back.”
Stan shrugged.
“You know that.” His brow furrowed. “You’re
his lawyer.”
“Know what?”
————
157
Stan would spent the greater part of the afternoon reviewing records and ledgers, titles and liens
on heavy equipment, such as backhoes and excavators, Link-Belt and American cranes, only to find
encumbrances beyond resale value, liens in default,
others unsalable, titled fictitiously and several unregistered, probably stolen, and much of the equipment
cannibalized to keep other machines running. Nevertheless, he would sell a cab-over-engine International, a Peterbilt on the brink of repossession, and a
Komatzu bulldozer. Conte disposed of two forklifts,
but accounted for only half of the proceeds. When
asked for the balance, the manager bristled. “Shortmoney, never. Goldie will vouch for my honesty.” He
pointed a grease smudged finger at a girlie calendar.
“A tool manufacturer’s promotion,” he said, changing the subject. “They came out here with one of the
bimbos giving out free calendars. “Spent ten grand.”
He thumbed through the glossy pages. “Thought she
put out.” He showed her photo to Stan. “Only autographed the picture.” He shoved his hands deep in his
pockets. “A fuckin’ rip-off,” Conte said.
“Don’t you hate when that happens?”
————
Stan revisited Pansy Clampton. “Who’s P.T.
McSweeney?” he asked.
“I’m an ol’ woman.” She coughed, clutched at
her chest. She turned on the television and began
rocking.
“She’s you,” Stan smiled, a knowing grin.
“Ya some kinda cop.”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“No. I simply want you to sign a mortgage.” He
leaned forward. “So I can bring your son home.”
“He ain’t paid me support for months.”
“Goldie’s in jail.”
“No concern for his mamma.” She wiped her
eyeglasses on the hem of her dress. “Ungrateful
snot.” She blew her nose in an embroidered handkerchief.
“Tell me how much. We’ll take it off the top.”
“You’re a good boy.” She patted his arm with a
liver-spotted hand. “Gotcha a pencil, paper? We got
some figurin’ to do, sonny.”
————
Goldie, his sandals flapping, shuffled down the
hall and entered the interrogation room. He appeared
clean shaved and surprisingly healthy, no longer
forced to endure a warehouse of a cell, suffocating
heat and filth, one hundred or more men sleeping
on concrete; a foul water bucket for washing and
drinking. He dressed in a pink sport shirt and shiny
black trousers. His shaggy, dyed-blond hair dark at
the roots. “What, the fuck, took you so long?”
“Money problems,” Stan said, perched on the
battered, scarred table.
“Oh, shit!” His shoulders slumped; he dropped
in the chair, long legs outstretched. “Oh, God!” He
stared at his dirty, feet.
“Under control.” Stan tossed him a cigarette
pack.
Goldie uttered a deep sigh and tore open the
wrapper. “Scared me,” he mumbled with a pro-
159
nounced Georgia accent.
Stan broke into a smile, removed his sunglasses,
looked Goldie in the eye, and briefly explained the
defense funding and the costs attributed to the mortgage.
“Twenty-one percent interest, shit!” He exhaled
a plume of cigarette smoke. “Five points, fuck!”
“That’s the price of freedom.”
He rose from the chair, paced, hunched; his head
bent forward, looking much older than his thirty-five
years. “I figured you were sharper.” He rocked back
on his heels. “Shit for brains!”
“A short-term mortgage with no questions asked
has its drawbacks. Hell of a job getting your mother
to sign. Had to pay her. Pretty expensive.”
“She hates me!”
“I don’t think so.”
“Likes muh younger brother, muh nephew, gran’
children.”
“Lovely woman.” Stan gazed at the ceiling.
“Religious.”
“Sonofabitch! It’s Dutch’s fault!” He kicked at a
chair, howled in pain, grabbing at a sandled foot. He
limped over to the barred window. “Dutch could’ve
helped!”
“Dutch has agreed.” Goldie’s cheek twitched.
“He’s going to transfer the dough.” Goldie blinked,
his lips formed a grin. “Fly it in personally.”
“Boy, that mother’s great.” Goldie stood erect,
his full six foot two height, preening. “Love the
guy.”
“Yep. He says the same,” Stan lied.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
————
They spoke for almost two hours, often smalltalk. “You’ve done miracles, son. A private room,
not a Holiday Inn, but first-class, good food, a pieceof-ass couple of times a week.” Stan returned a
dubious glance. “You bet. Sometimes they take me
out. Sometimes they bring um in.” He tugged at his
crotch. “Bless you, Stan.”
“Which has created one little problem.” Goldie
looked at him inquisitively. “Your Holiday Inn
accommodations have a high price tag, and as for
your amusements …”
“Put it on my tab.”
“They don’t take VISA.”
“You’re a fuckin’ asshole!”
“The bill has got to be paid.” His face expressionless. “Do you have any jewelry?”
“You know the Captain’s holding my bracelet.”
He nervously picked at his skin. “No! Not that!
That’s my good luck charm.” His fingernails chewed
to the quick.
“I’m your good luck. Too bad,” Stan shrugged,
getting to his feet. “You’re a tough guy, rough it.” He
picked up his briefcase. “They don’t run a charity.”
He moved toward the door. “Isn’t that blood on the
wall,” he gestured, pointing.”
“Take the fuckin’ shit!”
“Don’t like it.”
“It’s gold, thick as a horse collar.” Sweat trickled
down his cheek. “My name in diamonds, GOLDIE
spelled out in diamonds.”
“Whatever could I do with it?” He maintained a
161
straight face.
“Stan, please!” His teeth clenched. “I love that
hot, black stuff.”
“Damn!” He hesitates, scratched his chin,
turned, placing his attaché case on the table. “Jot a
line to the Captain.” He flipped a latch, opened the
lid. “Authorize the bracelet released to me,” he said
withdrawing a legal pad.
“Bless you.”
“Sure, sure.”
————
Before leaving, Stan stopped by the Captain’s
office, paid his respects and a sizable cash bonus.
“This isn’t necessary, my friend. They have
already paid me.” Grimard was dark, corpulent with
a broad face, flared nose and close cut wiry hair.
“Doesn’t matter. You’ve made my job easier.”
He half-smiled, looking up from his desk. “Did
you know our big, blond American has this thing for
young boys?”
“How young?”
The Captain’s large brown eyes rolled upward.
“You wanted him amused.” His powerful build
accented a sagging gut and drooping gun belt.
“I’m not amused. Put an end to it.”
“He’ll complain.”
“Ignore him.”
“He’ll get mad.”
“Screw him!”
“Very good, monsieur.”
“What a sick world.” He removed Goldie’s note
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SHELDON YAVITZ
from his pocket, shrugged, then presented it to Grimard.
————
Stan saw Henri Piaget’s reflection in the lounge
mirror. The dapper Frenchman in a faultlessly tailored suit carried himself with authority. He was
slender, a bronze tan; his sun-bleached blond hair cut
short; nose, aristocratic, and eyes finely wrinkled at
the corners. He joined Stan and Laura at their table,
half-heartedly apologizing for being late.
Exuding charm, Piaget reported the current
gossip on the Haitian royal family, stressing his close
relationship for Laura’s benefit. He offered her a personal guided tour of the Palais National, and recommended several of his favorite night spots. Stan had
the feeling that he wasn’t included. Laura sat with
her legs crossed at the knees; her lips sparkled and
laugh infectious. Her dress more revealing than the
evening before. She shifted the conversation to politics appearing surprisingly knowledgeable. Stan had
schooled her. After all, he still had a commitment
to the CIA, and Piaget, from his position of power,
could be a valuable barometer for gauging the political climate, even if subjective.
He smiled, nodded, sipped at his drink, studying
Piaget’s every reaction and response to her questions
and comments.
————
Four years earlier, he had his first opportunity
163
to witness Piaget’s influence. One of Stan’s clients,
Edward Inch, a fugitive, had entered Haiti illegally
and was being deported to the United States and
certain arrest. Stan was at the airport; Inch ringed
by immigration officers, heavily armed police and
the ever present military. The Haitian attorney stood
helpless, his face, a mask of resignation. “Monsieur,
I’m only a lawyer,” he said in halting English. “No
politician, no soldier. There is nothing, I can do.”
Stan remembered Piaget, merely an acquaintance, related to the President’s family by marriage,
and operator of an air charter service. He hurried to
his office at the general aviation terminal at the far
end of the airport; a foot to the pedal taxi ride. A
wall-size portrait of Baby Doc greeted the traveler.
A soldier, armed with an automatic weapon, leaned
lazily against an unoccupied information booth. At
the Haiti Aeroservice counter, he spoke with Piaget.
Within minutes, they were both at the main
terminal, Piaget informing all in a polite, but firm
manner, that Stan’s client had chartered his aircraft,
the plane was waiting, and that he would take charge
of the prisoner. As Stan recalled, the soldiers and
policemen shrugged and walked off. An immigration officer sputtered, then groveling, released Inch
to Piaget’s custody. The Haitian lawyer sneered, and
Stan smiled, impressed. He had found what he had
been looking for in Haiti.
————
“In my humble opinion, the Duvalier dynasty
will last for centuries,” Piaget declared, his smile
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SHELDON YAVITZ
charismatic, an uneasy foot tapping. He turned to
Stan. “Have you seen our friend Goldie?”
“Yes, today.” He removed his eyeglasses and
wiped the lenses. Laura caught the prearranged signal
and excused herself giving Stan the freedom to discuss private business.
“A magnificent woman,” Piaget remarked, as
Laura crossed the room. “Obviously, not your wife.”
“Not as pretty,” Stan said, annoyed by the innuendo; his ego bruised. “A good traveling companion.”
“Your mistress?”
Stan smiled mischievously, an elbow on the
table. “Speaking of finesse.” He leaned forward. “The
Colombians want proof of the loss.” He removed
an envelope from his jacket breast pocket. “Achilles
obtained this statement from Clampton. It says that
all the marijuana was not thrown overboard, but the
bulk seized by your country.”
“Very odd.” Piaget’s eyes showed cynicism.
“My earlier investigation …”
“Forget it,” he interrupted with a dismissive gesture. “What I need from you is further verification.
Such as an arranged newspaper article, or preferably,
a police report, or something from the military personnel involved.”
“Possible.” Piaget rubbed the bridge of his
nose.
“Ten thousand, in addition to the money due on
Goldie’s case.”
“Possible, but not probable.” He fastidiously
combed cake crumbs from the linen tablecloth.
165
“Name the price. See if I can live with it.”
“Fifty thousand dollars,” he said, poker-faced;
the brushing more intense.
“Only a police report. It’s not a major proposition. I might have enough with Clampton’s detailed
confession.”
“Thirty thousand.” A noticeable grimace.
“My opinion will be quite persuasive.”
“Twenty-five, for a best-seller. The money
deposited to my account in Paris.”
“Agreed, but I want it by Friday.”
“I don’t know.” He scratched his blond hair.
“Extend your stay, visit Cap-Haitien.” He studied
Laura seated at the bar; her bare back to them.
“You will enjoy the resort from your bedroom,” he
winked.
“No later than Sunday. I have pressing business
in the States.”
“Sunday, it is. We can meet for breakfast.”
“Just keep the amounts consistent,” Stan said,
handing him the envelope, following a practice
favored by governments that a lie becomes the truth
when it is officially documented.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Exhaust smoke curled from the metallic blue
Lincoln Mark VII idling on the hotel ramp. A gray
overcast sky; a November chill that cut to the bone.
Stan exited the warm lobby and buttoned his overcoat. His dark-felt hat tilted forward, the brim at a
rakish angle. He handed a claim check and tip to
the parking attendant, stepped out from under the
canopy into his rental car.
He had flown into Washington D.C. the previous evening. Sue Ann had declined to accompany
him. “It’s so boring,” she sighed. “Freezing,” she
moaned. “The people are horrible. The city’s dirty.”
She made a face. “I told you no trips, honey. We’ll
have fun when you get back.” He recalled her words
as his vehicle crawled through traffic.
Sue Ann had found Goldie’s bracelet in the bedroom floor safe. He knew that she would on one of
her frequent forages for extra cash. She didn’t wait
until his return home, but tracked him down at the
supermarket in aisle 11, dog and cat food.
“Why didn’t you tell me about it, Stanton?”
“I was waiting for the right time.” He held a
twenty-five pound bag of dry dog chow, reading the
167
label.
“I am ready to go to work, sugar.”
“We need about a dozen cans of that,” he said
pointing. “Help me out, a variety.”
The negotiations continued as he shopped for
the animals, through the check-out line and out in the
parking lot with Sue Ann determined that she wanted
to be paid by the hour. “I’ve been talking with escort
services,” she said. “I can make a hundred to two
fifty an hour, but I only want to do sex, no socializing.”
“A little cold.” He put a bag in the car trunk.
“At a motel, we’ll do it and go.”
“There’s almost four carats in diamonds, total
weight, plus the gold.” He reached in the shopping
cart. “At least five, more like six thousand. When it’s
made into a lady’s bracelet the value will skyrocket.”
He spoke with his back to her, a grocery bag in his
hand. “That’s a lot of hours.”
“You’re going to be a real cheap bastard?”
He nodded, picked up another paper sack. “Are
you ready to work?”
“Not now, too early. I want to get my nails
done.”
“Get this straight. Paid tramps are on call.”
“You’re treating me like shit?”
“What do you expect. Get in the car.”
“Prick!” She stamped her foot, turned tossing a
hip, then got in, slamming the door to his large black
sedan. When he slid behind the wheel, she flattened
her skirt, balled up her panties and stuffed them in
her purse. “I’m going to give you the ride of your
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SHELDON YAVITZ
life, Mister.” She moved closer to him, her fingers at
his zipper, head bent towards his lap.
Stan took a deep breath and turned the ignition
key. “I can’t think of a nearby motel.”
“Belle Isle on Bird Road, crappy, but no questions,” she said matter-of-factly.
————
At Nineteenth and G Street within sight of the
George Washington University campus, he consumed
what seemed like an hour in quest of a parking space.
Now, three blocks out of his way, Stan returned on
foot to G Street and climbed the steps of face-lifted
brownstone with double-pane, insulated glass and a
fresh paint smell. He took the elevator to the third
floor. It lurched to a stop, opening onto a sterile
hallway. He paused at a door inscribed COMMITTEE FOR ECONOMIC DEVELOPMENT, peered
over his shoulder, and observing no one, twisted the
knob.
The receptionist dressed in tweed looked up
from her desk and made a quick study. She wore her
hair combed to one side and pulled back over an ear.
“They are expecting you,” she said. Stan nodded.
————
“Good of you to come, Shades.” Webster Cox
offered a weak handshake. He was tall and thin, his
suit at least a size too large.
Stan smiled at his CIA control agent, noticing
how gaunt and drawn he appeared, uncertain whether
169
illness, overwork or unhappiness had produced the
change. He chose not to inquire. Cox being neither
his friend nor of any personal concern. Just an
unscrupulous contact: this one cloaked in a white
hat.
“The Chief will be with us momentarily. Sit
down.” He gestured to a chair, then pressed a button
and spoke into the intercom. “Shades, Chief,” he
said.
Stan removed his overcoat, took a seat, draping
the coat across his lap. “We could have flown up
together from Miami.” He ran a finger over his hat
brim.
“Sure, you in first class, me in steerage.” His
tone sarcastic, eyeballing Stan’s Pierre Cardin suit
and expensive western boots. “Those alligators must
have cost you a grand?”
“Each,” Stan exaggerated, annoyed by the
bureaucrat. He heard the door open behind him. A
middle-aged man strode into the room.
“Gerald Faulkner,” he introduced himself, brushing past Stan, motioning for Cox to relinquish the
desk. He dropped heavily into a high back executive
chair, removed a bent pipe and tobacco pouch from
his pocket. “Interesting reports,” he masked a smile.
“Interesting gentleman.” He tapped tobacco into the
bowl.
Cox pulled up a chair next to Stan. His narrow
nose thrust handle-like from his long face. Crowfeet
flanked his eyes; his hair close-cropped.
“A military coup in Haiti within six months.
Quite a prediction,” Faulkner said flatly, lighting his
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SHELDON YAVITZ
pipe. The first match flickered out. “You’re the only
one who suggests that.” He lit another, drew on the
curved stem. Whiffs of gray smoke curled like a car
exhaust.
“My opinion, but,” he shrugged. “I’m no expert.”
He would never admit that the prediction hinged on
a tenuous thread: a conversation with Piaget and his
atypical request that the funds be deposited in a foreign country. Escape money, Stan termed it, a portend of the government’s pending upset.
“He’s been right before, Chief. Labeled Raul
Castro, an narcotraficante, and the Bahamas, for
instance.”
“High-level flak over some druggie,” Faulkner
grinned.
“Gives him some credibility.” He held a thumb
and forefinger an inch apart. “The important question,” he said, puffing on his pipe. “When are you
going back to Cuba?”
“The end of this month, early December. The
dates not fixed.”
Faulkner had a broad face and clipped mustache. Graying hair receded to a peak above his forehead. Round-shoulders and a paunchy middle offered
little resemblance to your traditional spy novel hero.
Stan would later learn that he was a Division Chief, a
member of the Old Boy Network, the inner circle, a
fixture for over fifteen years in the intelligence community.
“For almost two years, you’ve been cultivating
military assets in Cuba.” Faulkner removed from a
desk drawer an envelope with an alphanumeric code
171
in block letters. “I want you to look at these,” he
added, withdrawing a file from the oversized envelope, opened it wide and took out a series of photographs. He furnished them to Cox, who perused the
photos, then, in turn, gave the pictures to Stan.
The grainy prints purported to be airfields. Two
depicted eight airplanes, a hanger, fuel depot and
landing strip. The others, nine jets, assorted buildings,
a dirt road, runways and even vehicles. Less than
wing strength, Stan surmised, concluding several aircraft were missing from each formation. “Recent satellite reconnaissance?” He inquired.
“Very astute.” Faulkner rose to his feet. “Come
over here, Shades.” He spread the photos across his
desk. “These were taken at Camilo Cienfuegos Airfield.” He repeatedly jabbed with a finger. “Near
Santa Clara. Do you know where that is?” Stan
nodded in reply. “The other two at San Julian Airport.” He thumped a photograph. “MiG 21s.”
“The latest commie jets smack-dab in Cuba,”
Cox offered.
“MiG 21 bis, Fishbed L.”
“Castro’s no fool.” Stan stiffened; he felt the
hair on his arm bristle. They were calling in their
markers.
————
Buddha Blanton, a client of Stan’s, had been
reported missing flying a drug-laden aircraft. Months
after, about the time his family decided to declare
him dead and divvy up his property and cash, he
smuggled out word that his plane had crashed, the
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SHELDON YAVITZ
copilot killed and he, himself, imprisoned in Cuba.
A terse note accompanied the Cuban refugee courier. “Hire Stanton Pollard. He will save me. Pay
him whatever he asks.” Stan read the message and
charged accordingly.
Initially, he reckoned that Cuba could be entered
by regular diplomatic channels, but obtaining a
visa proved an insurmountable obstacle. A Treasury
Department regulation prohibited Americans from
traveling to Cuba: an application of the Trading with
the Enemy Act. Stan argued that a then recent appellate court decision allowed for exceptions. The State
Department remained steadfast in their disapproval.
Stan persisted; the fee at stake. An acquaintance, chief counsel for a congressional committee,
suggested an attorney on the House Select Committee on Intelligence, watchdog over CIA activities,
who directed him to a former agent, now a lawyer in
the Inspector General’s Office.
“Look, guy. The only way you’re getting in is
with the CIA’s blessing. The downside,” he cocked
an eyebrow, “there will be strings attached.”
“The upside?”
“A powerful license.”
Stan’s fingers beat a staccato sound on the desk.
“I can live with that.”
“All right. I will arrange an appointment.”
————
A snowstorm greeted Stan’s arrival at the Central Intelligence Agency headquarters in Langley,
Virginia, a pre-stressed concrete structure overlook-
173
ing the white-shrouded Potomac Valley. Historically,
he later would recall, the meeting occurred before the
ground breaking of the 190 million dollar addition to
the already fortress-style edifice. His impression, as
so many others, was that the building seemed shabby,
drab and quite disappointing. Agent Webster Cox’s
office occupied a windowless cubicle.
Stan came prepared, well-recommended, and
took the initiative offering to work for the Agency.
He had done his homework, learned of the Administration’s obsession with Cuba, and the CIA’s meager
sources on the communist island. At first, Cox
appeared skeptical. “No offense intended, but from
my experience, lawyers have no balls.” He mustered
a smile and continued to pitch his argument. After a
lengthy interview, Cox proposed, subject to his superior’s approval, to provide a viable, plausible identity
and access to Cuba in exchange for Stan becoming a
contract agent.
He agreed and returned to his suite at the Watergate Hotel to await the final decision. It came two
days later. Cox and Stan conferred again. This time,
at a small, sparse fifth floor office located on F Street
within sight of the old Executive Office Building.
“It’s a go,” Cox said, stone-faced. “We can get
you in by back channels.” He explained that the
Cuban Affairs Section operated out of the Swiss
Embassy. “You can enter as a Swiss, or pass as a Venezuelan or Nicaraguan. Both Latin countries have
favored relations with Castro.”
Fluent in Spanish and no stranger to Venezuela, Stan’s “deep cover” alias identification was cre-
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SHELDON YAVITZ
ated as a Venezuelan journalist, including supporting
documents: passport, visa, press credentials, driver’s
license, birth certificate and credit cards. Did the
same for Dutch, he mused. I hoped it’s as good.
Since he never practiced law per se in other
countries, only negotiated results, masquerading as
a correspondent did not trouble him. Likewise, the
securing of a client’s release from a foreign prison
fell within his expertise, but his obligation to cultivate military recruits for the CIA, skin-on-the-wall,
as they termed it, would prove a new experience.
“Don’t get caught. If you do, don’t admit it,”
Cox steepled his fingers. “Remember, if your cover is
blown, we wouldn’t know you. You’ll be just another
sleazy criminal lawyer,” he sheepishly grinned.
“It’s good to know the ground rules.” Stan
feigned a laugh, veiling a growing distrust of the
CIA.
————
“On your next trip to Cuba, we propose a small
project,” Faulkner said, picking at his words. Stan’s
face remained expressionless; his stomach churned.
“These MiGs carry air-to-air missiles.” He obtained a
magnifying glass from a drawer and handed the lens
and a photograph to Stan. “You can see them outboard, halfway up the wing.”
He removed his dark-tinted glasses, held the
magnifier up to his left eye, steadying the picture in
his right hand. “From all available intelligence, they
are Atoll missiles with an advanced infrared homing
device.” Stan wrinkled his nose, squinting. “The
175
engines probably an upgraded Tumansky. Highest
thrust to weight ratio of any pure jet in service.” Stan
shrugged, indifferent.
“First revealed at an air show in Finland,” Cox
chimed in.
“We suspect the cockpit contains a heads-up
display, replacing …”
Stan cut him short. “I’m sure you must have
experienced assets in Cuba.”
“Useless shits.”
“We need fresh blood,” Faulkner said.
“I’m not a spy, just an observer.”
“Where’s your patriotism.” Stan caught Cox’s
hostile glance. “Communism’s the greatest threat to
our survival. Russian jets ninety miles off Key West.”
The control agent rubbed a bony hand across dry
lips. “What if those assholes level a preemptive strike
on Miami?”
“Unlikely. Anyway, I pay my taxes for such protection.”
“Cut the bullshit!” Faulkner spit. “You’ve been
hobnobbing with a Cuban Air Force colonel, sighted
with other military bigwigs.” He pounded a fist on
the desk. “Almost two years and not a fuckin’ skinon-the-wall. It’s pay-up-time.”
“I don’t play the spy game.” His eyes roamed
the room taking in details: a double pedestal desk,
matching credenza, a computer work station, and
bare, fake pine veneer paneling.
“Where’s his package?”
“Center desk drawer, Chief.”
Faulkner pulled out a thick file. “We got an
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SHELDON YAVITZ
extensive dossier on you.” He leafed through the contents, dog-eared a page. “For example, on your last
trip to Haiti, you traveled with a still unidentified
female.” Stan grinned vaguely. “Got a telephoto of
her sunbathing.”
“My tourist disguise.” His expression grown
somber.
“Then there’s that book you are writing praising Castro and Cuba.” He ran a finger down the paragraphs of a report. “You never mentioned that.” He
thumped the paper, glared at Stan.
“My journalist cover.”
“Sharp,” Cox interjected. “I told you he was our
man.”
“Shades,” Faulkner paused, tugged at his skintight shirt collar. “What’s the problem?”
“I don’t work cheap.”
“Forchrisesake, why didn’t you say so.”
“How much?” Stan rearranged the overcoat on
his lap.
“Don’t worry. No problem.”
“How much? A thousand to one man is a dollar
to another.”
“Let me first lay our cards on the table.”
Faulkner coughed, shoved Stan’s file in a desk
drawer. “It’s simple, Shades.” Stan’s brow wrinkled.
‘You’re tasked to photograph operational and maintenance manuals on a MiG 21 bis, including schematics, diagrams, data such as that.”
“The camera’s a real beaut, high-tech, miniature,” Cox grinned. “A kid can use it.”
“I can’t even use a simple Kodak.”
177
Faulkner ran a hand through his hair, tapped
his pipe bowl against an ashtray, then dusted ashes
off the desk onto the carpet. As an exasperated look
faded, he plunged into a lengthy, detailed explanation
on avionics, heads-up display (HUD), radar and missile guidance systems, and technological advancements in Russian jet engines. “We will train you,
send you down to the Farm, make you an expert.”
Stan sat staring, his eyes fixed on government
issue ball-point pens in an imitation wood desk set.
He counted the acoustical tiles in the drop-ceiling.
“How many manuals?” He asked.
“Volumes, shelves full. All not pertinent.”
“How thick?”
“We can’t tell you, but we have specialists, who
can answer all your questions.” Faulkner relighted
his pipe.
“Russian or Spanish?”
“Depends on how classified the documents.”
Stan straightened in his chair. “Sounds like a
suicide mission.”
“A piece of cake.” Cox smiled again.
“I’d have to pay top dollar.” Stan cocked his
head, lost in thought. His Cuban Air Force Intelligence contact had access to such information. Nevertheless, illegal pay-offs for drug overflights were a
far cry from selling out one’s country. He got to his
feet and walked over to the window, looked down
on a driver struggling to parallel park in space too
tight for his vehicle. Nothing worse than a futile
effort, he said to himself. Cuban military airfields
are verboten, even a visit is suspect. The risk too
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SHELDON YAVITZ
great, unless “Why don’t we simply steal a MiG?”
Faulkner picked up a paper clip and twisted it. Stan
moved over and stood before his desk. “You boys
have made this too complex. What we need is a
defector?”
“We are up to our necks with jerks on rafts.”
“For the right price, I might have the man.” Stan
referred to his contact already on the take, corrupted
by money but unable to spend or show it.
“The Colonel?”
“It’s only a question of motivation. He takes off
and in seven minutes, he’s here.”
“A Cuban pilot and a Soviet jet.” Faulkner
tossed the bent paper clip at an ashtray and missed.
“Clever!”
“Brilliant. What did I tell you, Chief.”
“It will cost three million, round numbers.”
Cox laughed, a scornful laugh. “Spoken like a
true shyster.” He nervously stretched his ostrich-like
neck. “We don’t play fast and loose with taxpayers’
money.
“Faulker shook his head. “Not cost-effective.”
“I don’t work for chump-change.”
The room grew silent. Cox glanced at the Chief;
both looked at Stan. “I said we can’t justify it.”
“All right. You know how to reach me.” Stan put
on his hat and reached for his coat.
“Hold it!” Faulkner rose abruptly. “Relax, have
a seat,” he gestured. “I’m sure we can work out our
differences.”
“Don’t make our differences money. It’s still
less than my life insurance.”
179
“What?”
“My life insurance policies exclude death by
spying.”
————
Three hours later, Stan left their office. He noted
the time, pulled down his hat brim. “Won’t be bored.”
His pace quickened as he strolled in the direction of
Lafayette Square. Enough money to compensate for
closing Dutch’s overflight operation.
Faulkner stood, hands clasped behind his back,
gazing out the window; a hint of snowflakes. “The
price doesn’t bother me, concept’s viable, but the
money in front, that’s a hard-sell job.” His eyes followed Stan down G Street. “We could try to put pressure on him, threaten to expose the girlfriend to his
wife.”
“Don’t think it will fly.” Cox slumped in a chair.
“His wife’s a player. We’ve had her under surveillance, easy to follow, a high society dame, never with
Shades, but in the company of a younger man, Latin,
an artist. She frequents his apartment.” He jiggled a
crossed leg. “What takes the cake,” a cheek twitched,
“She’s been meeting her husband at a cheap motel.”
Faulkner raised an eyebrow. “Also, another guy, real
scruffy, drives a pickup, looks like he ate nails for
breakfast.” He flashed a toothy smile. “She dresses
like a prostitute, high heels, short skirt, tits hanging
out.”
“Damn, forget that crap.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Sick, sick.” His palms turned out. “Prepare an Eye’s Only memo through the DDO to the
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SHELDON YAVITZ
Director, detail the covert operation, time schedule,
cost and money arrangements.” Faulkner tugged at
his tight fitting vest. “Black account, Swiss channels,
Cayman numbered bank account, etc, etc. Come up
with a plan to distance us from his failure.” He
paused, lowered his voice. “Find an asset in Cuba
who does wet work.”
“What’s one more dead lawyer,” Cox shrugged.
CHAPTER EIGHT
On the second Monday in November, Stan met
again with the agents at a second-rate hotel on the
outskirts of the Capital. He suspected a hidden microphone, camera, or both in the room, but accepted
such an intrusion as a cost of doing business. The
covert operation had been given a green light; the
money approved and Stan committed to the project.
————
On Thursday of that week, he traveled to
Nassau. The first phase of an itinerary which would
include the Cayman Islands and Haiti, a brief respite
at home, then Colombia, Venezuela and Cuba, and a
scheduled return by Christmas: a mix of law, crime
and espionage.
T. Clement Mayfield appeared in top form,
methodically counting the third and final installment
of his fee. “The Durfee undertaking has gone quite
well. The old boy’s as safe as a baby at his mother’s
teat.” He licked his thumb and index finger and
returned to the currency.
“True,” Stan nodded.
————
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SHELDON YAVITZ
That evening in Pop Durfee’s hotel suite, his
success struck a sour note. “I’m safe, sure, but it feels
like prison. The Island’s claustrophobic.” Pop lit a
cigarette. “Can’t stand this fuckin’ shit.”
Caviar, champagne, and a plate of cocaine
graced a glass top coffee table. Ann in an emerald
green, silk chemise sat curled on the sofa. “What Pop
needs is a shrink,” she giggled, dipped a cold broiled
shrimp in cocktail sauce and fed the fugitive smuggler.
“Do you think you’d feel better in a six by ten
cell? There’s one waiting for you in Miami at the
Federal Detention Center.”
Pop’s face paled. He coughed and retched.
“That’s not funny, Stan.”
“My hero,” Ann snickered.
“Shut up, cunt! Who asked your opinion?” He
ground a cigarette butt out on the plush carpet.
————
The discotheque’s pulsating strobe lights produced a discordant, psychedelic effect. Blaring music
and boisterous patrons drowned out their conversation. Stan had arrived late, delayed by his appointment with Pop Durfee. Laura looked and smelled
shower-fresh. A slip of a dress accented every curve.
She yawned, muttering the words: work and tired.
Earlier, Clement had informed Stan that his
initial deposit to Laura’s bank account had grown
impressively. In part due to Stan’s undisclosed generosity disguised as Mayfield’s shrewd financial management. The balance attributed to Laura’s own
183
earnings. “She’s either the highest priced call girl
in the Bahamas, or into something big,” he had
quipped.
Above the din, Stan explained his travel plans.
“Haiti and the Caymans, a quick trip, just business,
no time for fun.” She returned an understanding nod,
but South America was different. “I can’t be without
you for a month.”
He shook his head. “Impossible, I have to go
alone.” Wisdom dictated no other option. The CIA
had a hint of their relationship and was still probing
for leverage. Venezuela served as the secret base of
his spy operation, and Colombia meant Dutch and
meetings with major drug dealers. “It’s not safe,” he
said. “A violent country, bandits, guerrilla armies, hit
men …” An environment that he thrived in, but even
the CIA found inhospitable.
“I don’t care. I want to go with you.”
He removed his eyeglasses. The room, a hallucinogenic blur. “I’m quitting,” she said. “I’ve got to
get away.” He squinted, forced a smile. “This will
give me my chance to break from the business.”
“What can I say?”
She threw her arms around his neck. “Say yes.”
He stared blindly into flashing, whirling multicolor and vague silhouettes, and didn’t answer.
————
In a Versailles-like setting, as if transplanted
from France, the stately Palais de Justice rose above
manicured lawns, hedges and shade trees. A broad
walk led to a granite step, colonnade entrance, an
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SHELDON YAVITZ
ornate, second floor corridor and a large, sparsely
furnished, vaulted ceiling courtroom. A table, desks
and two rows of hardwood benches occupied one
corner, less than a quarter of the room square footage.
Stan accompanied by an interpreter entered and
took seats to the rear; two straight chairs set aside,
as if reserved for them. He identified the jurist, an
elderly, balding man with a stubbled beard, in a longsleeve guayabera white shirt and bolo tie, behind an
antique Louis XV table. The prosecutor mimicked
an organized crime figure in a pin-striped doublebreasted suit with padded shoulders. At the defense
desk, Pierre Achilles turned, waved, acknowledging
Stan. The judge nodded in his direction. The prosecutor put down a newspaper and peered at the spectator.
From a side entrance, armed uniformed police
officers escorted Goldie Clampton into the room. His
Jamaican crew, barefoot, dirty and ragged (denied
Goldie’s prison luxuries), followed and joined him
on a front row bench. He tried to gain Achilles’ attention. The lawyer ignored him. Goldie’s eyes darted.
He spotted Stan, smiled faintly and gave a thumbs
up.
As Stan would later relate, the proceedings were
brief; no witnesses called and no testimony from the
defendants. The prosecutor made a half-hearted statement in which he described the shipwreck, detailed
the arrest and marijuana seizure. He read from the
defendants’ confessions, and then, with a hand flourish, declared the evidence overwhelming and each of
185
the accused guilty as charged. He diffidently bowed
and returned to his desk.
Next, Achilles outlined the defense case. He
quoted from a shopworn textbook on American jurisprudence invoking United States Constitutional law,
totally irrelevant in a foreign country. He gave an
impassioned plea for Goldie’s acquittal, characterized him as a God-fearing husband and father, an
unfortunate pilgrim, a storm victim.
While the lawyer spoke, the judge doodled
on a writing pad; the prosecutor read a newspaper
discreetly folded in his lap. Stan’s interpreter, a
bespectacled, slightly built man, translated verbatim,
even comments overheard between the clerk and a
bystander.
With the conclusion of Achilles’ remarks, the
judge banged a fist on the table. He read aloud each
accused’s name, and in turn, pronounced them guilty.
Goldie gasped. “I’m innocent! They did it!” The
jurist demanded silence; a guard rapped the smuggler on the side of the head. Another reached for a
holstered revolver. A breeze waffled at the open shuttered, glassless windows. Goldie wiped perspiration
from his forehead; Stan sat with his arms crossed.
“Of course, there are mitigating circumstances.”
The judge cleared his throat. “For that reason, I shall
suspend the imposition of sentence, enter a fine of
two thousand gourdes (approximately 400 dollars)
each, and further order these foreigners remanded to
jail to await deportation.”
Achilles rose to his feet. The judge nodded.
“Oh, yes,” he paused, looking in Stan’s direction.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“Luther Clampton will be immediately released in
the custody of his attorney.”
————
That evening at dinner, Goldie, resplendent in
a newly purchased gold brocade jacket, gray shirt
and dark slacks, asked. “Where’s Dutch? I thought
he would be here.”
“He sent one of his pilots with the money. Some
urgent problem in Canada, I suspect.”
“I hope the Big Guy’s all right?”
“He’s fine.”
“Stan,” Goldie said, picking his teeth with a
matchbook cover. “Do you know who cut me off
from the young stuff?”
“What?”
“Nothing.” He had a crestfallen expression.
Stan changed the subject. “What do you think
of Haitian justice?”
“Achilles sure was magnifico.” He slurped at
a beer. “A great mouthpiece, reminds me of Perry
Mason.” He smacked his lips. “That DA’s a prick.”
He belched. “The judge, a good ol’ boy for a shit.”
He turned to Stan with a puzzled look. “I know you
hired muh lawyer, arranged muh money, gave me the
good life in the slammer, but what did ya really do in
Haiti?”
“I sat in the courtroom with a key in my
pocket.”
“What for, dog?”
“That’s the way you do business in Haiti.”
“Oh,” he shrugged. “Got a spare toothbrush.”
187
If Stan had been surprised by the smuggler’s
lack of comprehension, he now saw no earthly reason
to clarify the “key in his pocket” remark or to explain
how many people had been paid off: the judge, even
the court clerk to expedite the case, Captain Grimard
at the prison, and Henri Piaget for his valuable cooperation.
The day prior, Stan had gone to a bank in Portau-Prince and arranged for a safe-deposit box. “A
necessary safeguard,” he said to the Haitian attorney.
“I will retain the balance of the money until the case
is satisfactorily concluded. It’s here to the penny,” he
added with a grin.
“The judge demands payment, right now. He’s
an honorable man, a learned jurist.”
“A corrupt judge has no honor.”
“He has assured me that our client will be found
not guilty. His word! He gave me his word!”
“C.O.D., that’s the deal,” Stan said, placing cash
in a metal, lid container. “Under your laws there is
no way to find him not guilty, but as I said before, a
small fine and his immediate release is acceptable.”
“You are wrong!” Achilles shook his head. “A
full acquittal, nothing less.” He wrung his hands. “I
stake my reputation.”
“We’ll see.” Stan held up the key, then tucked it
in a vest pocket. “I’ll give this to Piaget as soon as
Clampton and I walk out of the courthouse. He will
disburse. That’s our understanding.”
“You are a cynic.”
“A luxury I can afford.”
————
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SHELDON YAVITZ
Less than 36 hours later, Goldie stood on a
desolate stretch of beach on the northeast coast of
Jamaica. An ominous sky, a squall line in the distance. A wind gust whipped his dyed blond hair. He
squinted, peering down the mouth of an empty beer
bottle, then clumsily flung it toward the open water.
“Juice, get me another,” he shouted above the roar of
the surf.
A young black with a neatly trimmed Afro sauntered over to a blue and white cooler. He returned
clutching a Red Stripe.
“We ain’t goin’ to Florida ’till I get a tan.”
Goldie twisted off the cap and guzzled the beer. “A
little R and R, I’m muh ol’ self.”
The boy drew up his shoulders in a hapless gesture.
“One big deal. I’m back on muh feet.” He
burped, staggered. “Dutch will help. Love that
man.”
————
Three hundred miles north/northwest of Goldie,
on a sun-drenched 76 square mile speck of tertiary
and coral limestone, Stan entered an ultramodern
bank building. He had flown by charter aircraft to
Jamaica with his client, continuing on alone to the
Cayman Islands. Now in the office of the bank’s
finance director, he confirmed the CIA account set up
for the covert operation.
“Wire transfer 750,000 dollars to the National
Bank of Venezuela in Caracas, credit the money to
Sergio Ponton,” Stan said, furnishing the requested
189
account number.
“Will there be anything else?” The sedate director asked.
“Yes.” He closed the lid to his attaché case.
“Written confirmation of the money transfer.”
————
Troubled over the prospect of CIA surveillance, Stan took precautions to conceal traveling with
Laura, and his scheduled conference with Dutch and
the Colombian drug merchants. He had made alternate airline reservations; Laura had purchased her
ticket in Nassau. On their mid-afternoon Avianca
flight to Barranquilla, she sat on the aisle, a row to
his rear.
Once airborne, she changed the seating arrangement. “I told the stewardess I just had to meet you.
I said you were a photographer for Playboy.” She
smiled at the businessman who had exchanged places
with her.
“I know. I promised him your picture.”
“Nude!”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s horrible.”
“I don’t have a camera.”
“A promise is a promise.”
“Just a joke.”
“It might be fun.” She squeezed his hand.
————
Upon landing at the Ernesto Cortiosoz Airport,
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SHELDON YAVITZ
they provided immigration with disinformation. Stan
produced a SAM ticket confirming a next day departure to Bogota. Laura gave the Hotel El Centro as her
local address in Barranquilla. Their true destination,
Santa Marta.
————
Brujo Bella, energetic, short, and barrel-chested
with salt-and-pepper hair and beard, paced on the
concourse outside the custom’s exit. Brujo was a
chauffeur and translator for Stan’s drug trafficker clients in Santa Marta, and revered as a Santeria Godfather. A self-professed soothsayer, he fixed all ills
from a painful hangnail to a minor court case. He
scanned the modern facility, the offshoot of a nouveau riche drug economy, and occasionally stopped
to chat with passers-by. “You’ll get lost.” He patted a
young child’s backside. “Hurry to your mother.”
Upon seeing Stan, he muscled his way into the
gathered crowd. His head thrust forward like battering ram. He embraced him in a bear hug. “Welcome,
Doctor.”
“Good to be back.”
————
Brujo’s finger traced the creases of Laura’s right
palm. “You’re as pretty as picture, but not the Doctor’s wife,” he said, having met Sue Ann on a trip to
Florida. “You’re little more than a child, but not his
daughter,” he chuckled, also having met Kimberly.
“He’s the love of your life,” he smiled, a charismatic
191
grin, presuming that she must be his girlfriend.
Laura’s jaw dropped. “Stan, your friend is awesome.”
His heavy-lidded eyes twinkled, accentuated by
deep-furrowed wrinkles. “You’re between jobs,” he
continued, concluding Stan supported his young mistress. “You are a model.” His grip on her hand tightened. “No, you’re in movies.” She nervously fluffed
her long, brown hair. He sensed her anxiety. “You are
a one man’s woman.”
“He’s wonderful.”
“The Eighth Wonder of the World,” Stan said.
“Enough, a humble gift.” Brujo reached for her
tote bag. “We have a long drive tonight.”
————
The route out of the city by-passed the industrial and commercial centers. Upon exiting the airport parking area, the late model Chevrolet Caprice
sedan turned onto an urban gridlocked thoroughfare.
“Brujo used to be a New York cabbie,” Stan
said.
“Six years.” He twisted to face rearward as he
spoke to his back seat passengers. “La pinga!” He
slammed on the brakes. The car nose-dived missing
the vehicle dead ahead. He gunned the engine, veered
into the fast lane. Tires screeched; horns blared.
Brujo cursed and shot a clenched fist.
Laura clutched Stan’s arm, her knuckles white.
“Don’t worry. He also reads the future.”
“She’ll live to be ninety, not a day less. It’s in
her palm.”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“See, Brujo’s driving doesn’t matter.” Stan
glanced out the rear window. He would look again
and again until satisfied that they were not being followed.
With the crossing of the Puente de Pumarejo
Bridge spanning the Magdalena River, the city lights
gradually faded, and Stan slumped on the soft cushion finally relaxed. They were on the coast road to
Santa Marta, entering the heartland of marijuana traffickers; no U.S. agents in that hostile country.
————
It was shortly after Dutch went to prison that
Stan represented his first major drug smuggler, Rudy
“Red” Roth, a craggy-faced skipper, a former backhoe operator and construction worker.
On Christmas morning, Stan received a telephone call from jail. Roth and his crew had been
arrested near Haulover Inlet, north of Miami Beach.
His sportfisherman seized and ten thousand pounds
of marijuana confiscated. It seemed that Roth, the
good father and family man, had rushed home for the
Holidays, a costly mistake.
During a pretrial motion to suppress hearing,
Stan found the key to his client’s defense. A Coast
Guard officer testified to sighting a 45-foot Chris
Craft with a tournament-style flybridge and outriggers. He described the vessel as riding low in the
water and wallowing, indicative of a heavily laden
drug cargo. “The only boat out on Christmas Eve,”
he volunteered.
Stan inquired whether Roth had made a state-
193
ment.
“He said they had found the marijuana on an
island and were bringing it in for the reward money,”
the witness replied with a snicker.
“When did Roth make the statement?”
“At the time of the boarding. Bales were everywhere.”
“Did he make it again?”
“Yes. At our office during interrogation.”
“Has it been reduced to writing?”
“ It’s in my notes. I thought it was funny.
————
Realistically, the evidence appeared overwhelming, but reputations are made on hard cases. Stan
hired a consulting psychologist to assist in picking
a jury. The goal to find jurors antagonistic to each
other, who would polarize their deliberations with
personal feuds and evidentiary conflicts. All they
needed was one irate holdout voting for not guilty.
A person who might believe that Roth and his fishing buddies had found the marijuana and innocently
were after the reward money. The selection process
took longer than the trial. The object a mistrial and
at best, an acquittal. After 21 hours of yelling and
swearing, an exhausted, angry panel returned with a
not guilty on all counts. One persuasive diehard with
a two-by-four disposition had swayed the others.
Of course, that was a gentler, more mellow time.
“A sporting atmosphere,” Stan recalled. No drug war,
a less sophisticated public, and in this instance, no
“mad dog” prosecutor.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
Roth became a walking, breathing advertisement. By word of mouth Stan’s reputation spread
throughout the fledgling South Florida drug smuggling community. Boat captains, pilots and entrepreneurial criminals sought out his legal services.
One new client was Oscar Possick, a rotund
bully, five foot six with a 52-inch waist, nicknamed,
the round guy. A man, who while at a swank night
spot, complained of the service, and to show his
dissatisfaction urinated on the bar. The truth of the
story did not matter. It matched his persona, and as a
mourner later remarked at his funeral. “Oscar pissed
on everyone he ever met.”
Stan disagreed. For Possick had opened the door
to Colombia. His captain, crew and a 56-foot trawler
had been detained in Santa Marta, Colombia, a Caribbean coastal port at the foot of the Sierra Nevada,
a three-sided pyramid-shaped mountain range. On
the northern slopes, the farmers cultivate what some
consider the best marijuana grown in South America. To the east, the semi-desert La Guajira peninsula
sparsely populated by nomadic Indians. A lawless,
no man’s land of few roads, but a maze of clandestine
airstrips.
“A simple job, an immigration violation,” Possick had said. “You will deal with my Colombian
lawyer.” He twisted a curl in his knotty perm. “A
couple of days work.”
Stan never would meet any local attorney.
Instead, he found himself living at the home of Pedro
Santana, and dealing directly with the drug boss. He
had entered a “Wild West” arena of armed drug traf-
195
fickers, vigilante-style police with their roadblock
checkpoints “retenes” and on the spot arrests, warring communist guerrillas, pickpockets as prevalent
as fleas, and robbers and muggers praying on the
unwary.
“An interesting place,” Stan would remark.
“Then, I spoke a poor Spanish, but knew how to say
“no” in an authoritative manner. No one bothered
me. They say I had the look of a mafioso from Cali. I
guess it was the boots and dark glasses.”
The price for the freedom of the captain and
crew was one hundred thousand dollars, according to
Santana. He demanded that Possick pay the money
in advance.
When Stan telephoned his client, Possick replied
that he didn’t have the cash, couldn’t raise it, and
whined that unknown to the Colombians, the captain
was his brother-in-law. “You’ve got to save him. I’ll
double the fee, anything.”
“Throw in the Shelby-Mustang convertible.”
“That’s my baby, a GT-350.” In the background,
Stan could hear a woman’s hysterical sobs. “Okay,
my wife’s half-crazy over this crap. You got it. Now,
get him the fuck home.”
Through Brujo, the interpreter, Stan cajoled,
bargained and finally persuaded the crime boss to
front the money in exchange for a drug load and a
larger slice of the proceeds. Ten long days after, Santana obtained the release of the three crewmen and
brought them to a small, stucco apartment house in
the red-light district.
Stan and Brujo joined them. “Where’s the cap-
196
SHELDON YAVITZ
tain?” He asked.
“First the money, then the captain,” Santana
growled. He registered a beefy five foot ten, in excess
of 210 pounds with olive skin, a stubby neck and
a striking bullet-shaped head. “Money, now!” He
pounded a fist into his palm.
Stan stared into a fleshy face dominated by a
mustache. A scar ran from the corner of his left eye
to a firmly set chin.
As the shabby apartment overflowed with henchmen and gawkers, Santana grew louder, his tone
more menacing. Stan forced a calm to his voice, and
remained steadfast. The drug boss cursed, threw up
his hands, and stormed from the living room shoving
an underling out of his path. A door slammed. The
crowded, sweltering room heightened the tension.
“Pay him, man!” One of the crew pleaded.
“Stop fuckin’ with that asshole!” Another said.
“Brujo mopped his brow. “Pedro doesn’t bluff.”
In a corner, a man had his hand up a buxom
young hooker’s skirt. From a back room, Santana
emerged slapping a clip into a 9 mm semiautomatic.
He ordered the crew members lined up, seated against
a wall. Furniture was moved, kitchen chairs arranged.
A painting of Jesus hung above their heads. A bare
light bulb glared from a dangling ceiling fixture.
Scowling, Santana clicked off the safety.
Fritz, the old sea dog, squirmed, a noticeable
tic in his weather-beaten face. Carlyle, shirtless, his
ebony skin bathed in sweat, mumbled under his
breath, praying.
“Unless, I get the money.” Santana’s jaw moved
197
in a grinding motion. “This worthless scum’s dead!”
Brujo paraphrased his words into English. Stan
listened; his hands stuffed in his pockets. The hem
of the prostitute’s dress had been hoisted to her red
panties. Mark, the youngest crewman, shivered. He
had a lean, hungry look and matted, long sandy hair.
“Do what you want,” Stan said.
“No, man, no!” Mark’s chin quivered.
Santana stepped in front of Fritz, pressing the
gun to the center of his forehead. All the color
drained from the old man’s visage. “Pay the bugger,”
he said, his lips twisted.
Stan shook his head. The crime boss swung the
firearm in Mark’s direction. The youth trembled convulsively. Santana aimed the weapon. A strong offensive odor filled the air.
“Filthy pig!”
“Interpret that, please,” Stan asked Brujo, feigning indifference.
The Colombian unleashed his wrath on the
black. He mauled his face in a massive grip, yanked
the man’s head upward and back, striking the wall
with a bone-crushing thud. The gilt-framed Jesus
tilted from impact. Santana jammed the gun barrel
into the dazed Bahamian’s mouth. Carlyle gagged,
choking on blue steel. His arms hung limp by the
sides of the chair.
“I’m going to kill him!” Santana’s gross belly
heaved over a large silver belt buckle. Stan shrugged,
and the gunman wheeled at him. “Cabron! Motherfucking Gringo!” The scar on his face pulsated. He
raised and pointed the nine millimeter.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
The crowd scattered. Some men moved behind
Santana; others stood beside their leader. Stan noticed
one snicker; another laugh. Several uttered unintelligible words in Spanish. The young prostitute fingered a cross hung on a chain around her neck.
“I guess he wants to kill me,” Stan said to
Brujo, momentarily questioning his judgment call.
He smiled faintly, felt a rush of excitement. “Tell him
I can deal with that.”
“You’re crazy!”
“Tell him!”
Brujo translated verbatim. Santana pulled the
trigger. Stan could smell the cordite. The deafening
roar reverberated through his temples. His ears rang
with the report of the weapon.
The room grew silent. Stan looked down at
his hands, rock-steady. Santana stood motionless. “I
missed.” A grin slowly formed on his lips. “My kind
of man.” He hugged Stan. “You got giant cajones.”
He slapped his back.
————
Within an hour, the captain arrived, all smiles,
praising Santana, his savior and new friend. Apparently, unknown to the crew, but as Stan suspected,
he had been released a day early, held on his vessel
under guard for his “protection,” allowing the drug
dealer’s extortion attempt.
Joseph Dubinsky, the rescued sea captain, was
a welder by trade, a sculptor by preference, and a
drug smuggler for the money. He would stay on in
Colombia working for Santana. Paying off his debt,
199
he termed it. An ambitious man, he would marry
Santana’s baby sister, a local beauty with her big
brother’s temper. His surprising business acumen
soon turned Santana’s small-scale operation into a
megabuck criminal enterprise. Stan continued on as
his attorney, and in time, introduced Dutch to the by
then partners. Dubinsky now used the moniker Jose
D.
The crew, to a man, never again ventured into
drug smuggling. Fritz returned to New England and
the safety of lobster pots. Carlyle became a hotel
clerk and Mark, a union plumber. “If I got to deal
with shit, let it be in a toilet,” he would say.
All three would remember Stan as a coldblooded son-of-a-bitch, who gambled their lives
rather than pay the money.
————
They had arrived in El Rodadero, a fashionable
beach resort, about three miles south of Santa Marta.
The car pulled into an underground parking garage of
a fifteen-story, terraced high-rise. Santana once lived
in one of the apartments. Now the partners owned the
entire building.
“Dutch is already here,” Brujo said. “A fifthfloor apartment. We had planned for you to share it.”
Laura raised a hand to her mouth as if in pain.
“Can’t we stay somewhere else?” She ran a thumb
up and down her cleavage. Stan reached for the door
handle. “Please, honey.” She bit a fingernail.
He paused, shrugged. “Maybe a hotel would be
better.” Stan observed a surveillance camera and a
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SHELDON YAVITZ
security guard with an M-16 slung from his shoulder.
A thirty-round assault rifle in an exclusive neighborhood.
“You and your señorita should have your privacy.” He sat behind the wheel, staring blindly at
concrete. “Dutch probably has putas coming out of
the woodwork. No place for a lady.” He turned and
smiled. “We have a penthouse. The Boss saves for
special guests.” He snapped his fingers. “Señor D.
told me to give you the best.”
CHAPTER NINE
Wealth had brought Dutch confidence and freedom. Living on a Caribbean island had added a touch
of unreality. A king-size egotism found expression in
the production of a training video. The project took a
year in the making, and a cost in excess of 350,000
dollars.
At their meeting with Santana and Jose D., the
video blossomed into the initial topic of conversation.
“Did you bring your masterpiece?” Jose D.
asked. “We’re dying to see it.” He still had his boyish
grin and thick, wavy black hair, but his athletic build
supported a bulging middle; Jose D. attributed his
bulk to rice, beans and beefsteak. Santana ascribed it
to blintzes and his hot-blooded sister turned Jewish
mamma.
“Destroyed!” Dutch grimaced, as a hanger-on
rolled a television and videocassette player into the
office.
“Carajo!”
“Stan made me do it. Too incriminating.” Gloom
washed over his face. “I’ll tell you this.” He shook
an index finger. “If Goldie had taken my training
course, he wouldn’t have lost the load.”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“Really!” Jose D. arched an eyebrow. “I just
read in your Miami Herald about a drug smuggler
who held a training seminar, even had a video.”
“Hotshot Larson, right?”
Jose D. nodded. “It was infiltrated by the DEA.
Everyone busted.”
“Poor schmuck.”
“For a moment, I thought it was you using some
alias.”
Dutch scratched his double chin. “I told him my
idea,” he smiled. “I bet he stole it.”
————
The video tape project started with a dinner
comment. “Amateurs are ruining the business,” Hog
remarked. “They have no ethics, sell inferior product, bungle, get busted, turn into snitches.”
“Fuck um or train them. That’s the solution.”
The idea sparked, then kindled and finally
ignited into a concept as Dutch decided that vocational training should be required for novice smugglers. He fashioned a curriculum, prepared lectures,
suggested seminars and eventually produced a video
presentation.
One evening on his yacht, he played it for Stan.
He had locked the main salon door, drawn the curtains, dimmed the lights and ordered the maid from
the vessel during the sneak preview. At the time,
Reggie had returned to England; her wifely visits
short and noticeably infrequent. Dutch inserted the
cassette in the VCR.
On the television appeared a twin-engine Beech-
203
craft flying low over the water. The picture quickly
shifted to a high-performance speedboat racing
toward a coastline, and faded to another aircraft lifting off a narrow, dirt airstrip. Stan recognized the
plane as Dutch’s Aero Commander and the runway,
a clandestine site in the Guajira. The title flashed on
the screen: SMUGGLING AS A PROFESSION.
The camera panned a crowded auditorium and
zoomed in on a speaker standing behind a lectern
wearing horn-rimmed glasses, a dark suit and striped
tie. The American flag served as a backdrop.
“What in the hell is this?” Stan grumbled as
Dutch’s face came into focus.
“Looks real, eh. trick photography, stock footage, canned applause, super professional.”
Stan slouched in a chair watching the televised
lecture.
“In smuggling as in any career, you start at the
bottom and get on the fast track.” Dutch grinned
awkwardly at the viewer. “The key is an introduction to a major Colombian drug trafficker. It’s like
a Hollywood starlet discovered by a producer.” He
chuckled, cleared his throat. “It changes you from an
employee to a good old American entrepreneur, who
can buy directly from the source and ship to his own
lucrative markets.”
The scene changed and Dutch reappeared as a
sea captain. Binoculars suspended from a strap hung
around his neck. He posed before a wall-size map of
the Bahamas islands holding in one hand a marker
pencil. As he explained the tactical aspects of an
off-load operation, Dutch, stylizing a TV weather-
204
SHELDON YAVITZ
man, drew with a flourish symbols, circles, lines and
arrows delineating on the map the movement of vessels converging on a drug-carrying mother ship. “It’s
a naval maneuver.” He snapped his suspenders.
“Suspenders!”
“It’s a movie. You know nothing about acting. I
can see that.”
The next sequence featured an airdrop with
Dutch, in a voice-over, giving a play-by-play description of the action. His Cessna 210 dove out of
the clouds swooping across the bow of a Sun Ray
Express Cruiser. It trailed simulated bales of marijuana dropping like paratroopers in an invasion.
“Notice, Stan,” Dutch said. “I altered my plane’s
N number. You can’t be too careful.”
The video ran for almost an hour and finally
concluded as Dutch, dressed in a sports jacket and
bedecked in gold chains, sat on a stool and spoke in
a conversational tone to his television audience.
“Take some advice from a successful veteran.”
His voice gushed with sincerity. “Study economics,
learn your markets, consumer trends and pricing.
Emphasize quality control and packaging. Just
remember: A satisfied buyer is a repeat customer.”
The camera followed Dutch from the sound
stage out the rear entrance into the arms of a ravishing redhead. A blond, in chauffeur’s garb, opened
the rear door to a white Mercedes stretch limousine.
Dutch turned and faced the viewers.
“Smuggling pays,” he said, grinning like the cat
that ate the canary, “when you are a professional.”
When the video ended, Dutch applauded. “I
205
should be up for an EMMY.” He got up, flicked on a
table lamp, then another. “This little gem cost me a
small fortune. I hired a director and film crew from
Paris, couldn’t speak a word of English.” He walked
over to a highly polished, brass inlaid bar. “Necessary for security. Hog interpreted,” he continued,
fixing a gin and tonic. “Also bought them off with
gobs of cash.” He plopped ice cubes into a second
glass. “Had Hog pay them a special visit, showed
them pictures of their kids, wives and mothers.” He
poured Myers’s rum and added a splash of diet cola.
“I don’t know what he said, but that boy’s convincing.” Dutch laughed and waited for Stan’s reaction.
He sat in a recliner, slowly rocking.
“Took a lot of precautions.” Dutch handed Stan
the rum and coke. “I kept the master, the copies,
scripts, notes, everything. Held the movie people
incommunicado. Before they left, went through their
luggage. Strip searched them so they couldn’t hide a
thing.” He sprawled on the sofa; his legs outstretched.
“Personally searched the girl that came along with
them. Got her naked, examined her like a prison
matron. Gave me the excuse to fuck her.” He held up
his hands obscenely squeezing his fingers. “Tits like
melons.” He stared at a moth on the drapery. “She
just laid there, a dead fish, cold as ice.” He shook his
head. “Didn’t even have to slap her.”
Stan remained silent, sipping his drink, slowly
rocking.
“What do you think?”
“French women are probably no different than
any others. No one likes being brutalized.”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“No! I mean the video.”
“A splendid performance, a work of art.”
Dutch’s grin broadened. “It’s my contribution to
the business that made me what I am.”
“It will look great at your trial. I’m sure the
judge will be impressed when he hands you a life
sentence.”
“You don’t understand?”
“I understand fully. It’s one of the most incriminating documents that I have ever seen.”
“I thought you loved it?”
“It will make you famous. Nixon had his Watergate tapes and you, your own movie. I can see it now
written up in every law journal.” Stan rose, walked
over and peered down at Dutch, sunk into the sofa,
teeth clenched, and a face painfully drawn. “You
remind me of the mass murderer I represented. You
remember that guy who tape-recorded the details of
his murders thinking that one day his life story would
be made into a motion picture.”
Dutch clutched a couch pillow, numbed by his
lawyer’s insensitivity and the visualization of himself in a courtroom cringing as he watched his video
on a television set.”
“The police discovered the tape. The prosecutor used it during the trial. My client wasn’t smiling
when they played it for the jury.”
“I’m not some crazy fuck!”
“You’ve got a master, copies, file cabinets filled
with seminar material. Each one’s a potential witness. As you always say: the best witness is a dead
one.”
207
“Are you telling me to destroy my tapes, all my
shit?”
“You’re sharper than Nixon.”
“Dutch cocked an eyebrow.
————
Late that night, the two men left Dutch’s Hatteras motor yacht crossing the dock to a neighboring
slip. They made repeated trips carrying cardboard
boxes which they loaded aboard a Sea Ray Express
Cruiser.
Dutch maneuvered the Sea Ray into the channel. Its sleek profile and eye-catching arched spoiler
silhouetted against the lights of Nassau Harbour. The
big block engines churned the water. with a thundering roar and stinging spray, the sport boat streaked
out into the Atlantic.
As the vessel idled miles at sea, a life raft was
thrown overboard, then loaded with cartons, doused
with gasoline and set adrift. Dutch fired a flare gun,
and the raft ignited consuming in flames his vocational training project.
“I really enjoyed making that movie,” Dutch
said to Stan. “Just a setback. Movie making’s in my
blood.”
————
The meeting was being held in an upstairs office
at Santana’s wholesale food warehouse. A corrugated
steel structure, 30,000 square feet, Stan guessed.
Trucks were backed into loading bays. Forklifts
208
SHELDON YAVITZ
moved heavily laden pallets. Sweating laborers toiled
carrying cartons and wooden crates. A stocky, bullnecked foreman, his face buried under a broad
brimmed hat, scurried about shouting orders. Barbed
wire fencing encircled the premise. Armed guards
patrolled, one with a Doberman pincher. The warehouse situated east of the local bus station in the redlight district, a section of Santa Marta described as
the “roughest.”
Santana’s roots sprung from the neighboring
ghetto. “I’m a man of the people,” he would remark.
“Beloved, admired.” At opposite corners of the room
stood burly bodyguards, Santana look alikes. A .38
caliber revolver and a semiautomatic conspicuously
displayed.
He sat with his dirty boots propped upon an
antique, well-worn desk, leaning back in a swivel
chair. To his right, a barred window. “What took you
so long to prove up the loss?” Santana spoke in a
broken English, toying with a stiletto.
“I told you from the get go that load went overboard. Lost. “Comprende?”
“Bullshit!” He used the stiletto for punctuation.
The chair squeaked with his every movement. A
henchman shifted uneasily like an overtrained watchdog.
“I’d expect you boys to believe me.” Dutch
raised his hands in a placating gesture. “I’ve paid you
millions, twenty-five, thirty. Who’s counting.” He
turned to Jose D., feigned a hurt expression. “Paid off
the last bill like clockwork.”
“Look, Dutch, you know we always require
209
proof.” Jose D. puffed on a Miami made Afuente
cigar, inhaling the semisweet aroma. “We’re all businessmen here.”
“I had to wait until our lawyer honored us with
his august presence.”
Jose D. held the cigar between his thumb and
first three fingers. His eyes narrowed contemplating
the inch long gray ash. Stan removed a thick file from
his attaché case and gave it to Santana.
As the drug dealer dug through the military and
police reports, his demeanor darkened. He squinted,
frowned and pursed his lips. He ran a fat finger over
an embossed seal, tore out a page and held it up to
a fluorescent lamp examining a signature and watermark impression. Brujo tracked his every reaction.
Stan wondered whether the Godfather had pitched
sea shells for clues to the outcome.
“I can’t read this!” He tossed the file to Jose D.
“It’s all in French,” Jose D. muttered.
“God, you guys are dumb,” Dutch smirked.
“Quite official,” Stan said. “I had a Spanish
translation prepared. It’s included, or do you simply
want a summary?”
“Tell us what they say.”
“We’ll take your word,” Jose D. added.
“But not mine?”
“Caramba!” Santana thrust the knife into the
glossy desk top.
Stan smiled as he flipped open the file. “According to the reports,” he said, speaking in Spanish,
“they estimate 8,000 pounds on the vessel at time
of boarding.” He thumbed from one page to another
210
SHELDON YAVITZ
until locating the translation. “5,000 found stacked on
the beach. Apparently, they tried to save the cargo.”
Stan observed Dutch’s childish pout. “3 to 5,000
ripped off according to my source, President Duvalier’s right-hand man. 1,500 recovered from locals.
The balance cast overboard. It littered the beaches as
far as Cap-Haitien.”
Santana jerked the pigsticker from the scar
marred surface. “We will make it up on the next
one.” He slipped the stiletto into his boot. The guards
caught the signal and exited the room.
“Make it a big one. Fifty thousand,” Dutch
grinned.
“Love it!” Jose D. rubbed his palms together.
He wore a sport shirt hanging over Levis and leather
thong sandals. Behind him a large metal sculpture,
a surrealistic headless horseman, rested on a carved
stone base. Jose D’s tribute to Oscar Possick decapitated in a gangland-style slaying.
————
A dusty Chevrolet sedan pulled to the curb
before an oceanfront apartment complex. Dutch and
Stan exited the rear and watched as Brujo made a
U-turn, swerved, barely missing an ice cream vender’s cart, then roared off burning rubber.
“A fuckin’ maniac!”
“Divinely driven,” Stan chuckled. “I’m thirsty.”
“Gives us a chance to talk alone. I’ve never
trusted that hocus-pocus bullshitter.”
They walked the short distance to the beach.
An open-air cafe attracted their attention. A friendly
211
waiter extended a warm greeting. A tip ensured a
table with a view.
Stan relaxed watching the sights. He ordered a
rum and coke. “Make it, Ron Medellin.” Dutch settled for a gin and tonic, and pointed out women who
caught his eye. “Look at that ass. Hey, see the tits on
that slut. That stuck-up bitch needs a good beating.”
El Rodadero was a typical tourist resort. Sun
worshippers sprawled on blankets or reclining chairs,
bathers frolicking or snorkeling in the emerald-clear
water. Children building sand castles or playing with
beach balls.
“It’s 3:57,” Dutch said, checking his Rolex.
Venders and sidewalk musicians roamed among the
strollers. “Unbelievable results. If I had known they
were that gullible, I would have pulled the con long
ago.” He twitched his mustache. “Two million plus
saved is two million plus earned.” He slapped the
table, emitted a low rumbling laugh.
“You can’t argue with official documents.
Etched in stone.”
“If you say so, Counselor.”
“Don’t underestimate Jose.”
“Listen, my mother’s Yiddish, I can keep up
with the best of them.” Stan nursed his drink, ignored
the bravado. “Anyhow, I appreciate what you did. For
a while, I doubted you chose me over them.”
“Let’s say it took close to,” he paused, pressing
fingers to his forehead, “ten years to even an old
score.”
“You vindictive bastard!” A wily smile crossed
Dutch’s lips. “Pedro shot at you. Didn’t he?”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“Now, it’s settled.” Stan had a faraway stare.
The ocean shimmered in the late afternoon sun. The
sand had a luminous white tinge, wispy mare’s-tails
30,000 feet above sea level. “Don’t ever ask me
again.” He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar.
“Deposit the money you owe me to my account in
Panama.”
Their conversation turned to the Canadian investigation. According to Dutch, the RCMP had reached
a dead end. Both the pilot and copilot hiding out
in the U.S. The only question: how long Daddio
McGovern could retain control over the men.
“Daddio’s my main man, a rock, rules with an
iron hand. Case closed,” Dutch smiled, his tone selfassured.
The discussion shifted to Cuba. Earlier that day
at the Banco de la Republica, Stan had confirmed
by a key test Telex Dutch’s final payment of the
overflight money. “First Caracas, then Cuba within a
week.”
“Why Caracas?”
“Part of my cover.”
“You have never explained how you do it.”
“That’s the art of a secret agent,” Stan grinned a
playful grin.
“With all your money and professional position,
I can’t understand why you take such risks.”
Stan removed his dark glasses. “I have a character flaw.” Dutch interrupted to order another round
of drinks. “I simply get bored.” His lips tightened.
“Can’t stand being behind a desk.”
“Go mountain climbing, scuba diving, jump out
213
of an airplane. It’s less dangerous, my friend.”
“I’m too clumsy,” he shrugged, putting on his
sunglasses. He finger-tapped the table, momentarily
distracted by gulls wheeling aloft. One tipped its
wings, swooped skimming the waves. “I don’t know
how long our Cuban deal will last.” His observation
paving the groundwork in the event of the Colonel’s
defection forcing a termination of their operation.
“Times are changing.” Dutch gulped down his
liquor.
“Containerizing the shipments that’s the
future.”
“I’ve been thinking the same. Hey! Look at
that fox in the bikini,” Dutch said, pointing to a
long-haired brunette wrapping a sarong around her
waist. “What a butt!” She picked up a shopping bag.
“C’mon, babe, show us those hooters.” Gucci sandals
dangled from her fingertips. “Sex in motion.” The
curvaceous suntanned girl turned. “That’s Laura!”
Dutch got to his feet, whistled. “Laura! Over here!”
He whistled again, gestured wildly. “Shit, what I’d
like to do to her.” If he noticed Stan seething, it didn’t
faze him. “Name the price.”
“She’s retired,” Stan said as Laura returned the
wave.
He dropped in the chair. “You’re shitting me!”
“I said retired.”
Laura smiled, began to approach them, stopped
to give a small boy a few pesos.
“Why’s she wasting her time with that fuckin’
glue sniffer?” He grabbed Stan’s wrist. “You’re
fuckin’ with me.”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
He shoved his hand away. “Are you deaf?”
The men rose as Laura joined them. She gave
Stan a long wet kiss. Dutch held out a chair. “See,
I’ve reformed, a perfect gentleman. We were raving
about this gorgeous lady,” he grinned, a beguiling
grin. “Low and behold it’s my favorite hooker.” He
motioned to a waiter.
“I’ve quit. Didn’t Stan tell you?”
Dutch shrugged as a waiter took their drink
order. Laura requested an aguardiente, a local liquor
flavored with anis, and Dutch, a double. “Gee, I’m
sorry to hear that,” he shook his head, his expression
downcast. “You’re at your peak.” His eyes narrowed.
“What a waste of a well-trained ass and pussy.”
“Shut up!” Stan snapped.
“Tut-tut, aren’t we protective.” Dutch folded his
arms on his chest, smirked as drinks were served.
“What’s in the bag?” He asked.
“A present. A present for Stan.”
“C’mon, little girl. Let me guess.” He cocked
his head, hummed softly. “It’s either a big black dildo
or cuffs?”
Laura’s smile soured. “A Polaroid camera, Mr.
Foulmouth.” A frown touched Stan’s brow. He suddenly regretted teasing her on the airplane. “I want to
be a model.”
“You need a real pro. Photography’s my game.”
Laura tugged at an ear. “I didn’t know that.”
“It’s my bag, just made a first-rate video. I’m in
all the major publications. Photo spreads in Swank,
International, Hot Buns, from soft-core to beaver
shots,” Dutch rattled on with one falsehood after
215
another. “I can make you a star.” Laura flipped her
tinted glasses on top of her head. “A porn star.” She
looked at Stan and rolled her eyes upward. “Didn’t
you just make a fuck film?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about?” A
bare foot jiggled; she touched her warm neck.
“Fess up! Angela told me about your X-rated
movie.” There was relish in his voice; he spoke
with the arrogance of a prosecutor. “Triple X.” He
thumped a finger with a holier than thou attitude.
“Hard-core smut!”
“Liar! Angela would never say that.”
“She’s ass whipped, gang banged.” He waved
away a waiter lured by the outburst. “Do you want to
hear more?”
Stan stared at a sea bird pecking at a crumpled
popcorn sack. A Latin rhythm played over the cafe
stereo system. The beach crowd had vanished. He
wished that he was elsewhere. Laura sighed watching both men over the rim of her aguardiente glass.
“Angela’s going to get me a copy. I’ve offered
five thousand.” He cracked his knuckles; Laura closed
her eyes. “I’ll go ten, even twenty. It’s a porn classic.”
“Fat prick!”
“Damn you!” Stan spit. “Her past is dead.” He
gritted his teeth. “It doesn’t matter,” he said getting
up from the chair. “I’ll see you later.” He reached for
his briefcase. Laura bent down to slip on a sandal.
“What, the hell, is taking you so long?” He plunged
a clenched fist deep in his pocket.
“Have a nice day,” Dutch smiled benignly.
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————
The elevator droned upward to the penthouse.
They stood in a rococo envelop of mirrors, wood and
brass. Laura fiddled with her hair. Stan answered her
with one-word curtness. Dark glasses concealed his
growing irritability.
Upon entering the apartment, Laura set the
package on a coffee table. “Open the box, honey,
read the instructions,” she said, removing her sarong.
She had lapsed into a whore’s nonchalance that Stan
found so annoying. “I’m going to take a shower,” she
smiled, looking over her bare shoulder. “Join me.”
“Not now.”
“I’ll make it unforgettable.”
“No!” His eyes followed her sensual figure; her
one last glance before closing the door. He threw his
attaché case on the sofa. It bounced once, then settled
into the soft cushion. You’re acting like a self-righteous chump, he chided himself. He stepped out on
the terrace and placed the camera box on a wrought
iron table. He pulled up a patio rocker, sat down and
propped his booted foot on the railing.
The pornographic video gnawed like a toothache, another complication. Stan leaned forward
flicking sand off his python-skinned boot toe. He
had planned for Laura to accompany him to Venezuela. Jose D. had agreed to furnish false identification
papers. A prudent measure to ensure her anonymity.
Now, he questioned his decision. His thoughts interrupted by the sound of the sliding glass partition.
“Have you read the instructions?” Laura asked.
She wore one of his dress shirts, pale blue, unbut-
217
toned. A loosely knotted tie hung about the collar.
She moved over to the table, pried up the box top and
removed the camera. “It’s got an auto focus, a pop-up
flash.” She held it to her eye. “It’s wonderful, Stan.
Take my picture.”
“Not now.”
“Over-dressed,” she giggled. Laura undid the tie
draping it over a white resin chair back. She started
to slip off her shirt.
“Not now, I said.” He sat up abruptly. A boot
heel scraped the outdoor carpet.
She clutched the oversized garment tightly
around her and stepped to the railing. “The beach
was great.” She threw her arms above her head and
stretched. “The water warm.” She turned and faced
him. “You’re mad at me.”
“Just tired. A tough day.”
“My poor baby.” She knelt before him, and
reached for his zipper.
“Not now.”
“You’re mad at me!” She looked up at him with
large brown eyes. He shrugged. “Are you going to
punish me?” She bit her lip.
His hands cupped her face. “I couldn’t do that.”
“Even if I deserve it?”
“For what?”
“Being a slut.” Her voice faltered. “That’s what
I am. Dutch knows it. You’re the only one who
doesn’t see it.”
“I see what I want to see.”
“Do you want me to tell you what happened?”
“No. Your business is your business.”
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She got to her feet, moved over and sat down
on a patio recliner. “I’ve been working for over five
years.” She fixed her eyes on the putting green textured floor covering. “I never told you, but my aunt
introduced me to hooking.” She brushed her nose
against a shirt sleeve. “My dad won’t speak to us.
He’s sort of old-fashioned. You’d like him.”
Stan nodded avoiding any further inquiry. He
didn’t want to listen. The past is best left unspoken.
“I always enjoyed the work.” Laura pulled up
her legs planting the soles of her bare feet on the
cushion. “It’s the best way I found to make a good
living.” She wrapped her arms about her knees. Stan
smiled, a weak smile. “Before Dutch, I was slapped
around.” She wiggled her red painted toes. “You try
to be careful. It goes with the territory. Dutch, that
was weird.” She shut her eyes unable to look at him.
“So crazy, so animal.” Stan tilted back in his chair.
His left foot pressed against the railing. “I felt so
guilty.” She buried her face in her knees. “I think I
wanted it.” Her words barely audible. Stan scratched
his chin, aware of a five o’clock stubble. “Angela
explained it all to me.” Stan would detect more than
a hint of hysteria as Laura related Angela’s twist on
the sexually abusive encounter. “Angela calls me a
bottom.” Laura rested her chin on her knees. “She
said I should admit it and come out of the closet.”
She laughed hoarsely, stared into space. “I even paid
her to find out if pain’s a turn-on.” She tucked her
legs under her buttocks. “Can’t reach an orgasm, but
as Angela says it makes me feel clean.” She chewed
on a fingernail. “Like confession. It takes time, she
219
told me.”
“Angela sounds like a con artist.”
“You’re wrong! She’s so smart.”
He walked over to the railing and looked down
fifteen stories to the street below. “Who’s Angela?”
“The girl at Dutch’s birthday party, the redhead.”
“Uh-huh,” he muttered. “Yeah, I remember.”
Once again, the sidewalks crowded with tourists and
vendors in motion, storefronts lit and striped awnings
raised. The night life of a resort in full swing. “I
guess you told your friend about the video?” He
asked, but expected a different explanation.
“No, Stan. It was Angela’s idea. It began as a
sex show for some wealthy old farts out at Lyford
Cay.”
“Near the golf course?”
“That’s the place. A big house, bundles of
money. They offered us more than we could make in
two months.” Laura stood up; her hands on her hips.
“All old men, kinky voyeurs. It was all pretty innocent, everything simulated. Angela, the dom; me, the
bottom.” Her fingers slipped under her shirt caressing a nipple. “Acting, sort of fun, erotic.”
Stan gazed at the darkening sky with its shifting
cloud pattern. Laura continued with her confession.
He wanted to get up and run.
“The next time, I wanted no part of it.” Her
voice timid, groping for words. “Angela said the men
were unhappy. They wanted the real thing. I said
no, sir.” She moved closer to Stan and precariously
leaned over the railing. “They double, tripled the
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SHELDON YAVITZ
money. The more I said no, the more they offered. I
said to myself, for one night’s work I can retire.” A
gust of wind blew at her loose shirt. It billowed in
the breeze. She struggled with the fabric, flung it off
dropping the shirt on a lounge chair. “Angela promised she wouldn’t hurt me. Only a few bruises and
these cute little handcuffs.” She placed a hand on
his shoulder. “It was pretty rough.” She took a deep
breath. “There could have been a camera.”
“They’re hard to miss.”
“I was pretty busy.” She tossed her head. “There
were these oriental partitions set up, bright lights.”
“Could have been hidden.” He removed his
jacket and carelessly tossed the tailor-made garment
on the table covering the Polaroid.
“Most of the time I am blindfolded, cuffed, tied,
gagged.” Laura had a little lost girl look. “She had
me bent over this … this contraption. Men doing
me.” She watched Stan, but his face lacked expression.
“When the show’s over, boy, am I hurting,” she
moaned with an unabashed innocence. “Like the man
said: striped like a zebra.”
Stan stared at her, puzzled, struck by the odd,
but somehow familiar comment. “Who said that?”
“This freak!” She squeezed her thighs together.
“I’m laying on a bed. He comes in.”
“Still in the same house?”
“Yeah, but I’m all fucked up, out of my gourd.
Angela’s shot me up with this wild shit.”
“Do you know the drug?”
“She told me I was going to love it,” she hissed,
221
rolling her eyes for emphasis. “Did me like a drug
addict. Used a syringe. Someone knocked on the
door, gave it to her.” She swayed to and fro recreating the sensation. “A warm rush, my head’s spinning,
couldn’t move, dreamy, unreal.”
“Describe the man who said striped like a
zebra?”
“A man.” She wrinkled her nose. “Face fuzzy,
bushy white hair, white beard. Santa.” Her voice
broke. “Angela called him Santa! Spread for Santa.”
Her hands covered her pudendum. “Open wide for
Santa.”
“Hair, beard, fake, phony?”
“Could be,” Laura shrugged uncertain. “A fat
shit!” She searched her foggy memory. “Boat shoes. I
remember boat shoes.” Stan visualized Dutch. “Their
hands were all over me.” She closed her eyes, rocking back on her heels. “He’s hurting me, pawing my
butt.” She pulled her hair back tightly behind her
neck. “Angela’s tonguing me.” She arched her back;
her tresses fell free, sultry, swirling about her face.
“He’s on me!” She froze, then moved uneasily. “I
can feel his grossness.” She flinched, blanketing her
mouth with a hand. “Grunting, tearing into my booty.
Shit!”
“What’s new.”
“You hate me!” She turned away from him.
He watched as her hand slithered under his
jacket feeling for the camera. She found it, fidgeted,
dug her toes into the close-napped carpet. “I wanted
the money, wanted to quit.”
“They got what they paid for.”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
She leaned unsteadily against the table. “I didn’t
agree to any stupid video.” She crossed her bare legs
at the ankles, then nervously recrossed them. “The
bitch drugged me!” She stamped her foot. “That fat
shit fucked me unconscious. Like some damn necrophilic.”
“What do you want me to do? Sue!”
“I did it for you,” she sniffled. “I quit, damn it!”
She held the camera to her breast. “I’ve kept away
from Angela.” Her chin quivered; her bosom heaved.
“You don’t love me!” Her shoulders slumped forward. She burst into body-shuddering sobs.
Stan slowly rocked in his chair. “Forget it. We
don’t live in the past,” he finally said.
“You forgive me?” Laura blinked back tears.
“Why not? A job’s a job.”
She timorously moved toward him, sat down on
his lap cuddling like a rag doll. “I swear, Stan.” She
crossed her heart child-like. “I’ll never go out with
another man.” Her arm clutched his neck. “I won’t do
anything without your permission,” she murmured,
gently kissing him.
“Just stay away from Dutch and Angela.”
“Never again.” She nibbled on his ear. “As Mr.
Brujo said: I’m a one-man woman.”
Stan nodded, shrugged, smiled. “Honey, take
my picture.” She handed him the camera.
CHAPTER TEN
The stains of a rumba beat awakened Stan from
a late afternoon nap. For an instant thoughts of Cuba
cluttered his mind. He rubbed his gritty eyes and
groped for his eyeglasses finding them beside him on
the goose down comforter. He buttoned a westernstyle shirt, tucked the tails into his jeans and walked
from the bedroom.
On the second tier of his split-level villa, he
stopped, listening to stereo music. Stan looked down
on the living room with its casual contemporary
furniture of light finished woods, warm colors and
abstract-pattern fabrics. Framed modern art adorned
the walls. Pre-Colombian stone sculptures dominated
the decor; no trace of a roll top desk or stuffed animal
heads. This was the home of Sergio Ponton, his alias
identity, a worldly investigative journalist.
He tiptoed down the stairway, not wanting to
disturb Laura, who sat on the travestine marble floor
using a fossil base cocktail table as a desk. She wore
a pale lipstick shade, a ponytail, and his stonewashed
denim jacket unbuttoned. She was humming, writing, preoccupied, a hint of fingers.
Stan peered over her shoulder, scanning her
large, angular schoolgirl script. He noticed that she
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referred to him only by his first initial. Either cautious or a call girl’s penchant for confidentiality.
She flinched, suddenly aware of a presence.
“Oh, sweetheart.” She looked up and smiled. “What’s
the name of that famous sculptor?” She asked alluding to Jose D. “The man we met at the party.” She
tapped a pen against her lower lip.
“Can’t mail the letter.” Stan shook his head.
“Gosh! Are there no post offices in Caracas?”
“We’re not really here. A postmark could come
back to haunt us. For the same reason, you can’t call
out of the country.”
“I’m so stupid!” She pounded her knee. She
paused, winked. “Are you a spy?”
He grimaced, caught off guard. “I simply do
secretive things for certain clients. Just your basic
old-fashioned lawyering.”
“I went into your den hunting for a pen. On your
desk, a photo of you and Castro.”
Stan shrugged, forced a smile, inwardly annoyed
by his obvious carelessness. “Trick photography.”
“You’re a secret agent. I just know it.”
“I’m sending you home, probably on Sunday.”
Then sensing her anguish, he offered a vague explanation. “I have to travel again, a different country.
You’re right, secret business, but for a large corporation.”
“I can’t go back!” She fingered an anklet of
Colombian emeralds in a gold link setting. Stan’s gift
purchased days before in Santa Marta.
“What!”
“He’ll take my money.”
225
“Who?”
“Caesar!” She choked out a name.
“Mayfield won’t let that happen.” Stan slouched
on the sofa. “Your money’s safe.” He stretched his
legs.
“He’ll find me, kill me, mark me, real bad!”
“Don’t worry. The Casino can’t afford problems. Call girl’s are a dime a dozen.”
“You don’t care!” She cried, lurching to her
feet. She ran up the stairs. He heard the bedroom
door slam.
“Damn! Where does it end?” He took off his
glasses and rubbed his eyes.
————
He found Laura laying face down on the quilted
spread. He sat down on the edge of the bed. “Tell
me about it.” He waited, shifted uneasily. “What’s
the problem?” He asked, but received no response.
He shrugged, counted the louvers in an air conditioner vent. “We can work it out.” His eyes wandered, finally fixing on a Picasso print. Suddenly, he
wheeled. “Talk to me!” He shouted, raising a hand
and slapping her bottom. He repeatedly spanked her.
The palm of his hand stung. Her skin reddened.
She winched with each smack, moaned and gripped
the uprights of the headboard. “Get your ass over
here!” She moved to his side, clutched his arm. Her
cheeks tear-stained; her eyes red and puffy. “I want
the truth!”
“His name’s Caesar Roman. He worked at the
Casino, a blackjack dealer,” she said between snif-
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SHELDON YAVITZ
fles. “He’s real mob connected. He knows the people
who recruited me to work in Nassau.” She dried her
eyes. “When I first got there, he looked after me,
showed me the ropes.” She gnawed on her right forefinger. “He acts like he owns me.”
“Does Roman know about us?”
“No way,” she shrugged off the question.
“You’re just some customer.” She stroked his hand.
She forced a grin, but Stan’s thoughts flashed to
blackmail. “You’re lying!”
She bit her lip, took a deep breath, then another.
“Somehow, he found out about one of our trips.” She
hugged a pillow. “Maybe a year ago. I didn’t want
to give him the money.” She curled her toes. “So, he
slapped me around real good.”
“There’s no room for a pimp in my life.”
“He’s not my pimp!”
“Okay, your boyfriend.” She hung her head. “A
pimp, a boyfriend, they’re all the same.” He grabbed
her shoulders shaking her violently. “We’re through,
damn you!” Urine spurted, soaking the comforter.
He released his grasp; she jumped from the bed and
rushed to the bathroom.
Stan eyed the deepening stain, shocked by his
outburst, unable to remember having been so physically abusive. He heard flushing water and a running faucet. The sound of her retching stunned him.
He glanced in the open doorway and saw her kneeling over the toilet bowl. He walked to the bedroom
window. Outside, the pitch blackness mirrored his
brooding. He could see Dutch laughing, Angela
gloating, and pictured Roman with an outstretched
227
palm demanding a pay-off. I ought to kill him. Stan’s
lips formed a cruel grin. Or have his legs broken.
He made a fist. His thoughts turned analytical. Why
hasn’t he touched all that bank money? He’s been
off the island. You filled the void. Now he’s back.
He scratched his chin. Who knows what’s real or fantasy. He shook his head and strode from the room.
“Damn!”
————
Downstairs, Stan poured a shot of whiskey,
downed it with one gulp and refilled the glass. He
noticed Laura’s leather purse on the cocktail table
and beside it, the unfinished correspondence. He
picked up the letter and skimmed the contents. “Free
at last,” she wrote, “but I don’t know for how long.
I spoke to my lawyer about quitting and also about
C___. All he said was that he would talk with S___,
but he didn’t. S___ found out about me doing dirty
movies. Blew his stack! Now I’m afraid to tell him
about C___. By now, the prick’s back. You know how
crazy he gets. I’m so nervous. All I do is potty.” He
reread the paragraph, searched for a solution. Mayfield probably can exert pressure on the Casino to get
rid of that garbage, but I can’t call him from here.
How am I going to handle this? The room grew stifling. He felt the need for fresh air.
Outdoors, he stood absorbed in the quagmire
of their affair. A high wall obscured his view of the
roadway. A dimly lit entrance lamp cast grotesque
shadows. Stan plunged his hands into his jeans staving off the night chill. He felt a tug on his shirt-
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sleeve.
“I’m so sorry, honey, no panties.” Her voice
quivered. “I got sick,” she said sheepishly. “I cleaned
up the mess.” She buried her face in his shoulder.
“Please, don’t send me back.” She clung to him,
pigeon-toed, shivering.
Stan stared ahead. “I met him. He let you win at
the blackjack table.”
“I told them at the Casino. Got him fired, kicked
off the island. He’s back,” her voice cracked. “They
gave him a second chance. He’s going to hurt me big
time.”
“We will work it out. Just another dumb hassle,”
he shrugged. “Don’t worry.”
“It’s all my fault.”
“I’m sorry for being so rough.”
“You make wonderful bruises.”
“Wait until you see his.”
————
Sergio Ponton’s villa perched on a hillside with
only the upper level and barrel tile roof visible
above a high, reinforced concrete wall. Sergio, like
his counterpart, preferred seclusion, and then again,
Caracas, Venezuela, as Miami, was beleaguered by
crime.
The following morning, Stan drove into the city.
His black Ford Bronco tracked a twisting road down
the mountain until the asphalt intersected with an
access highway. Caracas sat in a valley; the urban
sprawl spilling to the seacoast. Factories, a brewery
and an automobile assembly plant carved out the
229
onetime agrarian landscape. In the distance, skyscrapers delineated the metropolis.
Once downtown, Stan, as so often, became disoriented. All the major South American cities of his
travel merged in one. An equestrian statue, a monument to a Venezuelan war hero, refreshed his memory
and orientation. Near the Centro Simon Bolivar with
its twin high-rises, he pulled off a broad avenue into
a public parking garage. A brisk walk brought him to
a multistory building of glass-curtain wall construction, street level shops and a nondescript lobby. He
took the elevator to the sixth floor and an antiseptic
corridor.
At suite 608, Stan turned the doorknob and
entered. “Good morning, Elena,” he said greeting a
pretty young woman with a saucy smile and a bluntcut hairdo.
“Sergio, what took you so long?” Elena Valdez
stepped from behind the desk to embrace him. “We
have so much to do before your Monday flight.” He
detected in her manner a certain petulance. “When
you telephoned from Santa Marta, I expected you
much sooner.”
During his long absence, he noticed, she had
shed unwanted pounds. An exercise regimen had
worked wonders. A slim dark skirt and high-heeled
boots accentuated her new look and five foot four
height. “You’re wearing contacts,” he said, pulling
up a fully upholstered bucket chair.
“Notice anything else?”
“A ruffled blouse. Is that new?” How’s our
cactus?” He teased, avoiding any mention of her
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strikingly svelte figure.
“You’re horrible!” She said; Stan shrugged.
The office had a commercial desk and basic furniture of laminated wood and scratch resistant surfaces. On one wall, a multicolored map of Cuba
dotted with pins denoting the places on the island that
Sergio had visited. File cabinets, a photocopier and
stacks of research materials cluttered the small room.
Potted plants added a feminine touch. A prickly pear
cactus basked on the window sill.
“I have been struggling with our next chapter,”
she said. He had grown accustomed to her efficiency
and dedication. “As you suggested, it deals with their
military, particularly the Cuban Air Force. So much
of their hardware is Russian. I hate to admit it, but
I’m confused by the technical jargon.”
“Don’t worry. On my trip, it will be the focus of
my attention.”
As Sergio Ponton, Stan maintained this small
office. Elena not only arranged his Cuban itinerary,
but collaborated on the manuscript. A book which
they had tentatively titled: CASTRO’S CUBA: THE
SUCCESSFUL EXPERIMENT. Pro-communist college students provided the basic research and Stan
source material and interviews obtained in Cuba.
Elena prepared a rough draft of each chapter which
she forwarded to him through various mail-drops
that comported with his travel. He rewrote and edited
toning down the communist rhetoric and routed by
the same channels the completed work back to her
for grammatical corrections and retyping. Elena saw
the book as a strong political statement. To Stan, it
231
was simply an entrée into Cuba’s high government
circles, and an ideal cover for the drug overflights
and now espionage.
They would spend several hours going over pertinent data; the interviews scheduled and political
functions on his agenda.
“Colonel Haro has agreed to meet you at the airport. He will cut through all that red tape bullshit you
hate. He’s such a cooperative man. A real hero. We
should devote a chapter to him.”
“Definitely, a hero. Couldn’t buy a better one.”
He caught her mystified frown. “A figure of speech,”
he said, closing a thick file cover. “Well, enough for
one day.”
“There is so much more to review.” She sat
inches from him, her perfume heavy and provocative.
“Lunch, later this week?”
“Maybe, an evening,” she said.
“Up to my neck in crocodiles.”
“You mean the gringa at your villa?”
“You’re very perceptive.”
“I called looking for you. She answered.”
“Keep Sunday night open,” he said.
————
Stan would make two more stops in the city,
but first, an espresso break and newspaper to wile
away the midday siesta. At a local bank, he produced
a check payable in Bolivars, the country’s currency,
equivalent to 180,000 dollars U.S., drawn against the
credit of Sergio Ponton. He deposited that draft to the
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account of an offshore corporation devised for concealing Colonel Haro’s amassed illicit fortune.
Next, he kept an appointment with an attorney.
After a cordial handshake, Stan settled in an overstuffed chair and offered his friend an update on his
recent travels.
Juan Lorenzo, always attentive, nodded and
grinned, fast to respond with strong, preset opinions. When Stan referred to Washington D.C. as a
madhouse, Lorenzo retorted. “What can one expect
from boorish North Americans.” He had iron gray
hair, a pencil thin mustache and an old world aristocratic bearing. Only a clownish bow tie, Stan mused,
flawed the image.
“Let me get to the point.” Stan leaned forward,
intense. “I met this lady, British-Canadian, speaks
little Spanish. Love at first sight,” he blushed. “We
met while she was on holiday in the Cayman Islands.”
He feigned enthusiasm, continuing with his original
planned presentation.
During the past week, his affair with Laura had
taken on negative overtones. Too much truth can
wreak havoc on a relationship. She basked in sordid
disclosures as men revel in war stories: her weekend
for kicks as a streetwalker, a wild night at a bachelor party, a tryst with a starlet, a 70 year old senator with his adult toy collection. On and on, Stan, the
confidant, to her sexual adventures. “I want you to
know me warts and all,” she said as she reveled in her
most intimate fantasies and life as a call girl. She had
dropped her professional guard and relaxed in profanity, displays of temper and testiness, and one con-
233
fession after the other. “My old dad preached with a
belt. As Angela says: A bare ass spanking does wonders for me.” She winked, smiled; he rubbed his forehead.
“Now I must think of the future.” Stan’s expression grew somber. “Beside the villa, my financial
assets have grown appreciably. Advances on my book
are stupendous, and several major articles have netted
me a windfall,” he remarked, justifying the CIA
funds deposited to Sergio Ponton’s bank account.
He paused as Lorenzo reached for a writing pad. “I
would like to provide for her and my research assistant.” Lorenzo removed a gold pen from an onyx desk
set. “Elena is so much responsible for the book’s success. Anything can happen,” Stan shrugged. “An airplane crash, a bullet in a foreign country, and bang!”
He chuckled. “She a widow before we’re married
and Elena’s out of a job. I want a will.”
Lorenzo knew his client, the journalist, to be
tight-lipped and not easily dissuaded. A man who
freely discussed politics and world personalities, but
seldom himself, and he honored that idiosyncrasy.
He limited his inquires to those germane to the estate
administration and distribution of assets.
“The villa to my secretary, and sufficient funds
to cover taxes, and expenses of ownership for three
years. The balance of the money in the account to
my fiancée.” He noticed the lawyer’s questioning
stare. “Juan, the house would be useless to a foreigner. Ownership problems, language barrier. Oh,
they can share in the book rights and proceeds,” he
smiled faintly. “I would like the will by week’s end.
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Monday, I fly to Cuba.”
Lorenzo thumbed through his desk calendar.
“Odd or even license plate?” He asked, referring to a
local driving restriction.
“Even.”
“11:30, Friday.”
Stan nodded, reaching into his briefcase. He
withdrew a large Manila envelope. “One last favor,”
he said, holding the sealed package. “If anything
should happen to me while in Cuba, I want you to
open this.” He handed it to the attorney. “I mean
only in the event of my death, accidental or,” he qualified the statement, “otherwise. It contains directions
and two letters.” He paused, appearing apprehensive.
“Can I rely on you?”
“My word as a gentleman and attorney.” He
extended his right hand. Stan returned a firm grip.
“Sergio, is there something wrong?”
“It’s probably my best story.”
————
Laura living at the villa was out of the question. Stan feared that during his absence the CIA
might interrogate her and expose their relationship.
He saw little difference between them and Roman.
Both would extort him: one for the money and the
other for control and power. The intelligent, inquisitive Elena further complicated the equation. She
knew of the “gringa” and language would operate as
no barrier to unwittingly unmasking the Ponton alias
identity. He had violated the cardinal rule of mixing
sex with business, or worse, spying, as he termed it.
235
He told Laura that while he was gone, she
couldn’t stay at the villa. She burst into tears; he
offered excuses: “The home’s too isolated. You can’t
drive or speak Spanish.”
“You don’t trust me.” Her weepy eyes narrowed.
“Admit it!” She glared at him, hands on her hips.
He proposed her return to Santa Marta as a
guest of Jose D., or vacationing in Cali. “I have
millionaire friends there. They will treat you like a
princess.” She turned sullen, then angry, flung a magazine at him. He shrugged, controlled his temper,
recommended the Dutch resort islands of Curacao
and Aruba. “You can stay at the best hotel, wait for
me there.”
“I won’t go!” She rejected each offer. “You’re
sending me away!” She screamed; her manner provoking: banging doors and dresser drawers, throwing
clothing off a chair.
He paced; his hands clasped behind his back.
“My life’s on the line. I can’t afford the slightest
problem. Here, I’m powerless,” he argued, nixing her
suggestion, a hotel in the city or along the seashore.
“You’re a fuckin’ spy!” She buried her face in a
pillow.
“Believe what you want.” He gritted his teeth.
“Your false I.D. might not withstand close scrutiny.”
He described a midtown shopping center mall and a
mass roundup of illegal aliens. “In Caracas, wholesale arrests are an everyday occurrence.”
“For prostitution! That’s what you mean.” She
was off the bed, up on her bare toes, staring him in
his face.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“Virtue is not the issue.”
“What do you want me to do? Wear a chastity
belt?”
“Good idea!”
“Go for it!” She dropped in a chair, lifted her
skirt, obscenely spread her legs. “Lock it up!”
He grimaced. “There is an alternative.” He took
a deep breath, ran his fingers through his hair. “My
friend, Quinto, owns a motel about thirty miles from
here. Not fancy. Quiet and safe. The tourist season is
over.”
“Maybe, honey, maybe.”
————
Late Friday afternoon, they set out for Quinto’s
motel. The narrow roads twisted and weaved up
the steep slopes, then down into a U-shaped valley
formed by Pleistocene glaciations. They continued
upward along shear cliffs, crossed a suspension
bridge and followed a corkscrew stretch with hairpin
turns further into the coastal mountain range.
Still within the tree line, snow-capped peaks in
the distance, at a flashing neon sign, Stan pulled the
Bronco off the pavement onto a dirt lane. Ahead, a
roadhouse with eight small cabins reminiscent of a
1940s motel nestled in a woodland setting.
He parked in front of the manager’s office,
blew the horn. A short man immediately exited and
sprinted to their vehicle. He had slick black hair, high
cheekbones and unblinking dark eyes, an unmistakable mestizo appearance. His sturdy physique compromised by a potbelly curtained by a loose shirt and
237
baggy pants.
“Mi amigo.” He grabbed Stan’s hand.
“This is my old friend, Quinto.” Stan introduced
Laura to him. “How’s the señora?”
“Fat and sassy?”
“The children?”
“Growing like weeds. Come on in. We are
having arroz con pollo and quesillo.”
————
Several years before, Stan had represented
Quinto in a Florida criminal case. An imported,
hired assassin, a sicario, he had been charged with
the murder of a drug dealer turned informant. Stan
obtained an acquittal, but as he would say, “I couldn’t
lose without any living witnesses and a paucity of
hard evidence.”
Quinto attributed the win to Stan’s skill and
more so, his influence. A logical assumption, Stan
reasoned, for a Colombian unfamiliar with our legal
system. In his own country, absent a bribe, Quinto
probably would have been convicted, or if freed,
killed in retribution.
“Your wish is my command,” Quinto said.
Stan, the cynic, tended to believe him.
After deportation to his native Colombia, the
sicario relocated in Venezuela, opening a motel. He
claimed to have retired, but Stan had his doubts. Yet,
Quinto had a proven track record of loyalty and a
closed mouth. A man, who under the circumstances
could be entrusted with Laura’s safety and his compelling need for secrecy. Besides, Stan had run out of
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SHELDON YAVITZ
options.
————
He and Laura spent two nights in one of the
cabins, took long morning walks and afternoon
drives. At first, she agreed to remain. “It’s been so
romantic.” Just before he left, her resolve wavered.
“It’s a dump, Stan. The bed’s fit for fucking but not
sleeping.”
“Can’t argue with an expert.”
“The chair’s rickety; the table broken. No television. The toilet’s out of the Stone Age.” Tears welled
in her eyes. “I don’t want to be alone with those
strange people.”
“They have chickens, a horse. You like to ride.
Sure, it’s not the Hilton, but …,” he shrugged, her
disenchantment understandable.
“Is this some kind of punishment?” She nibbled
on a fingernail. “A test?” She had a pensive expression.
“No,” he replied, still packing his clothes. He
struggled with the zipper to a garment bag.
“If it’s not punishment or a test, why are you
doing this to me?”
He looked at her puzzled, bit his tongue. What
would Dutch or Angela do in this situation, he asked
himself, shook his head. What a dumb question, but I
can’t seem to deal with her rationally. “All right, you
guessed it.”
“I knew it,” she grinned, her voice childishly
excited. “Guessed what?”
“Why, I’m training you to be a housewife,” Stan
239
said, noticing from the window Mrs. Quinto and her
children dressed in their Sunday best for church.
“I expect you,” he paused, hunting for instructions,
“to work, help out the family. Cook, clean.” He
returned a hard, stony stare, realizing he would have
to obtain Quinto’s cooperation. “While you’re here,
cover yourself, wear underwear. They’ve got little
children.” He shifted the bag from the bed to the
hardwood floor. “If you do well, we rent a beautiful
home, and I take care of Roman. Otherwise …”
“Stan,” she tugged at the hem of a pullover
sweater, his old turtleneck, that barely qualified as a
minidress. “You’re back to the chastity belt crap.”
“I thought you were a one-man woman?”
“Love and sex are two different things.”
“Sex is out. Period!”
“Boy, will I be horny.”
“Good.” His hand slipped between her legs.
“The hornier, the better.”
“Another test?”
“The most important one.”
“Oh, God,” she giggled.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As the Cubana de Aviacion Ilyushin 62, a
Soviet-made jetliner, commenced its descent into
Havana, Stan stowed a copy of his manuscript in
a well-worn briefcase. He raised the tray table and
brought his seat back into an upright position. Then,
instinctively, he tugged at his fastened seat belt.
He wore an off-the-rack gray suit and a quietstriped tie purchased at a Caracas men’s shop. Black
oxfords replaced western boots and an inexpensive
watch adorned his wrist. Every article of apparel had
been bought in South America: no vestige of Stanton Pollard’s custom-tailored wardrobe, no trace of
the affluent Yanqui attorney. Stan took precautions in
Communist Cuba.
From an aisle seat, he glimpsed the island’s
southern coastline. He calculated that they were less
than 25 miles from Jose Marti International Airport.
His eighth trip to Cuba in less than two years. He
tapped the molded plastic armrest, superstitiously.
A far cry from my first incursion, Stan recollected; he struggled to come to grips with his
Sergio Ponton identity. He had spent his initial two
weeks in Havana acclimating to the foreign environment, attending political functions and interview-
241
ing lower echelon dignitaries. He prepared several
articles intended to impress the censors in which
he described the Castro regime as the “hallmark of
excellence” and Cuba, “the centerpiece of Communism in the Western Hemisphere.” He referred to a
dimwitted vice minister of transportation as the “man
of the hour,” and called a youthful, bellicose National
Assemblyman “a bright example of the new breed
of Castroite.” He made his pro-Castro leanings well
known amongst the press corps, and intentionally
provoked a public, heated argument with a Canadian
anticommunist newspaperman. Stan had rejected any
contact with local CIA operatives fearing betrayal by
a double agent. Still, the journalist masquerade had a
major drawback. As a pro-communist Venezuelan, it
offered no cover for meeting with his client, Buddha
Blanton.
He systematically discounted a local attorney,
his usual approach; the U.S. Interest Section in
Havana and a direct interview with the American
pilot considering each out of character and unexplainable. In addition, the original report that Buddha
was lodged in Guanajay Prison, about 11 miles west
of the city, proved erroneous.
“Guanajay, old boy,” a know-it-all British newspaper correspondent responded, “is for political
blokes, not narco traficantes. I thought everyone
knew that?”
Stan puffed on a Cuban cigar, grinned, a slow
smile, relieved by the discovery. He would have
greater latitude in springing an ordinary criminal, but
first, he had to locate his client. To that end, he set out
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SHELDON YAVITZ
to find a guide who satisfied his criteria: street-wise,
reasonably connected and sufficiently corruptible for
his purposes. It’s simply a process of elimination,
Stan would say. An art that he had learned from his
old client and mentor, Irv Rhodos.
————
In the early seventies, Rhodos, a dealer in stolen
luxury motorcars, had made quite an impression
on Stan, and also, the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He had infiltrated the Porsche factory and soon
reproduced vehicle identification numbers and plates
rivaling in authenticity the German manufacturer that
allowed him to sell his “hot” cars as legitimate to
exotic car dealers.
When one of his customers greedily floor
planned the same vehicles with two different banks,
it sparked an FBI probe and by chance, Rhodos
was implicated. A zealous rookie agent decided to
acid test a Porsche VIN number, and to his surprise
exposed the alteration. The case rapidly shifted from
bank fraud to car theft with Rhodos the target. “That’s
life,” he said, shrugging, faked his own death and,
adopting a false identity, retired to the French Riviera
with a red Porsche Turbo Carrera and a young girlfriend. “A true realist,” Stan said.
“In any society, business, government, you name
it,” Rhodos explained to Stan, “there is always a
person just waiting to be bought. Finding that individual takes patience, some luck, but most of all intuitiveness that you fine hone with practice.”
Over the years, Stan had perfected this skill,
243
and in Maximo Mercado found the right guide, and
further came to realize that Communist Cuba was
little different than the rest of the Caribbean. Money
talks and buys results. He began to feel at home in
Havana.
————
Stan narrowed his search for Buddha to three
common prisons, as they were called, for nonpolitical criminals.
Along with Maximo, a thin man in an ill-fitted
suit sagging below the buttocks, he spent an afternoon surveying the local penal institutions. The Combinade del Este lay situated on the east side of
Havana. A modern apartment-like complex of fourstory buildings surrounded by barbed-wire topped
fences and ringed by guard towers. Fifty caliber
machine guns were visible on the rooftops.
“Do you plan to break him out?” Maximo asked.
They were seated in Stan’s rental car observing the
prison at a discreet distance.
He looked at his guide for a long speculative
minute. “Have any suggestions?”
Maximo rubbed a stubbled chin. “We could
have him transferred to a work camp out in the provinces.”
“Uh-huh.” Stan’s face wore a contemplative
twist. He studied Maximo with his sharp nose,
neglected teeth and eyes hidden behind heavy lids.
“It costs, but it can be done.” The guide squinted
into the sun glare. “A camp’s worse than death.” He
fiddled with a button on his jacket.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“It’s all relative,” Stan shrugged cynically. “But
it evidently offers greater access.”
“Correct, señor. They’re always outdoors. Harvesting, planting …” He leaned forward, his tone
conspiratorial. “With a little help, and a lot of money,”
he chuckled nervously, “your friend walks away.”
“Escapes are for television heroes.” Stan’s
expression widened into an affected grin. “I’m just a
snoopy journalist looking for a good story.”
————
The next stop, the Castillo del Principe or Prince
Castle, loomed within sight of the University of
Havana. The ancient fortress, built in the eighteenth
century in the defense of the city against the British,
had been converted by Castro’s government into
a high-security prison, including dungeons below
street level where inmates struggled to survive in
ankle deep water.
“I might be able to get you inside.” Maximo
coughed, lowered the partially raised window glass,
and spit. “Got a good contact.”
“As a relative, a visit?”
“Can do.” He returned a game smile.
“Interesting.” Stan shifted the blue Toyota
Corolla into gear and proceeded south toward the
Villa Marista.
Several blocks from the villa, he parked the
vehicle. He and Maximo strolled to the former Catholic Seminary and retirement home for a cleric brotherhood. Pigeons scattered in their path. They stood
briefly before a high fence and gazed at the deceptive,
245
tranquil monastic setting. Coconut palms swayed in
the warm breeze.
“After the Revolution, the Villa Marista became
state security headquarters,” Maximo commented, a
subdued monotone. “Electric shock, beatings, starvation. A place of unspeakable horrors.”
“Tough on crime,” Stan quipped, noticing a
guard within earshot. He shrugged, turned and walked
in the direction of the car. “I want the low-down
on where Blanton’s imprisoned and his sentence.”
Maximo nodded, finger combing his wind-blown,
thinning hair.
“Give me a couple of days.”
“Fine.” Stan paused, turned, looking back at the
former monastery. “In the meantime, find me the
most beautiful whore in Havana.”
————
With well-placed pesos, Stan soon had his
answer. Buddha was confined to Combinado del Este
serving 25 years on drug trafficking charges. A prison
trusty had furnished the news to Maximo. Stan sent
back a terse message. “Keep the faith … S.”
“Job done.” He buried a fist in his pocket.
“You’re not going to help him? We can do it.”
“I’m just a journalist. The mystery’s solved,” he
said, brushing aside the offer. He wouldn’t entrust
his life to a man who delivered a two-bit hooker, or
made a prison escape seem so simple, and anyway, a
hands-on jailbreak held absolutely no appeal.
————
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SHELDON YAVITZ
While attending a press conference at the Military Technical Institute in Havana, Stan met then
Major Gabriel Haro, a tall, handsome officer, conspicuously erect with an unmistakable swagger.
During the course of their conversation, Major Haro
bemoaned the incarceration of his brother-in-law in
Colombia.
“A Cuban military adviser to M-19,” he commented, “captured in a raid, now rotting in a filthy
dungeon. No way of repatriating him.” His face, a
mix of frustration and sadness. He pointed out that
since 1981, Colombia had broken diplomatic relations with Cuba accusing the Castro regime of supporting leftist guerrillas. “An idealistic fool, but good
man, trying to save the world from bourgeois capitalism.”
Stan listened attentively and asked a few welldirected questions learning that Haro, an Air Force
major in military intelligence, had served in Angola,
been trained in Soviet Russia, and as Stan surmised,
had become spoiled by global travel and a taste of the
good life, which eluded him upon returning to Cuba.
Like a whisper in his ear from Irv Rhodos,
he gleamed in Haro the key to Buddha’s freedom,
and decided to cultivate the major’s friendship. Two
weeks and several dinners later, he broached the
rescue of Haro’s brother-in-law. They were at a sidewalk cafe near Maceio Park in Central Havana. Historic Moro Castle and the Gulf of Mexico served as
a backdrop.
“I’ve spent considerable time in Colombia.”
Stan prefaced his remarks. “Especially Medellin. I
247
have strong ties to the Cartel.”
“You, the avowed Communist. I can’t believe
it.”
“Now, now, major,” he countered with a grin.
“You know the Cartel actively supports leftist guerrillas with money and weapons.” Stan removed a
Monte Cristo cigar from its distinct yellow and red
package. An added twist to his foreign correspondent persona. “The same M-19 your brother-in-law
fought with.”
“Well, sometimes, we are forced to deal with
the Devil.”
“The Devil controls Colombia.” He struck a
match watching the flame flicker. “I understand they
would be willing to arrange a behind the scenes
trade.”
“Trade?”
“Your brother-in-law for one of their top pilots
jailed in Cuba.” He drew on his cigar until the
end glowed, expelled a plume of pungent scented
smoke.
“Are you sure?”
Stan nodded. “Cloak-and-dagger, right in your
element.”
“I have tried everything. Got nowhere. Even
those rebel bastards washed their hands.” A frown
creased his forehead; he leaned forward across the
table. “Sergio, getting their man out of prison poses
definite problems. I’ve been away too long, Russia,
Angola, Nicaragua.”
“You still have influence and connections,” Stan
said.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“More importantly, when you deal with the
Cartel, money’s no object.”
“Money! Of course. Do you know the pilot’s
name and where he’s imprisoned?”
“No,” Stan lied. “They’ll provide that little
detail, but let me ask you this.” He paused. The sound
of the roaring surf beating against a seawall saturated
the void. “Say our pilot’s confined in a local prison.”
His eyes bore into Haro studying his reaction. “How
would you get him out?”
“To be candid, I don’t really know. But, I shall,”
he said with a career officer’s arrogance.
“Good.” Stan concealed his surprise, recalling
the street-smart guide’s ready solution: the inmate’s
transfer to a work camp from where his escape could
be more easily arranged. He suggested the idea.
“I will check it out,” Haro replied stiffly. “There
is no room for speculation.” He downed the last of
his coffee. “In a few days, I should have a better
grasp.” The major looked inquisitively at the journalist. “Why are you doing this?”
“I need an edge for the big stories in Cuba.” He
tapped the cigar against an ashtray. “You can provide an inside track. As to the Cartel, I’m related to
one of the families. The poor relation,” he shrugged,
“but their favorite, trusted journalist.” He leaned back
in his chair. “Nothing like a good Cuban cigar,” he
sighed, savoring the rich flavor of the hand-rolled
tobacco leaves.
“You can’t be too careful.” Haro stared at the
empty cup. His moody demeanor abruptly turned
upbeat. “Let’s get down to business.” Stan nodded,
249
puffing on the cigar. “How much money and what’s
our operational time-frame?”
“Here’s how I see it,” he answered, having
found his man in Cuba.
————
Stan flew to Medellin by way of Venezuela and
checked into the five-star Intercontinental. The hotel
sat on a hilltop overlooking the second largest city
in Colombia. The colonial architecture of the five
hundred year old metropolis had long disappeared,
replaced by twentieth century high-rises and modernistic structures. The dynamic industrial and commercial complexion now overshadowed by the drug
cartel’s notoriety. The once pleasant City of Eternal
Spring besieged by drug lords warring with the establishment.
With the Cuban phase of his plan coming
together, Stan turned to the Cartel, the final factor
in his plot to free Buddha. From his hotel room,
he made one critical phone call and settled into waiting with a good novel, magazines and the ubiquitous
television. The following afternoon, he responded to
a knock on the door, and stood staring into the pockmarked face of a greasy-haired youth; a shoulder
holster bulge under his seersucker jacket. “El Patron
will see you,” the young man said with an air of selfimportance.
In a black Mercedes-Benz, they sped into
the Antioquia countryside. An older, taciturn henchman accompanied the youthful driver. They rode
in silence. Stan relaxed in the rear seat reading El
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SHELDON YAVITZ
Mundo, a local newspaper.
As they drove through the sleepy village of
Caldes, an oxcart emerging from an alley blocked
their path. The Mercedes braked to a stop. The grimfaced passenger drew a Glock 9 mm semiautomatic
handgun. The youth’s eyes darted. “Trouble!” He
blew the horn and shouted obscenities.
Stan put down his newspaper. A figure appeared
in a darkened doorway and another behind a ramshackle, sun-dried brick building. Otherwise, the
dusty street seemed deserted.
The oxcart driver tipped his broad-brimmed
straw hat and continued at a laggard pace.
“It’s all right,” the older man mumbled.
Stan with a blasé grin resumed his reading.
————
He awoke from a catnap and looked about him.
The Mercedes had pulled up before a paramilitary
concrete blockhouse. An armed sentry waved his
assault rifle in a greeting gesture. A second man
wearing olive drab fatigues swung open a large metalwork gate. He sported a Soviet AK-47, favored
by the M-19 leftist guerrillas. The motorcar passed
through the stone-arched portal and rapidly accelerated. For several miles the car raced along a narrow,
dirt road bordered by white posts and barbed wire
fences. Cattle grazed near the fence line.
Within sight of a sprawling Moresque mansion,
they turned up a paved drive and parked beside an
exuberantly decorated brick and tile entrance. Far
to the left, Stan could see the horse arena and the
251
elaborate stable with running water, individual heaters and fans. To the right, the million dollar guesthouse where he had spent a weekend. Armed guards
patrolled the compound perimeter. A manned observation tower spied on the fiefdom. A lone goat nibbled on the manicured lawn. The raucous screech of
a peacock welcomed the visitor to El Patron’s ranch
house.
The home had horseshoe arches and domed
ceilings built around a courtyard with pools, fountains and stalactite vaulting reminiscent of a fairytale Spanish palace. He entered the house through
double, eight-foot doors. A diminutive maid in a genteel hairdo ushered him down a hallway affording a
view of the extravagantly furnished living room. An
original Valesquez prominently displayed over the
massive stone fireplace. She showed him into a conference room of castle-like proportions. The maid
curtsied and exited leaving him alone to digest his
surroundings. A large marble top table flanked by
high back baronial chairs dominated the decor of
gold moire drapes and walls covered in gold damask.
The overdone elegance of a third world billionaire
drug lord.
He stood gazing out a picture window preoccupied with his planned presentation. His thoughts
interrupted by a click of a doorknob. Stan cocked his
head and turned abruptly.
Roberto Gustavo, paunchy, plump-cheeked and
middle-aged, rolled into the room escorted by three
of his subordinates: Gilberto, the broad-chested lieutenant; Carlos, a tall raw-boned crony and Enrique,
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SHELDON YAVITZ
a younger man in his mid twenties with a Pepsodent
smile and thick shoulder length black ringlets. He
wore designer name jeans and a crew-neck sweater.
El Patron embraced Stan. “My good friend, welcome to my humble home.” He flashed a fleshy grin.
Carlos returned a knowing nod. The others remained
distant.
With an authoritative air, Gustavo signaled for
his men to be seated. He assumed a position at the
head of the table; Stan on his left and Carlos to his
right. As if instructed, the underlings moved to the
far end. Enrique in a show of machismo withdrew
a Colt .45 automatic from his waistband and placed
it insolently on the table. Gilberto unbuttoned his
jacket exhibiting a shoulder-holstered pistol.
“Would you care for a Ron Medellin,” Gustavo
asked, recalling Stan’s rum preference. His dark
unruly hair and slobbish appearance belying his
unfathomable wealth and power.
“Fine,” Stan nodded, and the drug boss pressed
a button on a remote control console. A secret panel
opened and slowly revolved unveiling a cocktail bar
of highly polished mahogany, gold leaf trim and lead
glass. He pushed a second button to close the draperies and a third illuminating the room in warm indirect lighting.
A casual conversation followed. El Patron told
one of his typical unfunny jokes. Enrique, the acting
bartender, busied himself with liquor bottles, a brandy
decanter and crystal glasses. He had moved his pearlhandled gun to the bar counter top.
“What brought you here, amigo?” El Patron’s
253
chin jutted forward. “It must be important.”
“One of my clients crash-landed and is imprisoned in Cuba. A pilot, Buddha Blanton.”
“Works for our boy, Dutch?”
“No, for Horatio Plunkett.”
“Tough luck.”
“You know him. He buys from you.”
“Fuck him!”
“H.P. from Palm Beach,” Carlos inserted, clarifying Stan’s reference to the American underboss. “A
good man.”
“Humph.”
Stan noticed a weariness about the drug lord’s
eyes and mouth not in evidence on a prior visit.
“I have arranged for the pilot’s release,” he continued. “But it’s contingent on trading him for a
Cuban military adviser to M-19 jailed in Colombia.”
He mentioned the soldier’s name, Sergeant Orlando
Alfonso.
“Anybody heard of that dickhead?”
Carlos shook his head.
“Too bad we didn’t wipe out all those commie
bastards.” El Patron, as an aside, referred to a period
of bloodshed during which M-19 kidnapped drug
dealers and family members to extort ransom. The
Cartel retaliated with wanton, mass butchery. A truce
followed with the drug kingpins now financially supporting the leftist band in exchange for their allegiance and a redirected war against the Colombian
government. Stan hadn’t reckoned on Gustavo’s lasting hostility.
“Alfonso, the name sounds familiar.” Enrique
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SHELDON YAVITZ
sipped a brandy.
“He worked security for us,” the lieutenant
reported. “Gave some of the men training in automatic weapons.” Gilberto had a wide flaring nose,
sagging jowls and dark, bushy never ending eyebrows. “Masterminded the bombing of a police station, killed four, wounded seven.” His cheek twitched.
“At Caldas.”
“If I recall, that blast killed an antinarcotics
detective.”
“Adolfo Arroyo, a piece of shit.”
El Patron leaned back in a baronial chair. “A
piece of shit.” He paused for a good while. “Doctor,
what do you want?”
“I want Alfonso out of jail and shipped to Cuba.
H.P. foots the bill. Charge it off against his next
deal.”
“Just like that.” He cracked his knuckles. “You’re
a lawless man.”
“Can’t win them all in the courtroom.”
“What do you think, Carlos?” His hands clasped
behind his neck.
“The Cuban may be useful.”
“Gilberto?”
“I’m for it.”
“I don’t like it.” Enrique caressed the blue steel
Colt. “Fuck him!”
Gustavo steepled his fingers. “Nephew, are you
saying to fuck the Doctor?”
His face reddened. He gritted his teeth. “No,
uncle.”
“Good. We do it. Doctor, work it out with the
255
boys.” He half-rose from the table. “Don’t forget.
You’re staying for dinner.”
————
It would take several months before Stan’s plan
saw fruition. First, pursuant to a high court order, Sergeant Alfonso was released from prison. When the
scandal broke, the Colombian President demanded a
full-scale investigation, but by that time, the major’s
brother-in-law had slipped undetected out of the
country.
An aged jurist initially denied signing the
decree. Then, he changed his position claiming to
have been duped.
“I have so many papers to sign every day,” he
stated, quoted in El Tempo, a leading daily. “I can’t
read each one of them. I signed it in the belief that it
had come from the Prosecutor General’s Office.”
His law clerk concurred and accused the chief
attorney who prosecuted Alfonso. The Prosecutor
General voicing shock and outrage, declared “una
mano peluda” — a hairy, and presumably malignant,
hand — was behind the scheme. Finger-pointing persisted and other culprits were named: a justice minister, prison authorities and half a dozen other officials,
each blaming the other for the blunder.
When a high-ranking politician labeled the
affair, a Communist plot to discredit the president,
the mood shifted and M-19 guerrillas drew the public’s wrath. The Castro regime, grasping the opportunity, offered the communist rebels additional military
aid.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
Stan looked on, impressed with his first foray in
the spy game.
————
Buddha Blanton’s escape from incarceration
lacked the Colombians’ finesse, but as Stan would
later say: “In Castro’s Cuba, the options are limited.”
For disciplinary reasons, Buddha had been transferred to a work camp in Las Villas, a province
known for coffee and mountainous terrain. He was
assigned to a cadre excavating an old mine shaft.
An explosion occurred causing a cave-in, and four
inmates, supposedly Buddha included, were buried
under tons of debris.
“Are they dead?” The commandant asked, brushing dust from his jacket sleeve. The tall, corpulent
prison camp administrator had arrived at the scene to
survey the disaster.
“If they’re not, they will be, Sir,” a guard said
with a smirk.
“Document the accident. You know how the
Minister wants paperwork.” He sat behind the wheel
of a Soviet-made GAZ jeep. “Attempt a rescue,
come up with a corpse. Then, seal off the mine,
declare the Yanqui and the others dead.” His thick
lips tensed. “Shoot the inmate who prematurely set
off the charge.” He mopped his broad brow. “Get a
signed confession, revenge, sabotage.” He paused,
scratching his crotch. “Let me think.”
In the meantime, Buddha had been driven less
than 90 miles to Varadero, Cuba’s resort center. He
257
took up residence at a beach front hotel, and bolstered by a false identity mingled freely with Canadian, Mexican and German tourists. One night, a
speedboat whisked him to Cay Sal Bank in the Bahamas, and from there, an aircraft smuggled him into
Florida.
Back in Miami, Buddha called Stan “a hero.”
“Without my faith in Stan and God (He named them
in that order), I would have given up hope, slit my
wrists.” He praised his rescuers, and described his
stay in Varadero as “a ball under the nose of Castro’s
Gestapo.” He recounted his escape as follows: “One
minute I was in the mine. The next in a truck zooming away from the camp. I heard the explosion and
knew that they had covered my tracks.”
Yet, as Stan soon discovered, time and events
would change Buddha’s perspective. He had joined
the cocaine pilot for lunch at a Coconut Grove
bistro.
“Do you think they’ve all died?” Buddha wolfed
down a raw oyster. He had regained most of his lost
heft and flashed a new gold Rolex.
“I wasn’t there. I don’t know.”
“I’m sure they’re dead.” His lips protruded in
a pout. His receding hairline punctuated by long,
bushy sideburns. “Fuckin’ dead!” He stretched for a
martini.
“A little late to worry. We can’t do anything
about it.” Stan paused while a dishwater blond served
Maine lobster platters.
“More butter, more cocktail sauce. Do you have
a bib?” The waitress nodded, smiled politely, a plate
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SHELDON YAVITZ
in her hand. “A bib! Do you hear me!” Buddha
tugged at his silk shirt collar.
————
“Cuba was a real nightmare to work in,” Stan
said to the bib-draped pilot. “One mistake, we all
would have been imprisoned or shot.”
“Cold-blooded murder!” Buddha glowered at a
half-empty liquor glass. “How can you sleep with
their blood on your hands?” He gulped down his
drink and called to a waiter. “Martini, dry, two
olives.” He noticed the man’s hesitancy. “Get the
lead out of your ass!”
“I sleep fine. I didn’t learn of the ruthlessness
until after-the-fact.” He picked at his fare. “Actually,
you told me.”
“How could you allow this to happen?”
“Be thankful you’re here.”
“You’re as callous as those Cuban bastards!”
His sagging jowls flapped. “I never would have
believed it.” His beefy wattle quivered. “I’ve been
sick over this.”
“What’s the point?”
“I won’t pay for fuckin’ murder!”
“I’m paid.” Stan glanced out a bay window
at sailboat spares bobbing in the marina. “Money,
right?” He wiped his fingers with a napkin. “H.P.
wants you to ante up on El Patron’s expenses.”
“Damn straight! Cheap motherfucker! It’s all
your fault running up a whopping bill!” He looked
at Stan, but found no reaction. “Why should I pay
a dime for some commie Cuban?” He stared at the
259
remains of an eviscerated lobster. “I’m the one who
suffered.”
Stan shrugged, didn’t answer.
“If you want my two cents, the way you involved
the Colombians was damn stupid.”
“I don’t.” Stan resumed eating.
“Well, Mr. smart lawyer, I checked it out, and
that’s the consensus of opinion.” He scowled with a
victimized expression. “Look, you’re to blame. So
give me a break.” As he spoke, Buddha poked a fork
repeatedly into the tablecloth. “Cut your fee, rebate
some cash. You can afford it. I heard about your overflight scheme.” Stan shrugged, concealed his growing irritation. “You owe me! Without me, you never
would have made the connection.”
“I’ll tell you what.” Stan looked him in the eye.
“You ask El Patron first.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Then, the answer’s no!”
“Buddha shoved back his chair and lumbered
to his feet. “See, if I hire you again.” He tore off
the paper bib with a lobster design print and flung
it across his plate. “You’re just another bloodsucking lawyer.” He wheeled and walked away from the
table.
————
In toto, Stan estimated that at least thirty persons collaborated in the two escape plots: principals,
El Patron, Haro, H.P. and Stan; the go-betweens,
Carlos, a priest, and a justice minister in Colombia,
and a security force officer in Cuba; the actual per-
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petrators, the judge, a court clerk and in both countries prison personnel and those providing protection,
transportation and miscellaneous services, such false
identity papers, information and shelter. Through it
all, Stan tried to remain aloof, particularly from the
high-risk Cuban operation.
“My task,” he said modestly, minimizing his
involvement, “was simply to find key people and
spend just enough money. After all, participating in
prison escapes doesn’t fall within the job description
of a lawyer.”
In spite of his protestations, Stan had made
three trips into Cuba. The third occurred after Alfonso’s release and Buddha’s transfer from Combinade
del Este in Havana to the work camp. He returned
to ensure Haro’s continued cooperation. As an added
safeguard, the Cartel detained the brother-in-law until
the Major fulfilled his end of the bargain.
Stan met with Haro in Santiago, Cuba, where
the Major had gone as part of a team investigating
a military air crash. Using the pretext of writing an
article about the city, the cradle of Castro’s revolution, Stan took a shuttle flight from Havana. He
arrived in an Antonov 2 biplane, a Soviet modern
version of a vintage tail dragger.
En route from the airport, Haro brought him up
to date. In a totalitarian state, a moving vehicle provided one of the last vestiges of privacy.
“I worked it out ass-backward,” the Major confided. “First, we bought ourselves a camp commandant and then pulled a few strings so Blanton would
be moved to his camp. A trumped up disciplinary
261
transfer did the trick.” He grinned, self-satisfied. Stan
nodded, approvingly. “The Yanqui has no idea what’s
going on. I bet, he’s scared shitless.”
“Better that way. He’ll act natural.”
The Major’s government-issued nondescript
econocar had come to a stop behind a huge, rustriddled articulated bus. Passengers scrambled off the
Hungarian-made Ikarus swarming onto the narrow,
hilly street.
“The actual escape poses little problem.” He
cautiously rolled up his window. A bicyclist had
approached within range of their voices. “Hiding him
out of Cuba, that’s tough. An American pilot should
prompt a nationwide manhunt.” Haro’s eyes roamed
suspiciously from a snow cone vender to an endless
stream of travelers boarding the bus and back to the
stranger on a bicycle.
“You might fake his death. Say he died while
being interrogated.”
“Under those circumstances, the Ministry would
demand the corpse.” Haro hesitated, waiting for a
young couple to drift past their vehicle. “We either
get him off the island with military precision, or disguise the escape.” He snapped his fingers. “A car
crash, drowning, some kind of accident.”
“I’m sure that you will find a solution. Don’t
take forever.”
The bus had edged forward and sluggishly
increased speed. Passengers, now two and three
abreast, pressed into open door wells.
“I will live up to my end.” He shifted the car
into gear. The Lada, an Italian Fiat clone, sputtered,
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SHELDON YAVITZ
lurched and grudgingly accelerated to a cacophony
of groans and rattles. “Soviet-built cars are for shit. I
drove a BMW in East Germany. Now, that’s an automobile.”
“Have you talked to Orlando Alfonso?”
“For a hostage, doing great. Telephoned my
wife. He’s never had it so good.” The Major impatiently rapped on the steering wheel rim. The bus
belched a black cloud of pollutants. “I didn’t realize
that Orlando had connections to your Medellin
people?”
“His good fortune.”
“Says he’s got big plans.”
“They will make him wealthy. He’s trusted and
popular.”
“Sounds like a drug trafficker.”
“That’s his decision.”
“Hard to believe.” The major frowned; his jaw
set. He swerved out to pass the Hungarian-built behemoth. “Orlando was such a dedicated ...” His voice
froze in midsentence. Stan glimpsed an oncoming
truck and instinctively stiffened. In a millisecond,
Haro tapped the brake and slipped back into the
traffic pattern. “What were we talking about?” He
asked.
“Wealth and the successful Cuban Communist,”
Stan smiled.
————
They had stopped at a congested intersection.
Diesel fumes permeated the air. Shabbily dressed
passengers exited or boarded the Ikarus. The once
263
splendid face of the “Hero City,” like the pothole
streets, appeared ravaged by neglect.
Haro sat rigid; his hands glued to the wheel. His
visor cap pulled low over his forehead. “I’m in the
privileged military-class,” he said, his lips tight, staring ahead. “You know, Sergio, it took years before
my wife and I could afford a decent apartment.”
“How much money do you make a month? 700,
800 pesos.”
“None of your business!”
“Major, you can make two hundred times that
amount providing drug overflight protection. A transponder code clearance is worth a fortune,” Stan said,
turning newly acquired knowledge into money.
From Carlos he had learned of the Medellin
Cartel’s heavy involvement in Cuba. Their use of
clandestine landing strips for refueling and storage;
airdrops in Cuban Air Defense Identification Zones,
the aerial equivalent to the country’s 12 mile territorial waters, and sanctioned drug flights plying commercial air corridors. He suspected that other than a
limited number of Cuban exiles and Colombians, no
“Gringo” drug smuggler had the inside information
or the wherewithal to use it.
“I’m not a narco trafficker,” Haro scoffed, but
his voice lacked conviction, and Stan continued.
“Multiply that by twenty or thirty flights a year and
we’re talking millions of pesos, or if you prefer, U.S.
hard currency.”
“Unbelievable! Who do I deal with it?”
“Me, just me.”
————
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SHELDON YAVITZ
While they drove through the city, Stan spelled
out the details. The Major reluctantly agreed. Five
minutes of reluctance, Stan would remember. He had
already approached Dutch and obtained his commitment. Horatio Plunkett rejected the offer: “I wouldn’t
trust a Cuban as far as I could throw one.” As Stan
discovered, he unfortunately confided in Buddha.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The lines at immigration were long and slowpaced. Stan watched, intrigued by an odd little man
with sunken eyes and a dour face. On the airliner,
he had sat two rows ahead, on the aisle. He fidgeted
at the counter as an immigration inspector scrutinized the traveler’s documents. The official scowled,
thumbing through a large loose-leaf binder. The passenger protested loudly with animated gestures. Two
officers approached and roughly seized him. He went
rag-doll limp; his feet scuffed the commercial tile
floor.
“Come with me, Señor Ponton.” A gruff voice
broke Stan’s preoccupation. He peered at a noncommissioned officer in green fatigues. A 9 mm Makarov
service pistol holstered on his hip. He had a scraggly beard, a swarthy complexion, and cleared a path
through the crowd with an authoritarian surliness.
Stan followed the hulking sergeant into a drab
cubicle. A bad day for anyone on Cubana de Aviacion Flight 901, Stan grimaced, thinking of his fellow
traveler being carted off in the opposite direction. He
quickly scanned the room: a straight wooden chair, a
brooding official hunched over a gray metal desk. On
the wall, a framed photograph of Fidel Castro, and
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SHELDON YAVITZ
in a corner, a vertical file cabinet. A metal bar stuck
through each of four drawer handles and secured by
a hasp drilled into the top. A thick padlock hung
unlatched.
“Have a seat, Señor Ponton,” the functionary
muttered. His eyes fixated on an open file. His black
hair combed back from a high forehead. A wide
nose and walrus mustache eclipsed a receding double
chin. “You are a Venezuelan journalist?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know Pascual Guzman?” His attention
still riveted on the papers before him.
“No.”
“He was on your flight.”
“I should have paid more attention.” Stan
removed a cigar from his jacket breast pocket. “A
news story, perhaps?”
“A political criminal. We just arrested him.”
“Ah, the story is your excellent police work.”
Stan forced a smile, patted his clothes in search of a
match.
A massive hairy hand shot forward flicking a
lighter.
Stan nodded to the sergeant and drew against
the flame.
“Enough of my problems,” the official shrugged.
He closed the file cover, looked up. “Welcome to
Havana. Colonel Haro has requested our humble
assistance.” He moved an ashtray within Stan’s reach.
“Your passport and visa, please,” he smiled, a chinless grin. “We shall make quick work of immigration
and customs, and then I can return to deal with that
267
slime.”
————
Outside the venerable air terminal, a remnant of
the Batista era, the sergeant opened the rear door to
a shiny black Mercedes-Benz diesel. Colonel Haro
leaned forward extending a hand. Stan joined him in
Teutonic luxury. “I see life has been good,” he said.
The car had been purchased secondhand and
imported from Spain for the state-run taxi service.
Haro, empowered by rapid promotions and a fattened
billfold, had commandeered the vehicle and with a
few modifications turned it into a first-class staff car.
“I just came from a high-level meeting and
thought it best to wait in the car.” He wore aviator
glasses and a dress uniform with Soviet Russian-style
epaulets. “You are becoming too much the celebrity
for a lowly colonel.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Definitely. Your interview with our beloved
president has been the talk of the island.”
In the course of his previous trip to Cuba, Stan
had met face to face with President Fidel Castro. He,
along with a group of news reporters, had accompanied the dictator on a publicized tour of a military
installation. Under security precautions code-named
Plan Silencio, the base swarmed with Castro’s armed
personal guard. All weapons issued to troops had
been rounded up the night before. The arsenal locked,
sealed and heavily guarded. During Castro’s afternoon visit, both military and civilian personnel were
restricted to their assigned stations and ordered, as
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the code name implied, to maintain silence.
On the spur of the moment, following a scheduled press conference, Castro decided on a private
interview with the Venezuelan journalist. He had
apparently read early chapters of Stan’s book circulating among top government officials, and favorably
impressed requested the meeting.
A Spartan briefing room with its cheap pine
veneer and large conference table served as the setting. Two heavily armed guards at attention were
positioned at the door; otherwise, only Castro and
him in a private meeting. Stan, in his CIA created
alias, smiled, bemused by the depth of his false identity.
————
The rugged, suntanned president was an imposing man. Thick gray hair and beard and deep set eyes
framed in wrinkles may have marked his age, but
failed to dim the vibrancy and strength of his persona. He answered Stan’s questions in his inimitable
rambling manner. “Capitalism is a failure and does
not offer any future for humanity,” he said, launching
into a lengthy monologue. He lambasted the “criminal” U.S. and attacked his critics as “lackeys of
imperialism.” In 1985, he stood at the height of his
power. Albeit, a regime propped up by massive doses
of Soviet military and economic aid.
Stan changed the tape in his micro-cassette
recorder. The President continued talking. He gave
an impassioned defense of the Cuban Revolution. A
raised index finger used for punctuation. “If stubborn
269
means being loyal to principles,” he said. “If stubborn means being willing to fight to the last drop of
blood and the last breath to defend the fatherland,
the revolution and the triumphs of socialism.” He
held his hands theatrically to his forehead. “Yes, I am
stubborn.”
Immersed in his journalist cover, Stan supplemented the tapes with copious notes. Toward the end
of the interview, he grew weary of Castro’s stock
rhetoric, and as he later said, foolishly chanced a
more aggressive line of questioning. “Does Cuba
directly support Marxist guerrilla groups in Colombia?”
Castro looked annoyed, glanced at the ceiling.
“We are not the leaders of any guerrilla movements.”
“Do you support M-19?”
“We are neither the judge of guerrilla movements nor political parties.”
“Can you explain why Colombia severed diplomatic relations with Cuba?”
“The Colombians should be more concerned
with drugs and the Cartel then leftist movements. We
do not permit narco trafficking in Cuba.”
Both men maintained a straight face, Stan would
note for future reference. He shifted direction: a good
rapport with the President was more important. “Is
there anywhere in the world where more has been
done for humankind than Cuba?” He plunged into
the role of an obsequious communist.
“I have asked myself that very question.” He bit
off the tip of a large cigar and spit.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“I can’t think of any country,” Stan said. He
noticed Castro’s satisfied grin, and continued. “In
fact, I have devoted an entire chapter to that proposition.” Smoke from the President’s cigar curled heavenward.
“Your book reflects an admirable grasp of our
revolution and socialist movement.” He flicked ashes
on the carpet. “An arrow that will pierce the slanders
so long preached by Yanqui warmongers.”
“Simply the unbiased observations of an objective observer.” He noticed Castro staring at a decanter
and then pour two glasses of water.
“Your efforts have our blessings.” He thrust a
glass in Stan’s hand.
“I’m honored.” He took a deep breath. “But I
have one request.”
“Yes?” The President’s eyes narrowed as Stan
drank the water. His teeth had a cigar smoker’s yellowish tinge.
“I’ve asked a photojournalist to remain on the
slim chance of a picture.”
“We know. We have been fully informed,” he
said with hands clasped. He paused, self-absorbed.
His gaze wandering between Stan and the decanter.
He leaned forward and spoke over the intercom.
“Bring in the photographer.” He turned toward the
journalist. “As you can see, every door shall be
opened to you in Cuba.” The dictator grinned graciously and slowly picked up his glass.
Stan took another sip; the President slaked his
thirst.
————
271
A photo shoot followed, and one of the pictures
was framed and placed on the desk in Stan’s villa.
————
Upon exiting the airport, the Mercedes had
turned onto the Carretera de Rancho Bayeros and
headed north toward the city.
“Where are you staying?”
“The Nacional.”
“Hotel Nacional, Vedado,” Haro barked to his
driver.
The thoroughfare flaunted a diverse mix of vehicles: American clunkers, Russian dull compact cars
with unfamiliar names like Moskovich, Lada and
Volga, and Soviet-block trucks, buses and military
transports. There were bicycles and horse drawn buggies and an occasional foreign luxury automobile,
perks of the emerging privileged class.
“Do you know what fascinates me about
Cuba?”
The Colonel shrugged.
“Your country lives in a time warp, pre 1960,
before Castro.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Maybe you’re too young, but it’s readily apparent in your American autos.” Stan’s eye followed a
1958 Buick Roadmaster with gobs of chrome and a
Detroit fading beauty. He pointed to a vintage Ford
Thunderbird sans fender skirts and continental kit.
“I own one of those,” the car enthusiast said, inadvertently referring to a similar Thunderbird in his
automobile collection. Haro returned a sly grin. Stan
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SHELDON YAVITZ
caught it. Ever since the interview with Castro, he
had sensed this clever intelligence officer’s skepticism. What he actually knew or even suspected,
Stan could only guess, but for now, he reasoned, as
long as he controlled the money, he held the Colonel in check. “While at the university in Caracas,” he
added, correcting a slip of the tongue.
“I recently purchased a 1957 Plymouth.”
“With tail fins?” Stan chuckled, concealing his
uneasiness. “The epitome of American decadence.
Shame on a good communist.”
“I am preserving our Cuban heritage, a piece
of our culture.” He related the black market cost of
15,000 pesos, and his attempt at restoring the vehicle. “Our Cuban mechanics are ingenious. They can
take a gearbox from a Volga, a Lada fuel pump, even
a Romanian truck radiator and adapt them to my
Plymouth.”
“It must be a financial burden on your modest
salary? Obviously, no sacrifice is too great for the
true aficionado.”
“You have little appreciation of automobiles,
and I might add, Sergio, a cruel wit.”
“Chalk it off to memory,” Stan smiled a droll
smile.
————
The high-rise hotels of the Vedado district
looked like Miami Beach of the Fifties with their art
deco architecture and soft pastel colors, light peach,
crème and baby blue. Time had faded their once-elegant facades, but a few sported new coats of paint
273
and refurbished interiors. The Tropicana still had its
floor show and the old Hotel Capri a bar with plexiglass windows overlooking the rooftop pool. The
Hotel Nacional, where Stan stayed, retained a palatial aura, but the towels were ratty and service sulky
and unprofessional.
Stan had left the hotel to join the Colonel at a
pizza parlor, a favorite local tourist spot. He walked
the short distance along the Malecon, Havana’s windswept, seaside boulevard, congested with traffic and
visiting foreigners. Girls in miniskirts or skintight
leggings stood on street corners or strolled provocatively down sidewalks. One winked at Stan with a
come-hither look. He returned a smile. She wore a
minidress and three-inch heels; her short blond hair
showed black at the roots.
By the time Stan arrived, the Colonel was seated
at a small booth devouring a pizza. He dressed
in civilian clothes: a crew-neck cotton shirt, suede
leather jacket and tailored slacks. He blended in with
the tourist crowd.
“I believe we invented pizza,” he joked, fingering a slice with mushrooms and pepperoni.
“Fidel’s exact words.”
————
A good conversationalist, Haro kept up an entertaining patter. A waitress appeared and took Stan’s
order. With the food served, Stan turned to business.
“All in the oven.” His words cryptic. “That’s one mil
this year to date.” The pizza joint had a glitzy atmosphere, a cheap Coney Island imitation.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“I love pizza,” Haro said as a waiter passed carrying a tray.
“Eighty percent in hard cheese, three foreign
plates,” Stan remarked in a low tone. His attention
focused on two men at a nearby table repeatedly
glancing in their direction. He listened; they spoke
French.
“Another Cristal beer, please,” Haro called to
a plump-figured young waitress. Her hair styled in
elaborate curls. “That’s fifty pizzas? A nice ass.”
“A fat ass.”
“My records show 46.” He leafed through a
small spiral notebook.
“49, plus a Christmas present.” An unseen
couple in the adjoining booth conversed in a grating
German.
“Tight jeans.”
“Are you complaining?”
“Pizza is pizza.” He turned to Stan with a pained
expression. “Eating it in Cuba is risky. My new rank
affords a little latitude, but most of my pepperoni’s
buried like a pack rat.”
“What good is pizza unless you can eat it?”
“I have been thinking about that.”
“I would too.”
————
“This is a nation of gossips and informants.”
The Colonel sat with a half-hand covering his mouth.
“What makes matters worse is that many of my countrymen in the business, so to speak,” he laughed nervously, “seem determined to advertise.”
275
“Not you,” Stan said tongue-in-cheek.
“It’s only a matter of time before someone’s
arrested.” He paused, staring at his Cuban-brewed
beer. “An arrest will spark a witch hunt, and after,
the purges.” He ran his fingers in his dark wavy
hair. “Communist countries are notorious for their
purges.”
“I don’t see a problem.”
“No, Sergio. It’s Alfonso that I’m worried
about.” He took a bite from a pizza slice, dabbed his
chin with a napkin. “He’s a small-time operator.”
“By our standards,” Stan grinned wryly.
“A big mouth, a blow-hard.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“If he gets caught, I could be next.”
“Are you telling me that he knows?”
“Too much.”
“Uh-huh.” He reached for a cigar and toyed
with the wrapper. “I might,” he said, drawing out his
words, “have a solution.” His eyes roamed the jampacked eatery settling on a young girl in a minidress
and three-inch heels. “We will talk about it. When we
have privacy.”
“Thanks, Sergio. You’re a true friend.”
“Sure,” Stan replied, still eyeing the young girl
with short blond hair black at the roots.
————
The next several days were for Stan a whirlwind of activity; all in the guise of procuring materials for his book. He toured the air base at Camilo
Cienfuegos and had a first-hand look at a Soviet MiG
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SHELDON YAVITZ
squadron. As the President promised, every door had
been opened to him in Cuba.
“I’d like one of those,” he kidded with an officer
as they stood before a Russian jet fighter.
The captain chuckled unaware of the implication.
He visited San Cristobal, a site made famous
during the Cuban Missile Crisis, and at a military
installation in Camaguey Province was invited to
lunch by a brigadier general. Upon returning to
Havana, Stan attended a press conference called by
the vice minister of the Armed Forces, and afterward
interviewed General Edgardo Lopez Echavarria, just
back from Nicaragua.
“You might be surprised,” Haro later confided,
“but your friend, the brigadier, has close ties to drug
traffickers.”
“I know. El Patron asked that I send him greetings.”
“Did you?”
“Of course not. I have my reputation to protect.”
————
Stan joined the Colonel and his wife, Roxana,
for a weekend on the resort island of Cayo Largo,
a favorite retreat of Cuban high ranking government
officials and military elite.
They had flown to the island in a Cuban Air
Force aircraft, which according to Haro had been
confiscated from a drug smuggler. “It’s a Beech 18,”
the Colonel said from the pilot’s chair, while en route
to their destination.
277
“Mid-sixties, I’d say. Five hundred kilo payload.” Stan had more than a passing familiarity with
smugglers’ airplanes. The twin-engine Beech featured tricycle landing gear, distinctive dual vertical
stabilizers and in this variation, a utilitarian interior
configuration: bare boned from the wood flooring to
the visible rivets and ribs.
“Fifty overflights a year, that’s easy.” The old
workhorse lumbered at 180 knots.
“There is no certainty in the drug business.”
“I’d be satisfied with another million dollar
year.”
Stan heard a child whine and peered over his
shoulder through the open partition between cockpit
and cabin. Roxana Haro sat in the rear cuddling her
fretful infant. Quite the opposite from her good-looking husband, Stan reflected, with her short brown
hair and little make-up. Beige baggy knee-length
shorts, a faded sleeveless blouse and floppy sandals
fostered a mousy image. Yet, first impressions can be
deceiving, particularly in the case of a harried young
mother.
He studied the face of the Colonel. He is more
than just a key to a Soviet MiG, but an intelligence
coup and a publicist’s dream, a propaganda bonus
for the CIA, Stan thought. He could envision newspaper and television coverage of the movie-like hero,
who had risked his life escaping to freedom from the
totalitarianism of Cuba. But first, Haro had to be sold
on the role. Freedom was going to cost top dollar.
————
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“I’ve a million dollars, U.S. cash,” Stan said.
“Your’s Colonel for one big deal.” It was evening on
the beach at Cayo Largo, 40 miles south/southwest
of the Bay of Pigs, mise en scène of the U.S. supported Cuban invasion.
“Here we go again.”
“Forget it.”
“No, Sergio, I’m interested.”
Stan strode ahead in silence. The firm sand of
the shoreline stretched back into dunes, interspersed
with coarse grass, scrub brush and palmetto.
“What’s the deal? The solution, you were talking about?” Stan shrugged, but didn’t answer. “Did
you say a million U.S dollars?” The tide gently
lapped against the shore. A quarter moon sought protective cloud cover. A wisp of cool air carried on its
breath a hint of rain.
“For the latest Soviet MiG delivered to the
United States.”
The Colonel audibly gasped, stunned. “You
are not who you say you are.” He struggled to maintain his composure. “I have known for sometime.”
He forced a professional half-grin. “No university
records. I have checked. Too many unaccounted for
years.” He looked awkwardly about as though somebody might be watching. “Who are you?” He asked,
seeing no one.
“It’s nearly Christmas, and I’m a man with a
million dollar gift.” He hunched a shoulder. “A few
minor strings.”
“Cut the horseshit!”
“I’m a friend of the royal family in Haiti. A con-
279
siglieri to the Cartel; a communist when necessary.
A journalist who hobnobs with Washington politicians,” he smiled unruffled. “Beyond that, you don’t
want to know, or you would have found out.”
“What you are asking is treason.”
“No more mortal sin than drug trafficking in
your country.”
“They are not the same!” His teeth flashed.
“The same firing squad.”
“I should turn you in as a spy.”
“You don’t want to do that.”
“I can have you executed!” He snapped his fingers. “This is Cuba.”
“It’s all documented.” Haro’s jaw dropped.
“Right down to your bank accounts.” The Colonel’s
eyes went flat. “CIA involvement. They paid your
last pay check.” The Cuban visibly cringed. “Just a
precaution. All neatly packaged for my dear friend,
Fidel,” he added, referring to letters held by Juan
Lorenzo, his Venezuelan attorney.
The Colonel’s arm shot forward grabbing Stan
by the shirt collar. “Sonofabitch!” The pulse in his
neck pounded. A garlic-strong scent on his breath.
Stan instinctively brought the booted heel of his
right foot down on Haro’s left instep. The Colonel
howled; his leg buckled. He fell to one knee, then
clutched his barefoot.
Emotionally charged and surprised by his swift
reaction, Stan realized that he was no physical match
for the Colonel. He had used the one self-defense
move shown to him by Barney Blinkov, bail bondsman and bounty hunter. With his bag of tricks empty,
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SHELDON YAVITZ
he launched a verbal offensive.
“Don’t you ever put your hands on me.” Stan
towered over the fallen man. “I’m sick of your theatrics.” His eye bore into him. “We’re talking business.” His voice harsh and uncompromising.
The Colonel noticeably winced. He lifted his
trouser cuff and visually examined the sore spot. He
delicately fingered the bruise. “No broken bones,” he
muttered. He struggled to his feet as the pain ebbed.
“Did you know we killed four men to cover that
pilot’s escape?”
“I’ve heard that.”
“It doesn’t bother you?” He brushed off his
pants.
“A job’s a job.”
“How many people do you think that I’m going
to kill for your MiG?”
“That’s your problem. All I have to do is make
you a rich Cuban defector.” He shoved his hands in
his pockets. “In the United States, you will be a hero,
a millionaire, wealthier than ninety-two percent of
the American public.” Haro listened enraptured. His
eyes fast moving. “Probably a high paying job in
aerospace or intelligence.” The Colonel’s troubled
expression faded; his lips formed a grin. “They’ll
treat you like a movie star.” Haro cocked his head
with a jaunty air. “Most Cubans would pay me for
this chance.” He turned and resumed walking in the
direction of the beach cottage.
“Where do I deliver the MiG?” The Colonel
limped, but once again in step.
“Florida. Homestead Air Force Base or the navel
281
air station at Key West; 95 miles away at 520 miles
per hour. Ten minutes for a million dollars. Sweet,”
Stan whistled.
“Can you do better on the money?”
“Better?” Bull!”
“There’s a risk!”
“I want a MiG 21 bis with a full missile complement to be exact. Anything less is worth zero,
nada!”
“Sergio, their latest, a MiG 29, will be at our
February air show. I could take it up for a test flight,
and …”
“I read about that MiG,” Stan interrupted,
paused as if momentarily distracted, while considering the proposition. He stared up at a bluff rising
above the sand dunes and at burned ruins framed
in the lusterless night sky. The doors and windows
gutted and the rafters charred. “It’s a cross between
a U.S. F14 and F16,” he finally said, recalling information furnished by the Central Intelligence Agency.
“From what I gather, the U.S. has no clear, unambiguous description of that airplane. I could be wrong,”
his voice drifted, sounding intentionally vague, probing for data.
“It’s the most technologically advanced fighter
in the Soviet Union, Mach 2.3, and better than Mach
1 at sea level. Two Tumansky turbofans, a modified
delta wing.”
“The missiles?”
“R-23s, and as primary armament, the new
AA-10 air to air with LDSD radar,” he said, as
he continued in great detail to describe the Soviet
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SHELDON YAVITZ
fighter.
Stan nodded, listening. He rocked on his heels
reluctant to part with anymore money. He bent down
and dusted sand from his ankle boots. “They want a
MiG 21.”
“The 29’s an intelligence coup. I should know.
I’m the expert.”
“An additional one hundred thousand.”
“Five hundred.”
“The MiG 21 is fine.”
“Split the difference, two-fifty.”
“You sound like a capitalist?”
“I am!”
“Okay, I will have a down payment deposited to
your account.”
“I’ve got a problem!” Haro sat down on the hull
of a capsized beached dingy.
“You want me to fly the jet?”
“No, Roxie.” He fingered the rotted wood and
goose barnacles. “I can’t leave without my wife and
daughter.”
“Of course not. They’re included. Do you think
I forget such an important detail?”
“I will have to talk this over with Roxie.”
“Sure.”
“She’s the boss,” the Colonel smiled diffidently.
“You are already a typical henpecked American
husband.”
Haro shrugged and raised his hands in a hapless
gesture.
————
283
All night, Stan would hear the bickering Haros
in the adjacent bedroom. Their arguing broken only
by a baby’s cries. He was relieved that no neighbors
lived within earshot, and that the Colonel had exhaustively checked the house for secret listening devices.
Roxana “Roxie” Haro’s voice rose time and
time again to a crescendo. Her shrill shrieks reverberated through the drywall. “What will your mother
think?” She shouted. “We’re patriots, not traitors!”
She roared. “We won’t fit in with those norteamericanos,” she wailed. “Cuban defectors are shit! You’re
shit!” She sounded like Sue Ann.
“No mousy housewife,” Stan muttered to himself. A fire-breathing dragon sabotaging my operation.
————
The crash of a bottle awoke Stan from fleeting
slumber.
“Animal!” Roxie bawled.
“Bitch!” Haro bellowed.
“God!” Stan glanced at his watch. “6:45.
They’ve started again.”
“I’m going with or without you!” Haro yelled,
and then, an ominous quiet.
————
Breakfast and lunch were eaten in silence. Only
a crabby, underfoot infant livened the household.
Roxie had a long face, her eyes red and swollen.
Her lips set in a perpetual downward droop. Haro
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SHELDON YAVITZ
paced or took walks on the beach. He favored his
left leg and wore a spiral reverse bandage. At times,
the couple huddled together talking in conspiratorial
whispers. Stan withdrew to the patio appearing lost
in his manuscript. His mood blackened.
It was late afternoon when the Colonel called
Stan to the living room. The parlor had a cheap motel
motif of mismatched furniture and the absence of
personal touches. Roxie sat on a floral-patterned sofa
wearing a bright yellow knit dress with fitted midriff and full skirt. High heels and heavy make-up
struck Stan as a good sign. Haro joined her. They
held hands and exchanged glances.
He stood before them. Stan felt like a defendant
waiting for a verdict.
“Mr. Ponton, please have a seat.” Roxie crossed
her legs at the knees. “We accept your proposal,
but,” she hesitated, rearranging her skirt. “I will need
spending money in Venezuela.”
“Of course.”
“At least, ten thousand dollars for shopping.”
Stan smiled, and thought of Sue Ann.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The pendulum clock on the walnut mantel tolled
eleven pm. A fire in the large, stone fireplace burned
with long tongues of flame. Sparks sprayed as a redhot log split. Stan sat hearthside in an oyster-colored
swivel recliner, his feet propped on an upright leather
footrest. A rum and coke glowed reddish in a crystal
goblet close-at-hand. Alone, New Year’s Eve, and
Sue Ann out on the town.
They had a quarrel earlier that evening. A onesided argument with Stan on the defensive.
“You missed Christmas.” She stared at her magnified reflection in a vanity mirror.
“Business. It couldn’t be helped.” He had no
better excuse having spent the holiday with Laura.
“You were gone almost a month.” She petulantly tossed her head. “God knows we didn’t miss
you,” she sighed, batting her lush, exotic lashes.
“The house was so peaceful.” She reached for a pale
blusher.
“It was business. I was making lots of money.”
He spoke with a half-grin, almost half-heartedly.
“Even risked my life for our country.” His tone flippant. A mistake, he later admitted. I should have
been more serious and convincing.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“You’re talkin’ shit!”
“You could have come with me.”
Her green eyes flashed. “You think of nothing
but your prick.” He kissed the back of her neck. She
stiffened and pulled away. “I’ve given the maid the
night off.” She threw him a spiteful glance. “You
baby-sit.”
“You could have told me,” Stan frowned. “We
always go out New Year’s Eve.” He buried his hands
deep in his pockets. “It’s bad luck not being with
you.”
“You’re not going to ruin my evening.” Sue Ann
flicked her tongue over her upper front teeth. “Stanton, you don’t understand. You’re boring!” She peevishly rolled her eyes. “You’re not normal. You don’t
play golf like other lawyers.” She slipped a silk floral
print kimono wrap off her shoulders. “You can’t talk
to people.” Diamonds glittered on her throat, ears,
fingers and wrists. “All my friends say you are the
most boring man.” He slumped down sprawling on
the bedspread. “Fuckin’ doesn’t make you the life of
the party.” She posed before a mirrored wall draping
a white gown across her body. “Now leave me alone.
I’ve got to get dressed.”
————
Stan added another log on the fire and watched
as flames encircled the crackling dried wood. He
repeatedly tapped a clenched fist on the mantelpiece
experiencing an adulterer’s guilt. I never noticed that.
He scratched his head. His attention drawn to Sue
Ann’s prominently displayed seascape. Billowy sails
287
and a becalmed ocean are certainly incongruous.
Artistic license, he shrugged, or perhaps, a wife’s
subconscious yearning to escape a boring husband.
He searched his memory and recalled that the painting long predated his affair with Laura. “Damn it!”
He reached for the telephone, dialed a Fort Lauderdale number, and asked the operator for room 520.
He tucked the cordless headset between his shoulder
and ear, and impatiently snapped his fingers counting
the rings.
“Hi, honey,” Laura answered.
“Happy New Year.”
————
Stan had arrived in Caracas, Venezuela, from
Cuba four days before Christmas. The first two days
following his return occupied preparations for Roxie
Haro’s visit. On the morning of the third, he drove up
into the mountains carrying presents for Quinto and
his family.
“You didn’t have to do this,” Quinto said, his
manner effusive, helping Stan unload the Bronco.
“What are friends for,” he grinned. “How’s my
girl?” He asked.
“Cute as a bug in a rug. The señora and I just
love her. She cleaned motel rooms, painted furniture,” he reported as they climbed the steps to his
upstairs apartment. “She plays with the kids, taught
my wife English. Some great love stuff,” he blushed,
his head snaking around an armload of gaily wrapped
packages.
“Do you know where she is?”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“With the chickens.”
————
Stan followed a twisting, root-ridden path up
a hill. At the top, he caught his breath and looked
down into the valley. The feathered branches of fir
trees obstructed his view. The sunlight searched out
the landscape through trillions of green needles. He
descended the steep slope. A rickety barn appeared in
a clearing. He scanned the panorama: an old mare in
a corral, grazing cows, and a chicken-wire enclosed,
unpainted coop. He moved closer, stopping beside a
fallen tree trunk. The bark blackened and fissured.
From his vantage point, he spied a girlish figure in a
dark ankle length peasant skirt and pullover sweater.
She wore a multicolored shawl and a floppy hat and
carried an oval-shaped straw basket. A pair of Gucci
sandals tied together dangled from a red sash. A
woolly mutt trailed behind her.
Laura looked up and waved. She dropped her
basket splattering the eggs. She started running
toward him. The dog lapped at her side. Her hat flew
off. She glanced over her shoulder, but didn’t slacken
her pace. She reached him flinging herself into his
arms. Her lips were hot. Their kisses long and wet.
The dog lapped at his hand.
“I like your new choice of friends,” he said.
————
The fire burned idly in the fireplace. Stan heard
dogs bark and a motorcar. He put down a novel,
289
noted the hour, scowled and turned off an antique
candlestick table lamp. He waited and listened. The
back door opened and slammed with a thud. He
sensed Sue Ann behind him and swiveled his chair.
Her face appeared tinged yellow in the bouncing
flecks of firelight. Her low-cut evening gown had a
life of its own. He fingered a pair of emerald earrings
in his smoking-jacket pocket. There was still time to
celebrate the New Year.
She glared at him. “Spying on me, you shit!” He
noticed her make-up smeared. “You pervert!” The
bodice of her frock had a tear.
“Rough date?”
“You, filthy-minded shit!” Her hair had a just
slept in look; her speech slurred.
His face turned to stone. She bent down,
removed an evening slipper. “I hate you!” She hurled
the shoe at him. It whizzed past his ear, ricocheted
off the fireplace landing near his feet with the stiletto
heel severed.
“Do you want a divorce?”
She threw up her hands, turned and hobbled
toward the staircase.
“Go to hell, Sue Ann!” Stan called after her. He
reached for his drink and stared into an empty glass.
————
The Central Intelligence Agency expected Stan
in Washington. Laura pled with him to deal with
Cesar Roman. T. Clement Mayfield had phoned with
news that Pop Durfee vanished with his girlfriend,
sailboat and airplane. Ace McGonigle had called
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several times for an appointment; Sky Mellow had
repeatedly telephoned from jail. Client after client
demanded his personal attention, and Carlos Bianco
had been arrested. Crawford related the details, and
provided a clipping from the Miami Herald.
December 18, 1985
BUSINESSMAN JAILED
ON DRUG CHARGES
Miami. Prominent businessman Carlos Bianco
remains in jail Tuesday on charges that he conspired to smuggle as much as 7, 500 pounds
of cocaine into South Florida, engaging in a
continuing criminal enterprise and tax evasion.
Carlos Bianco, 43, of Fort Lauderdale, was
being held at the Metropolitan Correctional
Center in Miami. Bianco was arrested Monday
on a warrant issued by the U. S. Drug Enforcement Administration …
Bianco, an airplane broker and owner of Caribbean Air Transport, gained national prominence in offshore power boat racing.
————
“Bianco called, wanted us to represent him. You
were gone. He hired someone else,” Crawford said.
“I guess having a good time was more important?”
Stan shrugged. “Join the Sue Ann hate club.”
————
He faced the new year with a busy trial sched-
291
ule. His long absence and constant travel had caused
a case backlog, and he feared, a lack of adequate
preparation. He resolved one case with a plea-bargain, obtained a continuance in two others, but a
fourth was set number one on a jury trial calendar.
“If you want to gallivant around the world that’s
your business, Mr. Pollard,” Judge Smith smirked,
“but in my courtroom my trials come first. Motion
for continuance denied. Tomorrow, ten sharp. Be
ready to pick a jury.”
He advised Agent Cox of the impending delay.
“Christ! Give me his name, number and all relevant details.”
————
The following morning, Stan appeared for trial
at the Metropolitan Dade County Justice Building
in downtown Miami. The block square, ten story
edifice stood amid a complex of state and county
buildings. A stark waterless pool marred the marble
and glass entrance. His client, Sol Gateman, a wellknown architect, charged with sexual battery, preceded him through the double doors into Courtroom
4-4.
According to police reports and depositions,
the bespectacled, middle-aged Lothario had picked
up the victim at a ritzy Coconut Grove nightspot.
He offered her a job as his executive secretary and
invited her to his yacht at the Dinner Key Boat
yard. Once aboard the 34-foot sportfisherman, the
victim claimed that Gateman took her car keys and
demanded sex in exchange for their return. When she
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SHELDON YAVITZ
refused, he became abusive and forced her to have
sexual intercourse. She supported the accusation with
visible bruises. After, the accused purportedly tossed
her car keys to the pavement and allegedly uttered
the following remark. “Pick them up (the keys) on
your way out. If you type as badly as you fuck,
you’re pretty useless.”
Stan viewed the evidence in a different light.
The sex was consensual and the job offer her fabrication. The defense would establish that the alleged
victim had no secretarial skills, and the injuries,
if any, attributable to a fall from a ladder braced
against the dry-docked vessel. He held another ace
up his sleeve, the night watchman, who would testify
that the alleged victim made no complaint when she
drove out the gate. After weeks of intrigue, the case
offered a welcome change of pace.
Now, the brute sat beside his lawyer wringing
his hands. The arraignment docket was still in progress. Defendants denied bond occupied seats in the
jury box. A husky black man in a jail-issued orange
jump suit stood before the bench. His hands clasped
behind his back and a discernible tremor in his right
leg.
“We waive reading of the information and enter
a plea of not guilty,” his public defender said, addressing the Court. “We request 15 days for motions,
reciprocal discovery …”
A bailiff approached the judge interrupting
the P.D.’s presentation. They conferred in whispers.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” the jurist said, rising to
his feet. “Court stands in ten minute recess.” He
293
adjusted his black robe and walked with long steps
from the courtroom exiting through a wood framed,
green Plexiglas side door. The defendant in the jump
suit turned and nervously grinned at the gallery. A
uniform-clad deputy ushered him back to the jury
box. His public defender nonchalantly tossed a file
on the desk.
“Coffee break,” he said, and sauntered from the
room.
————
The windowless, wood paneled courtroom was
abuzz with countless voices: lawyers and their clients, spectators and court personnel.
“Are you starting a trial today?” A jovial, portly
attorney asked Stan.
“Yes.”
“Against Meadows?”
He nodded, distracted by the prosecutor conversing with a television news reporter.
“You will need all the luck in the world against
that ball buster.”
Gateman cringed. “I got to piss.”
Judge Smith had reentered the courtroom.
“All rise,” the bailiff bellowed.
The judge looked down from the dais. He
ran a well-manicured finger over a neat, luxuriant
mustache. “Would Mr. Pollard and Assistant State
Attorney Doreen Meadows join me immediately in
chambers.”
“What does this mean?”
“It means you can go to the bathroom.”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
————
The judge’s chambers consisted of a small office
and anteroom. The walls bedecked with awards and
mementos. Circuit Judge Daryl Smith slouched in a
high-back, over-sized tufted chair. The United States
and State of Florida flags flanked his Honor like
posted sentries.
Stan took a seat on a leatherette sofa. A golf bag
propped against an armrest. Doreen Meadows in a
forest green polyester suit with a knee-length skirt
selected a chair nearest the judge’s desk.
The court reporter entered and set up her stenotype machine. She checked the tape, typed a cryptic
notation, and then stared at the judge until they made
eye contact.
“A few minutes ago, I received a telephone
call from General Wilcox at the Pentagon,” Judge
Smith said in a subdued tone. “He informed me that
Mr. Pollard is urgently required in Washington on a
matter of national importance.” He lit a Marlboro and
inhaled deeply. “They have an Air Force transport at
his disposal.” He puffed a smoke ring with a boyish
exuberance. “Stan, how many days do you expect
this trial to last?”
“At least five, probably six days.”
“Three at best.”
“We have a lengthy defense.”
“Your Honor, please!” Meadows coughed, wrinkled her sensitive nose as smoke rippled from the
judge’s mouth and nostrils. She waved her hand
demonstratively warding off the haze.
“Under the circumstances, a continuance is in
295
order.” He stubbed out the cigarette. “Does the State
have any objections?”
“This case has been continued three times
charged to the defendant.” The prosecutor leaned forward; her mouth, a temperish pout. “As far as the
State is concerned, this is a cheap trick to force a
delay. Think of the rape victim impacted by another
postponement. How many more indignities most that
poor girl suffer at the hands of the defendant and his
attorney?”
“What do you say, Stan?” He had a grin-andbear-it grimace. His broad Florida-tanned forehead
topped by a thatch of salt-and-pepper hair.
“Judge, we’re ready for trial. However,” he
cleared his throat. “The matter referred to by the general is top secret and explains why I have been gone.
I wish that I could take you into my confidence.”
He paused; his eyes roamed from the assistant state
attorney to the court reporter and back to the jurist.
“But, I would need government clearance. As I see it,
this is between you and the general, and maybe, the
White House,” he added, baiting the fiery prosecutor,
expecting an outburst with the indirect suggestion of
the president.
“My Lord!” She fingered the bangs of her China
doll blunt cut. “Your Honor, defense counsel’s an
unmitigated …”
“I’ve heard enough. Enough, Madam Prosecutor. Mr. Pollard is a well-respected officer of the
court.” His lips formed a tight line. “I shall consider
this the court’s continuance. No explanation necessary. Do you want the record sealed?”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
Meadows tapped her foot.
“I believe that’s appropriate.”
She glared at Stan with an unforgiving womanly scorn.
————
That evening, he flew into Washington D.C.
on an Air Force Gulfstream executive jet. By 7:30
o’clock, the next morning, Stan was in a nondescript
Dodge Aspen on his way to CIA headquarters across
the Potomac River about eight miles from downtown
Washington. They turned off the George Washington Memorial Parkway at the CIA exit and followed
well-traveled State Road 123 through an exclusive
Langley, Virginia suburb dotted with multimillion
dollar mansions.
Agent Webster Cox, gaunt and haggard, gripped
the steering wheel in both hands. He tried to smile.
“The Chief’s impressed.”
“Faulkner?”
“No. The Director.”
Accompanied by Cox and escorted by a security officer, Stan stepped off an elevator onto a drab
yellowish-beige hallway. He noticed people standing
and simply observing, 160 degree viewing, circular
convex mirrors and surveillance cameras.
“What’s going on?” He asked.
“Top floor, top brass.”
In sharp contrast, a private carpeted corridor
demarcated lavish executive row and the Director’s
office sumptuously decorated in French Empire furniture.
297
“Are we going to meet with the DCI, the DDO
or some other deputy?” He unmindfully plucked
at an electronically coded pass hanging around his
neck.
“Get a life!” Cox opened the door to a small
conference room.
Faulkner greeted Stan with an all-business handshake.
He nodded, placed his attaché case on a high
gloss oversized table and tossed his trench coat and
slouched Stetson hat on an empty chair. He took a
seat opposite the Division Chief and two nameless,
dark-suited men. CIA analysts, he later learned.
For Stan, it would turn into two hellish days
of debriefing, nitpicking questions and cross-examination. His interrogators tore into him like birds
of prey. The windowless, cramped room became a
smoke filled closet. Faulkner had his pipe; one analyst, cigars, and the other, a cigarette chain smoker.
Cox slumped in a chair like a wilted beanpole until
suddenly piqued, then striking, fangs bared. “Where
have you been with your face buried in some dame’s
crotch?” He spit, responding to Stan’s indifferent
remark. “It’s only an airplane.” with his fury spent,
he crumpled exhausted.
The first day of questioning centered on the
Colonel and the MiG. They sought detail after detail,
even addressing Haro’s food preference.
“Pizza,” Stan replied with a pretense of calm
detachment. “Pepperoni, maybe, mushrooms.”
Four hands jotted down the minutiae on yellow
legal-size pads.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
When the inquiry focused on the Colonel’s wife,
infant and family, Stan finally admitted to the behind
the scenes rescue of Orlando Alfonso, the brother-inlaw, in exchange for Buddha Blanton.
“Blanton died in a cave-in,” the gruff voiced
analyst said. He pored through a file folder. “It’s right
here, black and white,” he added, reading from a
report.
“I’m afraid I saved him.”
“What took you so long to disclose the information?” Faulkner cut in.
“Testing. I was testing the sophistication of your
Cuban spy network and the depth of my cover.”
Cox stared at him, dumbfounded.
————
The debriefing shifted to Haro’s planned defection.
“The MiG 29 probably will arrive in an Antonov
Condor transport and be reassembled at a Cuban Air
Force base. Between the twentieth and twenty-third
of February, contingent on his opportunity, the Colonel should test fly the fighter,” Stan said in a deep
monotone, “and detour to the U.S.”
“How will we know for certain that the Colonel
is honoring his commitment?” The scholarly analyst
wiped his eyeglasses. His face prune-wrinkled.
“Mrs. Haro arrives the week before in Venezuela. She stays at my home. You, boys, know about the
villa?”
No one responded: just four blank faces.
“Elena will call upon Roxana Haro’s arrival, or
299
at the earliest notification,” Stan said, explaining that
he would provide his secretary with a South Florida
hotel telephone number. “She thinks I will be in
Miami covering a story.”
“Elena?”
“Elena Valdez.” He would refer to her as simply
his secretary.
“That’s the young woman who picked you up at
the airport.” Faulkner hovered over a writing tablet.
He wrote her name in large block letters accentuated
with asterisks.
“Did you follow us home?” Stan swiveled in his
chair struck by his own carelessness.
“She didn’t come out until the following morning,” the gruff voiced analyst smirked, scrutinizing a
HUMINT report.
Stan swirled the contents of his coffee cup.
“Followed me into the mountains, I gather?”
“Our man lost you in the fog. Where did you
go?”
“Mountain climbing.”
“Bullshit!”
“Call it what you like.”
“You returned with a girl in a long skirt, floppy
hat and barefoot. Looked like a maid,” an analyst
pried.
Stan nodded. “The maid.”
“She also stayed the night.”
“The house was dirty.”
“Come on, Shades. admit it. She’s your mistress.”
Faulkner tugged at his plaid vest. “A real looker.”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
He rapped his fingers on the conference table. “The
naked dish on the patio in Haiti,” he winked, suggestively. “What does she know?” Stan shrugged. “She
must have seen that photo of you and Castro?”
Stan sipped his coffee. He could feel a slow
burn.
“She called you her spy, or was it her secret
agent?”
He became increasingly ill at ease. Dark glasses
masked his anger and frustration. He had searched
every room and the telephone receiver mouthpiece for
eavesdropping devices. “Horny broad.” Stan heard
an agent say. Suddenly, it dawned on him that the
villa had been bugged during his return trip to Quinto’s motel.
“What does she know?” The question repeated.
“Nothing.” He pinched his chin between his
thumb and fingers. “My private life’s my own business.”
“You took her shopping and bought an expensive emerald necklace. It’s all in our report,” the
scholarly analyst added. He removed a photograph
from a wide blue tab folder. “Take a look at this.”
He passed the photo to Stan. The eight by ten inch
glossy print showed Laura and him holding hands.
Stan recognized the place as the parking lot of the
gleaming glass CCCT Shopping Center in downtown
Caracas.
“You jeopardized the mission!” Spittle clung to
Cox’s lower lip. “A high-priced call girl.” He waved a
fax. “A Canadian prostitute.” His protuberant Adam’s
apple jerked spasmodically as he reveled in Stan’s
301
discomfort. “Where’s your brains, hotshot? Up your
butt!”
Stan shoved back his chair. He reached toward
his hat and coat.
“Calm down, Shades.” Faulkner raised his palms
in a conciliatory gesture. “We’re just being cautious.”
He took a fast look at his fellow agents. “Security,
Shades.” He folded his hands in front of him on the
top of a yellow legal pad. “Time for a break,” he
smiled. “What would you like for dinner?”
“You tell me.” Stan slammed the lid on his briefcase.
————
By the second grueling day, tempers were short
with little effort made to defuse the mutual hostility.
Stan attributed the agents’ antagonism to envy. Their
professional jealousy over the ease in which he had
infiltrated Cuba, arranged for the MiG, and turned
espionage into a moneymaking business.
Cox, his control agent, in an evaluation summary, would describe Stan as a loner, a mercenary
with few scruples, who compromised a rich harvest
of data by subordinating the national interest to his
own financial gain. He cited Stan’s arrogance and
independence, his manipulativeness and apparent
distrust of the CIA, and refusal to deal with assets
in-place in Cuba. He characterized Stan as intelligent, inventive and resourceful. A corrupt man, who
corrupted and penetrated Cuban officialdom at the
highest level. His handling of the covert operation,
dubbed FULCRUM, could not be faulted with one
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exception: his liaison with a Canadian prostitute, a
highly sensitive security breach.
Stan’s latest memo supplemented by tape recordings contained his first mention of the Castro interview. Analysts had dissected and brooded over each
word and paragraph searching for foreign policy revelations. Psychologists had psychoanalyzed Castro’s
presentation and employed a voice-stress analyzer in
an attempt to ascertain the truthfulness of his statements. A copy of the tapes had been forwarded EYES
ONLY to the Director and later would be cleared for
State Department use. By midday, the Castro interview was the subject under discussion.
They barraged him with questions pertaining
to Castro’s health, his mental stability and physical
appearance.
“Did his hands shake?” The scholarly analyst
inquired. “Any truth to the rumor that he has a prostrate condition?”
“Note any respiratory ills?” The gravel voiced
analyst suggested.
“Any sign of senility?” Faulkner asked. “Castro’s been reported to have Alzheimer’s.”
He answered each question in the negative.
“You’re not very observant,” Cox jabbed.
Stan looked him in the eye. “Next time, you
interview the dictator. He’s a paranoid man,” Stan
reported, relating the “water glass” incident. “Otherwise, he seems active, vital and quick-witted. A little
flabby and a heavy cigar smoker, but no different
than the man you see on TV. Oh, yes,” he grinned,
“he just gave up smoking, kicked the habit after 44
303
years.”
“Why did you wait so long before divulging the
Castro interview?” Faulkner tapped his pipe bowl
against his palm as powdery residue peppered an
ashtray.
“First, I didn’t consider his remarks as a whole
very relevant, and turned the tapes over to my secretary to be transcribed. After, involved in the MiG
project, I felt that it was more important to maintain
my journalist cover.”
“Lame!”
“You talk like a schmuck!”
“Crucial data compromised.”
“Dumb amateur!”
“Actually, the only reason that I’m providing
the tapes is because it no longer matters.” He paused,
resting his chin on his hands for a moment. “Whether
or not the Colonel rips off the MiG, my days in Cuba
are over.”
“Lost your balls?”
“No. He’s a fuckin’ prima donna.”
Four pairs of eyes glared at Stan like predator
lizards taunting an insect, the confrontation broken
by the opening of the door. A large man with a
hunched posture and drooping jowls entered. His tie
askew and expensive suit disheveled.
Faulkner sucked in his paunch. Cox sat ramrod
straight, and the gruff voiced analyst smiled politely.
The scholarly analyst gingerly fingered his ratty
toupee. Stan glanced over his shoulder at the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.
“A pleasure to meet you.” The Director warmly
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greeted Stan, pressing-the-flesh in a politician’s fashion. “As one lawyer to another, you’re a credit to the
Bar and my type of balls-to-the-wall guy.” He pulled
up a chair. “How’s my boys treating you?”
“Like shit, to pardon the expression,” Stan said,
poker-faced, as he watched the four agents to a man
squirm.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Strobe lights produced a freeze-frame illusion
of the exotic dancer’s movements.
“My landlord wants to evict me,” she said,
clacking her heels on a formica table top. “The creep
says I haven’t paid my rent.” She ran her fingers
seductively through hair bleached to a metallic silver.
“Can he do that?”
“Sure, but he will need to provide a three day
written notice giving you the opportunity to bring the
rent current,” Stan explained, gazing up at the young
girl as she unhooked an ivory satin bustier. “If you
don’t comply, he can file an eviction complaint.”
“How long does that take?” She pressed padded
push-up cups to her bosom, swaying to the music.
“Two or three weeks.”
“Damn, I paid him.” She dropped the lacetrimmed lingerie into Stan’s lap. “I balled him for the
rent.” Fire engine red lipstick accentuated her milky
pallor.
“Got a receipt?” He gingerly moved the intimate apparel to another chair.
“Never thought of that.” She slipped out of her
skirt.
“Shit!” She flung the mini at a seat cushion.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“Next time, get a receipt.”
“Can’t you help?”
“I don’t handle landlord and tenant cases.”
“You have to help her,” Laura said, squeezing
his hand. “She’s been swindled, horribly violated. It
was a business deal.” She slid a ten dollar bill in the
dancer’s garter. “Just think if I had to sue every jerk
for the money.”
“I see your point,” Stan sighed. “Call my office
and ask for Ed Crawford. My associate specializes in
that kind of case,” he added with a slight grimace.
————
“My name’s B. Hoskins, Brittany Hoskins,” she
later said as she dressed. She kissed Stan’s cheek.
“You bet I’ll call.” She shook Laura’s hand. “You
both have a good time.” Hoskins smiled artificially
and moved to another table.
“She has a lovely body,” Laura remarked.
“I noticed you watching. You kept paying her to
dance.”
“I could do that.”
“Fuck for the rent?”
“No, silly, be a dancer.”
Stan leaned forward; his elbows on the table
and his chin resting on his hands. “You should be a
housewife.”
“I’m not married.”
“I’ve been thinking about that ever since I saw
you with a basket of eggs.” He grinned shyly. “A
farm girl’s a turn-on.”
“Are you serious?”
307
“Sure,” he paused, waving away a scantily
clothed girl nearing their table. “It’s not that simple.”
He held her hand stroking her fingers. Her eyes were
big and alive and stared into his. “Sue Ann’s divorce
will cost me every nickel she can lay her grubby
paws on, but if all goes well in February …” He
superstitiously knocked on the formica top. Rowdy
patrons and disco music drowned out his words. He
broke into a smile. “We can live on an island, Saint
Martin, maybe Jamaica, or travel to Europe.” She
drew closer listening intently. “I might write, become
a law school professor.”
“You’re not joking?” She bit her lip. Her hands
moved in search of some activity.
“No joke.”
“Oh, God!” Her eyes welled with tears; her chin
quivered. She groped in her purse for a tissue. The
contents spilled out on the table. She dabbed her eyes
and sniffled.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m so happy.” She clasped her hands around
his neck and pulled his face to hers. “Of course, I
will.”
Stan’s eyes blinked passively.
They sipped champagne. A sparkling bottle in
an ice bucket parked beside them.
“You don’t want to practice law?”
“I love the business, but I’m sick of the clients.”
“No more secret agent stuff?” She fiddled with
an emerald pierced earring.
“Stan, da man.” A voice intruded. Stan pressed
a finger to her lips, then turned having recognized the
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Brooklynese accent of Roy Rodgers. His bald head
like a billiard ball shimmered in the lounge iridescence.
Stan made the introduction and Roy dropped
heavily into a chair cushion. “Dutch called. He’s running late.” He sat with his legs spread; his beer gut
draped over an imitation snake-skin belt. “I’m glad
youse came. I need ya help.” He tugged at his charcoal blazer too tight to button. “He’s gonna buy into
dis club, but I tell ya, Stan, he knows a thousand
ways to fuck you, ya know what I mean.”
“I know,” Laura muttered under her breath.
————
Ninja Nikki, in a bikini, grappled on a mat with
a pale, lanky tourist clad in boxer trunks. Hot cream
streaked their bodies and covered the thick-padded
plastic. Customers and dancers gathered about the
ring ropes cheering, catcalls and laughing at the
spectacle. Nikki, the lounge wrestling champ, had a
determined look and crazy dark eyes. She sat on the
man’s chest trying to pin his limbs.
“Gosh, that’s neat!” Laura exclaimed, holding
Roy firmly by the arm as they watched the match. The
platinum blond conversed with Stan. She scrunched
her face with each mention of her landlord. Stan
yawned, disinterested, and glanced at Laura.
“Dat bumpkin shelled out three hundred smackeroos to wrestle da Ninja.” Nikki leaped forward
landing with outspread legs and crotch buried in the
face of the discombobulated sports enthusiast.
“Nude, that’s the way to do it,” Laura giggled,
309
clapping as Ninji Nikki retained her championship.
“Are youse working, babe?”
“Between jobs.”
“Would you like to audition?” He felt a psychological urge, but a physical response eluded the sexually dysfunctional topless bar owner.
“I’d love too. Being nude is so natural.” She narrowed her eyes. “I can’t.”
“Why not? You’d be a top-drawer, makes lotsa
moolah.”
“Stan said no.”
“Dat’s not like Stan, da man.”
“He wants me to be a housewife.” Her eyes
brightened. “I’m so lucky.”
“Oh,” he grinned. “Serious, eh?”
“We’re going to get married as soon as he gets
his divorce.” She squeezed Roy’s muscular biceps.
“It’s a big secret.”
“Sure, kid, sure.”
“It’s just between you and me, handsome,” she
winked.
“My lips are sealed.” He ran a finger across his
mouth in a zipper motion.
————
A crowd had formed at the lounge front entrance.
Exotic dancers rushed toward the commotion. Hog
Scroggins towered over the mob and emerged passing
out twenty dollar bills to fawning, gushing women.
He was greeted by the assistant manager, a bouncer
and the D.J. By the time he reached the bar, Hog
enjoyed a petite blond on one arm and a buxom bru-
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nette on the other.
Dutch followed at a distance, ignored and overshadowed. His face suffered the look of a funeral
mourner. A pudgy man, about 50, smartly attired in
a double-breasted suit, ascot and wing tips walked
with him.
MILLER GENUINE DRAFT and LITE ON
TAP neon signs flashed a mirror image. Hog tossed
a wad of bills on the highly polished counter and
ordered drinks, Nassau Royale liqueur shooters, for
all his female admirers. He sat on a stool, a girl on
each side and a well-endowed black dancer on his
lap. Roy, Stan and Laura joined the center of attention. Dutch remained in the background, sullen, illhumored.
“My bodyguard’s a nigger lover and my lawyer
goes for sluts,” he said, scowling, to a pixie-faced girl
in a leopard print thong bodysuit. “And your boss is
as sexless as …”
“Pardon me.” She got up and stepped to a nearby
table.
“Tramp,” Dutch muttered, turning to his dapper
business associate. “I’m going to the shitter.” He
patted a jacket pocket implying a cocaine stash.
————
Roy had arranged for tables to be pushed
together. Hog occupied one side surrounded by halfnaked women. Laura, Stan and the stranger, Jay
Lampert, identified as Dutch’s new business adviser,
sat across from him. Roy and Dutch at opposite ends
and Hoskins nudged in between Stan and Lampert.
311
Four girls stood on the tables in chorus line
fashion kicking their shapely legs in unison. “We
love Hog and Hog loves pussy,” the dancers sang to
a rollicking melody. “Hog’s our lover and our best
customer.” They bent at the waist and jiggled their
breasts. “Hog loves boobs and he loves our asses.”
They flipped their skirts. “Don’t take our Hog away
until he runs out of money,” the strippers shrieked,
stomping their feet.
Hog led the applause. He whistled, laughed and
stuffed cash in each dancer’s garter. He kissed Yvette,
a dusty-skinned performer, and pressed a one hundred dollar bill down her cleavage.
Dutch spoke into the ear of a raven-haired miss
to his right. She nodded, projected a working-girl
grin, and at the first chance excused herself to join
a bar regular. A redhead in an embroidered vest and
short denim skirt talked briefly with him, made a face
and left. After that, the chair remained conspicuously
vacant. He chatted with Lampert in undertones. His
voice blared with loudspeaker amplification at the
mention of money. “One million, easy. Five million,
a cinch,” he could be overheard saying. His comments slighted, Dutch frowned, neglected and angry.
The former hog farmer held sway over the party
thriving on the adulation.
“I was in Africa with Roy hunting big game.”
Hog’s smile infectious. “When this ferocious lion
roared and approached us, Roy pointed his elephant
gun and went to fire. Click, click, no ammunition,”
the storyteller grimaced. “I looked in my safari jacket
and my pouch and realized I had forgot my bullets.”
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He shook his head for effect. “The lion roared and
charged.” Hog feigned fright. “I stripped to my shorts
and Reeboks. Roy looked at me. You can’t outrun
that lion that way, he says.” Hog paused, milking the
punch line. “I said: So what. I’m going to outrun
you!”
The joke brought a laugh from the lighthearted,
boisterous gathering. Hog ordered another round of
drinks and several girls resumed dancing. Dutch,
markedly morose, glowered at Laura until he gained
her attention. He formed a circle with a thumb and
index finger running a forefinger repeatedly through
it. She tossed her head and turned away snubbing the
obscene gesture.
“What’s wrong with that dude?” Hoskins
remarked to Stan. “He’s a sicko perv like my landlord.”
“That bad?”
“He’d need at least a gram of powder to land a
date.”
“He’s got it.”
“Shit! What’s his problem?”
“It’s what he wants you to do for it.”
“I’m game, I’m gone.” She scurried to the empty
seat.
Hoskins quickly struck up a conversation. They
chatted in hush tones. She nodded approvingly. Dutch
grinned, a lascivious grin. Hoskins returned an artificial smile. Suddenly, Dutch pounded his liquor glass
on the table, splashing the beverage. “Roy, let’s talk
business in private.” He rose to his feet. “Hog, you
stay with the bimbos.” His eyes burned into Laura.
313
He leaned over and nuzzled Hoskin’s ear.
“I can get off at four,” she said, cupping a hand
to her mouth.
————
Dutch, Stan and Lampert followed Roy into a
small back office. The walls plastered with photographs of exotic dancers and slick adult magazine
pinups. A waist-high steel safe loomed in one corner
partially obscured by stacked beer cases.
“Where’s the audition couch?” Dutch asked.
“The hidden camera? Where do you screw the
tramps?” He noticed Roy’s blank expression. “Oh,
shit! I forgot. Sorry, Roy,” he winked at Lampert.
Dutch plopped down in a chair and propped his feet
on the desk. “No bullshit. How much Geld are you
looking for?” An overhead fluorescent bulb blinked
and dimmed.
“Eight hundred thou, minimum.” Roy picked up
rolled blueprints from atop a metal file cabinet. “I
plan to make dis joint a palace,” he grinned, a cocksure grin, as he moved to lay open the architectural
drawings.
“You’re a pig!” Dutch held up the remnants of
a sandwich and a half-filled beer bottle. He sniffed
at the cellophane wrapped leftover and dropped it
and the bottle into a wastebasket. He cleared the
desk with a broad stroke sweeping letters, bills and a
Rolodex file off the writing surface onto the carpet.
Roy lunged for a prized bowling trophy. A two-hole
punch went flying followed by a stapler and an ashtray. Dutch cautioned him on the harmful effects of
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SHELDON YAVITZ
smoking. “It better be good,” he spit, as Roy spread
out the blueprints.
“I’m gonna build out, remodel, redecorate.” His
words now flying together. “Three stages, three bars,
enlarge da girls’ dressing room with showers, a sauna
and tanning crap.” From a cabinet drawer, he produced a portfolio containing vivid colored renderings of the proposed lavish nightspot.
“Dutch studied the drawings and plans. Lampert stood and peered over his shoulder. They both
asked the bar owner questions. He responded, animated, gesturing.
“I like it.”
Lampert nodded in agreement, Dutch reached
in his jacket breast pocket withdrawing a lab sample
bottle with a twist cap.
Roy’s face turned a sickly pale. “Don’t do dat!”
Dutch trickled a white substance on the architect’s plans. “What’s in it for me?”
“I could lose my license.” He glanced suspiciously at the door. “Your end’s forty percent.” Dutch
uttered a churlish laugh between snorts of cocaine. “I
keep the majority interest.” He rushed to the door and
slam-locked the dead bolt.
Dutch looked up, his eyes threatening. “I want
control.” He tugged at his nose, sniffling. “Fifty one
percent.” He got up from a squeaky chair. “I’m washing money. That’s the only reason, I’m interested.”
He walked over to a wall of pictures. “We need prettier babes, big boobs, tight tushes,” he smiled, his
mood dramatically upbeat. “Keep around a couple of
coke whores for some pussy paddling. Hey, Jay, what
315
do you like?”
“She’s got to be breathing.”
“Fifty-fifty.”
“Won’t work,” Stan shrugged, slumped in a
tacky wing chair. “Corporate stock ownership or
partnership shares must be disclosed to maintain a
liquor license. You will never pass a background
check.”
“Fuck it! I’m not a flesh peddler.”
“Ol’ buddy, we can work dis out.” Roy placed a
brawny hand on Dutch’s shoulder. “I don’t have da
credit or tax returns for a bank.” He moved hastily
toward the safe hauling beer cases out of his way.
He knelt and methodically dialed dual combination
locks. He swung open the heavy double doors. “Look
at dis scratch.” He waved in both hands bundles of
cash. “Da joint’s a gold mine!”
Lampert jerked upright. “I will tell you how to
structure this deal. I have been studying the problem.
The counselor’s correct.” He adjusted his tortoiseshell glasses; his eyes frosty and deep-set. “Here’s
the idea.” His fingertips formed a pyramid. “Dutch
can use one of his offshore corporations to buy the
building, the real estate, and lease it back to Roy with
a buy-back or lease renewal option.” He scratched his
coiffured mane of jet black hair. “We will have to pay
off any existing mortgages, but that’s no problem. We
spring for the remodeling, so on and so on. Amortize
the investment over ten years, plus eighteen percent
interest factored into the lease.” His hands cupped
a crossed knee. He paused, smiled, a swallow-youwhole grin. “We cover the laundered money with a
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SHELDON YAVITZ
percentage of the gross.”
“Smart, real smart.” Dutch puckered his lips
emitting a low whistle. “Jay’s razor-sharp, a damn
genius.”
Roy shook his head. “Steep!” His eyes blinked;
he breathed deeply. “Whadda ya say, Stan?”
“It solves your problem.”
“Whadda ya really think?”
“It works.”
“Bullshit! They’re ripping out my guts.” He
searched in his pocket for an antacid tablet. “What
kindda fuckin’ lawyer are you?”
“Take it or leave it!” Dutch stepped toward the
door, flung back the dead bolt and twisted the knob.
“He wants a million-two,” Stan said. “Equity
value.”
Roy raised an eyebrow, fought a stupified
stare.”
“Reasonable,” Lampert joined in.
“Dumb shit, why didn’t you ask? You got it.”
“Okay, okay. Ya gotta deal.” He remained silent
for a few seconds, then turned his back facing the
safe. He smirked, a “gotcha” grin, cash in hand,
a high-class lounge, and unspoken leverage over
Dutch’s laundered money.
They continued to negotiate terms. At times,
tempers flared. Roy produced business ledgers for
Dutch and Lampert to examine. Dutch browsed the
pages between cocaine breaks. Lampert wielded a
wallet-size computer with LCD display, and Stan listened, jotted a few notes wondering when they would
ask for the legitimate set of books.
317
“It will take awhile to put this altogether,” Lampert said. “I need to review the figures, determine
bottom line and amortization of the investment. In a
month, we could be rockin’ and rollin’.”
“When you have it worked out, let me know.”
Stan removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I’ll
prepare a memorandum agreement, but, after that,
both of you should hire lawyers.”
“What kind of shit’s that!” Dutch leaned forward, glaring; his palms flat on the desk. “It seems
like Stan’s too highfalutin for us common folk.”
“Who’s gonna protect my ass?”
“Look, you both are my friends.” He attempted
a smile. “I can’t take sides. You’re already at each
others’ throat. In any case, an arm’s length transaction should appease the beverage commission. Using
the same attorney smacks of collusion, like conspiracy.” He turned toward Lampert. “I’m sure Jay
agrees.”
“The counselor’s right.”
“Yeah, a couple of WASPs would make it look
legit.”
“If anything goes wrong, we dump on them.
Sue the pants off the schlemiels.”
“What about a zoning problem, or some crap
over da liquor license? Stan’s got da weight with dem
people.
“Don’t worry, Roy. I’ll take care of that.” Stan
stifled a yawn. “It’s getting late.”
“Late, hell. It’s not even eleven.”
“I still have a long drive to Fort Lauderdale.”
Stan rose to his feet, glanced out the narrow, security
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SHELDON YAVITZ
barred window. “The weather’s turning bad and I’m
in my old T-bird.”
Roy grinned. “We know what ya mean, but
don’t forget to give her a poke with the big snake for
me.”
Lampert chuckled; Dutch leered.
————
As the door closed behind Stan, Roy relaxed
and opened a warm beer. “Stan’s da best.” He gulped
noisily from the can.
“I am not impressed. Just another no-balls shyster.”
“Don’t say dat. Stan saved me from prison, got
me dis license, cleaned up the zoning.”
“No, Jay. He’s a great mouthpiece. Only a
schmuck when it comes to that puta.” Dutch held a
gold straw to his nose as he bent over a two-inch long
line of white powder. “Did you see the emeralds on
that whore he drags around with him?”
“Laura, a whore?”
“Fifty, seventy grand in jewels, I figure.”
“A total slut!”
“All women are sluts. Dis bidness makes ya an
expert.”
“Don’t you ever mention my Reggie and that
cunt in the same breath.” Dutch’s penetrating eyes
locked on Roy. “Sluts are for raw fuckin’, for whatever else you can do to them.” His lips pressed tight
together. “Wives are companions and for procreating.” He sneezed repeatedly, wiping his nose on a
sleeve. “Child bearing, asshole, no dirty sex.”
319
“They’re getting married. He’ll make her into a
saint.”
“You’re shitting me!” Dutch’s face reddened.
“Not to that … that porn tramp!” He sprung to
his feet lashing out at the blueprints. “Bitch! Bastard!” The large blue cyanotype sheets sailed from
the desk.
“Ya got coke crap allover da rug!” Roy reached
for the phone, pushed a button; a yellow light flashed.
“George, quick, da fuckin’ vacuum cleaner!” The
overhead florescent lamp oscillated, dulled and the
room went black. “Hurry, George! Shit! Damn! A
flashlight, a light bulb!”
Dutch’s fist could be heard pounding the desk.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Stan awoke the next morning on edge, uneasy,
as if something was horribly wrong. By mid morning, he still could not shake the feeling, but he saw
little connection between his gnawing apprehension
and an appointment with Timothy “Ace” McGonigle.
Since late December, Ace had tried to meet with
him. One scheduling conflict after another had interfered. Now, the redheaded Irishman sat in his office.
————
Ace, a former British Royal Air Force aviator
and later a mercenary for the Saudis, had relocated
to the Bahamas working as a commercial airline
pilot until excitement and big money lured him into
drug smuggling. First, as one of the original trio
of fliers, including Sky Mellow and Pop Durfee, in
the Rodriguez-Bianco organization, and after, a freelance agent employed by Dutch, Remo Rodriguez
and other drug traffickers. His specialty was airdrops
to waiting small boats delivering the contraband with
pinpoint accuracy. He preferred darkness and inclement weather to avoid detection and compiled an enviable record of no losses and no mishaps. Stan would
321
describe him as the best of the pilots that he represented, and a rarity in the business, a gentleman.
Within the past year, he had retired, and in
retirement bought an air charter service located in
Freeport, Bahamas. Weeks after the purchase, the
Port Authority suspended his license claiming that
they had information connecting him to drug smuggling. Ace probably could have resolved the matter
with a payoff, an accepted medium for settling disputes on the island. Instead, he blamed it on politics
and refused to pay what he called extortion. A local
attorney convinced the pigheaded pilot to litigate.
They filed suit and won, but the lawyer had neglected
to inform him that under Bahamian law the decision
was only advisory. In other words, the court lacked
the power to enforce its judgment against an administrative agency. The chairman of the Port Authority
snickered and Ace, his planes grounded, faced the
prospect of a defunct business and sell off of his
assets.
“Good to see you, Eagle,” Ace said, using his
nickname for Stan. His sturdy muscular frame fixed
rigid in a plush leather chair. In his late thirties and
a fitness fanatic, he could still run the mile in under
five minutes.
Stan apologized for his inability to meet earlier
with him.
“I have been busy myself, and Freeport’s off
your beaten track,” Ace replied with a pronounced
Irish brogue. “How’s Sue Ann?” He asked.
“She hasn’t spoken to me for weeks,” he
shrugged, “since New Year’s.” Stan absentmindedly
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petted the massive head of his Great Dane. “I guess,
I’m more welcome in the doghouse.”
They continued to chitchat until Ace broached
the reason for his visit. “Remo came to see me a few
days after Bianco’s arrest. He had a proposition.”
“Let’s take a walk,” Stan cut in. He suspected
that the CIA electronically eavesdropped on his
office. They strode from the room, passed the secretarial station, and through the waiting area. The
dogs followed, but once outdoors strayed in different
directions.
Ace turned toward Stan; his face marked by
tension. “Remo said that he could take care of
my problems with the Port Authority and prevent
my impending indictment in the U.S. Obviously, I
was interested.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Overwhelmed, shocked are better words.”
“I can understand that.” Stan buttoned his Levi
jacket against a winter’s chill. He wore jeans, boots,
a western-style shirt and a silver buckle, handcrafted
belt. “Bianco arrested; Sky convicted; Pop Durfee, a
fugitive, and now you,” he grimaced. “I gather you
know Pop’s vanished.”
“The latest rumor puts him in Puerto Plata with
Remo.”
“Uh-huh,” Stan nodded.
They stopped briefly before a screened enclosure watching bobwhite quails, colorful ringneck and
red golden pheasants. “What’s those odd birds?” Ace
asked, referring to dark blue fowl with a purplish
sheen. He stretched his neck to get a better look.
“Guineas. Game birds closely related to pheas-
323
ants, originated in the grasslands and forests of Africa
and Madagascar, domesticated by the Romans.” He
shoved his hand in a pocket. “Your common guinea
fowl are grayish black with white spots, but these are
more exotic. They fly very little, prefer running and
at night roost on perches.”
“Right,” Ace chuckled.
“That screech,” Stan said, responding to a shrill
call.
“That’s Roscoe, the peacock, somewhere out in
the woods.”
“Remo told me to see this lawyer, F. Michael
Carter.” Two Florida wild turkeys hustled along the
path, shot furtive glances at Ace and disappeared in
the dense bushes and shrubs. “He’s a Washington
attorney, but he’s got an office in Fort Lauderdale.”
Stan nodded, knowingly, as they approached a large
concrete structure, brick-faced and wood trimmed in
a carriage house motif, similar to the main garage.
“We made an appointment, and I went to see him.”
A black man in coveralls waved to Stan. He was
washing a white 1956 Ford Thunderbird with a distinctive porthole hard-top and Continental tire.
“I got it dirty in the rain last night.” Stan raised
a hand in a return greeting. “I hate a dirty car.”
Ace smiled, a consoling grin, patting Stan on
the back, and went on to explain his conversation
with the attorney. The lawyer apprised him of the
DEA’s willingness to intervene on his behalf with
the Port Authority, dispute his alleged involvement
in drug smuggling, and if necessary, pressure the
agency into reinstating his license. He would not be
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charged with drug trafficking.”
“Great! What’s the catch?”
“The catch?” Ace’s face turned sour.
They had moved into the garage and an array
of covered vehicles. Stan partially lifted a soft cotton
flannel cover off a dark green Shelby Mustang GT
350, once belonging to the late Oscar Possick, and
then from a silver Jaguar XKE coupe. They wandered through the building as Stan showed off his car
collection.
“He said that I will have to work for them
spying on drug smugglers in Freeport and neighboring islands.” Ace opened the door to a glistening
black Mercedes Benz 300 SL Gullwing. The heavy
door moved slowly upward hissing on hydraulic
struts. “Once my air charter is in operation, I’m supposed to fly for them.” He slid into the deep bucket
seat. “There will be designated flights with sanctioned status: no fear of surveillance and no custom
checks.” He gripped the steering wheel and scanned
the close cockpit instrumentation. “On those flights,
I will be carrying cocaine.”
“Who mentioned cocaine?”
“Remo.”
“What did Carter say?”
“That Remo will fill me in on the details.” He
flirted with the gearshift. “He did.”
Stan folded his arms. A smart lawyer would
distance himself from any incriminating statements.
“What if you are mistakenly arrested?”
“If anything does go wrong, the DEA will say
that I’m working undercover. “ He looked up at Stan;
325
a shadow fell across his face. “Right down to a CI
number.”
“You could be part of a protracted Sting operation.”
“I doubt it.”
“What happens to the coke?”
“They sell it.” He had a lopsided grin. “Remo
promised me my usual cut.”
“Humph,” Stan raised a skeptical chin. “Could
be an informant’s reward money?”
“A drug deal pure and simple.”
“Could be.” Stan’s dark glasses masked his
growing concern. “That would explain why Remo
prospers while everyone around him bites the
bullet.”
“What should I do?” Ace leveled a cold look
of frustration. “I delayed making a decision until I
talked it over with you.”
Stan leaned against a car. He had been making
mental notes. Now, a somber expression reflected his
analysis. “It stands to reason that with at least 15 persons named in the Bianco indictment a spillover is
to be expected, and eventually more arrests, including some of Remo’s boys. If Bianco’s convicted, the
odds favor his future government cooperation.” He
paused with a faraway stare. “If Pop Durfee’s with
Remo and Remo’s a DEA snitch, it’s only a matter
of time before Pop’s arrested and blabbers like a
canary.” He scratched his head. “Sky, since his conviction, is willing to testify even against his own
brother.” He made eye contact. “With friends like
these, you’re going to get thrown under the bus. I’d
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go for it, save your neck and your air charter.”
“I don’t want to work for the DEA. I’m not an
informer. I’ve retired from smuggling. I’ve got my
principles.”
“The key is survival. What you need is leverage and time.” They were standing before a yellow
Corvette convertible. “A 427, 435 horses, 4-speed,”
Stan smiled as he raised the hood. “As I see it,
Remo, as a DEA informer, can’t afford to blow his
cover, which means that others beside himself have to
escape arrest. You, for instance,” Stan added with an
inquisitive glance. “If he’s running drugs in cahoots
with the agents, then your charter service evidently
provides a new vehicle for their operation.” He ran an
index finger over the glossy smooth fiberglass. “We
prove that and you will find a way out of this mess.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“It requires a certain finesse. Let’s take it step
by step, document it, and find out your options.”
“I wanted your advice. I better take it.” He
paused, pointed. “What’s that car in the corner? The
one under the beige cover.”
“A Rolls Silver Cloud III. Sue Ann says I make
the ideal chauffeur,” he laughed, but an uneasy feeling had come back to haunt him. Stan ascribed it to
Pop Durfee, and what he might say once he decided
to cooperate with the Feds. He could mention Stan’s
influence in the Bahamas and his unorthodox fee
arrangement with smugglers, and then Ace, should
he fall to the enemy and implicate Dutch. Stan could
see himself the target of a federal investigation. His
anxiety heightened. An eyelid twitched. “We have
327
got to determine if it’s full-scale drug operation using
Remo’s informant status as a subterfuge, or whether
you have been drafted as a soldier in the drug war,”
he grinned.
“They’re running drugs. I’ll prove it.”
“Looks that way.”
————
The morning chill had turned to a biting cold,
unusual for Miami, and rain had set in. Thick, gray,
low lying stratus clouds blanked the sky. Stan’s
Porsche threw a spray of water as he wheeled the
Guard Red 928-S into a barbecue restaurant parking
lot. Uneven rivulets streaked the car windshield.
He recognized Goldie Clampton’s gold-colored
Chevrolet Crew Cab pickup with ground effects,
extruded aluminum running boards and a halogen
light bar. An anchor airbrushed on the hood. A young
black sat in the cab, no more than 14 years old, Stan
guessed, wearing a baseball cap, the bill turned sideways. He frowned recalling the words of Captain
Grimard as to the smuggler’s predilection for young
boys.
Goldie would identify the teenager as his son
born out of wedlock to a Jamaican woman. “Smuggled him out, but I got my kid home. Welfare folks
are behind me one hundred percent.”
“Sure,” Stan said.
The restaurant sported a “redneck” flavor, hardwood floors, a scarred, pitted bar and booths with
clear resin-coated tables. The screened, glassless windows shuttered against the blustery weather. Over-
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SHELDON YAVITZ
head exposed beams and stilled paddle fans. The
lunch crowd had eaten and gone. Goldie sat in a
booth with a beer mug and a limp handshake.
They dined on spare ribs, a combo chicken and
pork plate and side dishes. Stan inquired as to the
health of Goldie’s mother.
“The hag can croak for all I care. Sold muh
house, also muh furniture, muh big car, muh van.”
His hair once again a striking blond color, styled in
vintage Elvis, long sideburns, pompadour and ducktail. “She bought a mobile home and run off with
some daft shitheel.”
“A religious woman,” Stan sighed.
————
“Since I got back, life’s been a muther.” Goldie
gnawed on a rib smothered in hot sauce. “Killer
sauce!” He licked his fingers. He appeared his old
self in a bright yellow jacket, green slacks and an
open-collar black shirt. “Muh record studio’s down
the crapper. Equipment company done bankrupt.”
His face took on a worried twist in contrast to
gold chains, rings and an ornate Saint Christopher’s
medal.
Stan thought of the diamond and gold bracelet
which he since had given to Sue Ann. “I haven’t
worked it off yet.” She wrinkled her face. “Tired of
fuckin’ me?” She flung the jewelry on the bed. “Well,
shit on you, you’re not getting any.” A mistake: not
treating his wife as a prostitute.
“Fired all the bloodsuckers. All but Conti.”
A burnish-colored sauce dripped down his chin.
329
“Knows too much.”
Stan shrugged indifferent; Goldie kept talking.
“It’s all Dutch’s fault. He abandoned muh ass.
He put out the word,” he said with a mouthful.
“Whoever does business with me ain’t do business
with him.” He waved a rib held in greasy fingers. “I
can’t figure out that bro.” He leaned back and slowly
looked around. “So, I find the Big Guy up in Fort
Lauderdale. I luv ya, I says. Why, the fuck, are you
doing this to me? The next thing, Hog and some
badass are shoving a cannon in muh yap.” His eyes
opened wide. “They say suck on this, you fff…
maggot. Hog’s got this long knife. They’re gonna cut
off muh balls!” His voice rising to a high-pitched.
Jeez! I was lucky to get out in one piece.” He
shook his head. “What’s wrong with Dutch?”
Stan shrugged again, wondered why he had kept
the appointment. Then he remembered that Goldie
had called and said that he was in big trouble and
needed his help.
“I’ve been forced to sell keys to keep muh head
above water.” He brushed the sides of his dyed blond
hair with his palms. “Got this ol’ boy wanting a
hundred. Can you beat that.” He fingered his ducktail. “Big money.” He mathematically calculated on
a napkin. “3,000 times one hundred, my end. Shit!
I’m on muh feet.” He slumped down on the cushion.
“Son, I don’t have the contact. I can get five, ten. Ya
got to help me.” He puckered his lips pushing aside a
pie plate. “Dutch can handle that kind of weight. Talk
to him for me.”
“I’m not in the drug business.” A vague uneasi-
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SHELDON YAVITZ
ness stirred inside him.
“Then some other client. I’ll give you twenty
percent.”
“Sorry.”
“Thirty, okay, thirty-five.” Stan shook his head.
“What kind of friend are you?” He jabbed a fork
over and over gouging at the table. “You got rich off
me!”
“I said that I’m not in the business.” His eyes
roamed the walls decorated with Coca Cola signs, a
variety of aged tools and wagon wheels.
“Don’t pull muh puck.” His hands choked a
beer mug. “Everyone knows there’s no difference
between a drug lawyer and a drug dealer.”
————
The rain had lessened to a drizzle, but water lay
in deep puddles. Heavy gray clouds lingered formless and threatening. Stan passed through the electric
gate to his home. At the end of the curved brick drive
a car blocked his path. He noticed the UHF antenna
and county license tag on the off-white sedan. A portable blue light and a transceiver confirmed his suspicion, an unmarked police car. He felt a sense of
foreboding. He ignored the dogs’ playful attention. A
multitude of fears entered his mind: had one of the
children been hurt or Sue Ann. When he saw her car
in the garage stall and realized no one had tried to
reach him by beeper, he sighed, relieved, concluding
an investigation involving a client. His steps slowed
as he neared the office. He hesitated, then gripped the
doorknob.
331
Crawford met him at the door with a puzzled
expression. “Do you know a Ms. Murphy? They say
she used the name Atwood.” Stan blanched. “I can’t
find her name in our index file. I don’t recall her
being a client.”
A movement to his left caused Stan to turn
toward two men. One had a suntanned, leatherytough face with a permanent furrowed brow, a closely
cropped military hair cut, at least six foot two and a
size 12 shoe. The other was medium height. His gray
hair neatly trimmed and square cut at the neck. He
had sharply defined features and thin lips.
“Mr. Pollard, I’m Phil Rossi, Sergeant, Metro
Dade,” the larger man said flashing a badge encased
in leather. Stan nodded, extended a hand. “This is
Detective Pope, Fort Lauderdale P.D., Homicide,” he
added, introducing the smaller man dressed in a dark
polyester sports coat, soft white shirt and gray slacks.
“Can we talk to you in private?”
The secretary looked up from her typewriter.
“Sure.” Stan’s heart pounded. “Ed, join us.” The
Rottweiler sniffed the detectives’ scent and emitted a
deep throaty rumble. “It’s okay.” Stan petted the dog
on the crest of its neck.
They followed Stan into his office. He tossed his
Stetson on a chair, removed his raincoat and unceremoniously threw it over the hat. He sat down at
the cluttered roll top desk and swiveled to face the
two seated detectives. Crawford remained standing
gazing out the window, the taxidermic crocodilian
monster near his feet. The dogs maneuvered for position. The Great Dane by Stan’s high back chair, the
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Dobermans together in a corner and the old bulldog
under the desk. A silky Persian had leaped into Stan’s
lap. “What can I do for you?” He scratched the cat
behind the ear.
“Do we need this crowd?” Rossi unbuttoned
his suit jacket. Stan caught the glint of a holstered
weapon. The Rottweiler at the base of the fish tank
suspiciously eyed the visitors.
“What can I do for you?” The cat blinked,
spread its front toes, and kneaded.
“Did you know Laura Deirdre Murphy?” Pope
leaned forward, a memo pad in hand. “Aka Laura
Atwood.” He pulled out a pen and clicked the top.
“Yes.” He had been too long in the business not
to have put it together. Fort Lauderdale, homicide,
and Laura’s name mentioned in past tense.
“A client?”
“More than that.”
“When did you last see her?”
“Last night.” He wanted to shout: What’s happened to her? But, he knew that the detectives had
their own agenda, hesitant to issue Miranda warnings, the right against self-incrimination. He had
become a suspect in a horrible crime.
“What time?”
“I left her hotel about two am.”
“Can you be more specific?” Pope stared down
at the thick pile carpet.
“My car was parked on the hotel ramp. A ’56
Thunderbird, a little conspicuous. I gave the valet
a twenty. I’m sure he’d remember.” Stan paused. “I
probably have the parking stub.”
333
“You don’t say.” Rossi eyed him with skepticism. “Did you have sexual intercourse?” He probed
with a disturbing coldness and a perceived disdain
for the big shot criminal lawyer.
“Hold on!” Stan held up protesting palms. “Our
private lives are none of your business.” He caught
Crawford wince. “Now, what’s happened to my
girl?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Pollard. We thought she was
simply a client or,” he shrugged, “a one-night stand.”
Pope’s cheek twitched, a facial tic. “She’s dead.” He
paused for what seemed like a drawn-out minute.
“We have to ask you a few more questions.” Stan
nodded, resigned to the interrogation. “Did you have
sex?”
“Yes.” He gripped the arm of his chair.
“Did both, or either of you, use drugs?”
“No.” His eyes watered; he blinked back tears.
Pope jotted down the answers in a note pad.
Crawford moved over and whispered in Stan’s ear.
“As one lawyer to another, you should be careful
what you say.”
He shook his head. “Laura can’t be dead.” He
swiveled unconsciously from side to side. The cat
jumped from his lap and scurried under the desk to
the sounds of growls and hisses. The Great Dane
sprang to its feet, barking. “Laura was fine when
I left her.” Tears seeped from the corners of Stan’s
eyes. He was unmindful of the racket.
“The victim was found dead about eight this
morning by a hotel maid, 0756 hours to be exact,”
Pope said, referring to his notes. “The body was still
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warm, no signs of rigor mortis. The M.E. places the
time of death at between four and seven, plus or
minus a couple of hours.” He spoke in a monotone.
“The body of the white female was naked, bruised,
could have been tied and beaten.” His face wore a
blank expression. He withheld the graphic details.
“Sexually abused.” Rossi tugged at a button on
his inexpensive blue suit. “Was she kinky? Into deviant sexual practices?” He seemed to take pleasure in
the observation.
Stan shrugged, avoiding an answer. His mind
raced to Dutch. He recalled his obscene gesture at
Roy’s lounge; his nose buried in cocaine; and his
obsession with Laura, but how did he know where
she was staying? “I don’t understand.”
“The probable cause of death, a drug overdose,”
Pope responded to Stan’s inadvertent comment. “We
are awaiting confirmation from the medical examiner,” he added, then returned to delving into the couple’s last evening.
When Stan mentioned the Treasure Chest
Lounge, Rossi countered. “That’s a sleazy topless
joint.”
“I represent the bar, met with the owner on business.”
“We found nude photographs of the deceased
strewn about the body.” Both detectives eyed Stan
closely. “Was she an exotic dancer?” Rossi asked.
“She wanted to be a model.”
“You didn’t object?”
“She loves to pose,” his voice cracked. The huge
fresh-water catfish shot upward in the aquarium. It
335
gulped a mini gold comet, water splashing as the fish
broke the surface. Stan stared at the tank. His chin
quivered; his face etched in terrible sorrow.
“Did you find any fingerprints?” Crawford interjected. He paced, absorbed in the unraveling drama.
“You know counselor, I’m not free to divulge
that information.” His facial tic returned. “The investigation’s continuing.”
“What about her jewelry? Emerald earrings, a
necklace, bracelet, anklet.”
The plain-clothes men looked at each other.
“We found a few bucks.” Pope hesitated, thumbing
through his memo pad. “Some cheap costume jewelry.” He leaned his head back and slowly scratched
his chin. “What are you saying?”
“She had expensive emeralds and five thousand
dollars. I gave her the money to rent an apartment.”
“The dresser drawers had been rifled. Her luggage turned inside out.”
“A burglary?” Crawford blurted.
Stan mulled over the revelation momentarily
diverted from the pain of her death. Dutch, as a suspect, relegated to a back burner. He could envision
him as a murderer, but hardly a thief. “Did she have
any enemies, anyone, who might do this to her?” He
heard the question, but sat with his hands clasped; his
face, a noncommittal mask. He considered the CIA’s
labeling of Laura as a security risk, but the crime
lacked their “wet work” finesse. A mysterious drug
death, yes; not a savage rape.”
Pope, the seasoned professional, detected his
hesitancy. “Who are you thinking about?”
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“Cesar Roman,” Stan said, “a disgruntled exboyfriend.” The hair prickled on the back of his
neck.
The week before, Stan and Laura had returned
briefly to Nassau. Laura to collect her belongings
and attend to personal matters, and Stan to deal with
Roman. He met with Mayfield and found him reluctant.
“I’m not one of your American ruffians,” he dismissed Stan’s request.
“She’s your client and needs to be protected,”
Stan persisted. “All I’m asking is for you to talk it
over with your friends at the Casino. Look, you’re
doing them a favor, eliminating an embarrassment.”
“Is our strumpet that important to you?”
“Clement, I could have a sicario take him out
for the price of an airline ticket.” He wasn’t bluffing; his concern for Laura’s safety had compelled a
contingent arrangement with Quinto. “All I want is a
message, a few broken bones.”
Clement gently stroked his forefinger with his
thumb. “Harry the Hat might need some encouragement to dispense justice?”
“Fine, you name it.” Now, he regretted not following his instincts. You can’t take halfway measures
or underestimate an enemy. He had been too soft,
and Laura was dead.
————
The detectives queried about Laura’s next of
kin and wide-ranging travel as confirmed by her
passport. They continued to probe for the nature
337
of her employment, the jewelry allegedly stolen,
drug usage, proclivity for sadomasochistic sex, and
the names of any possible suspect. “We found your
number in her address book. The only one not coded.”
Pope raised an eyebrow; Rossi smiled, a lewd grin.
Stan could provide scant information relating to
her immediate family, admitted they traveled extensively, and furnished a detailed description of her
jewelry. As to her employment, he said that she
wasn’t working. In toto, his responses struck the officers as evasive. Rossi surveyed the rifles and guns
mounted on the cypress paneling and the stuffed
specimens from wild boar to black bear. All he could
see was a cold killer, a man capable of murder, and
by profession, schooled in distorting a crime scene.
“We will be back,” Rossi said, rising to his feet.
The Rottweiler snarled.
“Can we talk to your wife?” Pope asked. The
bulldog crept from under the desk and growled.
“Do what you like.” The Great Dane lapped his
hand.
————
As the double doors slammed shut, Stan’s lips
tightened and his jaw began to twitch. The color in
his face drained and he burst into tears. He took
a deep breath, regaining his composure, rubbed his
eyes on a denim jacket sleeve. He petted a dog,
turned away, reaching amidst the desk clutter for
the telephone. He dialed long distance information.
“Embassy Suites, Fort Lauderdale, on the Seventeenth Street Causeway.” He scribbled the number on
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an envelope, then dialed 954-527-2700.
Dutch’s hotel had been only minutes from
Laura. He jiggled a foot, impatiently. “Checked out,”
a voice said. He banged down the receiver, cursing
under his breath, and placed a call to the Regatta Cub,
Nassau, Bahamas. “Put me through to the CATCH
ME.” Telephone service had been extended to the
docked vessels. “Hi, Reggie.” He recognized her
English accent. “Is Dutch there?”
“No, Stan. He went north with Hog. How are
you?”
“Just tell him I called.” He paused. “I’m sorry.”
His voice faltering. “I’ll call back later.” Tears filled
his eyes. He dialed his investigator’s beeper and
entered a cryptic code, then rang up the Treasure
Chest Lounge. He finger tapped the desk until Roy
Rodgers came on the line.
“When did Dutch leave last night?”
“After youse.”
“What time?” He heard no response. “What
time, I said. Don’t give me any crap!”
“Whatsamatta widdya?”
“What time did he leave?”
“Lemme see,” he said, followed by a long
silence. “He wanted to take out one of da girls. I had
to put my foot down. Ferchrisesake, dis is a bidness.
Dutch blew his friggin’ top. I don’t know when in da
hell he left. I wuz busy.”
“Did he return for one of the girls?”
“Nah, Brittany wuz mad. Jay steps in and takes
her home. Dat guy’s a real swinger, partied with Hog
’till closing.”
339
“I’ll call you back.” He pressed a flashing
button. “Doug, a terrible thing has happened,” he
said, responding to the private eye’s inquiry. “I’ve got
to see you. Important. Tonight, eight, at the office.”
He hung up the receiver as the office door opened.
Sue Ann stood in the doorway, a hand on her hip.
“What an honor,” he spit, confronting her. “You never
come out here.” He measuredly wiped his glasses.
“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend. Whores, but
not a girlfriend.”
“Dead is the operative word.”
“A girlfriend, Stanton? I can’t believe it!” She
brushed a tendril from her forehead. “How could you
do that, honey?” She batted her eyelashes. “What
about our wonderful marriage?”
“Since when have we been married?” The Great
Dane got up and moved away from his chair.
“You, poor baby, I drove you to another woman.”
She eased herself into his lap and placed an arm
around his neck. “Oh, God!” She pressed his face to
her luxuriant bosom. “I’ve been so horrible to you,
sugar.” Her eyes rolled upward.
————
Rossi’s departmental vehicle pulled from a fastfood outlet turning north on U.S. 1 into rush hour
congestion. Across the highway to his left and west
sprawled the University of Miami’s ultramodern
campus.
“I tell you, Pollard’s our man.” He reached over
and tuned down the volume on the police radio. Pope
gingerly fingered a piping-hot coffee container. He
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SHELDON YAVITZ
shrugged, unresponsive. “I suspect Pollard killed the
girl in some freakish sex and drug gig, then muddied
up the crime scene to throw us off the track.”
“I see a sadistic killer.” Pope glanced at the
Miami-based detective. “Bite marks, sexual abuse
with a hairbrush and spray can.” He removed the
lid from a Styrofoam cup and blew at the steam.
“The cash and jewel theft sounds like a red herring.”
He sipped timorously at the scalding coffee. “First,
there’s no evidence of forced entry, and second,
a robber-rapist wouldn’t use a drug as a murder
weapon.”
“Which means?”
“You’re right. Pollard’s our number one suspect.”
“We should have given him the Miranda warnings.”
“Doesn’t matter, self-serving bullshit.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
His secretary’s voice came over the intercom.
“Stan, Sol Gateman, line one.”
He pressed the speaker button. “Tell him I’m
busy. I’ve got a court hearing. Tell him …,” he
paused. “Ask Sol to call me later.”
“He said it’s urgent. Life and death.”
He fingered his car keys like a rosary. “Okay.”
He punched the flashing yellow light. “Hello, Sol.
What’s up?”
“I am worried. A tragedy. My condolences.”
Stan glanced out the window. The geese were on
the march: the snow-white Chinese gander, the buff
Toulouse twins and bringing up the rear, the crazy
one, with one eye and misshapen wings. “The story
has been plastered all over the news. You linked to
a prostitute, drugs, wild sex. It was on the TV again
last night.”
“What’s the point?” He deposited a thick file
folder in an attaché case.
“How can I go to trial with a lawyer suspected
of rape and murder?” Stan shut the briefcase lid and
snapped the latch closed. “I have been talking with
other lawyers. No one is faulting your ability but,
man, you look like shit. You’re going to prejudice my
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case, get me convicted.” Stan chewed on his lower
lip, offered no comment. “That is how it appears
to me. That’s the consensus.” As he listened, Stan
browsed through a stack of neglected bills. “I have
talked with Moses Sponder. He has a lily-white reputation, straight as an arrow, a pillar in the community.” Stan stiffened, drawing away from the mail.
“Very active in the synagogue, married to the same
woman for over 15 years, not a hint of scandal.”
“Hold on,” he said, momentarily distracted as
Crawford entered the office. “What did you say?” He
asked Gateman.
“I said that I want to substitute attorneys. I
retained Sponder.”
“Fine. I’ll adjust the fee, send you a check
for the balance. Have Moses prepare and forward a
signed Stipulation for Substitution. We will deliver it
to the judge, and upon receipt of a court order send
him your entire file.”
“Don’t be mad, Stan.”
“It’s not my neck.”
“Nothing. Bye, Sol.” He put down the receiver.
“Gateman hired another lawyer.”
“Our practice is going down the tubes.”
“What can I do if a rapist has high moral standards.” He reached for his briefcase, hesitated.
Crawford had parked himself in an old-time
brass and porcelain barber chair. “We have a woman,
B. Hoskins, on the line. She has of all things an eviction case, and says that we promised to represent
her.” He threw up his hands in a frustrated gesture.
343
“Are you that desperate, or is she another of your
…,” he paused, grinned sheepishly.
“I promised Laura.”
“Laura!”
“Let me talk with her. You are going to enjoy
this.” He pressed line two. “Hi, Ms. Hoskins. So your
landlord has finally taken some action.” He watched
Crawford pump the chair handle; the hydraulic fluid
swished as the seat moved upward. The chair back
reclined, and he propped his feet on the ornate footrest.
“It’s a long story.” Stan could hear Hoskins say.
“I screwed the jerk again, but he wasn’t satisfied. I
told him if he wants to put it up there, he’s going
to have to find some homo. I don’t give it up to assholes.”
“You don’t have to explain.” He drew back his
lips into something resembling a smile.
“He’s kicking me out. Some creep gave me the
papers.”
“Ms. Hoskins, I need to ask you a little question.” His expression hardened; grim lines creased
his face. “Do you remember the man at the party?
The heavyset one with a perm and stash.”
“The perv?”
“The perv, Hog’s boss.” He reached for a pen.
“When did he leave that night?”
“Mr. Rodgers and Jay said I shouldn’t discuss
him. He’s some kind of VIP shit.”
Stan raised an eyebrow. “They mean with the
police.” He paused, rethought his approach. “I made
a bet with Hog. Now that you’re my client, I hope
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SHELDON YAVITZ
you will help me win it.”
“If that’s the case, let me think.”
“I need the time within 10 minutes. I got a big
bet.”
“After you and Laura left. Oh, gosh! I’m so
sorry to hear about her. A girl’s not safe anymore. Jay
bought me a gun. He’s so sweet, knows how to treat
a lady. Now that he’s working at the Treasure Chest,
I can go out with him.” Stan scribbled idly on a sheet
of paper. “The lights in Roy’s office went out. I don’t
know why, but the cheese ball came out, grabbed
my arm. We’re going, he says. I told him it’s against
the house rules to leave before closing. They always
warn us cops are hiding outside waiting to bust us for
prostitution.” Stan doodled concentric circles with
increasing intensity. “He and Roy had a big blowup.
The perv’s swearing, dragging me out the front door.
Bouncers are there. It’s a real mess. Mr. Hog steps in,
whispers some crap to the perv. He calls me a twotiming coke whore, then he left.”
“What time?”
“After midnight. They had to call a taxi.”
“The exact time?”
“Twelve ten, fifteen.”
“Did he ever come back?”
“ Shit , no!”
“You’ve been a great help. It’s our little secret.”
He glanced at his watch, made a face. “So great, in
fact, I will personally handle your case.”
“Jay will be so happy.”
“Ed will be with you shortly. I’m on my way
to court. Give him all the details and don’t worry.”
345
He punched the “hold” button, pressed the intercom.
“Helen, call Judge Resnick’s office, tell him I’m running late.” He turned to face Crawford. “Do some
quick research on a counterclaim for sexual harassment and discrimination.”
“That’s absurd!”
“Do it!” He forced a smile. “Our little Ms.
Hoskins has been horribly violated.”
————
The United States Attorney’s Office for the
Southern District of Florida, Miami Division, occupied four entire floors of a downtown high-rise.
Assistant U.S. Attorney Theodore “Ted” Charles
peered down from a window onto the rooftop of a
parking garage. “Poston should be here any minute.”
He spoke with his back to Agent Bernie Salerno
seated on a brown leather couch. “It’s spill your guts
time for Buddha Blanton.”
“I can already hear that fat pig squealing.” The
DEA agent cracked his knuckles. He wore wrinkleresistant slacks and a striped polo shirt over a wellmuscled physique. His trim beard, styled curly hair,
and flashy jewelry emulated a drug dealer.
A buzzer sounded. “Right on schedule.” Charles
walked over and spoke into the intercom. “Yes. Send
her back. She knows the way.” His hair was prematurely gray; his suit ill-fitted and off-the-rack. “You
take a hard-line. I’ll play the white hat,” the tall,
husky Assistant U.S. Attorney suggested as he lumbered toward the door. He opened it before Poston
could knock. “Good morning, Karen.” He hovered
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SHELDON YAVITZ
like a mantis. He gestured to a heavy armchair next
to his desk. Poston sat down, smoothed her skirt and
smiled faintly in the DEA agent’s direction.
She was short, slender, fine-featured, her dark
hair in a classic Gibson-style, and dressed in a navy
blue double-breasted jacket with white banding. She
minced no words. “My client has decided to cooperate.” Charles had made himself comfortable behind a
large desk with a government-issued calendar blotter.
“I have prepared a proffer of Buddha’s prospective
disclosures.” The Assistant U.S. Attorney reached for
a legal pad from a plastic desk tray.
Poston removed a folder from a thin-line briefcase. She opened the file and withdrew an 11-page,
single spaced, typewritten document and handed it to
Charles.
“Quite impressive,” he said.
She temptingly held out a second copy and
waited for the agent to approach and take it. An
awkward silence followed while the Assistant U.S.
Attorney and the DEA agent attempted to digest
the lengthy, unsigned statement. Poston clutched her
multi-textured handbag in her lap, and surveyed the
office with its Department of Justice wall seal, U.S.
flag and framed photographs of the President and
Attorney General. She looked down at the commercial carpet; the color matched her outfit.
“We got your boy by the short-hairs.” Salerno
sat with his legs indolently spread. “Dead in an airplane with 130 keys up his fat butt.” He clasped his
hands behind his neck. “286 pounds of high-grade
coke, 85 percent pure according to the lab.” His lips
347
curled in a mocking grin. “I don’t see any reason to
bargain with dead meat.”
“Good God, Bernie. The proffer shows real
promise.” He winked at the speechless lawyer.
“Karen, you understand that the fat ass’ word is not
enough to build a case.” His flabby neck bulged over
a starched shirt collar. “We need corroboration.”
“He’s willing to name names, dates, places,
provide charts, frequencies and telephone numbers.
He’s even willing to give up his young nephew who
cleaned his aircraft and ran errands.” Charles nodded
approvingly; Salerno seemed indifferent. “If you read
pages 7 through 9,” Poston continued, “you will see
that Buddha’s willing to drop a dime on former associates. Horatio Plunkett, for instance.”
“We can make an historical case against that old
fart with or without Blanton.”
“We want something new. I mean fuckin’ new,”
Salerno said.
“What about Stanton Pollard? Page 10,” Poston
raised a gentle constructed eyebrow. “He’s the lawyer
up to his neck in the call girl murder.” She spoke
matter-of-factly without the slightest indication of
her dislike for the man, who she never met, but to
whom she lost a potential client, and more damaging,
a large fee, when she most needed the money. She
fingered her cultured pearls and winced, still feeling
raped. Now what goes around had come around.
Buddha had fallen in her lap. She even reduced her
attorney’s fee to ensure the representation.
“If the State charges him with homicide, I don’t
want to play second fiddle.”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
The DEA agent flipped to the page. “He says
that Pollard arranged the defendant’s escape from a
Cuban prison.” As he spoke, Salerno paraphrased the
statement. “He claims that four innocent people were
murdered, the Cuban underground, Communists and
Medellin Cartel involved.”
“We have our limitations.” Charles forced an
exaggerated sigh. “Cuba’s one of them. A good college try.” He leaned forward; his hands clasped before
him. “The best we can offer is that Blanton plead
straight-up. We will tell the judge of his cooperation,
and agree to file a Rule 35 motion for a sentence
reduction once his assistance is full and complete.”
“That could take a year, two, three. He wants
bond.” Her dry red lips framed a childish pout. “He’s
willing to work the streets.”
“Blanton’s a flight risk, a danger to the community. There is no way to justify bail for a major drug
trafficker.”
“I’m sure he can deliver up Pollard.” She threw
back her head defiantly.
“First he rats, makes big cases.” Salerno tossed
the typewritten proffer on an end table. “When we
looked good, then, we recommend a slap-on-thewrist.”
“Didn’t you read about the Cuban drug overflights? Bottom of page 10, top of 11. They’re real,
going on as we speak.” The prosecutor stared blindly
at his writing pad. The agent frowned, scanned the
proffer. “We’re talking millions of dollars, thousands
of kilos.” She lifted her chin; her hazel eyes smoldered. “According to Buddha, he can set Pollard up,
349
and you walk in as dopers wanting to pay big for the
connection. Pollard’s under pressure. He needs the
money.”
“Are you positive, Blanton can deliver the
lawyer?”
“They’re friends. Pollard risked his life for
Buddha.”
“Why isn’t he representing him?”
“Pollard was out of the country.”
A perceptive grin spread across Salerno’s face.
“Blanton would have to be fully debriefed before we
can put a plan into action.”
“I would have to obtain approval from upstairs.”
Charles’ beefy fingers drummed on the desk. “All the
way to number two.”
“Your boy would need to wear a wire.”
“We probably could put him on the street for as
long as it takes to cough up Pollard, and then … Who
knows.”
“You can count on Buddha. He’s turned to God
in jail, wants to be a social worker.”
“So quick the rehabilitation,” Salerno smirked.
————
Charles waited until the receptionist confirmed
Poston’s departure, and then turned to the DEA
agent. “I had a case with Pollard years ago.” He
leaned back stretching his legs. “We had the defendant dead as a doornail. Even his crew had rolled.
Pollard came up with this cock-and-bull defense that
the captain had been kidnapped and his boat seized
by smugglers.” He closed his eyes. “The dumb jury
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SHELDON YAVITZ
acquits. I’m the goat. They almost kick me back
down to magistrate arraignments.” The taut lines
of his mouth relaxed. “It’s payback time.” A smile
broke. “I love it.”
“Talking about true confessions.” Salerno
stroked his black beard. “We had this operation to
snatch a fugitive in Nassau. It was all worked out,
but the scammer got lucky, and gave us the slip. Our
agents stake out his sailboat and followed a chick
who visited the boat.” Charles rummaged through a
desk drawer paying little attention to the war story.
“She met a man,” Salerno paused, exhaled deeply,
“middle-aged, acted like her sugar daddy. He picks
up on our tail and shook it.” Charles looked up,
amused. “The next morning, the Bahamian AG called
foaming at the mouth.” The agent locked his fingers
and stretched his arms out in front of him. “We are
not only warned to back off this guy, but their Foreign Office lodged a complaint with State. The shit
hits the fan.” Charles picked up a file and returned it
to a vertical organizer. “We’re treated like lepers. We
can’t figure out how the dude got that clout.” He got
up and moved over to the prosecutor’s desk. “Do you
know what a CI is telling us?” Charles yawned and
retreated behind a patronizing gaze. “He said that
this guy, Durfee, paid out over 150,000 dollars for
Bahamian protection.” Charles’ eyes widened; his
glasses slipped to the tip of his nose. “Do you know
who he paid?” Salerno had perched on the edge of
the desk staring at the Assistant U.S. attorney. “Pollard!”
“Damn, this is better than coming.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The day before, Timothy “Ace” McGonigle had
telephoned Stan’s office and left a cryptic, but selfexplanatory message, “Flying again. Drop by the
house.” Stan cleared his schedule and caught a commuter to Freeport, Grand Bahamas Island. He occupied a narrow, tartan pattern seat off the wing of a
10-place Cessna 402. The twin turbo-system power
plants emitted a monotonous drum.
As so often, he used air travel downtime to catch
up on his work. That day, he hesitated, reluctant to
examine the files in his briefcase. Finally, he chose
what sadly for him was the least upsetting, an investigative report on Sue Ann’s extramarital affairs.
Her surveillance had been in place since after
the New Year. The report recounted her afternoons
as usually spent shopping. Sometimes alone, often
with another woman, and on at least four separate
occasions with a dark haired, young man. In addition, this male companion had accompanied her to a
Coconut Grove bistro, a Key Biscayne nightspot and
Marten’s, an exclusive private club.
The investigation further disclosed the following. One: The young man, Reynaldo Martinez, was
five foot eight, a naturalized citizen of Cuban extrac-
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SHELDON YAVITZ
tion, 28 years old, a wannabe artist and computer
technician. Two: He owned a late model Toyota
Celica financed through Fairco. Sue Ann appeared as
a co-signer on the auto loan. Three: He lived in an
apartment complex in Hialeah, a lower middle-class,
blue-collar and predominantly Latin area. He paid
the rent in cash. The manager identified a photograph
of Sue Ann as a frequent visitor and her car reportedly had been seen in the parking lot. Four: Martinez
had poor credit, no criminal record, and showed no
gainful employment within the past five months.
Sue Ann’s affair had come as no surprise. It
simply confirmed a long held suspicion, but he
thought she should have chosen an older, wealthy
boyfriend, someone who would support her. He rationalized that her liaison with a younger lover was chic
and trendy, a childish “get even,” and maybe spelled
an absence of permanency. In fact, since Laura’s
death, they seemed to have drawn closer, and their
sex life had passionately flowered. What shocked
him was a supplemental report.
————
THURSDAY, January 9, 1986: Subject followed to Belle Isle Motel, 81st and Bird
Road, Miami. Entered room 7, at 7:10 pm,
remained until 9:20 pm. At 9:30, after subject,
a man, left, drove off in a 1983 Dodge pickup.
A license tag/registration check revealed the
truck registered to CALVIN BURT; address, an
apartment in West Miami. Check showed he
had since moved.
353
WEDNESDAY, January 22, 1986: Subject followed to Belle Isle Motel. Entered room 10 at
7:30 pm, remained until 10:45 pm. At 11:00
pm, the second subject, BURT, left room. Followed to Sweetwater area off 8th St. and a
two bedroom house. A car in the driveway,
motorcycle in the carport. Home in the name
of L .C . Judd.
THURSDAY, January 23, 1986: 6:30 am. Subject, BURT, followed from Sweetwater address
to Excelsior Boat Yard, on Miami River. BURT
employed as diesel mechanic.
Surveillance continuing.
————
Stan well-remembered the Belle Isle Motel. Sue
Ann’s choice for marital prostitution. He cringed at
the notion that she had carried it to the ultimate
perversion. As the report noted, the investigation
continued, but to date, no further tryst with Burt.
Pragmatically speaking, he accepted divorce as an
eventuality. For now, the decision was in Sue Ann’s
hands.
————
Freeport’s broad thoroughfares and streets
engendered an American flavor in a tropical sundrenched environment of sand, scrub and pine forests. Only roundabouts, a left-hand traffic pattern and
ubiquitous pubs gave any indication of the island’s
British heritage.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
A little over a mile from the Moorish-style El
Casino, one of the largest gaming casinos in the
western hemisphere, Stan turned the rental car off
Lunar Boulevard onto Ocean Drive. Halfway down
the block, he pulled into the driveway of a split-level
waterfront home. A Chevrolet Blazer and a primrose yellow 1960 Austin Healey 3000 parked in the
garage.
He followed a housekeeper in a starch-white
uniform to the dinette, a sunny room, and beyond
a cook’s clutter of hanging pots, pans and cooking
utensils. The house had an elegant entry foyer and
high ceilings; the decor spotlighted warmth with
earth colors, honey-toned cabinets, natural stone and
floral print fabrics.
Ace, garbed in a sport shirt and canvas shorts,
sat at the table with an egg salad sandwich and
Coca Cola. He would startle Stan with the comment,
“Dutch has posted a 50,000 dollar reward for information leading to the apprehension of Laura’s killer.
Hog’s been calling around putting out the word.
Eagle, that’s some great friend.”
“I guess you can say that.” A jaundice smile
turned up the corner of his lips confounded by the
news and an uneasy stirring inside him. He had been
trying to get together with him since her death. At the
last minute, Dutch canceled their meeting scheduled
for that evening in Nassau.
“Reggie’s gone back to England to await the
birth of their baby. I think he went with her,” Ace
said, offering the latest gossip and a plausible explanation.
355
The maid served Stan a sandwich and soft drink.
Ace was effervescent. “Eagle, I think we struck gold.
I’m getting my air charter back. They have tentatively agreed. I understand the Port Authority Director wants a face-to-face with the DEA, and that’s
been set for next week.” Ace went on to explain that
on February 7 he and F. Michael Carter, Remo’s
attorney, went to the Drug Enforcement Administration’s field office in Miami. “In my presence, Agent
Bernie Salerno dictated a letter signed by the headman.”
“Salerno. What’s he look like.”
“Muscular, medium height, dark hair and beard,
casually dressed and speaks fluent Spanish.” Stan
nodded, still unable to place the agent, and Ace continued. “The letter was put in an envelope, sealed
and given to Carter.” He got up and walked over to
the refrigerator, opened the door and returned with
two beers. “Afterwards, Carter and I had a drink with
Remo.” He offered a dark lager to Stan, and twisted
the cap on the other bottle. “Remo said that he would
get in touch with me as soon as I’m back in business.” He winked, the meaning implied.
“Did you actually read the letter?”
“Do I sense some doubt,” Ace snorted a laugh.
“I did one better.” He leaned forward, his blue eyes
twinkled. “I got it!”
“I’m impressed.”
“I’ll be right back.” Ace rose and exited the
room. Stan heard his muffled footsteps on the carpeted staircase. A picture window provided an expansive view of the canal, a gently bobbing cabin cruiser,
356
SHELDON YAVITZ
and in the near distance, the Xanadu Beach hotel and
Marina.
Ace returned with an unmarked envelope and
pulled out a thrice folded sheet of paper. “Look at
this,” he said, handing it to Stan. As he perused the
correspondence on Drug Enforcement Administration letterhead, Ace elaborated on the event. “It was
late Friday afternoon and Carter was in a hurry. He
didn’t know the amount of stamps needed for the
Bahamas, and,” he shrugged, “really didn’t want to
be bothered. So, he gave it to Remo and rushed off
leaving us with the check. Remo’s boiling mad.”
Ace ran his fingers through his tousled red hair.
“That high priced asshole. I’m no messenger boy.
He sounded just like Dutch,” he chuckled. “My good
friend, I said to him, I will mail it.” Ace’s face radiated an inscrutable grin. “As simple as that, he gave
me the letter. When I got back to my hotel, I called
a girlfriend.” He took a long swallow of beer, and
related how he went to her apartment, steamed open
the envelope and later, made photocopies, resealed
and mailed the original.
“No CIA agent could’ve done better.” Stan
placed the letter carefully down on the table.
“Maybe, you should keep a copy for our protection?”
Stan nodded approvingly, smiled a faint smile
as he reread the correspondence.
————
U.S. DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE
DRUG ENFORCEMENT ADMINISTRATION
357
Miami Field Division
8400 N.W. 53rd Street
Miami, Florida 33166
February 7, 1986
Honorable Basil Townsend-Falkes
Director, Port Authority
Freeport, Bahamas
Dear Sir:
It has been brought to my attention that Timothy McGonigle, the operator of West End Charter Service, a Bahamas based charter airline,
has had his license to operate in the Bahamas
suspended. I have been informed that this suspension was based on alleged reports that Mr.
McGonigle was the subject of a major investigation by the Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) involving Mr. McGonigle in the
smuggling of drugs into the United States via
the Bahamas.
I would like to inform you that neither I, nor,
to the best of my knowledge, anyone from the
DEA, has ever made such a report or any such
allegations as to Mr. McGonigle. In fact, he
is not now and has not been the subject of
any active investigation by the DEA. Finally, I
would like to add that a review of our records
has failed to show any arrests of Mr. McGonigle.
SHELDON YAVITZ
358
If we can be of any further assistance, please
do not hesitate contacting our office.
Sincerely,
MARTIN P. WILKINSON
Special Agent-in-Charge
————
Stan had decided to continue with his planned
trip to Nassau. The police investigation into Laura’s
homicide appeared stymied, but he suspected that
the answer lie in the Bahamas. He secreted the DEA
letter in the pages of Sue Ann’s folder. While waiting
in the departure lounge of the Freeport International
Airport terminal, he sipped a rum and coke from a
plastic cup and skimmed Motor Trend, an automobile magazine. Once airborne, there would be time to
review Doug Daniel’s report into her murder.
————
The investigator’s report was typically cold and
dispassionate. The word CONFIDENTIAL in large
red letters had been stamped on the face.
“Pursuant to your urgent request, we have undertaken an investigation into the murder and sexual
assault of the above, reference: Laura Murphy a/k/a
Atwood, deceased,” it read, and added the caveat, “To
date, we have been unable to obtain police reports
and the autopsy report, but base our findings on
359
reliable sources and witness interviews. This report
and supplements include their statements, attached
as exhibits.”
Under the heading CRIME SCENE, the narrative disclosed that there were no signs of forced entry
into the victim’s hotel room, i.e., neither pry marks
on the door nor a broken safety chain or lock. The
investigator speculated that the assailant either knew
the deceased, had a passkey (noted as unlikely),
or gained admittance by subterfuge. The room was
depicted as in disarray, garments thrown everywhere,
dresser drawers and luggage ransacked, and nude
photographs of the victim scattered about her body.
The crime scene unit, according to the report,
had found no fingerprints, which caused the investigator to theorize that the subject either wore gloves,
wiped the place clean, or both. He leaned toward
the latter in that no prints were found attributable to
Stan or Laura. More interesting to Stan were traces
of cocaine embedded in the carpet.
The victim’s appearance was described as follows: black eye, bruises and contusions on her face,
shoulders and breasts and a front tooth chipped.
Marks on her wrists, ankles and mouth were consistent with being bound and gagged. Her naked body
had been draped suggestively on the bed, as if posed,
and bruises, lacerations and welts crisscrossed her
buttocks and back. From the width, depth and configuration of the marks, medical forensics concluded
that a wide belt had been used as well as a hairbrush.
The hairbrush protruded from her rectum. The victim
had been sexually molested with a bloodstained aero-
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SHELDON YAVITZ
sol can.
The word AUTOPSY glared from the page. The
narrator reported that the medical examiner determined the cause of death from a heroin overdose
citing a fresh puncture hole on her right buttock, and
a second, and a probable third, intravenous injection
in her arm. According to a “reliable source,” the toxicology lab characterized the heroin as of high purity.
The investigator observed that 5 to 7 percent constituted the normal range, and that no syringe, spoon
or other drug paraphernalia had been discovered at
the scene with the obvious conclusion that a person
unknown removed the objects. Pubic hairs from
two unknown males had been identified, but as he
explained, pubic hairs, scientifically, offer probable
rather than absolute evidence. Secretor semen tests
and blood-typing were inconclusive. The perpetrator
had attempted to douche and purge the deceased’s
anal and vaginal vaults. It was impossible to determine whether sexual intercourse occurred before or
after death, and of the two men, which sexual penetration happened first. The coroner found a high alcohol to blood content, but no drugs other than heroin
in the victim’s system.
————
A heroin overdose was not uncommon. Celebrity deaths had gained wide-spread notoriety, but in
Florida in the mid-eighties, heroin was not a drug
of choice. Stan’s familiarity with the drug stemmed
from a court case with a golden-brown 80,000 dollar
pound brick, and what he had read. He considered
361
discussing the subject with a doctor or toxicologist,
and then decided that a street-level dealer and user
offered a more realistic alternative. He sought out
Floyd “Hippie” Hart, a Hell’s Angel and convicted
armed robber, now semi-retired from crime.
Hippie’s welding shop squatted in a riot-torn
section of North Miami. A 1955 candy apple red
and chrome Pan Head Harley with extended forks
and a twenty-one inch wheel sat boldly, as if inviting trouble, next to a beat-up pickup outside the
dingy storefront. He found his old client at the rear of
the establishment hovering over a two wheel utility
trailer with an arc welding spool gun in his hand.
Stan watched from a prudent distance as Hippie
ran a perfect bead on an angle iron. Orange sparks
flew from the hot metal spatter, earsplitting noise
and fumes rising toward an exhaust fan. He chipped
away slag with a vertical chisel hammer, instinctively looked up detecting Stan’s presence. He raised
his wrap-around nylon helmet with a polycarbonate
safety lens. He peeled a pigskin glove from his right
hand.
“Howdy, dog,” he smiled, a bucktooth grin,
offering a robust handshake. “Have you decided to
become a biker?” He limped over and shut off a
Miller Arc MIG welder. “My chopper’s for sale.” He
disconnected a heavy-duty ground clamp.
“I saw the ‘for sale’ sign, but I’m too clumsy.
I’d break both my legs and neck,” Stan shrugged. “A
man’s got to know his limitations.”
“Better than being a gimp,” Hippie moaned as
he perched on a metal stool. He removed the silver
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SHELDON YAVITZ
headgear. “Well, I still can fuck and do drugs with
the best.” He shoved aside a disc grinder and placed
his helmet alongside it on the work bench. “What,
the hell, Stan. Better a leg than the ol’ pecker.”
“I admire a philosopher,” Stan forced a grin. “I
have a client who died from a heroin overdose and
need your advice.”
“Your girlfriend?”
“Yep. I need an expert opinion from a friend.”
The grizzled head nodded affirmatively. He fingered his ponytail as Stan related the pertinent facts
of the murder. “It didn’t appear in the paper, but the
heroin was of high purity, and Laura was shot up,
twice, probably three times. Once under the skin.”
“A subcutaneous injection.” Hippie’s eyes narrowed, recessed behind crowfeet and deep wrinkles.
“The others intravenous.”
“Mainlining.”
“What do you see in the drug scenario?”
Hippie rubbed his stubbled chin. “High
purity?”
“I don’t know the percentage.”
“Doesn’t sound like a street pusher.” He tugged
at his large hook nose prominently projected above
a waxed, handlebar mustache. “In my day, they cut
it fifty to one hundred times. That’s like a pound
blown into ninety-five, man,” he winked. “On the
East Coast, we cut it with lactose or quinine. Out
West, it’s procaine, PCP, and some sonsofbitches use
talcum powder. You sell a hit at 3 to 5 percent pure.”
He broke wind, paused, sighed, grinned. “40 to 50
percent would be a big score. No one would sell
363
it even that pure.” He reached for a cigarette pack.
“Unless, the dumb ass wanted to waste his customer,
face a murder charge.”
“When you examine the facts, we have a sadistic rape and robbery coupled with murder. What
about a junkie as the perpetrator?”
“He wouldn’t in his wildest fuckin’ dream waste
a fix as a killing weapon.” Hippie fiddled with a
Marlboro pack, found it empty, and crushed it. “He
use a knife, hands, a fuckin’ rope, a gun, even a
pillow, but not this shit. That’s life, man!”
“What about a recreational user?”
“The dude be dead along with the chick if they
shared a needle, or zonked out, sick as a bitch.” He
aimed and tossed the cigarette wrapper at a commercial-size garbage can and missed. “Unless she just
did it.”
Stan raised his hands in a halting motion, moved
over and picked up the crumpled package. “Twice,
maybe, three times injected over the course of one
to three hours.” He deposited the refuse in the galvanized iron can.
“Two shots, maybe a quarter of a gram.” He
cocked his head, broke wind again. “Even I’d be
dead. Three, overkill.”
“Let’s say, you give a girl, for instance, a normal
dose, and she’s a first time user. What would be the
effect?”
“It’s been a long time.” Hippie ran his tongue
over his lips. “She’d feel a warm flash, a rush,
become drowsy, sleepy.” He wiped his palms on a
dark brown cowhide bib apron. A chain tattooed on
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SHELDON YAVITZ
his wrist and a cross on the back of his hand. “Not
dizzy, lightheaded. Anesthetized, dream-like. If it’s
potent enough.” His eyes blinked. “You could set her
on fire and she’d just lay there and burn.”
————
Stan put down the file and stared out the aircraft window. The soft twilight merged with haunting images of Laura. He blinked, dried the corner of
an eye, and resumed reading the investigative report.
————
The first of three supplemental reports involved
Stan. The investigator was able to confirm his alibi
that he had left the hotel about 2:00 am; his car
parked on the ramp and a tip to the valet. Corroborating statements from the parking attendant and a
doorman were attached to the summary.
The narrative noted that the witnesses provided
similar statements to the police.
A service station employee at an all-night Shell
on U.S. 1 in Miami recalled Stan stopping for gasoline. He remembered the vintage automobile, Stan
complaining about the rain and the car’s old-fashioned vacuum windshield wipers, and that he paid
twice by credit card: first for a half-tank of unleaded,
and the balance, leaded gas. He stated that Stan
remained until the rain subsided, and estimated the
time as between 3:00 and 3:15 am.
————
365
The second supplement related to hotel guests.
The staff had been interviewed and the hotel register
examined. The report noted that several guests had
stayed two or more weeks at the hotel. One, L.
Schmidt, from Baltimore, Maryland, occupied the
room adjacent to Laura. According to a “source” that
guest had told detectives that he had seen a woman,
who he identified as Laura, in the hotel lobby around
2:40 am the morning of her death, and that at about
3:10 am he said to have heard loud voices in her
room. He knocked on the wall, and the disturbance
ended. He also claimed to have observed her with
frequent and different male visitors. The investigator suggested that this was consistent with the police
contention that the deceased was an international
call girl. To date, attempts to locate L. Schmidt had
proven unsuccessful.
————
The third supplemental report concerned interviews conducted in the Bahamas. Angels Adorno,
Laura’s girlfriend, refused to talk with him. Cathy
Parker, her former roommate, also declined claiming
that she could not afford to jeopardize her reputation.
Daniel did interview Cesar Roman at a local hospital
in Nassau.
He described Roman as a white male, about 30,
medium height with a swarthy complexion. When
questioned, the subject was bedridden and shackled
to a bedpost. A police guard stationed outside his
room. He had one arm in a cast, a leg in traction, a
battered face and bandaged nose.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
Although initially reluctant, the investigator
explained that he persuasively pointed out that Laura
had influential Bahamian friends, who, if he failed
to cooperate, would guarantee him a long prison
sentence. His statement was tape-recorded and transcribed for Stan’s scrutiny.
Roman stated that he had been arrested for illegal possession of a firearm found in his hotel room.
He expected to be deported and put on the Stop List.
He claimed a frame-up.
In response to questions pertaining to his physical condition, Roman replied that Harry the Hat and
another man, the Duck, had beaten and thrown him
down a stairwell. He referred to it as a “friendly argument” and would not press charges against them.
“They work for the Casino. Did me a favor.” He was
still alive, the investigator noted as an aside.
He claimed to have been dealing blackjack on
the night of her murder. The Casino verified his
story; also confirmed by Bahamian immigration and
the CID. Records reflected that his hospitalization
occurred two days later followed by his arrest.
Roman steadfastly denied being Laura’s pimp.
“Sure, she gave me money. Okay, sometimes, I took
it. I was her boyfriend. What’s her’s was mine.” On
further questioning, he related that “some crazy with
a big yacht in Nassau did a number on her. The sick
bitch loved it. Me, I never touched her.”
He was neither aware of her relationship with
Angela nor the making of porn movies. He ventured
that she picked up a pervert in Florida and ‘he done
her.’ “It was bound to happen. Too kinky for her own
367
good.” The interview concluded with the following
remarks. “She dropped me for some lawyer. Got me
fired so that she could make it with that jerk. She was
after his money. She couldn’t love anyone unless a
dollar bill was attached.”
————
It was nearing ten o’clock when Stan heard a
gentle rapping. He opened the hotel room door recognizing a young, reasonably attractive woman in a
fitted red velvet cocktail dress with an off-shoulder
neckline. He had made a date with Cathy Parker,
Laura’s ex-roommate. Where better to seek information from a call girl than in bed.
He wore a silk bathrobe, jeans and bed slippers. He had arranged for champagne and tuned the
radio for easy-listening music. The curtains to the
luxury resort, high-rise balcony were parted. Moonlight played on the pitch-black ocean. A romantic setting, but Stan could think only of finding her killer.
“I was so surprised that you called,” Cathy
smiled coyly, pecked his cheek. “Laura spoke so
highly of you. Her knight in shining armor.”
“How quickly we forget.”
“Do you know what I charge?”
“Sure, fine. Make yourself comfortable.”
“Laura said you preferred her nude,” she giggled. “You always dressed; her naked. She found it
so wild, erotic.” Stan shrugged, and twisted the wirework from the champagne bottle. “I’m prepared.”
She unzipped her dress and wiggled out of it, naked.
“It’s great to know what your man likes.”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“Right.” He popped the cork. She flinched at the
explosive sound. He poured two glasses and handed
one to her. He moved over and propped himself
against the bed pillows.
“Do I pass inspection?” She asked, sipping her
drink. She posed provocatively, ran a hand over her
perky breast.
“Sure,” he forced a broad grin, beckoned. She
joined him and snuggled in his arm, slipping her fingers inside his robe.
“I would like to ask you a few questions about
Laura.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and didn’t answer.
“Whoever killed Laura searched her room hunting
for something.”
“Are you after the reward money? I heard that
Dutch put up fifty thousand. What a great guy. You
just got to love him.”
“As his attorney, I can’t touch a penny. All I can
do is make sure that the person who helps find her
murderer is sufficiently compensated. In fact, I am
authorized to offer a healthy advance,” he grinned.
“Really!” She untied the sash to his robe.
“In legal parlance, we call it good faith money.
A thousand, two, five, dependent on the information.”
“Well, Stanton, I don’t know.” She brushed
strands of blond hair from her forehead.
“He kissed her check and reached in his bathrobe pocket, withdrew a wad and counted out 10
one hundred dollar bills. “Did she have an address
book?” He asked, knowing the answer, but testing.
369
He placed a bill in her palm.
“We all do,” she smiled, fondling the money.
“Can you think of anything else, say, a diary?”
“Diary! Laura had a diary.” She swallowed hard.
“How did you know?”
He handed her another hundred. “A professional
guess.” No diary had been mentioned in the Police
Property Inventory when her personal possessions
had been released to him. Items retained as evidence
should have been listed. As he said, the diary was a
guess.”
“It was something so private. She wrote about
everything and everyone. Do you know what?” She
looked expectantly at him; an upturned palm.
“What?” He asked, still holding the cash. She
threw back her head and stared straight ahead.
“What?”
“Okay.” She sullenly thrust out her lower lip.
“She said she had so much to write. It would take
weeks to bring her diary up to date.”
“So, she picked it up when we came back to
Nassau.”
“It was important.”
“Who else knows about it beside you?”
“Angela, and a couple of the girls.” She took a
deep breath. “We’d kid her that if one of her Johns
ever found out, he’d kill her.” She winced, knotting a
lapel of his robe in a tight fist.
“Did she tell you where she was staying?”
“She gave me the hotel name and telephone
number and invited me to visit her in Fort Lauderdale.”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“Of your knowledge did she tell anyone else?”
She thought for a long minute. Stan playfully
placed a bill over each nipple. “ Angela asked me.”
“You told her.”
“Why not? They were best friends.”
“Lovers?”
“Not really.” She stretched her shapely legs and
wiggled her toes. “They had this pain and pleasure
thing.”
“Tell me about it,” he said, dangling a bill.
“Angela gets off on it.” She gazed transfixed at
the taunting one hundred. “Laura, I guess, was sort of
a beginner. That’s all I know.” She snatched the currency.
“You know a lot more.” A second bill filled his
hand.
“She’d come back pretty marked after their
get-togethers. Striped like a zebra, she used to say.
Always did it when she knew you wouldn’t be
around.”
“Did they ever go to New York, Miami, or somewhere else together?”
“Let me think.” She inclined her head slightly.
“Atlanta. No, New York.” Her tongue wandered over
her lower lip. “Came back, couldn’t show herself for
a week, but said the money was great.”
“What about porn movies?”
“Stanton, do you want to ball, or interrogate
me like some fuckin’ police asshole?” Her jaw tightened.
“Between you and I talk isn’t cheap.” He pulled
more money from a pocket and in a deliberate
371
manner counted out 1,500 dollars. He smiled, and
meticulously arranged twenties and hundreds over
her abdomen and pubes. “First, we talk and then, you
show me how good you are.”
“This is kind of fun.”
“It sure is,” he smiled. “What else could I expect
from Laura’s good friend.” He kissed her neck, nuzzled her cheek. “Now, tell me about Dutch, Angela
and porn flicks.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Roxana “Roxie” Haro failed to arrive as planned
in Venezuela. Her telephone call to Elena Valdez
alluded to an unavoidable delay. A CIA asset in Cuba
provided a plausible answer: the MIG 29 had not
appeared at the air show.
To oversee communications, Central Intelligence Agency operatives had rented adjoining rooms
in a North Fort Lauderdale motel. By prearrangement, calls between Elena and Stan were made
during the hours of 4:00 and 10:00 pm. Elaborate
electronic equipment had been set up to monitor and
record messages.
In March, Elena reported favorable news. Mrs.
Haro had telephoned and anticipated arriving by
midmonth. CIA analysts concluded that the Colonel
had resorted to the backup plan, a MiG 21 bis. Stan
explained his extended stay in South Florida to Elena
with contrived stories about interviews with Cuban
dissidents and a scheduled meeting with Miami’s
first Cuban-born mayor.
————
For Stan, his personal life wallowed in Sue
Ann’s love affairs. She continued to see Martinez, and
373
according to a report, spent an afternoon with Burt
at the Belle Isle Motel. Laura’s homicide remained
unsolved; Dutch, aloof, ensconced in England, and a
newspaper article, headlined STILL NO BREAK IN
CALL GIRL MURDER, questioned why Stan had
not been charged with her death. The uncertainty of
the MiG added to his distress, and now, Pop Durfee
called, notifying him of his arrest.
————
The North Dade Detention Center, a county jail
off State Road 9, was known to house select federal
prisoners. Those defendants considered either protected government witnesses or prospective informants, and therefore, separated from the general
inmate population lodged at MCC Miami, the
major federal facility. The one-story windowless jail
sprawled amid long-needle, red-bark slash pines, and
bordered a brackish water canal. High intensity vapor
lamps illuminated the building and parking lot turning darkness into artificial daylight.
Stan pressed an intercom button and requested
an attorney interview. A buzzer sounded, a latch
clicked, and a massive steel door opened electronically. He approached a balding, stocky desk-sergeant behind a bulletproof glass partition. A stainless
steel drawer glided forward. Stan signed the attorney/
bondsmen register and dropped identification, a driver’s license and a Florida Bar card, into the extended
shallow tray. He asked for Frank Durfee, also known
as Alvin Godofsky, and heard his client’s name
paged. He walked over to a vending machine and
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SHELDON YAVITZ
deposited the requisite coins for a soft drink. A can
noisily slid into the receptacle. Stan moved over to a
bank of interview windows, selected one, sat down
on a metal stool and waited, alone in the large room.
He glanced at the wall clock — 10:46 pm.
Durfee appeared at the entrance to the beigecolored cubicle. He entered, and a jailer closed and
locked the door behind him. Pop wore a prisonissued jumpsuit and moved with a “vegetable” shuffle. His head down; face, a tension-riddled mask. He
had shaved his beard. Stan was struck by his once
disguised receding chin.
Stan reached for the receiver. Pop already had a
phone in his hand.
“They kidnapped me. Can you believe that
shit!” Durfee leaned forward holding the telephone
in a white-knuckle grip. “Right out of my God damn
bed. The DEA, Stan! The friggin’ DEA! They threw
my ass so fast on a jet my head’s still spinning.”
He looked numb; his eyes bathed in dark circles. “I
can’t understand it. Remo said I was protected.” He
slammed a fist on the counter. “He owns that two-bit
island. Controls it! How could this happen?”
“Why did you leave Nassau?”
“Hell, Remo told me I was wasting my money.”
He nervously fumbled with a cigarette pack. “Those
slimly bastards were ripping me off.”
Stan pulled the cola can tab. “I guess you were
both wrong.” He took a sip, then a second, listening
to Durfee pour out the details of his arrest.
Pop’s friend and longtime principal employer,
Remo Rodriguez, had set him up in a condominium
375
overlooking an 18 hole golf course in Puerto Plata,
a tourist resort on the north coast of the Dominican
Republic. The country’s federal police accompanied
by a DEA agent broke into his apartment and took
him into custody.
“I was in my underwear. Honest-to-God, they
wouldn’t even let me get dressed.”
According to Durfee, they drove him to the airfield at La Union. A waiting Learjet, manned by
DEA agents, flew him directly to South Florida.
“Kidnapped, pure and simple.”
“As I previously warned you, this could well
happen. Under U.S. law,” Stan said matter-of-factly,
“how you get here doesn’t matter as long as you are
arrested upon arrival in the States. The exception,
a formal extradition proceeding with its panoply of
rights, which you were assured in the Bahamas. Too
late,” he shrugged, imbibing the diet beverage. “Have
you been to court?”
“Today, U.S. Magistrate Kruger.” Pop pulled
out a sheet of paper from a jumpsuit pocket, unfolded
it, and plastered the yellow carbon copy of an Attorney’s Notice of Appearance against the glass division. “Remo’s lawyer, this guy, Carter, appeared with
me. He met me when I landed at Homestead.” Durfee
put down the legal form. “Damn, was I impressed.
Remo right on the money.” He struck a match; a cigarette dangled from his lips. “There was mass confusion. No-one knew why I was there.” He lit the
cigarette, inhaled. “After recess, they figured out that
I had this conspiracy charge. The judge set bail at
250,000.” He shifted on a stool, grinned wearily.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“They don’t know about my case in North Carolina.
I need a bondsman. Fast!”
“Have Carter handle it.”
“He refused. Said it’s impossible. Fuck him! I
got to get out!” His voice rose to a high-pitch, verging on hysteria. “God, Almighty, help me!”
“You’re going to need money.”
“I left one hundred and fifty thou with Remo.
He’s got my Navajo in some cockamamie air charter
company, my sailboat sitting down in that jerkwater
dunghole.”
“Under the circumstances, you will need the
premium.” Stan stared at the polished linoleum floor.
“Plus full-cash collateral to cover the bond.” Stan
paused, concerned that the phone line might be
bugged. He pointed an index finger at the receiver
concealing his action from a sensitive directional
video camera and a strategically placed convex security mirror. “You don’t want the bondsman angry,
and of course, the court sometimes checks the collateral.”
Pop moved his head in agreement. “Contact
Remo. He’s in town and get him to come up with the
premium.” He stubbed the cigarette out on the counter top. “I will prepare a letter for Ann to deliver to
my banker.”
“I’d forget about Remo. He’s not going to
help.”
“Remo’s my best friend.” He leveled a cold,
confrontational glare. “Call him tonight. Wake him
up.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
377
“Stan, don’t treat me like some numskull with
his head up his butt.”
————
From his mobile phone, Stan made two calls.
The first to Barney Blinkov, bondsman.
“No problem. Do you want me to go and get
him, or wait until someone comes up with the greenbacks?”
“Premium and full-cash collateral. It’s being
arranged. No trust here.”
“Got it, buddy. By the way, if you need me personally,” he paused. “Say, your girlfriend’s murder.
I’ll go your bail at cost.”
“Thanks.”
Stan would bristle at the implication. Yet, he
could not fault Barney’s generous offer. The bondsman took care of his good customers and, Stan, ever
mindful of his own professional credibility and their
friendship, reciprocated.
For in the federal court, a surety bond premium
amounts to big money, fifteen percent of the bail as
set by the judge. Of that, three percent is payable
to the insurance underwriter and the balance to the
bondsman. Durfee’s bond to net Barney a “cool”
30,000 dollars. In practice, if Pop jumped bail, as
Stan suspected, the surety company and Barney
would be on the line for 250,000 dollars. Upon notice
from the court, they would have 30 days to post that
sum and one year to either apprehend the fugitive or
forfeit the money. With full-cash collateral, Barney
averted a financial loss, and Pop spared the pursuit of
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SHELDON YAVITZ
a rabid bondsman or bounty hunter. A cardinal rule
in the criminal law business is never to deceive your
bondsman. You don’t know when you might need
him.
————
As to Stan’s second call, Remo Rodriguez
answered it with a grunt. After that he railed in a
thick Spanish accent. The gist of his remarks reduced
to “Fuck you, he’s got a lawyer.
Keep out of my fuckin’ case, you dumb fuck!”
Before Stan could respond, he slammed down
the phone.
“I guess, I hit a raw nerve.” Stan’s chuckle
turned to a grimace. There was nothing funny about
Remo Rodriguez.
————
The following evening, Stan, as agreed, returned
to the North Dade Detention Center to pick up the
letter of instructions destined for Ann, Pop’s girlfriend, to be delivered to the banker.
Durfee had a bounce to his step and an everpresent cigarette between his lips. “They brought me
back to court this afternoon,” he said.
“Remo acted quick.”
“I’m too old for this shit,” Pop sighed, sidestepping the comment. “Carter was there, told the
judge I’m a fugitive. He revoked my bail.” He looked
tired and worn, but his grin surprised Stan. “I was
hopping mad, then Carter took me aside, explained
379
that it was all worked out.” He took a deep breath;
his eyes darted weasel-like. “I’ve agreed to cooperate with the Feds.” His voice sunk an octave. “I’ll do
a little time, a couple of years, but after hundreds of
trips, big deal!” He emitted a crackling laugh. “I get
to keep my money.” He fixed Stan with a hard stare.
“The Feds got their targets. We all know that.”
Stan shrugged, looked up at the yellowing
acoustic tile ceiling. His skin crawled. “It’s your
life.”
“Fuck you, Stan! Standup guys rot in prison,
come out broke and broken. Carter’s sharp. Remo’s
hired me the best.” Tobacco smoke streamed from
his nose and mouth. “Thanks for the no help.” He got
up from the stool. “I don’t need you.” He ground a
cigarette butt into the flooring. “You wasted my hardearned money.” He walked back to the cubicle door
and knocked for a jailer. “You’re not worth shit!”
Ignored, he turned back toward Stan. The seat was
empty.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
On Friday, March 14, 1986, the same day as
Roxie Haro’s expected flight to Venezuela, Stan
pulled into the parking lot of a strip shopping center.
He made the stop en route to his CIA handlers
already waiting at a North Fort Lauderdale motel.
It was past two, that afternoon, when he entered a
small, dark lounge with its blinking wall neon and a
large screen television tuned to a muted sport channel.
Buddha Blanton sat alone at the bar nursing a
beer. He appeared balder, heavier with deeper wrinkles and a sagging middle. He still had long sideburns, but decidedly grayer. Several days before, he
had called Stan seeking an appointment. “Not at your
office. I got a place more private,” he said. “A big
case, right up your alley.”
Stan hesitated, recalling Buddha’s recent arrest,
and his representation by another attorney. He offered
excuses, but curiosity, the allure of money, or as he
would later say, instinct, got the better of him, and he
agreed. He questioned Crawford, who related a jailhouse interview with Blanton, which occurred during
Stan’s December trip to South America.
“I can’t figure out why he didn’t hire us?”
381
“Probably got a lawyer to undercut our fee,”
Stan said. From the information at hand, Stan concluded that the gravity of the offense and overwhelming evidence precluded a release on bail. He
requested his investigator to check the court records.
He reported a recent hearing and continuance of the
trial date in Buddha’s case. According to a court
reporter no stenographic notes existed of the proceeding. “How did he get out?” He raised an eyebrow, but kept the engagement.
The lounge was deserted with the exception of
his former client and a bartender, a pudgy man in
a red vest and matching bow tie. Buddha suggested
that they move to a table.
Stan ordered a drink and joined him at a booth,
“How you been?”
“Couldn’t be better.” Buddha massaged his
temple flashing a Rolex.
“I heard you’ve been arrested. Prison food did
you good.”
“Shit on those bastards!” He folded his arms
defiantly across his burly chest. “I wanted to hire
you, but you were out of the country. That damn kid
working for you don’t cut the muster.”
“Yon’re out. So, I guess you won.”
“Not yet. Looks great.” He rubbed his palms
together, nodded almost imperceptibly. “Done in by a
lousy snitch.” He dramatically clenched a fist. “Don’t
you just want to kill them sonsofbitches?”
“An occupational hazard,” Stan shrugged. “What
happened?”
“I had landed with a planeload at an airport in
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SHELDON YAVITZ
South Dade, pulled into the hanger, cool and sweet,
and the next thing I know, I’m surrounded by DEA.”
“It can’t be that bad. You’re out.” The bartender
served Stan his drink.
“I owe it all to Karen Poston, a great lawyer and
some looker.”
“The best.”
“Technicalities.” He studied Stan for a reaction.
Stan grinned, an approving grin. “She found technicalities. They had no choice, but to give me a bond.”
“A sure winner. I had a similar case out of town.”
He leaned back appearing absorbed in thought. “Got
the fellow off. He’s poorer, but happy thanks to technicalities.” He reveled in the tall tale cognizant of
Poston’s courthouse reputation as a “pleader.”
“How did you do it?”
“Don’t worry. Karen knows every trick in the
book. Now, what are you up to?”
Buddha took a swig from his draft. “I’ve got the
biggest break of my life, and, boy, it comes at the
right time. I’m in with these great guys from Memphis.” He loudly belched, and continued. “They want
a shorter route and protected flights over Cuba’s the
solution.” He spoke in a confidential tone, leaning
forward, a hand cupping his mouth. “I told them I got
this friend who can arrange overflight protection.”
“Who, the guy in trouble?” He asked, unresponsive, aware that Blanton wore a wire. Stan had gone
high-tech wearing an RF detector, no larger than a
pager. A wide-band receiver that picks up radio frequencies emanating from a tape recorder or transmitter. A device readily purchased at a spy shop, but in
383
this instance, furnished to him by his investigator. It
vibrated within eight feet of Buddha, an unflagging
noiseless signal.
“C’mon, Stan,” he coughed a chuckle. “I mean
you.”
“Not me.”
“When they busted me out of Cuba, you were
setting up overflights for H.P.” His mouth involuntarily twitched. “Remember?” Beads of perspiration
formed above his upper lip.
“Very funny.”
“You were in Cuba. Weren’t you?”
“Nope,” Stan replied as a tall, trim man pushed
open the lounge front door. He sauntered over to the
bar and sat down with his back to them. Stan noticed
his boat shoes and a water-repellent satin jacket personalized with the name OUTA CONTROL. “A very
odd moniker for a boat,” Stan quipped.
“What?” He stared, befuddled. “What are you
talking about?”
“It’s a long story, but now, I guess, I can tell
you.” He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt
collar. He overheard the bartender’s surly remark to
the shaggy haired boater. “Mixed, straight, one price.
Beer by the bottle or on draft. If you want a coke go
to Seven Eleven.”
“You’re a hero.”
“What?”
“I never told you, but you did a real service
for your country. I was working for Uncle Sam.”
He paused, allowing the words to sink in. “A Cuban
commie busted in Colombia had been turned by our
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SHELDON YAVITZ
people. I worked out a trade, and because of you,
that mole now sits at Raul Castro’s side feeding us
info.” He caught a glimpse of the stranger furtively
eyeing them in the mirror. “This is something you
can tell your kids.” He scratched his head. “Oh yeah,
you don’t have any. Tell Karen,” he smiled. “Maybe,
she’ll cut her fee.”
“This is fuckin’ bullshit!”
Stan called to the bartender. “Another round
over here. The best for my old buddy.”
————
Upon exiting the parking lot onto a broad
avenue, Stan stopped and turned down an intersecting service road. In the rear, behind the mall, he
parked his Lincoln in an area reserved for employees,
deliveries and parcel pickups. He removed his tie and
jacket, exchanged clear lenses for tinted glasses and
stowed the RF detector in the glove compartment. As
he walked, he rolled up his shirt sleeves. He made
his way through a neighborhood hardware emerging
near the crook in the L-shaped shopping center. He
quickened his pace past a chintzy boutique, a donut
shop and a second-run movie house. He stepped into
a newsstand and stood by a paperback book rack.
Stan appeared to browse while looking out the storefront window. From his vantage place, he had an
unobstructed view of the TAT-A-TAT Lounge. While
it had taken him over seven minutes, he still counted
on Blanton not being in a hurry.
He waited five minutes, then ten. His patience
flagged; confidence waned. The clerk’s eyes were on
385
him. Stan selected a novel and hunted for another.
Finally, Buddha came out in the company of the
boater. He seemed agitated; his hands in constant
motion. When they were within 20 feet of a latemodel Cadillac with dark tinted windows, the driver’s door swung open. A muscular man with dark
hair and beard slid from behind the wheel. He spoke
with Blanton. Stan wished that he could overhear the
conversation.
————
“You blew it big-time,” Agent Salerno said. “We
stuck our necks out for a piece of shit!”
“That bastard’s a fuckin’ liar!”
“If he’s working for the spooks, he’s got a
license.”
“Blowing smoke out his butt!”
“Big talk, lardass.”
“Would’ve nailed that greedy prick.” Buddha
stared down at his feet, shifted his bulk. “Your braindead sidekick tipped him off with that dumb jacket.
Anybody …”
“Put your hands on the car!”
“What?” Buddha’s shoulders slumped; his face
frozen in an agonizing expression.
————
Stan observed Buddha place his hands, palms
down, on the hood of the Cadillac, and spread his
legs. The taller agent in boat shoes and water-repellent jacket kicked them further apart with his foot. A
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pat-down search followed and Blanton’s hands were
handcuffed behind his back. Salerno fingered a small
microphone and an antenna that had been taped to
the smuggler’s chest.
Nothing worse than a snitch, Stan said to himself. He returned the paperback novels to the book
rack, and walked over to a shelf of automobile magazines. He selected Autocar, a British publication, and
two others. You won the skirmish, but that means
there’s a war.
————
Traffic on the I-95 Expressway slowed to a
crawl with vehicles merging from three to two lanes
and half-mile beyond into a narrow procession. At
the sound of a wailing siren, Stan checked his rear
and side view mirrors as an emergency rescue unit,
red and blue lights flashing, weaved through the congestion. He switched on the CB receiver built into the
car stereo, scanned the channels listening to banal
banter. “A four car pileup, possible fatality, exit at
Sheridan, good buddy.” He overheard a trucker’s
observation, but too late to heed the warning.
Stan irritably tapped on the steering wheel. His
thoughts drifted from Buddha to Sue Ann. First Martinez, then Burt and a menage a trois with a stranger.
Burt was portrayed as tattooed, rough and lean; the
other, heavyset and bearded. Sue Ann had arrived at
the motel at 7:40 pm and left after midnight. Shortly
thereafter, both men drove off together in the Dodge
pickup. The investigator lost the tail, and the second
subject remained unknown. Calvin Burt had an arrest
387
record for simple battery, drunk driving and marijuana possession. Sue Ann had gone slumming, and
Stan felt powerless to act.
A commercial jet flew low overhead on the
final leg of its landing approach into Fort Lauderdale
International Airport. The 115,000 pound Boeing
737 cast a fleeting shadow across the highway; passengers’ faces discernible in the windows. He could
hear the roar and feel the tremor from multi Pratt
and Whitney turbofans. He eased the Town Car into
the far left lane, braked and waited. He thumped the
leather-wrapped rim, now preoccupied with Laura’s
murder. Cathy Parker had shed little light on Dutch
as the perpetrator. She failed to connect him to the
porn movies, his awareness of the diary and her hotel
address. The facts suggested an unknown assailant;
a person who may have figured prominently in her
diary. The police and his investigator could hunt the
stranger. He would concentrate on Dutch, God help
him.
————
Stan slipped an electronically coded plastic card
into the key slot and unlocked the motel room door.
He twisted the knob and pushed it open.
“You’re late,” Webster Cox said in a weak
voice trailing over stooped shoulders. The CIA agent
peered out a gold tinted window fogged by condensation.
“Traffic. Where’s Lex?” Stan inquired, referring
to the CIA electronics technician known to him only
by that cryptonym.
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“He will be here later.” Cox dropped in a chair.
“We can handle this.” He mopped his brow, sweating
with the air conditioner on high and the room temperature at a chilly 65.
Stan smiled faintly. This was the first time since
they operated from the motel that he had Cox alone.
Probably his last chance to ferret the truth from the
agent.
“We’ve got quite a wait.” Stan turned on the
television. Roxie Haro’s Aeroflot flight from Havana,
Cuba had a scheduled arrival of 5:10 pm in Caracas,
Venezuela. By the time she cleared immigration,
secured her luggage and passed through customs,
and drove with Elena to his villa, Stan estimated their
call after nine that evening. He flicked to the news.
“Do you mind? My head’s splitting.”
Stan nodded and pushed the “off” button. “My
mistake.”
He withdrew an automobile publication from
his briefcase, walked over to one of the twin beds and
propped up the pillow. He leaned back against the
headboard; a booted foot dangled off the side of the
bed. “Do you want dinner?” He looked up from the
magazine. “I can call room service.”
“Tea, just tea.”
————
The motel room had a typical commercial milieu
furnished with twin beds, a desk, mirror and dresser.
The television perched on a pedestal stand and still
lifes under glass in bamboo frames.
Stan sat before a linen covered table slicing into
389
a well-done T-bone. Cox laid on a bed staring blindly
at the ceiling. His face gaunt and a sickly yellowish
color. His eyes buried deep in their sockets, lesions
on his lips and skin blotches. “When are you going
into the hospital?” Stan asked, a foregone conclusion.
During the past year, he had witnessed the agent’s
declining health until a rapid deterioration left only a
wretched semblance of the man.
“As soon as this assignment is over.” Cox’s
voice low and hoarse. “Next week, the week after,
medical leave.” His shirt collar appeared sizes too
large; a dark suit draped his frail body shroud-like.
“I gather another agent will succeed you as my
handler.”
“Yeah, yeah. We’re all replaceable.”
“You’re dying.” Stan spoke with a distinct coldness. He minced few words wanting to legally substantiate their conversation. A declaration made in
contemplation of death is admissible in a court of
law.
“Leukemia.” Cox wheezed and coughed.
“Full-blown AIDS.” Stan poured a cup of coffee
from an insulated pot. “I’ve suspected it for some
time.”
“l’m not gay!” He exhaled sharply.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Picked it up while stationed in West Germany.”
His expression grew somber, reflective. “A car wreck,
contaminated blood at a local hospital.”
“They could have sent you to a U.S. military
base.”
“I couldn’t blow my cover. The Company first,
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SHELDON YAVITZ
you know.”
“Done in by your own people.”
Cox winched at the irony. “I never liked you,
Shades.”
“We never liked each other.” Stan got up, walked
over and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Nevertheless, a tragedy. You’re a good man.”
“I hate to admit it, but we made a good team.”
Cox’s lanky frame shifted in obvious discomfort.
“You’re predicting Duvalier’s fall almost to the day
has baffled our pros at headquarters.”
“Have they figured out if I killed my girlfriend?”
“We know you didn’t do it.”
“Hah! A dying man’s testimonial. Look good at
my trial.”
“No, Shades.” Cox’s eyes closed; his throat
tightened, words seeping from a corner of his mouth.
“We taped it.”
“Makes sense,” Stan shrugged. “You bugged my
villa. So why not her hotel room. You probably know
more about Laura than I do.”
“We couldn’t do anything about it.” He shook
his head. “Would have compromised our operation.”
“I understand.” Stan’s face remained impassive,
revealing nothing. His mind racing as he probed for
answers. “Lex taped it”
“I wasn’t there. She loved you.” He tugged at his
beak-like nose. “The person who killed her …,” he
paused, his inquiring eyes at half-mast. “We couldn’t
do anything about it.” Cox folded his arms across
his cadaverously rigid form. “Shades, I never would
391
have let it happen.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re taking this to awful calm.” Cox had a
searching stare, intuitively troubled by Stan’s apparent detachment.
“My wife says I’m cold and callous.” He fingered the contour of a voice-activated micro cassette
recorder secreted in his jacket breast pocket. “Did
you hear a name on the tape?”
“Cox closed his eyes. “I’m tired.”
“Did you hear the name Dutch?”
“What would you do if I told you?”
He suspected that there was no correct response.
Only a walking dead man matching wits. “I’d handle
it discreetly. No cops, no witnesses. Protect the Company.”
“Cox smirked. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He
turned his face away. “I said too much,” he sighed,
his voice adrift. “Foolish sentimentality.”
“She knew him. I may have.”
The CIA agent coughed; his eyes bulged. He
shot upright. Spittle dripped from his mouth. “Leave
me alone!” He pulled a handkerchief from a pants
pocket and wiped his lips and chin.
Stan rose and moved over to the window. He
looked down on an Olympic-size swimming pool
set in a Chattahoochee paved deck. An unusually
warm night provided an invitation to motel guests to
bathe and gather outdoors in lounge chairs and about
umbrella tables. Upstairs, in the room, Stan grimaced
from the cold. “Look,” he said shoving his hands
in his pockets. “If I had confidence in the police,
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SHELDON YAVITZ
I wouldn’t be asking you.” Cox’s labored breathing
permeated the stillness. “I won’t act on the information until our mission’s completed.” He pressed his
palms against the cool, moist pane, his self-control
ebbing. The ringing of the telephone caused him to
start. He glanced at his watch. “She’s too early.”
“Everything’s ready.” Cox sprang alive. “Wait!
You get the extension.” He reached for the telephone
on the bed stand. Stan picked up the one on the
dresser.
“Hello. Sure, I’ll take it,” Stan said, responding
to the operator. “Good evening, Elena. Sergio here.”
They spoke in fluent Spanish. Cox struggled with a
limited comprehension of the language.
“She didn’t show up,” Elena said.
“Don’t worry.” Stan’s stock comforting phrase.
“I waited. I checked. I’ve been everywhere!”
“Probably a change in plans.”
“No, Sergio. She called me this morning to
make sure I would be here. Something is wrong!”
Her voice cracked with an unspecified dread.
He covered the mouthpiece with a hand and
turned towards the agent. “Didn’t show,” he muttered, shaking his head.
Cox groaned; his shoulders slumped.
Stan asked Elena to telephone the Colonel’s
home and, in the event of no answer, to contact his
brother-in-law, Orlando Alfonso. “I’ll wait for your
call.”
“Their numbers are at the office. I will get back
to you as soon as I can.”
“Chow, baby.” He replaced the receiver on its
393
cradle.
“Damn it! I don’t have much time.”
“You had more than Laura,” Stan spit.
————
Cox slouched in a chair glowering at the spots
on his withered flesh. He stepped into the bathroom
and emerged dabbing his feverish forehead with a
damp washcloth. Stan stood at the window staring,
preoccupied. The body shop that restored his Thunderbird was two blocks away. The car wash where
he met clandestinely with Webster Cox up the street
on Commercial Boulevard. He paced, stopped, took
a sip of luke warm coffee, made a face and put the
cup down. He moved over to the motel room door,
squinted, peering out the security peephole. No question that Laura knew her killer. She looked through
the hole and let him in. “The tape’s the key. Don’t
you understand?” Cox turned on the television ignoring Stan’s comment. “At least tell me the murderer’s
name.” He faced the agent.
“You’re crazy!” Cox switched the channels.
“Our operation is falling apart and your only concern’s some dead hooker.” He raised the volume,
then turned toward the opening door.
“Any news?” Lex asked, setting foot in the
room.
“Didn’t show,” Cox said, then proceeded to
bemoan the negative twist in their mission. Stan paid
scant attention, just stared at Lex. A man with an
unremarkable countenance, easily forgotten. In fact,
only his loafers turned down at the heels left any
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SHELDON YAVITZ
impression. Then it struck him. Lex was L. Schmidt,
the hotel guest in the room next to Laura. A professional eavesdropper, a voyeur, who listened in on
a rape and murder and raised not a finger to help
the victim. “Schmidt, did you enjoy your stay at the
Clipper Hotel?” His eyes bore into the electronics
expert.
The color in Lex’s face drained. He blinked, and
Stan had his answer. They glared in gnawing silence,
appraising each other. The phone rang before either
man could utter a word. They sprang for the telephones. Stan cursed under his breath.
He could barely hear Elena. “I called Roxie’s
house, no answer.”
“One moment,” Stan said, casting an irritated
look at Cox, who then reached over and turned off
the television.
“I spoke to her brother.” Her voice faltered.
“The Colonel’s dead! Roxie’s been arrested!”
Stan breathed into the receiver. Her gasps and
sobs filled the earpiece. He regained his focus. “What
did Orlando say? Take your time.”
“Orlando said he’s going into hiding. Then hung
up.”
He calmly pressed for information, but few specifics were forthcoming. Roxie had been detained at
the airport and since vanished. The circumstances
surrounding the Colonel’s death cloaked in secrecy.
His driver, Sergeant Santiago, also was reported as
dead.
“I will call you later. Go home, don’t go out.”
Stan slowly put down the phone and leaned against
395
the dresser. The agents barraged him with questions.
He reiterated his conversation with its paucity of
details. Cox collapsed on the bed sprawling on the
rumpled spread.
“These things happen,” Lex shrugged.
“What about Elena? She’s got to be protected.”
“No can do.” Lex picked a slice of rye bread off
a dinner plate. “She’s not our problem.”
“If Roxie Haro talks and they will make her, the
Cubans will go after Elena. She’s a link to the entire
operation.”
“I’ve got to think.” Cox squeezed his eyes shut;
an arm pressed to his forehead.
“Write the broad off.” Lex nibbled on a cold
French fried potato. “She doesn’t know anything
that can jeopardize the Company.” He scavenged the
table, dipped a French fry in Ketchup. “You blew this
one, Mr. Three Million Dollar jerk.”
Stan’s face turned crimson. “Useless bastards!”
He snatched up his briefcase from atop the dresser
and strode from the motel room.
“Shades!” Cox called as the door slammed. He
struggled to a sitting position. “ Shades is right.”
“He’s a pussy.”
“Don’t you see. He and that woman look
like Venezuelans spying for the United States. The
Cubans will blame them, and they, in turn, will drag
us into it. Political disaster.” He cupped his head in
his hands. “My career’s ruined!”
“You’re dead anyway,” Lex smirked. “The boys
will clean it up. They always do. A little accident and
another of his whores silenced. I wonder if she keeps
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SHELDON YAVITZ
a diary,” he said, polishing off the leftover peach cobbler.
“I’ve got to call the Chief.” Cox stared straight
ahead. “A secure line. I’ll take it in the other room.
Use the scrambler.”
Lex walked to the door, reached for the knob,
hesitated; his eyes blinked. “Shit, Shades knows I’m
Schmidt.”
“Who’s the pussy, asshole?”
————
Stan stepped to the elevator and pushed the
“down” button. He glanced over his shoulder as a
well-dressed middle-aged couple approached him.
The man nodded; the woman smiled. As he waited,
the full import of what happened swept over him.
The Colonel dead, Roxie arrested, millions of dollars
blown and Elena in danger. Laura murdered and the
CIA taped it. My life’s out-of-control. His stomach
knotted. I’m a DEA target, a murder suspect and Sue
Ann has lovers.”
“Enjoying your stay?” The man asked.
“Uh-huh.” Stan’s leg nervously twitched; his
hands felt clammy.
“Plan to stay long?” The man inquired; the
woman grinned politely.
“Uh-huh.” He inattentively fingered the no
longer blank audio cassettes in his suit pocket. One
more in the recorder, he counted. He took a deep
breath and again pressed the “call” button.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Some might call it paranoia. Stan termed it
heightened awareness. A case in point, his CIA handlers’ selection of a motel for further debriefing and
a resolution of the FULCRUM debacle. The location
was a safe house south of Rehoboth Beach where
Delaware Bay meets the Atlantic. The local inhabitants dubbed the popular beach resort the “Nation’s
Summer Capital,” but it was early April with summer
vacation months away and Stan at undeclared war
with the Central Intelligence Agency. They provided
directions suggesting the best route from Washington
D.C., and he took precautions.
Stan considered using a parabolic directional
microphone linked to a tape recorder that picks
up voices from a distance, but too many variables
negated its practicability. Carrying a micro cassette
recorder on his person might work with a critically ill
agent; not with a vigilant Division Chief. He finally
gambled on a voice-activated cassette recorder and
an ultra-sensitive mike concealed in a rental car,
backed up by his investigator armed with a Nikon
camera equipped with a telephoto lens.
He made a reservation for Washington National
Airport expecting the CIA to monitor his travel. His
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SHELDON YAVITZ
investigator would fly on ahead, rent a car, and install
the recorder and microphone.
“Rent a duplicate car, as close as you can. We
will switch later,” Doug Daniel said, spelling out the
game plan. “I have associates in Wilmington who
agreed to provide backup, a truck and nondescript
surveillance van. The Holiday Inn in Dover’s our
base. Two rooms. We’ll have a chance to relax and
prepare.”
————
The white Lincoln Mark VII, his rental car by
preference, turned off the two-lane onto the paved
asphalt of a small, one story motel with driftwood
shutters and concrete walls molded to look like gray
wood paneling. Twelve units and two lone autos; a
“no vacancy” sign added to the desolation. The trip
from Dover, Delaware, the state capital, had taken
almost two hours over backwater roads traversing
farm country, loblolly and Virginia pine lowlands
and rural communities with names like Felton and
Belltown.
He left the motor running and stepped into the
manager’s office. Behind the counter, a short, plump
woman in a hand-knit sweater embellished with
sequins and beads perched on an exercise cycle. She
had a mature face framed in tortoise-shell glasses
and reddish hair.
“Room 6,” she pointed. He noticed her cracked
red fingernails. Stan never spoke a word.
————
399
He pulled the car to a yellow curb stone between
bleached parallel lines in front of the room. He
observed the drawn Venetian blinds part slightly. The
door opened. A tall black man, powerfully built, signaled discreetly with an enormous hand. At least six
foot four, Stan guessed, in a well-tailored blue suit
and wingtip brogues.
Upon entering, the giant roughly frisked him.
“Just a precaution,” Faulkner said, rising from
behind a desk. A gooseneck lamp planted on one
corner and a smeared ashtray for the inveterate pipe
smoker. “It’s about time.” He rejected Stan’s offered
handshake. “You’ve avoided us for weeks.”
“Business.”
“Business, my ass! The monies missing from
the Cayman account.” He fixed his piercing eyes on
Stan. “You’re in big trouble.”
The room resembled an office rather than motel
accommodations with a laminated oak finish desk,
credenza, and pull-out file cabinet, mixed match
chairs and a dusty, potted silk ficus tree, all GSA merchandised. A wall mirror, as Stan suspected, shielded
a camcorder. In this instance, inoperable.
“If I’m not welcome, maybe I should step out
and start over again.” Stan shrugged, feigned a smile,
getting up from a leatherette cushion chair. The towering agent moved in behind him.
“Sit down, please.” Faulkner leaned back and
rocked slowly. “Let’s approach this calmly.” He
poked thumbs in vest pockets. “Coffee, Shades. I
recall you prefer yours black.” Stan nodded. “I’ll
have mine with milk and sugar, two lumps.” With a
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SHELDON YAVITZ
finger snap, he gestured to the agent.
“What happened to Roxie Haro?”
“We ask the questions.”
The burly agent had moved to a drip coffee
maker. He turned and looked at the two men.
“What happened to Roxie Haro?”
“She died during interrogation.”
“Did she talk?”
“We had our cut-outs in place for damage control.”
“And the Colonel?”
“A shoot-out, suicide, an execution. Take your
pick.” Faulkner paused while the agent served
coffee. He stirred the steaming brew. “Where’s our
money?”
“You got a mole in your organization, a double
agent in Cuba, or both.”
“You read too many spy novels.”
“How else can you explain the nonappearance
of the MiG 29 at the air show?”
“No problem at our end.” He slurped from a
Redskin logo mug.
“From what I’ve heard the Agency’s riddled
with Communist agents.” Stan placed his coffee cup
untouched on the desk top unwilling to chance being
drugged. “Within the last year alone you had the
Walker mess.” He counted on his fingers for emphasis. “Edward Lee Howard scandal, burned agents in
Russia and now, one in Cuba, and that KGB defector.”
“Yurchenko,” the black agent chimed in.
The Division Chief’s expression dulled.
401
“The Colonel and I operated since ’84 without
a hitch.”
“Running drugs?”
“You hope that’s Cuba’s conclusion.”
“We don’t make mistakes.”
“Tell that to his orphaned daughter. While you’re
at it, explain why you broke into my villa.”
“Grow up! “
“My house has been rifled. Eleana’s apartment
and our office searched.”
“We had to clean up your untidiness.”
“You didn’t find the safe,” Stan grinned. He
craned his neck in response to the agent’s gasp. He
returned his gaze to the Division Chief, who had
retreated behind a burl Oom Paul, not unlike the one
smoked by the fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes.
“You’re trying my patience.” Faulkner thumbed
an aromatic blend from a tobacco pouch into a curved
pipe bowl. “We want our money.” His lips tight and
voice in a fierce half-whisper.
“Let’s take a ride.” Stan motioned with his head.
“The weight lifter’s excluded.”
“You don’t call the shots here.” He sat up,
squared his rounded shoulders. “We can have you in
chains or worse.” He sucked in his potbelly.
“If you want to discuss money, we take a ride.”
“You’re becoming an embarrassment.” He
snapped his fingers. The agent moved forward hulking over Stan. A thick mustache, jutting jaw and
shaven head purposely intimidating.
“I hope so. I document everything including this
meeting. Location, arrival, expected departure, per-
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SHELDON YAVITZ
sons I’m meeting with, etc, etc.”
“Is that a threat?”
The black agent’s massive arms dropped limp to
his sides.
“A precaution. Learned from Cuba.”
“This dumb shit thinks he’s a spy, Kilmore.”
“I drive.”
“All you are is a crooked shyster bargaining for
bucks.” He unconsciously buttoned and unbuttoned
his jacket. “All right, but Kilmore follows.”
“Spoken like a brave man.”
Kilmore suppressed a laugh. Faulkner expelled
tobacco smoke. “We’re going to discuss the
money?”
“Of course. What else would interest a
lawyer?”
————
When he first started practicing law, Stan freelanced for other attorneys handling litigation that
they, themselves, were either unwilling to try, or
alternatively found not cost-effective, such as fender
benders and slip and fall cases with questionable liability and soft tissue injuries. Frustrating work with
no insurance company settlement offers and slender
chance for a sizeable damage recovery, but Stan was
young, ambitious and in need of the courtroom experience.
One attorney, a portly, elderly gentleman, ran a
store-front office on South Beach. In the profession,
he would be described as a neighborhood lawyer,
a general practitioner, similar to the old-fashioned
403
family doctor. He gave free consultations and seldom
charged for minor matters encouraging a clientele of
pensioners and low income local residents. Nevertheless, he always hungered for that one “big buck”
case that after 35 years still eluded him.
Stan had visited the old attorney’s office to find
him visibly shaken. He told him that a longtime
client had just left taking with him the biggest accident case of his career. The plaintiff, the client’s
brother, had sustained permanent spinal injuries, a
paraplegic.
“The faults clear; the insurance coverage astronomical. Enough money on my end to guarantee a
leisurely retirement. They decided to hire another
lawyer.” He spoke with his face buried in his hands.
“Why? I asked. I had represented the family for
years.” He looked up. “Do you know what he said?”
Stan shrugged, unresponsive. “He said any lawyer
who doesn’t charge can’t be worth a damn.”
Stan never forgot the lesson. To him, the Central
Intelligence Agency was another paying client.
————
They walked from the motel room; Kilmore
brought up the rear. Faulkner stopped, stared at the
white Lincoln with District of Columbia license
plates. “Check it!”
Kilmore moved forward and circled the vehicle
running an open palm under each wheel arch. He
bent down on one knee peering and probing under
the front bumper. He repeated the same scrutiny at
the rear. He looked at his smudged hands, frowned,
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SHELDON YAVITZ
disgusted. He strode back to the room.
“Get binoculars,” Faulkner called out.
Upon his return, Kilmore was wiping his hands
on a blue stripe towel; a binocular bag dangled from
a shoulder strap. He gave it to Faulkner and stooped
brushing off his slacks at the knee. He stepped to
the car, opened an unlocked door and commenced to
search beneath the bucket seats and instrument panel.
He paid the same critical attention to the headliner,
studied the radio speakers for screwdriver tamper
marks and attempted to remove the rear seat cushion.
He pulled the interior hood lever and looked befuddled. “Where’s the trunk button? These luxo-barges
have them.”
“Lift the entire glove box. You’ll see a yellow
and a white button. One’s for the fuel door and the
other, the trunk.”
The agent followed the instructions. “Won’t
work!”
“You need to start the car.” Stan tossed him the
keys. “No bomb.”
“Very funny, asshole.” Faulkner kicked at a tire.
He had been scanning the area with field glasses. He
adjusted the focus; his mouth curved downward. “A
van at the Steiner cottage.”
“Checked it out yesterday. A couple out of
Wilmington.” A smug expression crossed his face.
“Clean-cut, all-American. The girl’s cute.”
“Big jugs.”
“Beauts. They’re buying the cottage,” he said,
turning on the ignition. The motor sprung to life,
purring; the air conditioner hummed, the stereo
405
played and the digital cluster exploded in an array
of flashing gauges. A state-of-the-art motorcar that
could conceal a low output recorder from counterintelligence equipment had they thought to use it.
Kilmore stared at the instrumentation, gripped
the steering wheel, whistled to the music and a
moment later slid from the cockpit. He raised the
hood exploring the engine compartment and once
satisfied, walked back to the trunk. “Where’s your
luggage?” He fumbled with the spare tire cover.
“At my motel.”
“Clean.” He slammed the trunk lid. It stopped
short of closing, then locked automatically.
————
Stan wheeled the car from the motel onto the
highway. A dirty Ford LTD followed. He counted
on Daniel to have taken pictures. The lengthy automobile search had provided ample opportunity. A
washed-out blue sky, now clouding, and a virtually
vacant parking lot had offered good conditions. He
had directed his investigator to remain in place to
await either his return or a beep on his nationwide
pager, whichever occurred first. The time-frame estimated at 30 minutes to an hour. A backup private
detective would furnish on-the-road coverage.
As the Lincoln accelerated, Stan lowered the
radio volume. “What did you do with the audio tape
of Laura’s murder?” Faulkner stroked his refilled
pipe. He struck a match sucking the flame into the
pipe bowl. A road sign read: Ocean View, population 411. Stan pressed a power window switch low-
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SHELDON YAVITZ
ering the glass, a crack. The wind whistled through
the fissure causing a high-pitched distraction. He further lowered the window abating the tobacco smoke
and noise nuisance. “I want the tape made by Lex, L.
Schmidt as he registered at her hotel.”
“You’re joking.” The Division Chief’s face knotted in a mystified frown. “All we did was cover your
guilty ass. We couldn’t afford to have you arrested.
So, we planted some disinformation,” he laughed
in a gurgling way. “Shades, you’re guilty as sin.
You killed the babe.” He leaned across the console.
“You’re a rapist, a pervert …”
“That’s not what the tape shows.” Stan forced
a broad grin, concentrating on the road with an eye
fixed on the rearview mirror. Kilmore about 10 car
lengths behind. He paid vague attention to the scattered beach cottages and the deserted motels in their
preseason hibernation. “Cox told me.”
Faulkner returned a sardonic grin. “Fuck with
us and we will have you indicted, arrested and convicted of murder. I kid you not.”
“I said Cox told me.”
“So what!” He puffed fiercely on his pipe.
“The embittered ravings of a closet queen.” Smoke
engulfed his head until drawn out the window opening. “A dead man.”
“Cox is dead?”
“Any day, any week.”
“I have Cox on tape.” The expansion joints
in the concrete road surface produced a rhythmic
thump, thump under the steel-belt radials.
“Hearsay, Mr. lawyer.”
407
“A statement made in contemplation of death
admissible in any court of law.” He noticed Faulkner’s
lower lip droop. “A hearsay exception, I tell you this
as a trial lawyer.”
“Never happened.”
“Ignorance is bliss. I also want her diary.”
“Diary?” He stiffened, then settled back in the
well-padded cushion.
“Also her jewelry in excess of 50,000 dollars,
five in cash.” He had taken a calculated risk with
his accusations, but after hours of pondering, as he
termed it, Stan concluded that once the murderer
had gone, Lex entered her hotel room primarily to
remove the eavesdropping device. In so doing, he
discovered the diary, stumbled on the cash and inevitably, the emeralds. A temptation for a financially
strapped agent with down at the heel loafers. Who
would complain and to his credit, the theft further
added to the crime scene confusion.
“Absurd!” An oncoming car rushed past. Kilmore maintained a comparable speed and a reasonable
distance.
“Put Lex on a polygragh.”
“What do you want?”
“I want the tape, the diary, the jewelry. It’s probably best that you furnish them directly to the police
or the state attorney.”
“You’ve got a wild imagination.” He forced a
laugh, now suspecting a tape recorder hidden in the
dash or a door panel. He turned up the radio. Stan
stepped on the gas. The four barrel swooshed as
it kicked in. There was no escape for the CIA Divi-
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SHELDON YAVITZ
sion Chief as the automobile sped along a causeway.
White sand dunes stabilized by beach grass and the
churning Atlantic to his right; a salt marsh and bay
water on the left. The digital speedometer displayed
60 mph. Not fast enough to alarm Kilmore, but the
right speed for captive negotiations. “I figure my
attorney’s fee at 1.5 million, my deal with the Colonel, roughly speaking.
Faulkner moaned. His lips barely moved when
he finally spoke. “1 don’t know what you’re talking
about.”
“The truth-of-the-matter, I neither risked my life
for pennies nor will I pay for your mistakes.”
“Look here.” He coughed, cleared his throat.
“You’re being awfully dramatic.”
“I advance the Colonel three hundred thousand.
Say, another two hundred thou spent on Elena’s protection.”
“Protection from who?” His tone huffish. “Are
you accusing …,” he hesitated. “Strike that.” He
smiled benignly. “You’re under a lot of stress, son.”
“We’re talking money.”
“We are more than willing to protect your secretary.” He extended a sympathetic arm across the
leather seat back. “Just tell us where she is.” His eyes
telegraphed cold and calculating.
“Too late. No deal.”
“You’re buckling under pressure.” The Division
Chief stared at him as the car bore down on a station
wagon. A stuffed orange stripe cat held by suction
cups to the rear plate glass. Stan gunned the engine
and steered into the far left lane overtaking the slower
409
moving vehicle.
“You’re paranoid.”
“Call it heightened awareness.”
“You need a psychiatrist.” Faulkner’s brow wrinkled. He looked to the rear. The Ford had pulled out
to pass. “Shades, relax.”
“As to the balance, I plan to retain it until you
cough up the tape and diary.”
“You’re fuckin’ with the United States!”
“A polygraph will settle the jewelry issue. A
full-scale investigation into the cover-up, that too.
I see obstruction of justice.” Faulkner’s temples
throbbed; he rubbed his neck. “Otherwise, I intend to
spend the million finding Laura’s killer.”
“You’re mad as a hatter.” He chewed on the
flesh around his right thumbnail. The Lincoln had
progressively slowed and turned off the road entering a wayside park. The car advanced in the direction of picnic tables and a red pickup with a camper
shell parked near a litter basket. It ground to a halt
crunching and strewing gravel. Faulkner lurched forward restrained by a seat belt.
“Call me when you change your mind.” Stan
eyed the Nissan pickup containing a backup investigator and a video camera. “Three days. That’s it!”
“Son-of-a-bitch!”
“Get out!” He saw Kilmore drive into the roadside park and stop at a prudent distance. “Three days!
I’m open to negotiations on the money, but not the
tape, the diary and Lex.”
Faulkner punched the seat belt release and
shoved the heavy door open. “None of this ever hap-
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SHELDON YAVITZ
pened,” he said, stepping from the car.
————
While Kilmore waited, he glanced repeatedly at
the Nissan pickup truck intrigued by the empty cab
and fiberglass topper with dark impenetrable glass.
The driver’s probably snoozing in the camper shell
or out on the beach taking a crap or, he tittered, on
his lunch hour balling a chick. A rock wall rekindled
childhood memories. A stray dog prowled a garbage
receptacle. Faulkner emerged from the Lincoln. The
rough surf pounded the seashore; the sky overcast.
He observed the white car drive off leaving the Chief
standing, stooped shoulder. He shifted into gear and
pulled up beside him. “What goes?” He asked as the
passenger door flung wide.
“I’ve got to piss.” Faulkner urinated against a
front tire. “Shades is out of control. A fuckin’criminal
lowlife!” The cameraman in the pickup preserved
the scene. A second private eye serving as a lookout
peered through binoculars and chuckled.
Faulkner zipped up and dropped his bulk onto
the front seat. “Follow him!” He slammed the door.
“I think he taped my conversation.” He grappled with
the seat belt. “We’ve got to stop him and tear that car
apart.”
“How could I have missed it?”
“The door panel, dummy, the dash, in the seat.”
The rear wheels spun, rubber squealed as they
sped from the wayside park. A high-performance law
enforcement package transformed the sedate sedan
into a police cruiser. Faulkner enthroned on the seat
411
cushion related the gist of his dialogue with Stan.
Kilmore probed. The Division Chief responded with
a growing desperation, more apparent with incisive
questioning.
“We can call ahead, get some local yokel to
stop him,” Kilmore suggested. “Trump up a charge,
impound the vehicle. Do a fine-tooth-comb job at the
police station.”
“What towns are up ahead?” Faulkner removed
a handheld two-way radio from under his seat.
“Broadkill, Milford, depends on his route.”
“I’ve got to call base, have them set this up.” He
lowered the radio to his lap. “What’s the tag? What
was he driving?”
“Lincoln, Budget, X42 …” Kilmore paused,
thinking, an eye glued on the rearview mirror.
“There’s a pickup gaining on us! A red Nissan like
the one at the road stop.”
“Christ!”
“Let’s see,” the agent said, easing his highly
polished wingtip off the pedal. The car rapidly decelerated slowing to the speed limit. The pickup closed
the gap, caught up and held back. Kilmore floored
the gas; the truck driver did the same. “He’s doing
over 90. We’ve got a tail!”
“Can you believe that!”
“What balls!”
“He taped Cox, and now me. What if he photographed the motel?”
“A camera in the pickup would take a great
pissin’ shot.” Faulkner’s face contorted in a ugly grimace. “You might make the National Inquirer, Chief.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
I can see the headline. CIA Division Head with oneeye wonder in action.” Kilmore spoke with a deadpan expression.
“Shut up!” Faulkner sharply flexed the rubber
radio antenna. “He’s blackmailing the United States!”
His eyes bulged with rage.
“Have him arrested.”
“Are you mad! He’ll take us all with him. The
Democrats will have a field day. A Congressional
investigation, the DCI on the carpet, imagine the
press coverage.”
“How many days do we have?”
“Three.”
“Just three,” he repeated, contemplating the
rearview mirror. The pickup had past a vehicle and
was once again behind them. “Doesn’t make sense.”
His voice, unlike the Division Chief’s, calm and controlled.
“He’s a hard bargainer, you jerk-off!”
“Clever, yes.” A cunning grin crossed the agent’s
thick lips. “He cares no more for the dead prostitute
than the Colonel.”
“Garbage!”
“Only a bargaining chit.” Kilmore’s mouth
twisted cynically. “He’s a lawyer.” His tone acidic.
“All he wants is the money. Lawyers are notorious
for not returning a fee.”
Faulkner hunched over. “Calculated extortion,
but not a bluff. A quid pro quo, money for silence.”
He smiled cautiously. “You’re smart, Kilmore.”
“Gilmore, sir. Gilmore.”
“Sure, Kilmore. You’re going places.”
413
“What’s our next step?”
“I’II have to run this by the DDO, maybe, the
Director.” He lighted up his pipe before continuing.
“They will see my point, dump on Cox and Lex.
Internal bullshit,” he shrugged. “Cover your ass.
That’s what’s important.”
“There’s his car. He seems in no hurry.”
Faulkner nodded, puffed on his Oom Paul, a
blank stare. Thunderheads, piled high and miles deep,
had rolled in from the ocean. Lightning streaked
from cloud to cloud. The wind gusted; long skeins of
sand awash on the roadway.
“Do we stop him?” He switched on the windshield wipers and headlights. The air in the car had
grown foul from tobacco smoke. Kilmore lowered
a window. Rain pelted his shoulder. “Chief, we’re
climbing up his ass!” He raised the window midway.
“Screw him! I don’t want to get wet.”
With the left turn signal flashing, the Ford
slowed to a stop. It made a wide U-turn and headed
back in the direction of the motel with the “no
vacancy” sign. The red pickup fell in behind Stan’s
rental car.
“No one pisses on my neck and gets away with
it.”
Kilmore nodded, smiled, began humming.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Three days extended into two weeks without a
word from Faulkner or anyone representing the Central Intelligence Agency. Stan likened himself to a
puny kid, who faced off the town bully. Rather than
fight, the bully sulked away muttering obscenities.
Well, you can’t run after him asking for an explanation. All you can do is prepare for the eventuality
when he finds you alone with your back turned.
————
“I blew it!” Stan said, standing at Laura’s grave.
When her family rejected her remains and a funeral,
he had claimed the body and buried her at a nearby
cemetery. “The CIA gave up the money instead of
the tape.” A colossal maleleuca’s gnarled boughs
formed a natural sepulcher. “I came on too strong,
out-spied the spies. Handled it wrong.” He knelt
down and brushed grass from her marble headstone.
“How could you’ve been so stupid to get yourself
killed?” Tears smarted his eyes. “I would have spoiled
you rotten.” He spoke to her as if among the living.
“I’ve got Daniel working on your case, but so far no
good leads.” He shuffled his feet. “I’m convinced
it’s Dutch. No concrete proof, gut feeling, weak cir-
415
cumstantial evidence.” He shifted his weight. “I’ll
find a way to get out the truth.” He paused, his eyelids tightened. “If I’m on the wrong track, I wish
you’d tell me.” He strained to hear her voice. “Even
a hint.”
As he turned to go, Stan mentioned that he
would be gone for a month or more. He thought he
detected her whisper in the rustle of leaves. An hour
later, he would break the same news to Sue Ann. He
had joined her beside the swimming pool. A warm
afternoon sun streamed through the screening.
“The house will be so peaceful.” She accentuated her response with fluttering eyelashes.
“Would you care to know what I’m up to?”
“Can’t you see I’m busy!” She casually waved
her fingers at their young sons splashing in the
opaque blue water.
“Pop!” The eldest boy called out. “Can Crazy
Goose come in and play?” He threw a beach ball in
Stan’s direction.
He caught it and tossed it back. “We will have
to ask Crazy.”
“Gooses can’t talk,” the youngest said.
“They’re nasty, shit everywhere. For a grown
man you say the dumbest things.” Sue Ann’s yellow
thong bikini left little to the imagination.
“The big mom says no. She’s the boss.” He
grinned at Sue Ann. “You’re so beautiful when you’re
angry.” She turned her face from him. “My last stop
will be London. Meet me there.” She looked at him
obliquely. “We can spend a few weeks, get reacquainted, start fresh.” His arms encircled her girlish
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SHELDON YAVITZ
waist. “Tour Britain, take a Hovercraft to France.”
She noticeably winced as if in pain. “We can discuss
the future, my retirement.” She gasped, tongue-tied.
“No more criminals, no more trips. Something more
career friendly, say, a judge, a law school professor,
writer, I’m thinking.”
“They make peanuts. I won’t live like a pauper.
I’m not going to cook and clean up your shit!”
“We’re financially secure. Nothing will
change.”
“Fiddle-faddle.” She tossed her head. “You’re
suffering from some mid-life crisis. You’ve become
an ol’ fart. That’s what it is.” She rolled her eyes
appearing satisfied with the observation.
“London, May 30th. A date?”
“We will see, honey.” She returned a patronizing grin. “You know how I just detest being around
foreigners.”
“You seem to like Latins. We can go to Spain
or Portugal. Angola, if you like, Cubans are fighting
there.”
“You’re a shit!” She pulled away wiggling out
of his embrace. “You talk shit.” She plucked a beach
towel off a chaise lounge. “You’re full of shit!”
“Don’t you know another word?”
She wrapped the colorful towel about her.
“Watch the boys, fuck-face.” She hurried from the
pool deck. “Damn it!” She yelled, stubbing a bare toe
on a brick paver. She glowered back at him. “You’re
a shit! Horrible shit!”
“The Marlborough Hotel near Mayfair, May
30th. Don’t forget.” He sat down on a cushion rocker,
417
shook his head. A large beach ball bounced and rolled
to his feet. He reached over and picked it up. “The
mom’s got a point,” he smiled at his sons. “Chlorine
in the water might make Crazy Goose sick.”
————
Stan would initiate his travel with a side-trip to
the Bahamas arriving midmorning in Freeport. Ace
McGonigle’s air charter license had been reinstated.
“Yes, Eagle, it’s a greaser.” Pilot jargon for
a smooth landing. He peered out a second floor
window onto the airport apron. “They’re all mine,”
he remarked, gesturing to a fleet of twin-engine commuter aircraft inscribed with the name of his charter
service. “Remo should be here next week. As they
say, the Devil wants his due.” He clasped his hands
behind his back, “Like it, or not. I will be flying for
them soon.”
“Keep me informed,” Stan said.
————
The DEA had become a threat and survival
meant information, and knowledge equaled leverage. Stan had instructed Daniel to conduct a complete investigation into Rodriguez’s background and
business affairs. “Subcontract the job to another private detective, preferably Cuban,” he suggested. “We
don’t want a provable link to our office.”
That evening in his quest for bargaining power,
Stan invited his old friend, T. Clement Mayfield, to
dinner. If anyone in the Bahamas had a skeleton in
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SHELDON YAVITZ
his closet, and Remo Rodriguez surely did, Clement
either knew of it, or given time would discover the
secret.
“This is only a rumor. I don’t want to be quoted,”
Clement replied when Stan broached the subject.
“Do you remember Maximilian Luna?”
“Mr. Moon.”
Clement went on to explain that in the late seventies, Luna ran a drug smuggling operation out of
the Berry Islands. When he realized that he was
under criminal investigation, Luna approached the
DEA and agreed to cooperate in exchange for immunity from prosecution. “A maggot ahead of his time,”
Clement characterized the drug smuggler.
“He’s now an adviser to the President’s War on
Drugs,” Stan added. “Made millions, turned informant and emerged respectable and wealthy.”
“That is only part of our tale.” Clement’s voice
lowered to above a whisper. “There was a caveat.
The word is they also agreed not to prosecute his
trusted lieutenant, our friend, Remo. To justify this
divine dispensation they formulated a sting operation,” he paused, searching his memory. “Pay Day.
It’s called Pay Day. The object to infiltrate the drug
smuggling community.” He gripped Stan’s hand. “I
have read a classified memo outlining the program.”
“What went wrong?”
“That depends on your point of view.” Clement
puffed out his pudgy cheeks, then slowly exhaled.
“On one hand, Remo’s delivered, and from what I
understand, continues to make cases with the fervency of a zealot. On the other, he eliminated his
419
competition and those considered expendable.” He
stared into his martini. “You can imagine the money
when you can’t be arrested.” He drained his cocktail.
“As Remo prospered, he astutely shared his good fortune with his benefactors.” He noisily sucked on an
olive. “It’s now a question of who controls who.”
“If you read the memo, you must have a copy.”
Clement’s brow puckered. He looked down at
his soft, small hands and manicured fingernails. “It
has served me well.”
‘’I’ll buy it.”
“If the memo went public, our dear friend’s a
dead man.”
“Name your price.” Stan’s lips formed a thin
smile. “I’m sure you have already taught him that
lesson.” He caught a malevolent twinkle in the lawyer’s eye.
“You are as ruthless as me, old boy.” Clement
breathed a comforting sigh.
————
A businessman attracts less attention than a
tourist, Stan would say, and in foreign countries,
excess luggage only contributes to airport and customs delays. He traveled light, a carry-on bag and a
grain leather expandable attaché. He commenced his
trip with a change of identity. From a safe-deposit
box at a local bank on Grand Turk Island, he withdrew a passport and other identification in an alias.
A small payoff at immigration and a flight manifest
listed him as John Hensley, Fort Worth, Texas.
He entered Kingston, Jamaica under the assumed
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SHELDON YAVITZ
name. From Norman Manley Airport, Stan took a
taxicab into the city and registered at a hotel in the
redeveloped Waterfront area.
“With a view of the harbor,” he requested the
desk clerk.
He would avoid his favorite haunts in New
Kingston, local friends and contacts with one exception, Reginald Wallace, the sole reason for his clandestine trip to the island.
On the afternoon of his arrival, he kept a scheduled appointment with Wallace. His law office on
Duke Street was a brisk five blocks from the hotel.
Ironwork windows and a gated entrance had been
added for security rather than ornamentation. In the
vestibule, a receptionist spoke to him from behind
a glass partition. She pressed a buzzer and the anteroom door unlatched. All reasonable precautions in
a city where 30 percent of the inhabitants live below
poverty level and rampant crime puts even a typewriter at risk.
He stepped into the unpretentious chambers
of the low-key, street-wise attorney. Only the large
number of busy secretaries and law clerks provided
any indication of his successful law practice.
“I have a provocative, extralegal problem,” Stan
informed his slight built, dark friend. They had
known each other for years. In fact, ever since Wallace became a lawyer. He was no scholar, but rather
pragmatic and result oriented. The men communicated with a certain inexplicable telepathy. An
economy of words that left a third party to their
conversation often groping for comprehension. Stan
421
trusted Wallace. He would have to considering the
proposal.
“A desperate act,” Wallace remarked upon hearing the proposition. He wore the Jamaican lawyer’s
traditional black suit, one of the last vestiges of British Colonialism.
“An option, a contingency.”
“Have you selected the location?”
“No. We’re flexible. I would think the coroner’s
the determining factor.”
“It possibly can be arranged.”
“Explore it.”
“Is it you?” His intuitive brown eyes intense.
“Let us say our man is the same height and
weight.”
“Cremation, of course.”
“Fine powder.”
————
Still traveling incognito, Stan flew into Panama.
He met with a bank director and confirmed the transfer of over 2.2 million dollars, the CIA funds, from
the Cayman depository via Panama to a bank in
Cyprus.
Within twelve hours, he was in Medellin,
Colombia, and the next morning on a charter aircraft
flying into the heart of coffee country. At an airfield
in La Nubia, Quinto waited leaning against a battered
Jeep CJ5. As the DeHavilland Beaver, a STOL utility aircraft with short-field capability, touched down
on the airstrip, Quinto drove out to meet the airplane.
He wore military fatigues; a semiautomatic machine
422
SHELDON YAVITZ
pistol positioned between the front seats.
“How’s Elena?” Stan’s first question.
“Happy as a lark,” Quinto reported. “Sweet as
sugar.” The old four-cylinder motor sputtered. “A
real lady.” He affectionately rapped the sheet metal.
Their route passed through Manizales, a lively
modern community with a mix of broad avenues
and narrow streets that rose and fell sharply. Several
high-rises and a huge cathedral dominated the pleasant city center.
“First built in 1851,” Qinto remarked, referring
to the stained glass edifice. Massive bronze bas-relief
doors marked the cathedral entrance. “Destroyed 28
years later by an earthquake, rebuilt in 1924,” he
said, with a tourist guide’s familiarity of the local
history. “Severely damaged by the quake of ’64 and
restored. It is the diocese of Bishop Haro.”
“I wonder if he’s related to the Colonel?”
“Do you want me to find out”
“No, just thinking aloud.” Stan had provided
Quinto information on a need to know basis. He had
explained that Elena might be the target of Cuban
Communists. He vaguely attributed it to the book and
Roxie’s visit claiming that the Colonel had possibly
been involved in an anti-Castro plot. He had spelled
out his assignment as follows: “You are to protect
Señorita Valdez and see to her comfort. Money is no
object within reason, of course. Hire a few good men,
but not an army.” He emphasized “her safety,” underscored that “she was not his possession,” and that
“we are not protecting her honor” concerned with the
sicario’s macho Latin temperament and itchy trigger
423
finger. “If you need backup contact my friend, El
Patron. Deal with Carlos. It’s all been arranged.”
————
The drab camouflage painted Jeep headed off
the pavement and edged along a pothole, rutted trail
mud soddened by the torrential downpours indicative of the rainy season. Quinto shifted and steered
with determination muttering words of encouragement sprinkled with profanity.
“As soon as you can pick up my Bronco in
Caracas.”
“This old girl is fine.” Mud splattered the hood
and windshield and the leg of Stan’s jeans. The old
relic coughed, backfired, lurching forward battling
the ooze.
“I’m thinking of Elena’s comfort, not yours.”
“Love is in the air,” the hired gun chuckled.
At a bend in the road, the estate came into
view, and what seemed like a half mile of fences and
walls.
“Fit for a princess. A full complement of servants. Your new woman hasn’t had to raise a finger,”
he winked.
The home typified a 19th Century Spanish colonial hacienda with open-air spaciousness and sprawling elegance, dazzling tile, adobe brick, bamboo and
other natural woods. A breathtaking landscape, pool
and terraced patio added to an Old-World opulence.
One of El Patron’s attorneys had negotiated the lease.
Stan suspected the owner to be either the Drug Lord
or one of his cronies. He would see it that day for the
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SHELDON YAVITZ
first time and immediately feel at home.
A sentry stood barely visible on a balcony.
A second man met them at the entrance gate. He
stepped forward brandishing a brutish TEC-9, a military-style assault weapon manufactured in Miami.
His bandoleer mimicked a Mexican bandetto. A third
guard wearing a side arm opened the ornate carved
front door. In total, the small security force numbered six sicarios.
“Where’s the señorita, Lieutenant Bolivar?” He
returned a comedic salute with a serious face.
“She came back from the pool and went to
her room, my captain.” The tall, bearded henchman
checked his watch. “At 1415 hours to be exact.”
Quinto’s operation had taken on a military zeal and
an inescapable surrealism.
“This is the Doctor, our patron.” Quinto made
the introduction with a sweeping gesture. “The
Doctor and his lady are not to be disturbed.” He
snapped his fingers. “Get the luggage. Do you want
it in the master bedroom?”
“Her room?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s give Elena a chance,” Stan said. His
arrival unannounced and her existence strikingly
resembling that of a prisoner.
At the top of the mahogany staircase, he paused
for a moment, then approached the room. He rapt
softly.
“You may enter, Captain Quinto.”
He turned the knob and hesitantly opened the
door.
425
“Sergio!” She rushed to his arms. Her filmy
skirt swirled about her bare legs. He pressed her to
him. They passionately embraced.
————
Stan had wondered how he would explain all
that had happened. As with Quinto, he initially
offered scant details. His long-distance telephone
calls to Elena took a similar tack. “From what I
heard, the Colonel was into something big. I can’t
divulge why, but I don’t think you’re safe. My man,
Quinto, is here to help you. Do as he says.” The
search of the villa, her apartment and the office
added credibility. Now, face-to-face with Elena, he
reasoned that the story would have to be sufficiently
plausible and certain facts verifiable to satisfy the
intelligent, inquisitive woman. What surprised him
was her acceptance of suffocating captivity with such
nonchalance.
————
“The Colonel was reputedly involved in an antiCastro plot,” he said, opting for the simplest explanation. Elena lay in his arms stretched out on a
multi-pillow sofa quilted in a modern splash print.
A whirling ceiling fan whined; the rain relentlessly
drummed with its own distinct tempo.
“A drug dealer, a spy,” she suggested. Frogs
croaked; an overfed gray cat lolled by a potted espeletia.
“Who knows? Cubans are so devious. Roxie’s
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SHELDON YAVITZ
visit and my longtime friendship with the Colonel
apparently made us suspects in their nefarious activities.” As he spoke, he unbuttoned tiny fabric covered buttons and slipped her flannel nightdress off
her shoulders.
“I gathered as much.” Her thick black hair fell
around her face and delicate neck. “The searches
were a dead giveaway.”
“Either the American CIA or the Cuban Secret
Service.” Elena nodded, a knowing nod. “I love your
hair.” He breathed in the fragrance.
She looked at him askance. “You must be heavily involved?” Her firm breasts freed from the pastel
cloth.
“Let’s say that Communism and Cuba are no
longer popular subjects.” His finger casually tread
circles around her nipple. “Quinto will be bringing
you my Bronco. You need a more civilized vehicle.”
He reached over to a stone top coffee table for a wine
glass. “You need to go shopping …”
“You’re spoiling me, Sergio.” He held the glass
to her lips as she took a sip.
“What good is money if I can’t spoil you.” He
thought his words had a hollow ring having said the
same so often to Sue Ann. Elena raised her hips
undulating out of the nightgown.
“You’re so wealthy.” Her body responsive to his
touch.
He picked up the cotton garment and recalling
Sue Ann and her Mother Hubbard flung it across the
room.
————
427
Upon learning of the Colonel’s death and the
Laura murder tape, Stan had hastily wire-transferred
the CIA funds from the Cayman bank to accounts
in Panama. Some might see it as a rash, angry and
greedy act. The CIA insinuated theft; Stan termed it
leverage.
By the evening of the fourth day following his
ultimatum to the Division Chief and receiving no
response, he considered the money as his by default.
He awoke from a restless sleep in a cold sweat.
Faulkner’s word echoed in his head. “The monies
missing from the Cayman account.” He arose from
bed and walked over to a window. He peered into the
night. “Since they know I moved the money, what is
to stop them from tracking the transaction?” Huge
oaks cast eerie shadows. The family dogs prowled in
a pack. “Given another week, a month or less, and
the CIA influence …” He was talking to himself.
“Can’t you let a body rest?” Sue Ann’s voice
broke his concentration. She rolled over and turned
on a bedside lamp.
“Why are you wearing that?” He squinted,
frowned, distracted from his money nightmare. “You
always sleep in something sexy.” She wore a highneck, long-sleeve Mother Hubbard. He had let it
pass the first night without comment, but now, at the
recurring sight, he couldn’t contain his displeasure.
“You look like a prudish old maid.”
She tugged at the white cotton fabric. “Is that
what’s bothering you, Stanton?” Her eye narrowed;
she pulled the bed sheet up to her chin. “Your filthy
mind wallows in tits and ass.” She switched off the
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SHELDON YAVITZ
light. “You’re always talkin’ shit.” She turned her
back to him.
He struggled into a bathrobe and retreated to the
solarium. With Sherlock on his shoulder, Stan spoke
of his problems. “Noriega’s in power in Panama.”
The Moluccan cockatoo nuzzled his ear. “He’s a CIA
stooge, if ever there was one.” The white bird moved
down his arm and stopped just above his wrist.
“An extraordinary writ could freeze the money.” The
bird’s blank visage took on a contemplative air. “The
odds. Who knows?”
Sherlock shrieked; its pink tinged crest tufted.
“Okay, we move the money. No reason on earth to
take a chance.” The cockatoo hopped back on its
perch. “Sherlock, answer me this. Why is Sue Ann
wearing a Mother Hubbard?”
By 10:00 am, Stan had faxed instructions to a
bank director at the Deutsche Bank, Panama City,
Panama. In an abundance of caution, the message
had been sent from a friend’s office. It read in part:
Transfer the funds from the following
accounts: A, CC and F (referring to them by an
agreed alphabetical code) to AHMED-KYRENIA INVESTMENTS, Creditstal (Bank),
Limassol, Cyprus. The weather is fine, but I
have a headache (A password phrase authenticator further indicating urgency).
————
Cyprus, an island republic in the eastern Mediterranean Sea south of Turkey, had become a tax
429
haven for European and Middle East businessmen
and prized by Muslim terrorists and other anti-Western extremists for laundering their operational funds.
The strict bank secrecy laws and anti-American sentiment provided a hostile environment inaccessible
to the CIA.
Stan would tell Elena of his planned trip to
Cyprus. “I’m covering a story,” he said with a modicum of truth. She stood before a mirror modeling a
soft, stretch crepe bodysuit with a low scoop back
and high cut legs. “Then on to Beirut, Cairo, Israel
and Jordan,” he added, concocting an explanation
for a prolonged absence. She brushed her raven hair
counting the strokes. “Interviews with leaders of the
PLO, Islamic Jihad, you know,” he shrugged as if an
everyday circumstance.
“Will you be returning?” She gripped his hand;
her voice choked with insecurity.
He returned a reassuring squeeze. “This is our
home.” He would later mull over his answer and conclude that it was the right thing to say.
————
An investment banker in London engineered
the money laundering with the funds initially transferred from Cyprus to Frankfurt, London and Brussels. Thereafter withdrawn in cash and re-deposited
in pounds, dollars or Deutsche marks to accounts
in numerous banking institutions. Cash broke the
chain “fingerprint” to monetary transactions. Interest bearing Eurobonds and gold certificates rounded
out Stan’s portfolio. The bonds and gold certificates
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SHELDON YAVITZ
payable to bearer with literally no reporting requirements were for all intent and purpose untraceable.
Stan preferred unilateral banking, individual
accounts with no link to one another. He had paved
the way with offshore corporations and long-established accounts for concealing his personal, illicit
fortune. He would later cite his biggest problem as
remembering where he kept all the money, but he
added with a sly smile. “That’s the price you pay for
secrecy.” He estimated the cost and related expenses
at between 3 to 4 percent. An acceptable expenditure
considering it was tax free and he hoped, untouchable.
He arrived in Great Britain on the 25th of May,
satisfied with the smooth, professional operation. He
had left Colombia under his true name flying to
Madrid, Spain, and from there on to Cyprus. Upon
returning to the continent, he would travel by car. By
then, his concern over CIA surveillance had diminished, and high-speed motoring offered a pleasant
diversion and anonymity as he kept abreast of his
banking affairs.
His first full day in London centered on business
appointments with his investment banker and a solicitor. Now, with time on his hands, he looked down
from his hotel suite on Hyde Park Corner absorbed
with the bustling traffic and visions of an old Aston
Martin, similar to the one made famous in James
Bond movies. He purchased a London street-finder
and other maps, and set about scouring used car dealers in search of a motorcar befitting a retired secret
agent.
431
In the out-of-the way village of North Weald
Basset, off the M11 on a narrow, cobblestone side
street, Stan entered a deceptively dingy, soot gray,
converted stable and stared awe-struck. Among a
treasure-trove of vintage M.G.s, Triumphs and Austin
Healeys sat a gun-metal gray 1964 Aston Martin DB5
coupe. He slid onto the cardinal red leather bucket
seat, looked up through the open factory sunroof at
the cobwebbed garage rafters and water stained ceiling, and for a moment felt like the movie hero. He
signed a draft and bought the car.
————
With Sue Ann’s anticipated arrival date
approaching, Stan grew impatient and depressed,
preoccupied with his failing marriage. “London’s our
last chance,” he said aloud. He wanted to call her, but
prior telephone conversations had shown her noncommittal, and in one instance, away on a “vacation.” You are either still in love or blind stupid.
He sat before a Chippendale secretary alone in his
hotel room. The phone in easy reach but unable to
face reality. He gingerly opened the four squares of
a neatly folded tissue and contemplated a diamond
clear as water. A present for Sue Ann acquired in
Antwerp. It had the size, clarity and color that will
knock her socks off, he thought as he cautiously fingered the gem. I’d be satisfied if she simply would
take off that Mother Hubbard.
The garment had become symbolic. A former
client’s words so reminded him. “Our marriage sadly
degenerated to Mother Hubbards and a crowbar.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
Her thighs were that tight,” the despondent husband
smiled an embarrassed grin. “Then it all fell together
like a dime store puzzle. Mother Hubbards and a
crowbar equated to my wife having a lover.”
“Two,” Stan grimaced as he refolded the diamond packet. Just another passing craze. He shook
off the gloom. She’ll get bored and get over him,
… them. He reached into his briefcase for a micro
cassette recorder and a suction cup microphone. He
adjusted the volume and then, wet the rubber mike
with saliva before affixing it to the telephone behind
the receiver earpiece. Stan rang up the operator and
said. “International call, Ace McGonigle, Freeport,
Bahamas, area code 809,” and recited the phone
number.
————
The interception of telephone communications
“wiretapping” constitutes a serious crime in the
United States. Stan knew that, but he also kept upto-date on appellate court decisions which held the
law inapplicable to electronic surveillance conducted
abroad, such as between London and the Bahamas.
He frowned on the idea of taping his friend and
client. Nevertheless, he concluded that as Ace prospered from his new venture with Remo Rodriguez,
it would only be a matter of time before he repudiated his allegiance to Stan, and denied the illegal
DEA operation. If that should happen, his leverage
would go down the proverbial toilet, unless he possessed irrefutable evidence: the DEA letter to the
Port Authority, the Pay Day memo, and most impor-
433
tant, corroborating incriminatory admissions from
the drug pilot. The attorney-client privilege doesn’t
extend to unlawful activity.
————
“Right, Eagle. The first one’s in the history
book.” Ace had previously apprised Stan of the tentative flight date. “Ran like a dream, squawked a
high-priority code. No customs hassle, landed at
Opa Locka, parked near Hanger One, Bianco’s old
hangout,” he explained, his voice crisp and clear
from across the Atlantic. “Remo left 15 minutes ago.
I’m counting the money as I talk to you.” His tone
excited, running words together. “He tells me that
Salerno and his boss are on the payroll.”
“You mean Wilkinson, the agent who signed the
letter to the Port Authority director?”
“Yes, sir. It’s all disguised as an undercover
operation. Very successful from hearing Remo. Carter
put it together. He’s a college chum of Wilkinson.
They’re thick as thieves.”
“Interesting.”
“I will be flying again within the next two
weeks. At least 400 keys.” His words followed by
silence. “That little cheap spic’s still shorting the
stacks, 50 here, 100 there. I’m only spot checking.”
A long pause followed and then a chuckle. “Chumpchange. Right, Eagle?”
“Have they given you any indication as to the
agenda?” Stan doodled on a sheet of gold embossed
hotel stationery.
“By the fourth or fifth load, the buyer takes a
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SHELDON YAVITZ
fall.” Again quiet, broken by the sound of a creaky
hinge. “Or, they bust his boys first, turn them over,
drag the bloke into a conspiracy. Then, we go on
to the next fool.” Another lull. Stan could envision
Ace squatting, hunched over a floor safe depositing
rubber band wrapped currency into the receptacle.
Forty packs, each containing 5,000 dollars, 200,000
dollars less 50 here, 100 there.
————
May 30th came and went and no Sue Ann.
Stan stewed, became angry, but procrastinated until
the following morning. Ignoring the substantial time
zone difference, he placed a call.
Sue Ann answered, yawned. “Stanton, why in
the world are you waking me up? Shit,” she stammered, “not even four.”
“I’m in London. It seems you forgot.”
“I’ve been so busy, sugar. Gee, I’m so bad.”
“How could you forget? You have the airline
ticket.”
“It’s so far to travel. You know how I’m afraid
of nasty ol’ airplanes.”
“I heard you were off on vacation.” He twisted
the phone cord.
“Hah!” Aren’t you the nosy one.” A dull silence,
a sigh of pleasure. “I’m tired, Stanton. Call me
tomorrow.”
“You could have had the decency to ring me up
or leave a message.”
“I don’t want to talk when you’re so mean and
grumpy.” Her thighs clasped the head of a man.
435
“Leave me alone!”
“What did you say?”
“Forget it!” Her eyes closed; her breathing
labored. “Nighty-night, honey.” She pushed against a
probing tongue; her body squirmed. She pressed the
telephone disconnect. The line went dead. “Sick of
his shit.”
————
He would wait until business hours, Eastern
Standard Time, before telephoning his investigator.
He realized that he should have spoken to him earlier
instead of making a whining fool of himself.
In response to his inquiry, Daniel said. “Sue
Ann’s been busy during your absence. A trip to New
York with Reynaldo Martinez. I had a Manhattan private eye on top of it. He did a first-rate job. Got a
complete report and pictures. They spent four days
in Acapulco. Boy, was that expensive. Your wife
enjoyed it and so did our operative. More photos.”
“What about Burt?”
“Gone, left his job, moved, no forwarding
address.”
“Some good news.”
“I wouldn’t be so happy. She’s been seeing lawyers. Saw the same law firm twice, and dragged
along Martinez.”
“The name?” He asked, pacing.
“Young, Torres and Gottlieb.”
“Real sharks.”
“Do you want the reports?”
“No.”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“This is war, Stan.”
“I hope not?”
“A blood bath, mark my words.”
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
The engine bellowed as he pushed the throttle
hard and shifted through the four-speed gearbox. The
British sports car barreled along a twisting narrow
road toward the English Channel and Dutch. Stan
had delayed his return to Florida and the divorce suit
that awaited him.
Antonio Torres, Sue Ann’s lawyer, had both
written and telephoned requesting that Stan’s office
voluntarily accept service of the petition for dissolution of marriage.
“We’re extending Mr. Pollard a professional
courtesy,” Torres said. “Consent to service and we
negotiate temporary alimony, child support and our
attorney’s fee like gentlemen.
My client’s destitute. A blind man can see
that.”
“I am doing all I can, but Stan maintains absolute control,” Crawford said. “I can’t reach him. He’s
somewhere in Europe. As to Sue Ann and money,”
he stifled a laugh, “she operates from a five-figure
household account. We just issued her another check.
She’s got unlimited charge accounts and who knows
how much cash.”
“Doesn’t matter. My client’s a poor, victimized
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SHELDON YAVITZ
housewife. Your callous indifference only confirms
Sue Ann’s unspeakable suffering.” He spoke with the
pathos and intensity of a tabloid television host.
————
When Crawford urged Stan to cooperate, he
said, “Screw them!” Instead, he turned his attention
to Dutch still on vacation at his in-laws in Brighton,
a seaside resort.
He parked the Aston Martin across the street
from a Victorian-style hotel. Scaffolding crawled
up the butter-colored stone facade. Laborers excavated a nearby sewer trench. A mist hung in the air;
rivulets of water followed the course of the curb.
The English Channel raged before him battering the
shore and seawall, hurtling waves against the barnacle encrusted pilings of an amusement pier. The
white cliffs of Dover scant miles to the east, Southampton to the west, and on the other side of the
Channel, the French coast of Normandy where the
Allies landed on D-Day.
Stan noted it was June 6, 1986, the date of the
invasion 42 years before to the day. Screeching gulls
rather than dive bombers heralded his confrontation
with Dutch.
He climbed the steep steps treading his way
through the construction and entered the mom-andpop, bed-and-breakfast hotel. He dodged tradesmen
laying a multicolor Axminister weave carpet and a
craftsman refinishing a banister. At a scrollwork sign
reading “proprietor,” he knocked on a partially open
door.
439
A tall, freckle-faced woman with auburn hair
and an androgynous figure appeared in the doorway.
“By God!” She exclaimed in a thick British accent.
“How did you find us?” She wore a floral print cotton
blouse and a long, full skirt and held a baby in her
arm.
“A few phone calls. How is our new mother?”
She returned an ill-defined smile. “Is Dutch about?”
“Sir Knight is down at Pinky’s Pub with a halfpint of ale and a tankard of his nonsense.” Her face
brightened; she had a well-scrubbed look. “Good to
see you, Stan. It’s been ages.”
————
Two years before after a three week, whirlwind
courtship, Dutch had married Regina Carberry,
Reggie, as she preferred to be called, an English
school mistress on a Nassau holiday. A plain, composed and reserved lady, daughter of a hotelier, she
seemingly accepted Dutch’s lavish, unorthodox lifestyle without question, and his wealth as a birthright.
In private, he described their relationship as a “one
fuck” marriage, but it offered legitimacy, respectability and an unsubstantiated claim to royalty.
“Just call me Sir Dutch, Knight of the Square
Grouper,” he would kid. In smugglers’ jargon, a
square grouper being synonymous with a marijuana
bale.
Reggie overheard him clowning and in answer
to her inquiry, Dutch explained that a square grouper is a man-eating fish, similar to a barracuda,
larger than a great white shark, shaped like a Rhinoc-
440
SHELDON YAVITZ
eros with a huge dorsal fin. “It went for my throat,
shot him between the eyes, …” His educated wife
looked down her royal, English nose and went out
and bought a Jaguar, affixed to the front bumper a
vanity plate inscribed LADY REGGIE.
————
Stan joined Reggie in a small sitting room
cleverly decorated to create a feeling of spaciousness with pale wall colors, narrow-slatted blinds and
lots of potted plants. Antique pieces cohabited with
modern furniture. She sat in a Brentwood rocking
chair and nursed Dutch, Jr. “He is the spitting image
of his father.”
The baby drooled and burped.
————
An hour passed before Dutch arrived. Stan was
sipping tea; Reggie puttered in the kitchen.
“Well, Stan, you finally made it.” He gripped
him in a suffocating bear hug. “My import business,”
he winked, “has been going down the shitter. Pardon
me, Reggie,” he said, hearing her gasp. “Crapper,
Stan, that’s very British,” he chuckled under his
breath. “The hotel’s doing great. Dudley and Libby
are up in London on a buying trip. Otherwise, I would
introduce you to the grandparents.” He plopped in
the rocker. “Great folks,” he roared. “Nitwits,” he
mouthed the word.
“It looks like the season will be over before
your renovations are completed.”
441
“Piss on the season. Pardon me, Reggie. That’s
urinate.” He looked toward the kitchen, shrugged
innocently, then turned back to Stan. “She hates cuss
words, a proper English lady,” he whispered. “This
place is a gold mine.” His voice boomed. “Nineteen
rooms with the most modern conveniences once I
bring it up market.” He punched Stan lightly on
the arm. “You’re always welcome, best room in the
house.” He cupped a hand to his mouth. “You can
bring one of your whores, but no sluts or bimbos, and
you pass her off as your niece.”
He walked over to Reggie and gently touched
her hand. “Smells good,” he said, sniffing loudly at
a sizzling pan sautéing garlic shrimp. “I’m going to
take Stan on the grand tour.”
“It will have to wait until after supper.”
“Whatever you say, my precious jewel.”
————
“Four stories and no elevator, but it keeps me in
shape,” Dutch commented as they exited the flat and
climbed a staircase. On the second floor, he showed
off a redecorated guest room with an elegant fourposter complete with lace canopy and curtains. “That
highboy’s 18th century. Every room’s a palace with a
TV and minibar. We’re offering a fax service, steam
room and sauna. Even a small restaurant. Great for
your clients.”
“Sure, Colombians and rednecks.”
“You’re always so fuckin’ negative.” He made a
sour face. “Fuck!” He shouted. The expletive echoing in the hallway. “That prissy bitch makes me sick
442
SHELDON YAVITZ
with her prudishness. Fuck, shit, they’re all in the
dictionary. Even cunt. I looked it up.”
Stan followed Dutch up a dimly-lit, dizzying
flight of stairs that terminated in a decorative panel
dead end. The overweight drug smuggler puffed and
breathed sharply as he moved a lever causing the
wall to part slowly. “Clever,” he grinned, flicking
on a light switch. “Did you see that kid of mine?”
They entered an office reclaimed from attic storage.
“Sucks on a tit just like his dad. Would bite off her
nipple if he had teeth, the little prick.”
Dutch dropped into a chair behind an oversized
desk. Stan sat down in an overstuffed armchair.
“This is the life.” He patted his large, protruding belly. “Life’s good; food’s great, gained 15 to 20
pounds since I’ve been here. What’s this about your
retiring?”
“Retire?”
“Sue Ann told me.”
“We’re getting divorced.”
“Hell, that kills retirement,” he laughed mockingly. “You will never stop working.” He picked up
a scrimshaw whalebone handle letter opener. “I told
you so.” He pared a fingernail. “Sue Ann’s the whore
of whores.”
The conversation shifted to Dutch’s woes in
the drug business. One of his pilots had recently
been arrested, the plane confiscated and the cocaine
seized.
“The schmuck flew into radar, chased by a Citation, busted by a Blackhawk. He didn’t know what
443
hit him until their smoke was up his ass. I sent
your boy,” referring to Crawford, “to see him and he
already hired another lawyer.”
“He told me.”
“Do you realize what that means?” Dutch
plunged the letter opener into a merchandise catalog.
The gold blade quivered lodge in the thick volume.
“He’s turned snitch and I can’t hit him in jail.” He
yanked the knife-like instrument out of the paper and
slammed it down on the desk. “The problem in Canada’s worse,” he said, glancing through the catalog
pages checking the depth of the perforation. “Do you
remember the Piper Aztec that crashed loaded.” Stan
shrugged. “The fool left I.D. in the aircraft. Made
front-page news in Toronto.”
“I thought Daddio McGovern had a handle on
it?”
“The Mounties nabbed the copilot. He puked his
guts, gave up everybody, Daddio included.” Dutch
reached into a desk drawer for a package of cookies.
“We have Daddio under wraps.”
“You said he was a rock.” Stan suppressed a
grin.
“A weak, no good scumbag. The sole link to
me and that busted flight.” Cellophane crinkled as he
tore open the bag. “I sent Hog up there to remedy the
situation.”
“The hog farm?”
“They thrive on shit.” He stuffed a chocolate
chip cookie in his mouth. “I hope they enjoy him.”
He licked his fingers.
————
444
SHELDON YAVITZ
Stan had been to Hog Scroggins’ Sunshine Piggery, but once. Rumor has it that the drifter, Thomas
Martin Durant, also visited it once, never to be seen
or heard from again. Stan recalled the bleak, uninviting Canadian landscape, the rough-hewn log cabin,
the smoke and slaughter houses, and the hundreds
of huge Poland, China and Yorkshire hogs penned in
a nightmarish three-tier blockhouse with ramps and
iron grate floors. The stench was overwhelming; the
raucous squeals and snorts of the livestock deafening. “The fattest hogs are on the bottom. Shit flows
downward,” Hog explained.
Dutch had remarked that it brought back stark
images of Atlanta Penitentiary. At the time, Hog
called it Heaven, but that was before he succumbs to
the glamour, glitz and black women of Nassau. Until
their conversation, Stan had forgotten that the farm
was still in operation.
He stared at his hands; a chill passed through
him. He visualized Hog Scroggins in rubber boots,
white overalls and a bloodstained apron wielding a
meat cleaver.
“Never have blood on your cloths when around
hogs. Blood drives them into a feeding frenzy,”
he warned. “They’re the perfect garbage disposal,
human remains, bones and all,” he laughed, the droll
laugh of a professional killer. “And if all else fails,
there’s always the meat grinder.”
————
Dutch lumbered to a minibar, opened the cabinet door and sank down on his haunches. He combed
445
through an assortment of liquor miniatures. “There’s
talk on the street that Goldie’s been busted.” He
located a Pusser’s Red Label and offered it to Stan.
“Did he call your office?”
“Do you have any coke?”
“My stash ran dry.”
“I mean Coca Cola. I don’t like my rum
straight.”
“Did he call your office?” Dutch obliged with a
can of cola.
“Not yet. Got a glass?”
“I can smell that rat’s stink.” He pointed toward
a narrow casement window. Stan crossed the room to
the window sill and picked up a mug, pink in color.
“You’ve got to put a lid on that big-mouth child
poker. He knows too much.” The drinking cup bore
the shape of a woman’s breast with an exaggerated
gold ring nipple and the inscription “Pinky’s Pub”.
“Nothing I can do unless he retains our services.” He
blew dust from the unwashed ceramic ware.
“Bullshit! This is all your fault!” He shook a
belligerent finger. “You’ve turned on me, killed the
deal in Cuba. You’re destroying my livelihood!” His
voice high-pitched, almost feminine.
“The Colonel’s dead. I already told you that the
Cubans uncovered the overflights.”
“You’re getting even!” His eyes darted maniacally. “You sold the protection to some other fuckin’
scammer!”
“Dead as a doornail. Also his wife.” Stan poured
soft drink into the mug.” I got his money.” He flicked
a dark speck from atop the foam.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“You!”
“By default,” he smiled vaguely, twisting the
cap off the liquor bottle. “I set up the corporation,
bank accounts and kept control for the Colonel’s
benefit.” He trickled rum in the carbonated beverage.
“He’s dead, and I’m the only one who has access and
knows about the money.”
“No wonder you want to retire.” He broke into
a cunning grin. “About a million? Nah, closer to two,
three, you old gonef,” he laughed, a hysterical laugh.
“All this time, I thought you were blaming me for
Laura’s murder.” He shook his head, still chortling.
“Why would I do that?” His voice pinched.
“C’mon, Stan, you know I had a thing for her.”
He bit into a cookie. “I guess I’m the one who turned
her on to pain and sex.” He paused, washed down
the chocolate chip with a swig of Bass Ale. “Angela
deserves the real credit. That kinky bitch made
her into a special puta.” His words thundered in
Stan’s head. He steeled himself, smiled quizzically.
“You should have seen them perform.” Dutch stuffed
another cookie in his mouth.
“A porn movie?”
“A scorcher!”
“You financed the picture?”
“I wasn’t her only backer. There were wise guys
out of New York and other movers-and-shakers.” He
took a long swallow from the bottle of ale. “Candidly, Stan, there were three counting the New York
audition. The first was shit, poor camera work, softcore, run-of-the-mill, no realism.” He chewed noisily, picked at his teeth with a fingernail. “The second
447
flick, I loved. Great! Too hot to be commercial,
beyond an X-rating, would have had to edit out twothirds.
Ideal for your underground market.” He propped
his feet on the desk top and stared hauntingly at the
ceiling. “Brought out her star quality.” He lowered
his double-chin to his chest. “I had it all sewn up: the
money, a cinch, top director, distribution, you name
it. That girl would have been bigger than Amber,
Teri, or any of the deep throat bimbos.”
“Did she know you were involved?”
“I sort of stayed in the background.” He swung
his feet to the floor, coughed, coughed again. “My
very own porn starlet.” His expression hardened. “It
wasn’t all roses.” He brushed crumbs from his mustache. “I had to share her with Angela.”
“Then she ruined everything by moving to Lauderdale.”
“You stole her from me!” He hurled the ale
bottle. It shattered like shrapnel; the golden yellow
liquid doused a wall and sloshed a throw rug. Stan
emitted a dry chuckle; his jaw squared. He glared
with an accusatory coldness. “I know what you’re
thinking. Never, pal.” Dutch coughed, wiped his lips
on a shirt-sleeve. “She would have tired of you boring
shit and crawled back wagging her bare ass.”
“She left me all her money.”
“You’re lying!” He lunged forward, froze in
motion, and clumsily collapsed in a chair, spent, or
overacting. “Get it off your chest, old friend,” he
smiled benignly.
“You had the time, the motive. You were strung
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SHELDON YAVITZ
out on cocaine.”
He rose to his feet. “I can prove I’m innocent!”
He moved over to a white wash entertainment wall
unit. “She was my ticket to the movie world.” He
flung a hardbound volume of Chaucer, another of
Shakespeare, and a pilot’s handbook from a shelf.
“I got a surprise for you.” He pulled a videocassette
from the back of the bookshelf.
“I don’t want to see her movie.”
“You won’t! That’s private. I jerk off watching
it. For you this is better.”
————
A grainy image on the television screen cleared
to a man in his thirties, lean and unshaven; his dark
hair tousled. “My name is Frank Labelle. I live in
Fort Lauderdale, Florida.” He had a bruise on his
cheekbone, a swollen lower lip, and a haggard, drawn
expression. “I knew a girl named Laura,” he said, and
then provided a brief physical description. “A wild
chick, liked gettin’ hurt.” He paused, turned, appearing to look off-camera. “Met her at a bar on Las Olas.
We went out a couple of times when her old man
wasn’t around. Drinking, doin’ drugs, rough sex.”
Stan stole a look at Dutch who watched in rapt
attention as if seeing the video for the first time.
“On the morning in question, I got a call from
the chick, about 2:15. She said her boyfriend had
gone. She needed a real man.” He fidgeted, stared
down at his feet. “I go to her room. She let me in
wagging her bare ass. I, I …” he stammered. The picture jumped; the screen went blank. The same face
449
reappeared. Blood trickled from a nostril.
“Old-fashioned police methods.” Dutch cracked
his knuckles. “Very effective.”
Stan’s eyes clouded, a knot formed in the pit of
his stomach. He dabbed at his brow now wet with
perspiration.
“I grabbed her by the hair, smacked her a few
times.” Labelle’s jaw moved in a grinding motion.
“My hand shot to her bald pussy. She melted like
butter, down on her knees giving me head.”
Stan’s pulse pounded; he tried to concentrate.
“We drank vodka from a bottle, shared a needle.”
The man’s bleary eyes blinked; his voice dropped.
“She begged me to tie her up and do bad things to
her.” He hesitated, wiped blood from above his upper
lip. “Give me a break!” His cheek twitched. “Do I
have to say it?”
“Confess, you little creep!” A broad muscular
back blocked the camera. Stan recognized the voice
of Hog Scroggins.
“I tie her spread-eagle on the bed. I take off my
belt and …” His words strangled in a whisper.
“Speak up!” Again Hog’s voice. The man’s lips
moved but a noise drowned out his utterance.
“What did you say?”
“I striped her butt.” Labelle’s chin quivered. “I
went up on her.” He had an empty gaze. “She’s dead,
limp as a rag doll.” His voice cold and mechanical.
“An overdose?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bull!”
“Yeah, yeah. She overdosed on bad shit.”
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The picture dissolved to a snowy pattern. Stan
sat numb; his mind a whirl of relief, rage and doubt.
“Fifty thousand netted that dirty scum.”
“Are you positive?”
“Damn straight!”
“I’d like to talk with him. I need more details,
too simplistic.”
“Sorry. We couldn’t wait to find you.”
“I’d like to see it again.”
Dutch stiffened, blinked.
————
During the replay of the videocassette, Stan,
now more alert with a forced detachment, studied the
subject who had made the confession. A plaid shirt,
possibly flannel, seemed out of place for South Florida. Black and white cinematography and poor quality gave the alleged perpetrator an unnatural, ghostly
appearance. His complexion seemed pock-marked.
An odd, recurring sound caused him to wonder and a
knotty pine backdrop suggested a cabin. “Where was
this taken?”
“What does it matter? We kidnapped the bastard, put him through the third degree. What you saw
and heard wouldn’t hold up in court. You know that!”
He squared his shoulders. “Murderers have rights.
Fuck that cockroach! He got a fair trial.”
“I don’t know.” He drained the rum miniature
watching the last drop drip into the mug. “You could
have made a mistake.”
“Stop being a sob sister. I’m your best friend.”
451
The back of Stan’s head throbbed; Dutch’s words
reverberated like an echo. “Who else would have
done this for you?” Stan tasted bitter bile in his
mouth. Dutch cleared his throat. “You owe me a
favor.” Stan grunted. “Air flights are too risky without
Cuban protection. I’ve discussed it with the Beaners. Hog’s found a customs agent on the take in San
Juan, Puerto Rico. I need a transshipment point. I’ve
been thinking of Venezuela.” The dull throb in Stan’s
head intensified. “A legit business like flowers, pottery, some crap. I’m going to containers.”
“The Colonel’s death crimped my cover in Caracas.”
“You’re in for a big piece,” he winked conspiratorially. “You’re going to need it, take my word. Sue
Ann’s going to bankrupt you, suck you dry like a
vampire.”
“I’ll need a little time.”
“Whatever you say.” A cruel smirk crossed
Dutch’s face.
He folded his arms. “Don’t break my balls. We
didn’t hunt down your whore’s killer for nothing.”
Stan stretched his arms above his head. “I’d like
to see the video again.”
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
In the week that followed, each day about midmorning, Stan would set out from his London hotel
and drive for hours choosing a different route and
direction. One day, he traveled to Canterbury, the
scene of Archbishop Becket’s martyrdom. A cozy,
medieval cathedral city with cobblestone lanes and
quaint houses designed with half-timbered, overhanging second story windows. On another day, he
motored to Bath, famous for its steamy sea-green hot
springs. He spent an afternoon in the Cotswold District, a stretch of hilly country and beautiful small
towns and hamlets, of hedgerows, dry stone walls,
stone mansions and thatched-roof cottages, losing
himself in the scenery and a dark mood. He journeyed
to Stratford-on-Avon and the Shakespeare Memorial
Theatre and continued on to the Rolls Royce works
at Crewe. He sought to avoid the Motorway Network
of superhighways and the industrial and commercial
centers. He would return to London each evening
and drink Guiness Stout at a pub until closing.
The Labelle video haunted him. With Dutch in
the attic office, he had viewed it repeatedly, six times
to be exact.
“Did you meet Labelle?” Stan asked. Dutch
453
shrugged, unresponsive. “Were there any signs of
needle marks or tracks on his arms?”
“Beats me.”
“Where was he living?”
“Fort Lauderdale.”
“What was his address?”
“Ask Hog.”
“What was the name of the bar on Las Olas
where he picked up Laura?”
“How do I know.” He twisted his hands together.
“Hog’s got all the answers.”
“Who gave him up? Who collected the reward
money?”
“Ask Hog. I’m no detective. A whore, I think.
Could have been a waitress,” he said massaging his
temple. “A bartender.” His fist clenched, then relaxed.
“A two-bit punk, snitch, asshole, who wanted to keep
his identity a secret.” He smiled acidly. “Do you want
me to dig up the body?”
Stan replayed the video in his mind for hours on
end. He listed on a sheet of paper Labelle’s admissions that tended to establish him as the killer, but
with the exception of a shaved pubes, a fact known
only to the assailant and those most intimate with
her, and the Las Olas bar, first mentioned, his confession while consistent with the evidence could have
been fabricated with a little imagination from newspaper accounts and television coverage. Labelle’s
statement that they shared a needle seemed irreconcilable with Hippie Hart’s conclusion, the high-purity
of the heroin, also unnamed, and multiple injections,
but the perpetrator could have sought to minimize
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his criminal intent fostering a false impression of an
accidental death. He never admitted to administering
the coup de grâce.
His confession omitted the brutal sexual assault
with a hairbrush and aerosol can, failed to address
who wiped away incriminating fingerprints, removed
drug paraphernalia and a vodka bottle, if any, and
more intriguing, who scattered nude photographs
about the dead girl’s body. The source of trace
cocaine found in the carpet also went unanswered,
as well the jewelry and cash theft. Which raised as
an issue the extent to which the CIA manipulated the
crime scene.
While purchasing petrol at a gasoline station
in the hamlet of Hope-Eversham, Stan discovered a
clue equally perplexing. He tracked the sound of a
barking dog and snorts and squeals of other animals
to the rear of a thatched-roofed shed and squeezed
his way between a derelict motorcar and a wrecked
lorry. Beyond a stone wall, a feisty terrier held at
bay a sow protective of her piglets. The hog farm,
he thought, watching transfixed, relating the cries of
the pigs to the background noise on the Labelle tape.
The knotty pine backdrop lent further confirmation.
As searching his memory, he recollected a pine panel
office adjacent to the slaughterhouse. They made the
video at the hog farm. His eye narrowed, more curious than angry.
If so, why would Dutch and Hog kidnap Labelle
and transport him from Florida to the remote Canadian wilderness? He pondered the enigma as he
drove aimlessly through the Cotswold countryside.
455
He placed himself in Dutch’s position and considered the options. His mind raced as he moved at a
crawl behind a farm tractor. Secluded stash houses in
South Florida or an ocean-going trawler were available to Dutch and his men. An island hideaway in the
Bahamas within easy reach by one of his airplanes
or a speedboat. Weighing the alternatives, Canada
seemed unrealistic.
While waiting for a shepherd and his flock to
cross a bucolic lane, Stan pictured the video as a
staged production with a Canadian actor, unfamiliar
with the Fort Lauderdale homicide. A diabolic hoax
orchestrated by Dutch either to ingratiate himself
with Stan, exonerate a murderer, or both. To Dutch’s
credit nothing in Labelle’s confession uniquely implicated him in the crime. He had the prerequisite
intimacy without being her killer. Another unsubstantiated theory, Stan had to admit, troubled by his
unwillingness to accept the gift horse at face value.
Earlier he had called Daniel and directed him
to follow up on the Frank Labelle lead. A check
of local telephone and cross-reference directories,
court, driver’s license, consumer credit records and
a variety of skip-trace techniques failed to uncover
the man. The sole Labelle located was a hairdresser
with no knowledge of the subject. The investigator
canvassed hotels, motels and rooming houses on Fort
Lauderdale Beach and bars on Las Olas Boulevard
with negative results, but at the “Crazy Lizard,” a
stylish upbeat lounge, a bartender recognized Laura
from her photograph. He described her as a “regular”
over a brief period of time, always came in alone,
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SHELDON YAVITZ
nursed a glass or two of house wine and left with a
girl, once, maybe, twice. “Never picked up a man,”
he said.
Stan concluded that the murder case remained
unsolved, albeit confounded; Labelle, a question
mark; Dutch, a suspect, and Hog Scroggins, a key to
unraveling the video puzzle.
Then, Dutch broke the staggering news of Hog’s
death. Stan heard the telephone ring as he fumbled
unlocking the door to his hotel room. He entered,
flicked on a lamp and lifted the receiver in time to
hear Dutch scream at the operator. “Where the fuck’s
that sonofabitch?”
“I’m here.”
“Where have you been?”
“Drinking.” He struggled out of his sports jacket
with the phone in one hand.
“I’ve been trying to reach you all day?”
“What’s up?” He dropped the blue blazer on a
chair.
“Hog’s dead! Murdered!” He coughed, a nervous cough. “A great man lost to the ages. A true
giant in the business, my best friend.” His voice
cracked.
Stan sunk heavily onto the bed. “What happened?”
“Daddio killed him.”
“Where’s McGovern?”
“Dead,” Dutch said, followed by silence. “Hog
got him with a meat cleaver.” Stan thought he
detected a muzzled laugh. “That boy never let me
down, bless him.”
457
“Are the police involved?”
“Nah. That constable couldn’t find his ass with
a road map.”
“What happened?” Stan asked, the phone cupped
between his ear and shoulder as he tugged at a tightfitting cowboy boot.
“He went soft, grew careless,” he answered
in a dull, flat voice tinged with scorn. According
to Dutch, who relied on secondhand information,
Daddio McGovern got wind of the plot to kill him.
He shot Hog, attempted to escape, but cut off from
his pickup, he fled into the dank, brick blockhouse,
the pig penitentiary, as Dutch dubbed it. Hog, critically injured, joined by four of his henchmen, pursued Daddio up the ramps and back and forth across
iron grate floors in a continuing gun battle. Swine
were hit in the cross fire and others on a rampage. A
second and a third man wounded; both now reported
dead. Daddio shot, shot again and finally cornered on
the upper tier.
“Picture this,” Dutch said. “Daddio’s trapped
like a sewer rat. Hog’s kept count of the rounds
fired and realizes the shit’s out of bullets. There’s
dead pigs everywhere, 250 pound porkers in bloodlust.” Stan dropped an elephant-hide boot to the thick
carpet. It struck with a muffled thud and fell over on
its side. “Hog throws away his gun, charges with a
meat cleaver. Chop! Whack! Chop! Hog hacks that
bastard to pieces, rises to his feet, drops dead!” Stan
had leaned back against a pillow staring at his stocking feet. One ear to the conversation, his mind centered on how with Scroggins gone he could ever
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determine the truth or falsify of Labelle’s confession.
“There’s nothing left,” Dutch said.
“What?”
“They ate them.”
“Ate them?”
“Hog would have wanted it that way.”
————
Even before returning Crawford’s telephone
call, Stan’s instincts told him something was wrong.
“The sheriff’s office served the divorce suit,”
Crawford immediately informed him. “The complaint’s brutal, reads like she’s divorcing a lunatic
drug dealer and refers to me as a vulgar sexist.”
“You’re joking.”
“Like hell! I warned you not to jerk around
Torres. Now you’re in for a dirty fight with an irate
attorney.”
“Wouldn’t have made any difference.”
“You’re wrong!”
“I’ll bet that if you check the dates on the pleadings you will find they were signed and filed before
he called.”
A desk drawer slid open. “Let’s see,” Crawford
hummed. Papers flipped in a folder. “A restraining
order entered at the end of May. I see your point.
That snake!”
“Look. If we can amicably settle this business,
I’m willing to deal with the devil.” As he spoke, Stan
absent-mindedly browsed through a Jaguar car catalog. “There’s no sense washing our dirty laundry in
public. We’ve got children.”
459
“You’re not listening, Stan.”
“I don’t want to fight.” He stared forlornly at the
automobile brochure.
“No choice. We’ve got to take the offensive.”
“Okay, give me the bad news first.”
“There is no good news. They’re out to destroy
you, our law practice, my reputation. To begin with,
Sue Ann’s obtained a mutual restraining order without notice enjoining both spouses from any direct
contact with one another.”
“Pretty standard,” Stan shrugged, noting a
divorce lawyer’s typical ploy of keeping the parties
separated and at each other’s throat while he ran up a
big bill through costly negotiations.
“Next, she seeks an emergency hearing to have
you evicted from your home, and the law office
closed by court order.”
“Fat chance!” His fingers tapped the desk. “A
hearing date set?”
“Not yet.”
“Strange,” Stan muttered, puzzled, attempting
to analyze his opponent’s strategy. “He probably
scheduled a hearing for the second week in June, but
had to cancel when you refused to accept service of
the suit.”
“I would have looked like a damn fool. You in
London, caught off guard, having to run home to
defend this bullshit. Why didn’t he reset it?”
“He lost the element of surprise, couldn’t get
a hearing date or, knowing I’m out of the country,
unavailable, figured you get it continued. Maybe,
he’s bluffing.”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“Bluffing, no sir! Listen to this. Sue Ann claims
in her emergency motion that she’s an abused, battered wife, a silent victim of domestic violence, to
coin her phrase.” Stan’s complexion lost its color.
“She describes you as a violent spouse with an
uncontrollable temper and an arsenal of weapons,
who has threatened to kill her if she sought a divorce.
The respondent-husband is the primary suspect in
the murder of a prostitute,” Crawford said, quoting
from the pleading. “And I verily believe and fear that
he will kill me like the police suspect he killed that
innocent girl.” Crawford paused, a long pause. “Is
any of this true? A smoking gun? You can tell me,
Stan.”
“Never touched her.” He took a deep breath.
“She states that our office is a hornet’s nest of
criminals.”
“What?”
“Sue Ann claims that murderers, rapists, drug
dealers, even a child molester parade through the
house terrifying her and the children.” Stan had a
bemused expression. “To quote Sue Ann: The petitioner-wife fears that one of these days she will be
raped and murdered in her bed by one of her husband’s felonious clients.”
“A vivid imagination.” Stan pulled the tab on a
tin of mixed nuts. “A clever argument.” He forced a
chuckle and popped a cashew in his mouth.
“On top of that, Sue Ann alleges that your office
staff, and she points an accusatory finger at me, in
particular, continually invade her privacy, and get
this, make vulgar sexist comments to her and her
461
teenage daughter. It’s so bad, she says, and I’m still
quoting, that she’s forced to flee her very own home.
How can she say that? I’m a married man. My reputation, Stan!”
“All it takes is a lawyer and a typewriter,” Stan
smiled faintly, chewing on an almond.
Crawford broke off the colloquy to attend to a
phone call. “Now, Stan, sit down, be cool, no coronary,” he prefaced his remarks resuming the conversation. “I’m going to tell you about the petition for
dissolution of marriage. It’s mind-blowing.”
“It can’t be that bad,” he grimaced. “We live in
a no-fault divorce state.”
“You ain’t heard nothing yet. It’s 17 pages
long. Can you believe that length? Five pages, six,
seven. This is a book.” Stan frowned, shook his head.
“Signed by Sue Ann, her signature notarized,” he
said, emphasizing her formal acknowledgment and
legal appreciation of the truth of the allegations. “It
reads like an indictment.” Stan bristled.
Crawford’s index finger roamed the numbered
paragraphs; pages turned. “Jurisdiction, venue, marriage date, children, etc., all properly alleged.” He
paused, sneezed. “Getting a cold. We’re at the top of
page 4.” Another pause. “Sue Ann claims she gave
up a budding modeling career to devote full-time to
helping you in your law practice.” Stan closed the car
catalog; it no longer offered a distraction. “She refers
to herself as a faithful wife slaving single-handed to
raise your children while you ran round, gone for
weeks at a time, partying with criminals and consorting with prostitutes.” Stan jotted a notation on hotel
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SHELDON YAVITZ
stationery and drew a line under the words “faithful
wife.” “She describes the marriage as torture; herself,
a dutiful wife, forced to engage in deviant, unnatural sex acts, treated like a prostitute having to service
you sexually for the barest of necessities.” Stan flung
the can of mixed nuts into a wastebasket. “She cites
as an example that you held her diamond for ransom
and made her redeem it with sex acts so depraved and
unspeakable that she cannot describe them in print.
Pretty weird stuff. Was it worth it?”
Stan emitted a dry chuckle, glanced sideways
at the muted television with an animated cartoon on
the cathode-ray tube. Outlandishly clad pigs armed
with knives and hatchets chased a wolf in a tie and
jacket. He instantly visualized the hog farm massacre. “Hold it,” he said, putting down the receiver. He
walked over and switched off the televised program.
“Is that basically it?” He asked, upon returning to the
telephone.
“No, it gets much worse. She accuses you of
setting up phony shell corporations, fraudulently disguising your wealth and concealing assets from her.
She claims that you launder drug money; that you’re
a drug dealer and evade income tax.” Stan’s shoulders slouched, his eyes shut. “A direct quote: safes
filled with cash, suitcases bulging with money and
late night visits from unsavory characters. What goes,
Stan?”
“Blackmail, bargaining position, leverage.” He
planted an elbow on the desk rubbing his brow with
the back of a hand. “Possibly, they’re aware, we
know of her lovers. A vicious attack to force a huge
463
settlement.”
“Or, Sue Ann’s out to ruin you. She’s capable.
What’s worse, stupid.”
“As you say, we take the initiative.” He was
on his feet, pacing in a tight circle. “Get together
with Daniel, set up the depositions of Sue Ann and
Reynaldo Martinez.” He scratched his chin, thinking, voicing a game plan long in the back of his
mind. “Might as well add two of our investigators:
the one in New York, the other who followed them
to Mexico. Also Martinez’s landlord and the finance
company that made the car loan.” He paused, stared
out the widow, gritting his teeth. “Don’t mail notices
of deposition or contact her lawyer until her boyfriend is served with a subpoena. Be sure and give
them enough time, comply with the rules of procedure. We don’t want to tip our hand.” He clenched a
fist, felt his nails dig into his flesh. “Then call Torres,
trade an extension of time to answer the petition for
a continuance of the depositions pending settlement.
Confirm it in writing.
“I wouldn’t accept his verbal agreement on a
stack of Bibles.”
“I doubt Torres will agree.”
“It’s all a chess game.” The words choked in his
throat as his private life and wall of secrecy crumbled.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
The brick driveway seemed a mile long. Stan
looked over his shoulder as the taxi drove off. He followed a stone, hedged path to the front entrance, put
down the carry-on and reached for a house key. His
key failed to work. The lock had been changed. He
pounded the door knocker, and heard no response. He
pressed a buzzer, spoke into the intercom, again no
answer. A security camera winked at him. He made
his way around the huge, rambling house, checked
the French doors and found them bolted; the curtains drawn. The house had an uninviting aura; several ground floor windows shuttered and no sound of
a television. It was early evening, and summer sunlight. Ominous shadows formed beneath the dense
tree foliage. Only the Great Dane offered a warm
greeting. He approached the back door and twisted
the knob. It held fast. He tried his key and grimaced;
another lock changed.
“Go away!” The housekeeper yelled in Spanish.
“Open up!”
“The señora says you can’t come in here!”
From within rustling noise and inaudible voices.
His youngest son’s silhouette framed in the opaque
465
glass. “Get away! That’s my dad!” The door swung
wide. Matthew ran to him.
“The greatest kid in the world!” Stan smiled as
he lifted him in his arms. He hesitated, then crossed
the threshold.
“You must leave, señor!” The maid stood with
her hands on her broad hips; her head thrust forward
posturing aggressively. “Go! Now!”
“Rubbish!” He tousled Matthew’s hair. “I’ve got
something for you in my suitcase.” He turned back to
the door to retrieve his luggage. “Got it in London, a
super toy store.”
“If you don’t leave, I’m going to call the
police!”
Stan froze in step.
“Wife-beater!” Her tongue flicked. “I keep a
knife under my pillow!” Her dark eyes flashed. “I
warn you!”
“Go off and play.” He patted his son’s backside.
‘’I’ll be with you in a little while.” The boy dawdled.
“Please, now.”
The housekeeper waddled to a telephone. Stan
waited until Matthew was beyond the range of his
voice. “Maria, you’re fired!” His jaw tightened.
She leered at him, plucked at her bodice. “I’m
going to talk against you to the judge.” She snatched
up the receiver. “I’m calling the señora!”
“Too bad my fool wife hired an illegal alien.”
“The señora’s right. You’re an animal!” Her
pudgy finger nervously pressed the touch-tone buttons.
“You’re going to love being deported.”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“You wouldn’t!”
“You know I would.” He had a crooked grin. He
sat down on a wicker sofa and leaned back. “Pack
your stuff. I’II give you two months severance pay.”
“Three.” She replaced the phone on its cradle.
“Four and I will talk for you at the court.”
“I don’t want your testimony.”
She shrugged sulkily.
“You can have the extra months. You’ve been
with us a long time.” He removed his sunglasses and
rubbed his eyes.
“I expect you want cash. Pick it up on the way
out.”
————
His stepdaughter, Kimberly, dressed in white
jeans and a striped tee, met him at the top of the
staircase. Her long blond hair flowed almost to the
base of her spine. The spit and image of her mother
in gold rather than diamonds. “Mother’s room is
locked.” She stood with her arms folded. “We all
took a vote and voted you out of our house.” Stan
blinked. “You’re gross, father!” Her long lashed, sensitive eyes narrowed to angry slits. “Mother’s told us
how you abused and beat her.”
He stiffened; fingers choked luggage handles.
“I’ve never touched mom. Did you ever see a bruise,
a mark?” The briefcase and carry-on slipped from his
hands. “Did you ever hear her scream?”
“My mother doesn’t scream. She’s a silent
victim of domestic violence.”
He spread his arms in a helpless gesture. “What
467
else did mom tell you?”
“That, that,” she stammered, dissolving in tears,
“that you raped and killed that girl in the hotel.”
“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
He attempted to place a comforting hand on her
shoulder. Kimberly winched, shoved at him, and ran.
At the door to her bedroom, she stopped, spun about
and glared. “You’re a gross perv! Everybody knows!
I’m so embarrassed!” Her door slammed; a dead bolt
latched.
————
Crawford had left a typewritten memo advising
that Sue Ann’s attorney would consider a continuance, but only after he first spoke with Stan. “Torres
is playing it close to the vest,” Crawford wrote,
“but you are on the right track. Serving Martinez
caused a back flip. Sol Gateman called and wants to
speak with you. He is in the Dade County jail, and
Bianco telephoned and wants to retain you. Welcome
home!!!”
As he read the message, the office door crept
open. The twin Dobermans’ ears perked. Stan looked
up and swiveled around in his chair. The Rottweiler
sprang to its feet, walked over and nosed the intruder’s leg. A sniff, a pet on the head, and the dog
returned to its station at the foot of the aquarium.
“Kim said you were home,” Tom remarked with
a boyish grin. He towered over his stepfather by a
good three inches; a handsome young man with a
strong athletic physique in pleated shorts and a football jersey.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“Try and find a place to sit,” Stan forced a smile.
Men’s apparel from suits, slacks and jackets to shirts
and underwear were piled high on chairs, the sofa
and a coffee table. Countless pairs of expensive boots
lay in heaps on the carpet. “I’ve been evicted.”
“Mom plays hardball.” Tom picked up an armload of suits and dropped them unceremoniously on
another stack of clothes. “Her lawyer thought she
was so clever,” he said, sitting down on the now
empty seat cushion. “Got you out without a court
order.”
“Let’s talk about something more pleasant.
How’s Kelly?”
“Pregnant.”
“Congratulations! I always wanted to be a
grandfather.”
“I don’t know. She’s going to have to quit work.”
He glanced about the room, stared at the ceiling. “We
spoke to mom. She told us to have an abortion, or me
find a job.” Stan listened, frowned. “Mom says she’s
in no position to pay for my college.” Tom hesitated,
shifted ill at ease. “She said not to count on you.”
“Do you think a divorce means that you are no
longer my son?” He paused, hearing no response.
“Who bought you your car? Who pays for your college? I paid for your honeymoon,” he said troubled
by Tom’s ill-defined expression. “Not your dad, Kelly’s parents, not mom.”
“But mom said.”
“Said what?”
“That she had to prostitute herself for everything I got from you.”
469
“You believe that crap?”
“Pop, you should hear the stories.” Tom’s eyes
averted his gaze. “Sex is great, dad, but you don’t do
those things to your wife.” He leaned forward; hands
clasped. “Kelly doesn’t believe her.” He made a face.
“That’s why I’m here. She made me come.”
“Kelly’s right, tell her not to worry.” Stan
stretched his arms and yawned downplaying his
anger. “College is a go … absolutely.”
“Then everything is copacetic?”
“Sure. If we need to, I’ll put Kelly on my payroll, a research assistant or something. She can send
reports on the baby, worth top-dollar to a grandpa.
Anything else?”
Tom tried to relax, but his big hands betrayed
him. He picked at a blemish. “Now that Kelly’s
expecting, she can’t drive around in her old clunker.”
Stan nodded in agreement. “Mom said to sell my
RX-7 and buy a sedan.” He scratched his scrotum. “I
can’t sell my sports car.” He crossed his legs, dabbed
at a smudge on the toe of a tennis shoe.
“Unthinkable!” Stan broke into an expansive
smile. “What kind of car is she looking for?”
“Kelly loves the Volvo station wagon, but we’d
settle for a Toyota or a Honda.”
“Have Kelly call me and we can go car shopping.”
“Gosh, dad, she’s so busy.” A tabby cat jumped
in his lap. “Can’t you just find the right one?” He
picked up the kitty by the scruff and dropped it.
“Automatic, air, good stereo, she prefers baby blue.”
Stan’s smile had wilted. “I guess I can do that.”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
He reached down and stroke the long-haired cat now
rubbing against his leg.
“Don’t tell mom,” Tom said, out of the corner of
his mouth. “She made me promise that I’d have nothing more to do with you.”
————
Stan walked back to a kitchenette at the rear
of his office carrying bread, Swiss cheese, a can of
chicken noodle soup, and an electric toaster acquired
from the main house. He placed two slices of bread in
the toaster, the condensed soup in a compact microwave and exhausted his culinary skill with a decaffeinated cup of instant coffee.
He settled into a breakfast nook supping on
soup and a sandwich. A window mirrored his gloomy
reflection. Sherlock perched on the table, nibbled on
a crispy crust. The bird shrieked, dropping the bread.
Stan twisted about. Sue Ann stood in the doorway,
wide-eyed, dressed in a designer original.
“You fired Maria! My lawyer’s going to hear
about this!” Stan shrugged, didn’t answer. “So you
think you’re going to get away with badgering my
friend, Reynaldo?” Her deep Southern drawl thickened by alcohol.
“Lover, Sue Ann, lover.”
“You’re talkin’ shit.” Her eyes smoldered.
“Filthy-minded shit!” She stepped to the counter top
and grabbed the toaster. “This is mine! Get your
own.” She yanked the cord from a wall socket.
“Would you like to see kissy-face pictures of
you lovers in Mexico and New York?” The toaster
471
dropped to the counter. “How’s about credit card
receipts and the lease to your love nest.”
“I hate you!” Spittle flew from her lips. “You
come near me, and I call the police.”
“I don’t intend to.” His smile mocked her.
“You touch me, and I put you in jail.” She
tucked a few strands of hair in place. “Come in my
bedroom and I shoot you dead!” She clutched her
handbag. “A gun, Stanton, a sub-nosed .38 Smith and
Wesson.”
“Talkin’ shit!” Sherlock mimicked her.
“Shut up, you feathered shit!”
“You tell her, Sherlock.”
“Talkin’ shit!” The bird squawked, flapping its
wings, hopping on the table.
Sue Ann turned, and dashed from the room.
He heard the front door slam. “Thanks, Sherlock. I
needed that.” He held a coffee cup; his hand trembled.
————
Before leaving for the county jail to interview
Sol Gateman, Stan telephoned Antonio Torres. He
spoke first to a receptionist, next a secretary, then
waited, on hold, for what seemed like 10 minutes.
Torres began the conversation reporting a call
from Sue Ann. “I just got off the line with your wife.
She was hysterical. You must be insane.” Sherlock,
perched on his shoulder, nodded and spit. “You fired
the maid, terrified her daughter, stole her toaster and
your bird attacked her.”
“The bird’s innocent, has a witness.” The cocka-
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SHELDON YAVITZ
too nipped at his ear, moved down his arm and with
fluttering wings reached the desk. “Crawford asked
me to call you. What’s up?”
“I’ve been authorized by my client to negotiate,
but I personally oppose it.”
“Fine. I’ve also had second thoughts.”
“Settlement was your idea.”
“No, Crawford’s. Our adultery case is too
strong.”
“You’re grasping at straws.”
“We’ve got your client and her lover under
deposition.”
“I intend to ask for a protective order. Sue Ann’s
devastated, too emotionally upset to appear, fearful
for her life.”
“I’m more concerned with putting her infidelity
on record. Martinez will do.” Stan hesitated. “Then,
there’s the investigators, and supporting witnesses
and exhibits. One moment.” He plucked a shredded
envelope from the bird’s beak. “Let me talk with
Ed.” He held a hand over the receiver mouthpiece.
“You’re making a big mess,” he scolded Sherlock,
then waited as his wrist watch ticked off the seconds.
A minute passed, then another. “All right, Crawford’s
a peacemaker. He still insists that we try and resolve
this. When?”
“This week, Friday, 2:00 pm, my office.”
“I’m sorry, a hearing conflict,” he lied. “The
first day open.” He leafed through his desk calendar.
“Two weeks from next Tuesday.”
“That’s way beyond the time set for your
answer.”
473
“Then, I suggest we agree to a mutual continuance of all pending matters during negotiations.”
“My client is such a sweet, reasonable person.
I’m sure she will find that satisfactory. By the way,”
he paused. “What kind of proof do you have to support your adultery claim?”
“Files full. I’ll send you a few samples. Sue Ann
can fill in the details. You’ll love the photos.”
“Do you want to settle this case or did you call
to be obnoxious?”
“I will confirm our understanding in writing.
Good morning, Mr. Torres.” He slammed down the
phone. “Checkmate, Sherlock.”
“Talkin’ shit,” the bird squawked.
————
The Dade County Jail sat directly across from
the Metro Justice Building umbilically joined by
a skywalk for herding prisoners from the ten-story
monolithic detention facility to the criminal courthouse and back.
By 10:40 am, Stan had arrived at the jail. The
lobby buzzed with attorneys and bondsmen. Relatives or friends of the arrested, as a whole, appeared
more downtrodden then their incarcerated counterparts. Stan nodded to a well-dressed colleague and
swapped greetings with a lawyer and friend, Vinnie
Flynn.
“Where have you been?” Barney Blinkov
grabbed Stan’s arm and vigorously shook his hand.
“Europe, on vacation.” His voice drowned out
by the wails of a frantic woman on a nearby phone.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“I heard you’re getting divorced. It sounds like
a soap opera.” The bondsman was short, under five
foot seven, but built like a rock. His robust frame
accentuated by a snug, short-sleeve, pull-over sport
shirt; his middle-aged spread restrained by an elasticize waist cincture.
“Sue Ann’s a little hostile.”
“She sounds like the wife from hell.”
“Confused, misdirected.”
“Any news on that dead girl?” His arm encircled
Stan’s shoulders. His face inches away, licking his
lips, his breath reeking of herring. “I heard your wife
named you as the killer.”
“Divorce lawyer mumbo-jumbo,” Stan grinned
faintly. “It’s only a rumor, but I understand they
found her murderer.”
“Boychik, you are due for a little mazel.” His
pager rang, beeping loudly. “Got to go. Can’t stay
and kibitz.” He hastened toward a kiosk of telephones, stopped and looked back. “Hey, buddy.” He
had an unsettled expression. “I know it’s iffy, but if
you get bond, I’ll be there for you. At my cost, don’t
forget.”
————
A deputy jailer, a black man with a gnarled
hand — an on the job related injury, Stan suspected
— sat behind a glass enclosure. Stan picked up a red
phone and spoke to the officer supplying his client’s
name and cell block. He held up a pink, attorney/
client interview slip and showed his Bar card. A lock
clicked and a barred, forged steel door slid open.
475
Stan passed into a narrow vestibule, signed a register and exchanged his driver’s license and the slip for
a visitor’s badge. A second lock clicked. He pushed
the next door open and turned in the direction of
a bank of conference rooms. He stepped around a
CAUTION-WET two-sided, yellow plastic sign. The
air permeated with an antiseptic odor, and entered a
sterile six by six cubicle with a gray metal table and
two straight chairs.
He waited, drawing on a legal pad. Twenty minutes passed before Sol Gateman came in the room;
a stocky correction officer behind him. “Ring when
you’re through. I’m up by the front desk,” the guard
said, exiting and locking the pane glass door.
Gateman crumpled in a chair. “Nine years, top
of the guidelines. A life sentence at my age,” he
choked; his voice constricted.
“You’re motion for new trial?”
“Denied with a snap of a finger.”
“Appeal bond.”
“Ditto.”
“I thought we had a winner?” Stan studied his
former client. His beltless civilian clothes rumpled
and slacks hanging loosely. A three day grow of gray
flecked beard and the striking absence of a toupee.
“Did you testify at trial?”
“No.” He stirred in his chair.
“Did you call the night watchman who claimed
the girl never complained about a rape?”
“No.” He wiped his bifocals with a soiled
hankie.
“Did you attempt to establish the girl couldn’t
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SHELDON YAVITZ
type in order to impeach her credibility?”
“Nah.” His mouth twisted in a lifeless grimace.
Stan tilted back his chair. A knee propped
against the table. “Why the change in trial strategy?”
He cocked his head. A frown replaced by a mischievous grin. “Did you confess to your attorney?”
“I don’t know,” he whined. “He wasn’t willing
like you to simply accept my story.” He gulped, his
Adam’s apple jerked. “Moses would look down on
me from behind his huge desk and quoting from the
Talmud demand the truth.” He lowered his eyes. “I
kept telling him she’s a tramp. Said no, but meant
yes.”
“I guess he didn’t believe you.”
“He said the prosecutor was a pushover; the
case, a sure winner; you, a grandstander only after
publicity.” He clutched the edge of the table in a
claw-like grip. “They convicted me in 30 minutes. I
peed in my pants.”
“As they say, often the truth contaminates a
defense.”
“I swear I didn’t do it.”
Stan smiled, a cynical grin.
The interview continued with Stan probing for
details of the trial proceeding. Gateman answered
with a limited layman’s understanding. He went on
to relate that rape victim intends to sue him for five
million dollars. Which meant both a criminal appeal
and the defense of a civil case. Sol portrayed his
financial position as bleak. Stan’s doodling intensified as his interest waned.
“My ex-wife’s gone to court to protect her ali-
477
mony payments.” He spoke, face down on the table,
his head buried in his arms. “All I got left is my town
house in Coconut Grove.”
“The first good thing you’ve said.” Gateman
shot straight up buoyed by the enthusiastic response.
“Tell me more.” Stan returned a genuine smile.
“My partner designed the units. They are off
South Bayshore, a block from the bay.” Gateman tore
a sheet of paper from the yellow pad. He picked
up a pen and began sketching the floor plan to his
residence. “Two-story configuration, four bedrooms
upstairs, one down. The master’s got a Roman tub,
a real fuck pad. Here,” he stabbed at the paper, “a
formal dining room. Over here, a bar and an expansive entertainment area. The living room,” he emphasized with a slashing “X” mark.
“How many attorneys have turned down your
case?” Stan asked, reckoning that a disgruntled client
only returns in desperation.
Gateman stared with a mystified frown. “Attorneys?”
“Yeah, other lawyers.”
“Three, five, all high-priced vultures, demanding huge fees for my appeal and defending me against
that tramp.”
“Not enough equity in the house?”
“Financed up the kazoo. Added a second and
third mortgage, borrowed against the furniture, made
it judgment proof.” He peered over his thick lenses.
“I’ve got to squirrel away something for my old
age.”
“Completely furnished?”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“A showplace.”
“I might be interested, furniture included.”
“Do you want my blood too?”
“Why not,” he snorted a laugh. “I’ll take a look
today.”
Evicted and “homeless,” Stan acted fast. He
took the case and moved into Gateman’s town house
pending resolution of a title search and preparation of
legal documents necessary to conclude the transfer of
ownership. In the nick of time, he interceded with the
first mortgage holder staving off an imminent foreclosure. With the equity in the home vastly depleted
by mortgages to a private lender and a friend, the
wily architect apparently had written off and abandoned the asset. As Stan would learn, Sol had sold
his car and boat and hid the money, but he could not
conceal his partnership interest in the architectural
firm, a sufficient inducement to justify the rape victim’s lawsuit.
On paper, it seemed a bad deal: Stan representing a client in exchange for a place to live, paying
three mortgages and a secured furniture loan, as
well as investigation and court costs. From a business standpoint, he assessed the home as a speculative, long-term investment with an immediate tactical
benefit. He could live in grand style while avoiding
a large cash outlay detrimental to a hotly contested
divorce. All things considered, he was getting his
money’s worth.
————
Ed Crawford accompanied Stan to the law firm
479
of Young, Torres & Gottlieb, PA on the 30th floor of
a cylindrical-shaped, glass-enclosed building, reminiscent of an Apollo spacecraft on a launch pad. It
towered over a suburb of the city, where only years
before a zoning variance or litigation was prerequisite to adding a third-story to an existing structure.
The law office oozed of marble, a distinctive
Latin, modern tropical flavor and an unmistakable
feel of money. They were shown into a conference
room by a legal secretary smartly attired in a dusty
rose pantsuit.
“Would you care for coffee?”
“Cuban, if possible.” Stan smiled detecting her
recognizable accent. He eyed her shapely figure and
thick black hair spilling over her shoulders. Hornrimmed glasses hinted of sophistication.
“American, please, cream and sugar,” Crawford
said. “I don’t know how you drink that poison,” he
remarked, after the young woman departed.
“Practice, Ed.” Stan already seated, rested an
ostrich-skin boot on the exquisite oval conference
table. He dressed down for the confrontation in his
laid-back style of jeans, a sports jacket and an opencollar, pearl button shirt. He surveyed the spacious
and richly decorated surroundings. An Italian mural
depicted surrealistic egrets soaring over Miami.
“Rather feminine decor,” Crawford said.
“Torres represents predominantly women.”
“Maybe we should shift to divorce work.”
“I wouldn’t have the stomach for it.”
————
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SHELDON YAVITZ
Antonio Torres strode into the meeting exuding
self-confidence. He had a perfect nose and a perfect
chin. The artificial perfection of his features suggestive of cosmetic surgery. His perfect smile withered,
displaced by a sneer, incensed by Stan’s goading,
foot-on-the-table arrogance. He parked himself diagonally across from Crawford preferring to acknowledge him as the attorney and Stan, the boorish client.
“To begin with, gentlemen, let me lay my cards on
the table.” He held a thick folder. “We have reason
to believe that Mr. Pollard has millions of dollars
secreted in foreign banks.” He opened the file and
thumbed through pages of what he called “documents.”
Crawford’s jaw went slack. Stan smiled; his
grin broadened. “Very funny.”
Torres tugged at an amethyst and diamond
encrusted cufflink. “I’m positive, we shall uncover
the cash.”
“Have your fun. It doesn’t concern me.”
“You seem willing to commit perjury rather
than admit the truth.”
“Are you trying to extort me?”
“Only bold-faced lies can conceal the facts.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Torres. “ Stan reached for
his attaché case. “We have nothing to talk about. Let’s
go, Ed.” “Stan, he doesn’t mean that.” As planned,
Crawford played the reasonable man to offset Stan,
the “bad guy.” A scenario similarly employed by law
enforcement agents during interrogation of a suspect.
“I don’t like people talkin’ shit. That’s a direct
481
quote from Sue Ann.” He moved around from behind
the ceramic-inlaid conference table.
“One moment, please.” The door opened as the
secretary returned carrying a coffee service. “Possibly, we started on the wrong foot. I realize that this
must be stressful.”
“Stan’s usually more pleasant with a cup of
coffee.”
“What do you say, Miss?” Stan addressed the
young lady in Spanish.
“Cafe Cubano, señor?” She smiled demurely.
“Very persuasive,” Stan nodded. “I guess I can
suffer through a cup.”
————
Torres had withdrawn a single-spaced, typewritten sheet of paper from his office file. As he spoke
in a low resonant voice, he checked off each point.
On the surface, Stan seemed calm, an expressionless
face of a seasoned trial lawyer, listening to his
wife’s attorney enumerate the proposed terms for a
divorce settlement. Crawford took notes, grimaced
and repeatedly shook his head awe-struck by the
magnitude of the demands. “Outrageous,” he blurted.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered. “Unheard of!” He flung
his pen at the table. Torres smirked, ignoring his
comments and continued with the presentation.
“First, my client seeks 2.5 million in lump-sum
alimony, installments subject to negotiations and fulldisclosure. Second, a percentage of the net income
derived from the husband’s law practice, which we
consider an asset of the marriage. We can agree on a
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SHELDON YAVITZ
figure or allow the court to decide after a full audit
and expert opinion. Third and fourth, the residence
in South Miami and their vacation home, furniture
included. Fifth, a new car. Sue Ann is undecided
between a BMW or a Mercedes. Sixth, a sum sufficient to cover yearly mortgage payments, real estate
taxes and maintenance of the properties. We include
a full-time gardener and housekeeper. Seventh, child
support until the minor children reach the age of
21 or graduate college, whichever is the latter. Six
thousand per month, 72,000 dollars a year. We can
agree on reasonable rights of visitation. Sue Ann
has stressed her desire not to jeopardize the father/
child relationship. Eighth, life insurance approximating the outstanding alimony obligation, and in the
event of death, an additional million to insure child
support payments. Ninth, medical and hospital coverage. Tenth, our attorney’s fee based on 250 dollars
an hour, or should the husband diligently settle this
matter, a very reasonable 20,000 dollars, plus costs.
Eleventh and nonnegotiable, the law office must be
removed from the premises.”
“Besides his underwear, what does Stan get?”
Torres looked at Crawford with a surprised,
puzzled stare. “His valuable car collection, the feed
store and acreage in Mississippi.” He fingered a burgundy silk necktie. “Of course, we will insist that
these assets secure the alimony, and most important,”
he returned a smug grin, “your client will retain his
right to practice law.”
“What are you talking about?”
“A sleazy criminal lawyer, Mr. Crawford.” He
483
ignored Stan’s gaze. “It has been our experience that
criminal defense attorneys cannot withstand close
scrutiny of their finances.” He continued, directing
his remarks to Crawford. “Criminal lawyers, and I
should say drug lawyers, in particular, are notorious
for being more criminal than their clients. We have
had more than one disbarred and …,” he paused.
“Strike that.”
Stan had pushed back his chair, gotten to his
feet and moved to a far window. He looked out on
the irregular coastal topography tracking the interstate toward the Keys. Torres idly glanced through
his file, flagged a page. Crawford added two lumps of
sugar to his coffee and stirred slowly. The room was
deathly quiet. A suppressed cough broke the stillness.
“Sue Ann’s love affair has been a blessing. I
don’t know how to thank her.” Stan spoke softly,
contemplating a sky of breathless purity. “It appears
you failed to realize that my wife and I own few
of the assets.” Torres stiffened, frowned, slammed
the folder cover. “They are corporate owned and Sue
Ann has only an interest.” Stan’s voice took on a
sharp edge. “The way I see it, your smart mouth and
her adultery are for starters going to cost my misguided wife her alimony.”
“Listen here, Stan!”
“You listen, Tony-boy. My office has a longterm lease from the corporation that owns our home.
Unless I consent, you’re going to spit blood trying to
get me off the property.” He walked slowly toward
the conference table. His hands clasped behind his
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SHELDON YAVITZ
back. “I have been considering seeking sole custody
of the children and my new town house strengthens
that position.”
“Gentlemen, everything that I proposed is subject to negotiations. Are you prepared to make a
counteroffer?” Torres inquired with a frozen expression of confidence.
Stan looked at his watch. “You’re wasting my
time.” He picked up his briefcase.
“Don’t be so hasty,” Crawford spoke up.
“We can hold off any action pending further settlement talks.”
Stan glanced again at his watch. “Put your
demands in writing.”
“I just read them to you.” He threw Stan an odd
look.
“Unacceptable, rejected, not worthy a
response.”
Torres shook his head. Stan returned a faint,
crooked grin. ‘’I’ll play your game, rethink and
resubmit our demands within 24 hours.” His fingers
swept a speck of dust from the table top. “When can
I expect your counterproposal?”
“Soon,” Stan said with a thoughtful twist of his
head.
————
Divorce settlement negotiations continued on
through July, August and September. The lawyers
communicated by telephone, exchanged correspondence and met on four more occasions. Stan provided tax returns, personal and corporate, and a
485
detailed statement disclosing his net worth. Albeit, he
excluded his wealth concealed in Europe, the Caribbean, Panama and South America. He made no mention of his villa in Venezuela, but that was owned
by Sergio Ponton, his alter ego, or the CIA money
cloaked with the secrecy of the failed covert operation.
He pursued a tightfisted approach to negotiations concerned that any substantial cash settlement
would spark or aid an IRS investigation. From the
inception, he accepted that Sue Ann’s divorce complaint had raised a “red flag,” and Buddha Blanton’s
effort to entrap him remain a vivid memory.
During a face-to-face meeting with Torres, the
lawyer said. “Pollard, I’m running out of patience.”
As he spoke, he stroked a black, gold plated fountain
pen. “I’m in a position either to unmask your criminal shenanigans, or for the sake of my client, turn
a blind eye.” He frowned over his file. “My inclination is to have you disbarred and prosecuted.” Stan
smiled, a paper-thin grin. “You won’t be grinning
during your deposition when we question you about
your involvement in Cuban drug trafficking.” His
voice deepened; he had a steely gaze. “If you deny it,
we are going to cite you for perjury. If you admit it,
you’re ruined.”
Stan sloughed off the accusation with stock
phrases: “sealed lips,” “national security,” and a
laugh, but the message was clear, a federal agent was
meddling in his divorce case.
————
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SHELDON YAVITZ
Torres had reviewed the corporate tax returns
and a multiplicity of documents. Stock certificates
and ledgers spelled out the interest of Sue Ann and
the four children in the companies holding the bulk
of the Pollard family assets.
“She signed them as president, signed them for
years and claims she never realized what she was
signing,” Torres said, during a conference with his
law partners. They had gathered in his private office
to help evaluate the divorce case.
“No fraud,” Gottlieb shrugged, removing his
suit jacket. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar
and settled back in a velvety worsted chair. “Our client’s a dumb bunny,” he laughed heartily as he rolled
up his shirt sleeves giving the impression of a man
mixed up in dirty work. “Can’t crucify her husband
because he made her share the family jewels with
their children. Pretty generous in treating his step
kids as his own.”
“She didn’t know when she was well-off,”
Young offered. The tall, dignified lawyer, the senior
partner and trial attorney for the firm, had prematurely gray hair, a natural smile and a cleft chin. A
famous movie star look-a-like. “Lose the alimony
and she will spend years battling with her kids over
control of the assets.”
“He screwed her royally.” Torres sat with his
fingers bridged, elbows planted on a delicate, rosewood flat-top desk. “He’s demanding the appointment of a guardian to oversee the minor children’s
share. If the judge agrees, and he should, Sue Ann’s
reduced to a glorified nursemaid.”
487
“In my opinion, Pollard’s conduct is consistent
with a strong family man trying to keep a spendthrift dingbat in check,” Gottlieb, the tax expert, said.
“Nevertheless, for a relatively young man, it’s all
rather unorthodox, but from what I hear, he’s neither
typical nor to be underestimated.” He had removed
his eyeglasses fastidiously buffing the lenses with a
handkerchief. “The mistake, if he made one, and I
don’t say that he has, is in creating an estate in contemplation of his death.” His hooded eyes were fixed
in a permanent squint. His teeth capped and evidence
of a recent hair transplant. “When you consider the
excessive amount of life insurance payable to his
wife and the corporate setup, it is quite apparent that
he sought to avoid a complicated probate, inheritance
tax and a myriad of financial problems occasioned
by a successful businessman’s death.” He tugged at
a tight, pinching black suspender. “To me, it seems
that Pollard either has a death wish or anticipated an
untimely death. What could he have been involved in
to motivate such planning?”
“I hit him with the Cuban drug trafficking
charge and he responded with a laugh and an indication he might be working for the CIA.”
“That makes sense, totally consistent.”
“The ass is a phony, crook and liar. The longer I
deal with him. The more I dislike him.”
“Dislike him or not, Sue Ann should have kept
her pussy in her pants instead of flaunting some boytoy,” Young said, returning a document to a pile of
legal papers. “If I was you, I’d settle this mess.”
“Settle, and hope Pollard’s generous or forgiv-
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SHELDON YAVITZ
ing or,” Gottlieb smiled, a cynical grin, “tell her to
reconcile. With a little patience and luck, someone
will kill her husband.”
“I’m not ready yet.” Torres stared over his interlaced fingers. “I’m not finished with that abrasive
bastard.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
With property settlement discussions progressing at a hostile, exasperating pace, Stan resumed with
renewed vigor the practice of law. He called it a satisfying diversion and claimed he needed the money.
Financially, the office failed to break-even during
his long absence. Carlos Bianco, the drug smuggler,
had retained him, and a locally publicized murder
case offered a professional challenge. He relegated
Sol Gateman’s slim-chance appeal to his associate
and took a keen, but limited interest, in the lawsuit
brought by the rape victim.
“The civil case invites a new avenue, a broader
range of discovery,” he said to Crawford. “A rare
window for finding a material ground for reversing
Sol’s conviction.”
“Don’t hold your breath. He’s guilty. The bruises
nail him to the wall.”
“Sol’s a wimp. Keep that thought.”
————
During the second week in August, Stan journeyed to Venezuela in quest of a business suitable to
Dutch’s proposed containerized drug shipment venture. A small, reputable cement manufacturer fur-
490
SHELDON YAVITZ
nished the solution. The proprietor, a client of Stan’s
Venezuelan attorney, agreed to package cocaine disguised as ready mix concrete, but in bags equipped
with a high tensile strength, plasticized inner lining,
non-breakable under rigorous operating conditions.
By illustration, a standard 40 foot container
would carry 38,000 pounds of cargo, 475 eighty
pound cement bags of which only 6 to 12 reinforced
bags held contraband. A shipment each week, 50
weeks a year, at a minimum of 218 kilos or 480
pounds, could net an importer, such as Dutch, approximately 3.3 million dollars a load. Stan’s share at 10
percent, less a modest sum to the cement manufacturer, equivalent to a whopping 16.5 million a year
for perfecting the concept.
The cargo would be loaded on a freighter at
La Guaira, a seaport on the outskirts of Caracas,
Venezuela, clear U.S. Customs in San Juan, Puerto
Rico, and continue on to Port Everglades at Fort Lauderdale, Florida, from where a crane would unload
the container intact, Custom cleared, onto a tractortrailer. Dutch’s organization would then orchestrate
the distribution.
“The idea is so simple,” Dutch would later say
upon digesting the proposal. “Who would ever suspect cocaine in cement bags that tear and leak like a
sonofabitch.” He burst into laughter, caught himself,
peered self-consciously about the Italian restaurant
imagining curious eyes fixed on him. “The odds are
80 to 1 that a bag will be discovered.” His voice low,
secretive, but exuberant. “40 to 1, if we double the
load, and only 20 to 1, if Customs search a shrink-
491
wrapped pallet.” He cast a fox-like grin. “It gives me
a hard-on.” He moved closer to Stan, shoving aside
a mauled plate of fettuccine alfredo. “No overhead.
We can sell the cement to recover our expenses and
make a profit in the bargain.” He picked his teeth
with a matchbook cover. “With my man at Customs
in Puerto Rico, we should be in the know if the
Feds pick up on the scam.” He scrawled numbers
on a paper napkin. “Say, we maximized the load,
12 bags or more. We’re talking,” he paused, multiplying a long string of digits; an eyebrow raised,
mouth gaping. “330 million for the year, our end.”
He stared mesmerized at his calculations. “Well, shit,
I can handle that.” he had a faraway look, gazing
out the eatery window at a salt-encrusted fishing boat
swaying listlessly at a neighboring wharf. “A smuggling revolution, and I’m the man to do it.”
“There is a downside,” Stan said. He had met
Dutch in the islands on his return from Colombia
and an audience with El Patron. “If containers work,
the Cartel will no longer need transporters. They will
take over the operation from supply through distribution.”
“Fuck your downside! Piss on El Patron! Time
for a coke break. I’m tired of your bellyaching.”
“I heard you’re smoking base.”
“Piss on you!” Dutch crumpled the napkin
marked with math computations and hastily stuffed
it in a windbreaker pocket. “Waiter!” He gestured,
snapping his fingers. “Check! Check!” He reached
impatiently for his wallet. “I’m King of the Hill.
Don’t you forget it.”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
————
Earlier, Stan had conferred with Roberto Gustavo, El Patron. Upon completing his business with
the cement manufacturer, he had arranged through
an intermediary for an appointment with the elusive
drug kingpin. As Stan would explain. “In spite of
our friendship, you simply can’t pick up a phone and
ring him up. He has more homes and hideouts than a
dog’s got fleas.”
En route to Medellin, he made a side trip to visit
Elena. Her captivity had proven no impediment to
an extravagant lifestyle. In fact, Stan concluded, that
guards or no guards, Elena Valdez had come to stay.
She had continued her physical fitness regimen with
unquenchable passion. A personal trainer had been
added to the household staff. Expensive exercise and
workout equipment overran a former game room.
The results were impressive. Her body lithe and firm;
the exquisite contours of her figure and breasts the
envy of any woman and an aphrodisiac to any man.
Pandering to Stan’s admitted weakness, she had dyed
her hair a pale, soft yellow, somewhere between gold
and platinum blond. A hairdresser, cosmetologist and
masseuse were booked into her busy schedule. With
money, you can duplicate a Sue Ann in any country,
Stan thought, amused, smiling. He wondered how
long before she became insufferable, but for now, he
doted on his new love interest.
She spent the better part of an afternoon showing off her new wardrobe of suits, dresses, gowns
and casual wear. She described her shopping sprees
in Manizales, Medellin and Bogota with her body-
493
guards in tow at boutiques and haute couture salons.
Elena sought his opinion and approval as she modeled with exaggerated poses.
“I didn’t own a pair of shoes until I was ten. My
clothes were hand-me-downs until I earned money
selling flowers. Now look at me,” she giggled, almost
child-like.
————
Elena was an early riser, and Stan joined her
much later at the pool. He watched as she swam the
full-length, back and forth, cutting the water with
strong strokes. She emerged with her wet blond hair
a shade darker and adhering in strands. Her body a
gleaming bronze from the sun and no trace of tan
lines.
“What are you writing?” His curiosity piqued,
glancing at an unfinished page in a typewriter. A partial ream of paper and what appeared to be chapters
of a manuscript along with the portable cluttered a
patio table.
“A romance novel.” She reached for a bath towel
and patted beads of water from her skin. “My heroine’s a secretary in love with her employer, who
unbeknownst to her is involved in foreign intrigues.
She becomes an unwitting witness to an international
incident, and he hides her away in his mountain-top
mansion to protect her from ruthless secret agents.”
“I imagine there are shoot-outs and wild car
chases.”
“Not really,” she said, towel-drying her hair.
“Actually, the story portrays a poor working girl sud-
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SHELDON YAVITZ
denly thrust into a world of wealth and power and a
torrid, highly erotic love affair.” Stan returned a playful grimace. “He keeps her naked, but rather than
rebel, she basks in a new found sexuality. All of
which I relate with toe-curling intimacy.”
“And the ending?”
“I don’t know,” She said, deftly wrapping the
towel around her nakedness.” “It hasn’t been written
yet.”
————
Stan fancied the luxury of a new Sue Ann. Elena
fit like a glove, and was charming and intelligent.
His divorce could soon be final and Cuba and the
CIA relics of the past. He concluded that the Ponton
deception could not last indefinitely, and why should
it? If they were to have a future together, there must
be truth or at least a semblance. A big step and a first
test, Stan decided, would be their visit to El Patron’s
ranch and another facet of his life.
When he mentioned Roberto Gustavo, she tilted
her head in an inquisitive fashion. “El Patron, how
interesting. You have interviewed Castro, Yasser
Arafat (one of Stan’s white lies) and now the Cartel
kingpin.”
“He’s my friend. Our visit is social. Does that
bother you?” They were strolling in the garden. She
wore sheer blouse and a wisp of a skirt. Her bare feet
glided over the cobbled path.
“Nothing you do bothers me.”
“He knows me by another name.”
“How many do you have?”
495
“Two, three, at last count, dependent on circumstance.” They stopped and stood before a thatchroofed pavilion. He plucked a pinkish red rose from
prickly stem.
“What do I call you?” Her eyes danced. He had
given her the flower and she smelled the fragrance.
“Stan,” he hesitated. “Stanton Pollard.”
“I like it. Elena Ponton Pollard Valdez.”
————
Prior to their visit to El Patron’s ranch, Stan had
taken Elena shopping for a complete riding habit:
jodhpurs, high boots and a formfitting tweed jacket.
Now, dressed in her finery, her blond hair flowing,
she straddled a horse for the first time. A young
vaquero, selected as her retainer, tipped a broadbrimmed hat. She smiled, an uneasy smile. Stan
mounted on a palomino, moved to her side. An urban
cowboy in his western attire, but no amateur horseman.
The party set off at a brisk pace on a lovely
spring morning in the midst of summer. The air cool
and dry; the sun lazily creeping over the distant
Central Cordillera mountain range. El Patron and
his two guests were joined on the tour of the drug
lord’s far-flung holdings by Enrique, his nephew,
Carlos, his longtime adviser, and a complement of
15 mounted, heavily armed guards and wranglers,
and two, 2-manned off-road vehicles equipped with
state-of-the-art radio communications and an array
of weapons and ammunition.
“I own everything that you shall see and much
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SHELDON YAVITZ
more that you won’t.” Gustavo sat astride an Arabian
stallion over 15 hands in height. “It’s a state within a
state, and my word is law.” He slouched in the handtooled saddle. His shirt wrinkled and jacket rumpled;
his paunch waffling over an ornate silver belt buckle.
“These are dangerous times.” Only his riding boots
had a spit and polished luster. “No leader is safe, be
it me, or for that matter, a U.S. president.”
————
The outing provided the opportune setting to
discuss business. El Patron along with Stan, Enrique
and Carlos bunched together in an outdoor exclusivity. The drug chieftain and Stan riding in the center;
the two henchmen flanking them. They rode at a
trot.
“Your plan is pure genius,” El Patron said.
“It’s not foolproof, but even a failure opens the
door to another variation. The possibilities are endless. The key, commercial transportation; a corollary,
increased volume.”
“I have run the figures,” Enrique grinned. His
thick shoulder-length, black ringlets shaded beneath
a tall-crown Mexican sombrero. The rising star in
the organization expounded on the new business
opportunity with the flair of a corporate director at
a board meeting. “In summary, speaking conservatively, bottom line, 700 percent net profit with the
elimination of present day transporters.”
El Patron glanced quickly at Stan. “Can Dutch
hold up his end or should we simply step in?”
“This is his operation.”
497
“Don’t you know?” Carlos carried a high-powered rifle with a telescopic sight. The long barrel nestled in the crook of his arm. Stan shrugged, returned
a perplexed look. “Dutch’s act has gone to hell.
One flight busted and we’re unpaid. Two more unexplained and no money.” Enrique spit phlegm. The
drug lord expressed a negative nod. “Then he stopped
work and said you’re setting up a new operation.”
“Cement bags,” Stan muttered, instinctively
peering over his shoulder. No Elena, his heart
skipped. “He’s freebasing cocaine, smoking his own
shit.” Stan turned toward the voice, hesitated, looking
back in the opposite direction. Elena blew an exaggerated kiss. “A baseless rumor,” Stan said, wary but
once again in control of his emotions.
“Rumor! Right from the horse’s mouth.” Enrique
fingered the pearl-inlaid grip of a holstered automatic.
“The cabron’s a loser!” Carlos turned thumbs
down.
“Let us not forget that Dutch was once a winner.
I recall the day that the Doctor introduced him.” The
drug lord paused. A voice crackled over a 2-way
hand-held radio. A scout riding point in a cryptic
exchange with a flanker, 1,000 yards out guarding the
zone of security. “We hit it off immediately, extended
him credit on a high-volume trade and its paid off
handsomely. Remember, Carlos, when you said.” A
benign smile broke on El Patron’s fleshy lips. “We
could use ten more like El Gordo.”
“That was then. This is now. If I was boss
…” He made a violent, sweeping stroke across his
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SHELDON YAVITZ
scraggy neck.
“You’re not, old friend. He’s the Doctor’s man;
his obligation.”
The horses had settled into a walk. Stan sat
slightly forward, a clammy gloved grip on the reins.
“Eliminating Dutch eliminates access to his markets.”
“You’re exactly right, Doctor. That’s why your
brilliant idea has given him a new lease on life.”
“Jay can make it work.”
“Enough, muchachos!” He glared peevishly at
Enrique. “Lampert’s not one of us.” He offered an
amused expression. “Not by a rat’s ass.” El Patron
twisted his sizeable bulk in Stan’s direction. “It will
take time to duplicate your plan, and a year, maybe
more, before we establish a network.” He straightened and took a deep breath. “For that reason, I’m
willing to put up with Dutch and his bullshit money
games, but you will control him. Have I made myself
clear?” Stan stiffened; his stomach churned, dark
glasses concealed his apprehension. “If you want to
do business with me, he’s your responsibility.”
Stan wiped perspiration from his Stetson hatband. “If you’re telling me I’m underwriting the
operation, I pass.” He returned the hat to his head,
tugging down on the brim.
“You’re not my only client in Colombia. I don’t
need the work.”
El Patron clicked his teeth and nudged the Arabian. The horse sprung forward at a gallop. “The
Chief is on the move,” a voice barked over a handheld radio. Stan drifted back and joined Elena. They
499
spoke briefly. She smiled and giggled.
“What a great time. What wonderful friends you
have,” she said.
————
Gustavo and the others were waiting for them
near a beautiful wooded hillside. A waterfall plummeted from the crest. Sentries had been posted and
patrols sent out. Carlos, now dismounted, rubbed a
stiff leg. Enrique spoke with kinetic gestures to his
uncle.
Stan approached at an easy bounding gait. Elena
rode to the vaquero. He reckoned that Lampert,
Dutch’s adviser, was conniving with the Cartel to
deliver up the drug smuggler’s operation. A threat,
a problem resolved in-house. He could think of no
valid reason why the Cartel remained unpaid absent
Lampert’s deliberate mismanagement or Dutch’s pigheaded arrogance. “Fuck them. Let them sweat. I’ve
made them billionaires,” he could hear his inane justification. In the final analysis, the potentially explosive situation spelled the best reason for his own
retirement. He smiled and respectfully doffed his
hat.
“Elena’s so delighted with our tour,” he
remarked, reining the mare abreast of the drug kingpin. “It probably will be a chapter in her novel, and
you, the romanticized hero.” He patted the horse’s
withers. The drug boss forced a smile. Their conversation continued in a personal vein. El Patron
spoke of his long-standing friendship with Stan and
his respect for him as an attorney and confidant. He
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SHELDON YAVITZ
recalled the Cuban adviser/drug pilot episode and the
death of Colonel Haro.
“An American spy from what I heard.”
“He made so much money. He wanted to defect,
made the wrong connection.”
Enrique listened without interrupting. Carlos,
bored, walked his horse, then returned. El Patron
inquired about Stan’s divorce and future plans.
“Retirement,” he said.
“Not yet! There are millions to be made.” He
twined his fingers. “I will guarantee your financial
arrangement with Dutch, or,” he licked his lips, “his
replacement. In fact, 500,000 dollars will be deposited immediately to your account as proof of our
good faith.” Stan shrugged, a noncommittal shrug.
“I see.” He scratched his chin. “What would appeal
to a man retiring with a young, lovely novelist.” He
cocked his head. His high-spirited stallion restlessly
pawed the earth. “The hacienda outside of Manizales?” He paused, smiled warmly. “It’s yours.”
“And the money?”
“Of course.”
“For what?”
“Very simple. I’m paying you for your eyes and
ears and a brain that can revolutionize the business.”
“A thousand things can go wrong.”
“Shit!” Enrique spit.
“True.” El Patron withdrew a large cigar from
a jacket pocket. “My concerns are very narrow.” He
stripped off the wrapper. “No drug burnout is going
to control my destiny.”
He ran a slobbery tongue along the cylindrical
501
roll of tobacco leaves. “No fat pig is going to steal
what’s owed me.” He bit off the tip and jammed the
cigar in his mouth.
“I see this as misunderstanding. Dutch’s been in
England for months.”
“That’s the question.”
“And Lampert?”
“A sharp businessman,” Enrique interjected.
“Ideally suited for a commercial operation.”
“A weasel. Say nothing, just watch him.”
Stan did not reply, but stared at the waterfall.
“I want my money. I want success. I want to be
kept up to date.” The mineral deposits in the rocks
behind the fall transformed the water into a torrent of
greens and blues. “I want an explanation for failure.
No bullshit!”
Stan listened and nodded.
“You hold the power of life and death over
Dutch.”
“I understand.”
“Don’t let the fact that fat prick may have killed
your prostitute blind your objectivity.” Stan nodded,
his fingers choked the pommel horn. “Success of the
project comes first. Don’t make that mistake.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Sherlock and Watson, the cockatoo and macaw,
moved into Stan’s town house, his sole live-in companions. They were poor conversationalists, but good
listeners and the close-mouthed recipients of his deep
secrets. His wistful hope of returning with Elena dissolved in a cringe as he visualized what she might
reveal if deposed in his pending divorce case.
————
Tom and Kelly, his wife, dropped by one early
evening. A spanking new, baby blue station wagon,
Stan’s present to the expectant parents, sat in the
driveway. They walked about the automobile and
opened each door. Tom sprawled on the leathertrimmed upholstery. Stan explained the many features
from the air conditioner and automatic transmission
to power windows, a premium sound system, a trip
computer and other luxury amenities, even a special
ordered baby seat.
Kelly, with a half-hand covering her mouth and
a puzzled frown, stared at the vehicle. She had a
slim, delicate face and a moderately attractive figure
draped in a sleeveless, formless ankle-length frock.
Her brown hair tied with a ribbon. “It’s not a Volvo.”
503
Her mouth pinched and nose wrinkled.
“Pop, it’s American.”
“It’s Motor Trend’s Car of the Year.”
“Well, it’s the right color.”
“Doesn’t matter, I guess,” Tom shrugged, placing a strong comforting arm about his wife’s slender
shoulders. “Dad, we listened to mom and had an
abortion.”
————
Sue Ann would later comment with an I-toldyou-so attitude. “Just like I always said. Your father’s
mean-spirited. Sell it. I wouldn’t put up with his
shit.”
They did, and bought a used foreign car. When a
major repair bill exceeded their limited budget, Tom
pled with his mother for a loan.
“Go ask your father.”
“We can’t. He’ll never understand why we sold
his present.”
Sue Ann sighed and gripped his arm. She looked
up into his eyes and shook her head woefully. “Now
can you see how I’ve suffered with that asshole?”
————
Stan found great pleasure in his young sons’
visits. He couldn’t cook, but made a ritual out of
dinner taking the boys food shopping and allowing
them to select the meals, usually frozen pizza, or
take-out chicken. The eldest showed him how to
use a microwave oven and the youngest, a toaster.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
They devoted their Saturday afternoons to what Stan
called “an adventure.” The zoo that first weekend,
the Seaquarium the next, the Parrot Jungle followed
by the Serpentarium. It dawned on him that he was
spending more time with his children than when they
lived together.
His stepdaughter, Kimberly, often chauffeured
her younger brothers to his house for the weekend.
Chad, a young man with long hair and scruffy chin
whiskers, accompanied her. On the first visit, they
moved timidly about the town house chatting in
whispers. On subsequent occasions, they grew bolder
roaming from room to room, prying in closets and
drawers, and Kimberly asking her father questions
with the unpolished air of a neophyte home buyer.
Later, more brazen, she sneaked into his den. Chad
stood guard at the door. She rifled through papers,
but confused and overwhelmed left in a huff.
One Friday after a brief visit, Stan walked his
daughter out to her car. She slid behind the wheel and
looked up at him. “I like our town house.”
“Far-out,” Chad added.
“I guess mother and us kids own it like everything else,” she winked at Chad. Stan shrugged. A
pregnant silence followed. “Mother’s going to kick
you out. You can bet on that.”
He scratched his head and broke into a grin.
“Your ol’ dad may look dumb, but he doesn’t make
the same mistake twice.”
She gave him a dirty look and rolled up the
window. Tires squealed as her car pulled from the
drive.
505
————
Sue Ann treated the divorce as a very serious
business. She was at war and made no pretense about
it.
“Babies, tell mommy what daddy’s house looks
like,” she told her young sons at their first debriefing.
Bryan fidgeted; Matthew giggled, playfully twisting
the legs on a rubbery toy spaceman. “Talk shit, and
no television!”
“Big, real big,” Bryan said, spreading his arms
wide.
“Two pools in the back yard. A swimming pool
in daddy’s bathroom.”
“Daddy’s bed moves.”
Sue Ann looked befuddled.
“You can see people on the ceiling.”
She scowled, clutching a couch pillow tightly to
her bosom. “My kids talk shit just like their father.”
She turned to Reynaldo. “Go get Kimberly.” He hesitated; she glared at him. “Now!”
Kimberly would provide a detailed explanation
reporting on a kidney-shaped swimming pool and
hot tub, and a Roman-style bath and Jacuzzi. She
described the master bedroom with its humongous
revolving bed, mirrored ceiling and wall-size television screen.
“Only last week, he was living in his office,”
Sue Ann said, then lapsed into silence. She stared
unseeing, mindless of what her daughter was saying.
Suddenly, she shrieked. “The shit’s got millions!”
And threw her arms around Reynaldo.
With each passing week, Kimberly supplied
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SHELDON YAVITZ
more details about the house, the complex and its
Coconut Grove location.
“The town house sounds so marvelous,” Reynaldo said. “So convenient, so extravagant, so chic,
so you.”
Sue Ann leaned back against his shoulder. She
closed her eyes. “Life is so unfair.” She clicked her
long red fingernails. “There must be a way.”
“You deserve it, my love.”
“I know. I know.”
————
Sue Ann awoke early to have breakfast with her
young sons. She had been out when they returned
after a weekend with their father. with heavy eyelids
and a queasy feeling, she stumbled into the kitchen
in her obsessive pursuit of information. Now, struggling to cope with a hangover, she stared blindly
into a coffee cup. She bristled thinking about Reynaldo upstairs in her bedroom, his surliness and brutish demand for morning sex. She fingered a bruised
cheekbone. “Stanton was a shit, but never a drunken
shit.” No one heard her, and if they did, paid any
attention.
Matthew mashed his crispy cereal with a spoon.
“Daddy’s got a girlfriend in a teeny-weeny bikini.”
Milk splattered from the bowl onto the table and his
tee-shirt.
“A girlfriend!” Sue Ann’s voice cracked. “What’s
she like?” Her tongue thick, words slurred. Her hand
struck a cup spilling coffee on the boys’ homework.
“Shit!” She jerked back from the table, then called
507
for the maid to clean up the mess.
“Pretty like you, mommy.” Bryan dunked a slice
of toast in a glass of orange juice.
“Stop that!” She slapped his wrist. “Hetty, do
something! About mommy’s age?” Her voice lowered, sugar-coated, calmed down.
“Don’t look like a mommy.” Matthew scrunched
in his chair fending off the housekeeper’s attempt to
wipe his chin and shirt.
“She looks like Kim.” Bryan covered his face
and giggled.
“I wish,” Kimberly said with a laugh, having
entered the kitchen in time to overhear the tail end
of the conversation. She kissed her mother. “A fantastic bod.” She placed her school books on a counter top and stepped to the refrigerator. A handbag
swung from her shoulder. She wore an emerald green
romper with gold-tone buttons. “At first I didn’t like
her, but once you get to know her, she’s so sweet and
funny.” She flung the door wide and bent low pulling
out a vegetable crisper. “A topless dancer, can you
imagine.” Sue Ann gulped. “About Tom’s age, two
weeks older, I think.” She gulped again. “Our dad’s a
real swinger.”
Sue Ann sat rigid; her lips pursed, prune-like.
She reached for a bottle of aspirin. “He’s a nasty ol’
fart.” The ball of her thumb pressed against the child
tamper-proof cap.
“I’ve never seen dad so happy.” Kimberly
munched on a celery stalk. “Father gave Chad 100
dollars and told him to take me to dinner.” She spoke
with a mouthful. “He even said he liked Chad’s whis-
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SHELDON YAVITZ
kers.” She glared oddly at her mother, an inquisitive
stare. “Why didn’t you make father happy?”
“I’ve got to call my lawyer.” Sue Ann clasped
her forehead. The sound of crunching food amplified
like a drumbeat. “I need a glass of water. Get me a
glass!” Her face lost all its color. “This is all your
father’s fault.” She climbed to her feet. “I’m gonna
be sick.” She rushed toward the bathroom.
“Her name is Ginger Gray,” her daughter called
out after her.
————
A week after New Years, Ginger moved into
Stan’s town house. As he would explain to a friend,
“It just seemed to happen. We’d been dating for about
three and a half, almost four months.” He leaned
forward on a barstool sipping a rum and coke. The
Happy Hour crowd had thinned, only piped in disco
music and tobacco smoke lingered. “She was at the
house. We were shooting pool.” He revolved his glass
slowly, staring at floating ice cubes. “I had racked
up the balls. Her turn to break. She stroked the cue
ball and wham, pocketed two. A topless Willie Musconi.”
“Topless. Are you kidding?”
“A little distracting,” he quipped, straight-faced.
“I’ve been watching you. She always says she’s
watching me. You’re helpless, she said. You can’t
cook or do housework. You’re absent-minded, always
pondering. I ponder a lot. And you’re nagged to death
by that stupid big bird.” He beckoned to a bartender
for another round of drinks. “She starts a run and
509
sank two more, a combination shot. She looked at
me with these big blue eyes. She has this way of
making eye contact that’s hypnotic. She’s up on her
toes, right in my face.” He twisted on the stool, smiling. “You need someone to look after you, she said.
I think, I gulped.” He noticeably winched. “Since
I love you, I decided that I better do it. So unless
you throw me out, I’m moving in. Well, …” he
shrugged.
“Pretty lame. A stripper, my God.” A cigarette
dangled from his friend’s lips. He groped for a match.
Stan gave him a matchbook. He gazed at the cover
with two burlesque breasts and the name, Treasure
Chest Lounge. “I bet she’s got a tattoo.”
Stan took a long swallow, then placed his glass
down on the bar. “A little bumblebee on her ankle,
but otherwise, she’s just perfect.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
The Treasure Chest Lounge had been extensively remodeled far beyond Roy Rodgers’ expectations. He held a “Grand Opening,” and put on
an extravaganza featuring Busty-Busty, billed as the
Eighth and Ninth Wonder of the World, an exotic
dancer with an 83-inch silicone bosom. After an
explosive performance that left the crowd howling
like dogs in heat, she posed with exuberant fans for
autographed pictures: 10 dollars in a halter, 20 dollars topless and 100 dollars in a private session wearing nothing but a smile.
“Dis shit’s for you. We made it up for da
shindig.” Roy handed Stan an armful of souvenir
T-shirts, sweat shirts, lighters, matchbooks and ashtrays. “Great gifts for your clients, great promotional
gimmicks.” He displayed a woman’s crotchless panties embroidered with the name, Treasure Chest, on
the seat. “Your daughter will love dis.” He tossed it
on the heap.
“Stan grimaced, nodded. “Thanks, Roy. You
made my year.”
————
In addition to the renovations to the night club,
511
a bedroom apartment was constructed for Dutch’s
rare, but turbulent visits as well, a suite of executive
offices from where Jay Lampert oversaw the smuggler’s numerous business interests, legitimate and
otherwise. That night, Lampert strolled about the
lounge oozing self-confidence, a man on the move, a
winner.
“Yes, sir, Stan, another day in paradise.” A goldtip cigarette holder sprouting appendage-like from a
corner of his mouth. “Do you see that gent talking a
mile-a-minute to Busty?” He gestured to a short man
in a tuxedo, with a prominent nose and gray wavy
hair, eye level with the tall dancer’s eighth and ninth
wonders. “He’s the mayor’s brother-in-law, runs the
agency handling our advertising campaign. It’s like
having a vote on the city commission,” he grinned
smugly. He placed an arm around Stan’s shoulder,
pressed in close, his tone confidential. “While Roy
putzes around with dumb crotchless undies, I’m playing the angles and building a power base.”
“You’re sharp, Jay. No doubt about it,” Stan
smiled, deciding to keep a close watch on Dutch’s
perceived heir, and from what better vantage than the
Treasure Chest Lounge. He became a regular arriving weekdays before 10:00 pm and remaining until
after midnight. He held court from a barstool on the
far side of a burnished mahogany, horseshoe-shaped
bar in the exclusive V.I.P. section cordoned off by
shimmery brass stanchions and a red velvety cord.
Stan claimed that he was bored or driven from the
house by a nagging cockatoo. In truth and fact, he
had millions at stake, El Patron on his back, Dutch’s
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SHELDON YAVITZ
life in his hands and a slick businessman bent on a
power-grab.
Roy usually dropped by to chew the fat. One
evening, he joked. “How much skin duz it take to
cover a chick’s pussy?” Stan, hunched over a drink,
shrugged. Roy stuck out his tongue. “Ferchrisesake!
Tongue, tongue!”
Stan smiled gently. “How’s Dutch doing?”
“Came by last Saturday, but youse weren’t
here.” He ran his hand over his bald pate. “I supplied
him with dis coke whore. She called him da prick
from hell, but da price wuz right.”
“Is he freebasing?”
“How, da fuck, do I know!”
“When he hurts one of the girls or burns down
the apartment, don’t come crying to me.” He turned,
eyeballing a dancer, spotlighted on stage, wrapped
around a brass pole, sliding up and down. “What’s
her name?”
“Ginger. She’s got dis blond monkey.” His voice
trailed.
“Dis mouth custom-made for fuckin’.”
Stan returned an indulgent smile.
Roy snappishly tugged at his jacket lapel. “I’m
no damn snitch!” Stan ignored him, seemingly
engrossed with the blond stripper performing splits
to applause, whistles and an accompanying drumbeat. “I threw out his ether, replaced it wit’ baking
soda. Locked up his pipes and dis butane torch.”
“Does his apartment have an electric or gas
range?”
“No, four minutes in dis microwave duz da
513
trick.”
“Boy, that little blond’s cute.”
“Dumb, a bimbo.” He grabbed his crotch,
winked. “I’ll send her over.”
————
Lampert made it a practice to chat with Stan. A
drink in one hand, a cigarette holder clamped in his
jaw, and a wad of bills in his pocket, which he generously dished out to an ever present covey of dancers. “It’s good for business, makes the suckers want
to compete with the big spender.” He leaned over and
spoke from a corner of his mouth. “Confidentially,
it’s house money. My old lady would kill me if I
spent a buck on these tramps.”
B. Hoskins would join them, if only to say:
Hello. Her silver-metallic hair meticulously in
place. An ashy complexion dramatized by brilliant
red lipstick, conservatively dressed in pantsuits or
high-necked outfits rather than “lurid, exhibitionist
flimsies,” as Lampert labeled the girls’ scanty attire.
He had promoted his mistress to a managerial position in charge of the exotic dancers.
“A tough boss,” he remarked to Stan. “The
tramps call her bitch mother, but she’s sweet to me
and a proper lady. You can see who wears the pants
in our family,” he chuckled.
Lampert kept Stan updated on the “project.”
“Bought out a small builders’ supply, closed the deal
in a week. An old reliable name, unblemished reputation, a good front. If any one checks, it looks like the
same company’s still operating. Hired another law
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firm,” he smiled. “I didn’t think you’d be interested.”
Although Dutch, as always, took full credit,
the savvy business adviser harbored growing doubts.
He had studied his itinerary, observed his increasingly erratic behavior, probed him for information
and spoke with El Patron’s emissaries. He concluded
that Dutch was losing his grip attributable to drug
abuse or occupational burnout. He could find no indication that he had been to Venezuela and any contact
with the cement manufacturer appeared secondhand.
He speculated, absent an unknown factor, that Stan
held the trump card and was the man to be reckoned
with: the mastermind behind the containerized shipment operation. He surmised that his presence at the
lounge was not by chance, but to monitor the progress of the venture and to assess the businessman’s
very own performance, and Lampert put his best foot
forward. His comments to the lawyer were cryptic,
but well-directed and fully understood. “To keep the
weights uniform, we had to adjust for packaging. A
few shekels lost. No big deal.”
Stan nodded.
On a Thursday evening in late September, Lampert would greet Stan as he entered the lounge. He
had pushed through the crowd with his arms akimbo.
A muscle-bound gorilla in a tight suit clearing a path.
“The baby’s due,” he smiled. “On-stream, like clockwork.” He raised a thumbs up. “You will be the first
to know when she’s delivered.” He grasped Stan’s
hand shaking it vigorously.
Stan showed no immediate reaction. Then,
slowly grinned. “Let me buy the expectant father a
515
drink.”
————
They had retired to the V.I.P. section with a
magnum of champagne. The blaring music was earsplitting, and Lampert uncommonly effusive. He had
two exotic dancers performing on a ministage. After
each dance, he would hop to his feet, bound over
and slip bills in their G-strings, and after their pubic
shields were comically draped about his neck, he
stuffed money in each stripper’s garter. They giggled and playfully slapped his hand at his feeble,
but obscene attempts to get bolder. “I never mentioned it, but over Dutch’s objection, I paid the suppliers to the nickel, and see, they delivered.” He blew
smoke rings. “Had I listened to Dutch, we’d still be
playing with ourselves.” He leaned toward Stan, a
hand shielding his mouth. “It’s the bitch mother’s
night off, and I’m going to get me a strange piece.”
Stan grinned; Ginger smiled back. Lampert
reached over and ogling, thrust 20-dollar bills down
her low-cut bodice. “Your girlfriend’s got noteworthy mammae.” He leered at the passive dancer while
directing his remarks to Stan. “I hope you don’t mind.
Do you, Stan?” He boorishly jammed a 10-dollar bill
in her cleavage.
“As long as they’re hundreds.” He held out
his hand, palm upturned. “She’s working hard for
the money.” Lampert’s face reddened. She nodded,
indifferent; her legs crossed at the knees. A lace-up
leather miniskirt hugging her hips. He counted out
four twenties and a ten. “I’m sorry, my dear. A little
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SHELDON YAVITZ
too much bubbly.” He gave the cash to Stan, who, in
turn, tucked it in Ginger’s garter.
He glanced back at Lampert. “How’s Dutch
doing?”
Lampert stiffened, his face darkened. Stan had
seen Dutch only twice, each occasion after returning
from South America. The first time for dinner and
the second at an airport. While he appeared more irritable and impatient with an annoying egotistical belligerence, Stan did not detect the drug wreckage as
rumored. Several lengthy telephone conversations,
pay phone to pay phone to preclude eavesdropping,
failed to provide any further indication, and the operation had surprisingly moved ahead of schedule.
From the supplier to the cement manufacturer to the
freighter and now en route to San Juan. As to freebasing cocaine, Dutch was a longtime recreational user
and “experimenter,” and Stan left it at that.
In the past, Lampert had answered similar inquiries evasively. “Dutch is Dutch,” he would shrug, or
“He’s doing great, just a wild and crazy guy.” This
time, he swiveled on a barstool. He struck a match.
“Let me put it this way.” He held the flickering flame
to a matchbook. The phosphorus ignited with a flash.
“Our operation purrs like a well oiled machine with
or without him.” He dropped the burning cardboard
cover in an ashtray. “Please, remember that,” he said.
He got up from his stool and moved over beside
Ginger. He placed a hand on her bare shoulder and
gazed down on her generously displayed bosom.
“You plucked the brightest flower from the vine.” She
turned her head and looked up at him. He winked,
517
a prolonged wink. She made eye contact: a streetwise stripper’s come-on for power and control over a
cheeseball.
Stan glanced at the ashtray. The symbolic matchbook reduced to ashes. He glimpsed Lampert snaking 100-dollar bills in Ginger’s garter, and shook his
head.
————
The first containerized shipment cleared Customs and upon its arrival, Dutch had it sold within 24
hours. By the second week in October, Stan’s share
in excess of 340,000 dollars, cash, was on its way
to a Panamanian bank. When the third consecutive
load passed with flying colors, an enthusiastic Dutch
began doubling the contraband from a conservative
480 pounds, less a minimal amount assigned to the
plasticized wrapper weight, or 6 bags to 12, then
24, 48, and by early December, intoxicated by success, he settled on 88 bags a container, approximating 7,000 pounds, fifty-one million dollar, wholesale,
discounted. As he reasoned, it ceased to be a crap
shoot. The odds favored the smuggler and only a
freak happenstance, or an informant could contaminate the operation.
Contrary to Dutch’s initial prediction, aircraft
remained indispensable serving to transport the illicit
money out of the country. The cash weighed by
the gram and pound and packed in duffel bags and
assorted luggage. One million dollars in unwieldy
20-dollar bills weighed 110 pounds. 40,000 dollars
in one hundreds fit neatly in an executive-style brief-
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SHELDON YAVITZ
case. To minimize the risk of loss, he restricted
flights to five million dollars; drugs were replaceable, money was not. In time, this caution produced a
warehousing of cash, 15 million on hand, a common
occurrence, and a security problem.
A counting house had been reactivated in the
Redlands, a rural area south of Miami. The deceptive, rustic old Florida homestead, equipped with surveillance cameras, a bank-size, underground vault,
and enough armed guards to rival Wells Fargo. It
nestled amid slash pines and silvery palmettos and
fallow fields where once a farmer raised tomatoes.
Lampert, the man in-charge, often spending days at
the hideaway, secluded, out of the mainstream relegated to a bean counter, less and less in touch with
the operational and marketing end. A move born of
convenience, but shrewdly promoted by Stan.
The builders supply prospered. Ready mix
concrete, the company’s specialty. A newspaper
ad read: REDDI-REDDI MIXED: AS MUCH AS
YOU WANT — WE DELIVER, SATURDAYS
INCLUDED — LOWEST PRICE IN THE STATE.
With seven and a half tons imported within two
months and three and a half tons arriving every week
to ten days, Dutch cut prices, but supply exceeded
demand. He vacillated, paranoid and greedy, reluctant to expand his markets and unwilling to reduce
the contraband weight of the shipments. As Dutch
explained, he was caught on the horns of a dilemma.
He could either stockpile the product or enlarge his
customer base. New markets meant dealing with
“untested” strangers, and strangers exposed him to
519
informers and government “sting” operatives.
“One mistake and I’m busted.” He made a wry
face, chipping a chunk from a golf ball-size rock. He
dropped it into a glass bowl water pipe and heated the
base cocaine with a butane lighter. He took a long,
deep drag. His heart pounded like a trip hammer; his
ears rang. He felt an incredible rush. “Fuck it! I’m
the King.”
The result: 80 pound bags of cocaine in record
numbers piled up in stash houses, an equally unacceptable, high-risk alternative.
Appearing bold and still inventive, Dutch bought
surplus army transports and moved two tons to New
York City in a military-style convoy. The vehicles,
three deuce-and-a-half trucks and a jeep, were crewed
by men disguised as army reservists. Diesel and gasoline tank trailers in tow to eliminate fuel stops. The
illegal cargo covered with canvas and further concealed by assorted military gear.
“One for the books,” Dutch boasted, taking full
credit for Lampert’s suggestion. “My boys made the
trip in 27 hours without stopping at weigh stations or
displaying a manifest. They carried dummy papers,
but no one asked.”
He paused, pressing a finger against one nostril
and then the other, grossly blowing mucus from his
nose. A sign of a heavy cocaine snorter with a perforated septum after-effect. “In fact, this dumb peckerwood sheriff gave them a police escort.” He broke
into laughter. “Does anyone have a fuckin’ hanky?”
The Colombians looked on impressed. They
retained Stan as a consultant to devise and help
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SHELDON YAVITZ
implement their own containerized shipment operation. He proposed cocaine vacuum packed like grocery-store coffee in 8.8 ounce bricks packaged with
a recognizable brand label and apportioned in cartons containing real coffee. The contraband would be
shipped though the free zone in Panama and transshipped to an El Patron controlled distributor in New
Orleans.
He settled on a flat fee: one-third in front and
the balance upon three successful deliveries. While
the deal was not as lucrative as the one with Dutch,
he rationalized that long-term partnerships with the
Cartel had life-threatening overtones. He regarded
their business relationship with Dutch as a prime
example.
————
At a meeting in Medellin, the drug lord made
little attempt to mask his intended takeover of Dutch’s
distribution network. He pressed Stan for his assessment of Lampert, still favored as the inside man and
a pivotal factor.
Stan hesitated, trying to figure out the best
response, aware that millions of dollars and Dutch’s
life might ride on the answer. “A good bookkeeper,”
he said. “Short on experience in the business, literally impotent now that Dutch has firm control of the
markets,” he exaggerated. “I’m not impressed.”
El Patron’s impassive face broke into a thoughtful pose. “Can he deliver the customers?”
“Some. As I said, that’s his weakness.”
They were huddled about a table as domestics
521
hastily cleared the dinnerware. Carlos, the adviser,
his bony jaw slack, appeared surprised by Stan’s
response. Enrique fidgeted, vexed by his answers,
shifted his aggression to a young servant girl. He
groped her fleashy buttock.
She shrieked, her hands flying. A tray sailed
from her grasp. China, glasses and silver crashed to
the floor. She clasped her hands to her mouth, her
large brown eyes as round as saucers. She knelt to
pick up the shattered dishes.
“Control your animal urges, nephew.” El Patron
dismissed the girl with a curt gesture. He turned to
Stan. “What were you saying?”
“I was saying that Lampert’s not worth a damn.”
He watched the terrified girl scurry from the room.
“I’ve been observing Jay carefully, discussed him
with Dutch and others in the know. He’s considered
an outsider, not one of them.”
Carlos shot a disbelieving scowl; Enrique folded
his arms across his chest.
“That’s my opinion. Anyway,” he shrugged,
“you can do what you want. I’m selling Dutch my
interest while it’s a viable commodity.”
“Why?”
“How come?”
“It’s out of hand. The operation’s been too successful,” he smiled faintly. “The product’s arriving
in such unprecedented amounts that even a big-time
importer like Dutch is overwhelmed. His markets are
glutted, stash houses bulging.” He paused, scratched
his chin, started to say something, then hesitated.
“It’s deliberate, Doctor.” Enrique glanced
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quickly at El Patron, and receiving an approving nod,
continued. “We’re pushing the parameters of containerized shipping at Dutch’s expense. He either
expands his markets or chokes on the product.” He
flashed a pearly smile. “Either way, we step in.”
“I wouldn’t count my chickens.”
“Whose side are you on?” El Patron studied
him closely, cocked his head hearing no reply. “How
much is he paying you?”
“Twenty million, includes my partnership in the
cement factory.”
“Cheap,” he smirked, rubbing his palms together.
“We will match it.”
“You will have to top it.” Stan fingered the flutelike stem of a goblet. “Dutch has the right of first
refusal.” He reached for a carafe of wine and refilled
his glass draining the contents.
“Would you care for more wine?” Stan shook
his head, negatively. “Do you have a pen?” He withdrew a ball-point and handed it to the drug lord. The
tablecloth became a writing tablet with mathematical
computations marking the linen. El Patron concentrated stiffly, grunted and reviewed his calculations.
An elbow on the table, a palm pressed to his forehead. He straightened, smacked his lips and scrawled
eight figures. “What do you say, Doctor?” He underlined the amount with a flourish.
Stan’s eyes narrowed, he nodded slowly. “Okay,”
he said.
————
A dreary night in late December and a raw driz-
523
zle. Stan sat in his den. A Tiffany lamp cast an eerie
iridescent glow.
In one hand he held a pocket-size calculator,
and in the other, a slip of paper. On his shoulder
perched Sherlock.
“Talkin’ shit,” the bird squawked, now mimicking Sue Ann’s Southern twang.
“Not this time.” Stan pointed to the digital readout. “8,417,600 from Dutch, net, after paying the
cement man.” He punched more digits. “From El
Patron, and I still have money coming.” He hit the
“addition” key, then pressed the “total” button. A
blink, and 54,717,600 registered on the display. “Do
you know how much bird seed that can buy?” He
chuckled. “What do you think?”
The cockatoo ignored him.
————
The money had rolled in so effortlessly that
Stan felt strangely uncomfortable, actually guilty, at
odds with his old-fashioned work ethic, but not by
the criminality. In the past several years, he had made
and secretly banked more cash then he could spend
in a lifetime. He could now live like a multimillionaire on the interest alone without invading the principal.
Yet, his ill-gotten wealth came with a catch, a
Catch-22, as a novelist termed it. He could not spend
it without declaring it, and he couldn’t declare it
without running the risk of disclosing the sources.
Obviously, a relatively small, but reasonable sum,
comparable to a boulder gouged from a mountain,
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SHELDON YAVITZ
could be channeled into his substantial legitimate
income ascribed to attorney’s fees and foreign investment, but the balance remained untouchable, almost
meaningless, and stashed in so many different banks
and countries that he had difficulty remembering the
depositories and only guessed at the total amount.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Antonio Torres was on the telephone. “Sue
Ann’s raised the ante. She wants your town house.”
Stan laughed. “It’s no joke. We believe she has a
vested right.”
“I think it’s funny.” He put a steamy coffee
cup down on his desk. “Another of your brilliant
ideas?” His chortle more sarcastic. “She can make
the monthly mortgage payments and have enough
alimony left to dine at Burger King.”
“She insists on seeing the house. Could be, she
won’t like it, and that resolves the issue.”
Stan agreed to a showing. Her lawyer added a
condition. “If you’re present, my client wants me to
accompany her.” He cited the restraining order and
alluded to Stan’s alleged bad temper. “Of course, if
you’re not present, then …”
“I understand. I will leave a key under the
mat.”
They agreed on Tuesday, September 23, between
the hours of 2:00 and 5:30 pm. In point of time, the
first containerized shipment had not yet arrived.
————
The architectural firm that designed the town
526
SHELDON YAVITZ
house audaciously described it, quoting their words,
“as a cross between a Southern plantation and a
Georgetown row house with a touch of French country estate.”
That afternoon, Sue Ann sat behind the steering wheel and gazed at the two-story residence. She
jiggled her car keys. “Beautiful.”
“It’s you, my love.” Reynaldo stepped from the
Jeep Grand Wagoneer with its simulated wood paneling, and hurried around to open her door.
They walked hand and hand to the front entrance.
She peered through an elegant protective metal grill
over the upper tinted glass halves of double doors.
“Can’t see shit!” She impatiently tapped her foot.
Reynaldo stooped, searching for the house key.
He found it under the doormat, grinned, then fiddled
with the lock until the latch clicked. He pushed a
door open, picked Sue Ann up in his arms and carried
her across the threshold.
“My house!” She kicked her legs. “Put me
down! We don’t have a minute to waste.”
In earnest, they moved about the first floor and
pool patio area greeting each room and sight with
oohs and aahs.
“I never realized your husband had such good
taste.”
“Fiddlesticks! Some fool client gave the house
to him, fully furnished. They’re always giving him
things.”
“He used to give them to you.”
“I deserved them. I deserve this house for putting up all these years with that maniac’s shit.” She
527
plopped down on a curved 3-piece sectional sofa.
“The owner was an architect. He designed and decorated this town house.” She fingered the butter-soft
leather upholstery. “A swinger,” she winked, bruised
her hair with a hand.
“A rapist. I read in the newspaper.”
“Pooh, double-pooh.” She kicked off her high
heels and dug her toes into the sumptuous carpet.
“Now don’t get any ideas.” She playfully stuck her
tongue out and giggled.
————
A floating staircase in custom-bending pipe,
sheet steel and wood snaked its way to the second
story. Sue Ann stopped on the landing and looked
down. “Maybe, sugar,” she said with biting eyes,
“you could fix it so that maniac slips and breaks
his neck.” She gripped Reynaldo’s arm; her face lost
all its beauty. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” Reynaldo grimaced. “You’re such a pussy!” She spit,
then descended the flight of stairs examining the
rungs and pushing on the pipe rails. “He’s got so
much insurance. He’s worth more dead than alive.”
She ran a barefoot lengthwise over a smooth wooden
stair. “Aha, what about margarine, cooking oil, something greasy?”
“Pretty dumb!” He turned and walked off. Sue
Ann glared after him; her lips tightened forming
obscenities. She hesitated, sulking, heard him call out
her name. He called again. “My love come here!”
She hurried, following the sound of his voice
through a large, curved, glass-block foyer and entered
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SHELDON YAVITZ
the master bedroom. “Oh, my!”
“It’s you.”
“You ain’t talkin’ shit.” Her eyes roamed from
the wall-size television screen to a wet bar, working
fireplace and the piece de resistance, a round bed, 98
inches in diameter.
————
Reynaldo sat near the headboard and slid open a
mirrored glass panel disclosing a remote control display. He pressed a button and the drapes closed. He
twisted dials adjusting to his satisfaction the sophisticated recessed overhead lighting. He flicked a switch
and the huge bed rotated languidly round and round.
“My love look at this!”
Sue Ann didn’t answer. She stood in a walk-in
closet glowering at a red, textured velvet slip dress.
Her fingers caressed the fabric. She checked the
label. “Cheap crap.” She spied a pair of platform
pumps amidst her husband’s boots. “There’s a woman’s shit in my house!” She stomped into the bedroom and ignoring her boyfriend, flung open the
bathroom door. “A tramp’s shit!” She shrieked, spotting feminine toiletries on a marble vanity. She turned
back to Reynaldo, her hands on her hips. “What
fuckin’ gall!”
He laid on a black ultra suede fitted spread, staring, admiring his reflection in the mirrored ceiling.
“A puta!”
She moved to the foot of the bed and hesitated,
suddenly caught up in the mood lighting and romantic stereo music. She wiggled out of her skirt. “Let’s
529
fuck in my bed.”
He returned a giddy grin. “The bed is you.”
————
The town house proved an impetus to a settlement. Stan took a hard-line, then weakened and gave
in to most of her demands. The first containerized
shipment had arrived almost to the day he appeared
at Torres’s law office to sign the finalized draft to the
property settlement agreement.
Her lawyer was waiting in the conference room.
The document, 32 pages in length spelling out the
parties understanding in minutiae, laid on the table.
An original and three copies lined up for appropriate
signatures.
Stan reviewed the original comparing it to his
revised copy and noted a discrepancy which was corrected by hand and initialed.
“Funny, how the little word “not” can make
such a difference,” he remarked referring to a paragraph that incorrectly read: “The respondent/husband
shall be liable …”
“A typo,” Torres flashed a grin, then looked
sternly at his secretary. “Next time, proofread your
work more carefully.”
She winked at Stan; he nodded. Her notary seal,
stamp and stamp pad spread before her. He sighed,
a wistful hesitancy, before subscribing his name to
the agreement. “Too bad, Sue Ann never appreciated how good she had it.” His forlorn expression
brightened. “No hard feelings, Tony. I’m just glad
it’s over.”
530
SHELDON YAVITZ
————
Upon exiting the suite, Stan closed the door and
paused, struck by a jittery, gut wrenching feeling.
“Did you notice that man in the tacky brown suit?”
“Man? I don’t recall,” Crawford said.
“Odd-shaped, thin, potbellied, standing by a
window.” His associate shook his head and Stan, rallied his recollection. “Salt-and-pepper hair and mustache, held a magazine.”
“What magazine?”
“National Geographic.”
“Okay.”
“He looked out-of-place.”
“So what?”
“He was eyeing us,” Stan said, pressing an elevator “call” button. “Cheap loafers, needed a shine.”
You’re paranoid, upset because your wife took
you to the cleaners.” He watched the overhead display tick off the floor numbers. “Have a drink, relax
…” A ping, ping ring and gleaming stainless doors
rolled open. “Play with your dancer, save your pennies.”
————
As they stepped into the elevator, down the hall
at the Law Firm of Young, Torres and Gottlieb, PA,
the dark haired secretary showed Rich Lanza, IRS
agent, Criminal Investigations, into Antonio Torres’s
private office.
The attorney turned from the window as the
IRS agent entered. He smiled an artificial smile, but
531
offered no handshake. His hands clasped behind his
back.
“That was Pollard and his sidekick?”
“Right. We haven’t much time. Pollard’s wife
will be here within the hour to sign papers.”
Lanza eyed him questioningly. “You settled?”
He sat down heavily on the edge of a Louis XIV flattop desk. A delicate leg creaked. “Why did you fuck
up my case?”
“Pollard made an about-face,” he winced. “Gave
in.” He tugged nervously at a cuff link.
“I want to see the settlement.”
“Lawyer-client privilege, you understand.”
“Don’t give me your crap!” His hard face an
angry sieve. He looked about the desk, found the Pollard divorce file, flipped open the folder, and browsed
through the contents. He paused reading a memo,
then removed a copy of the agreement. He weighed
it in his hand. “Feels like the tax code.”
“A work of art, razor honed. You have to cover
every contingency, and I have.”
“Boiler plate, spit out of a computer.” He
reached in his suit jacket breast pocket and withdrew a pair of wire frame spectacles. “Asshole.” He
pressed the stems carefully behind each ear. A shoulder twitched; beadlike eyes pierced thick lenses.
“H’m, ah, aha,” he muttered leafing from one page to
another. “One million dollars in alimony.”
“Lump sum, payable over eight years. Sue Ann’s
entitled to the money even if she’s remarried.”
“You sold out cheap.” He tore tin-foil from a
Rolaids wrapper.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
Torres broke into a smile as he settled in a
French rococo armchair. He rested an elbow on a
richly carved, floral motif armrest. “The coup de
grace, Sue Ann gets the Coconut Grove town house
free and clear of all mortgages and liens.” He cocked
his head watching the agent nudge an antacid tablet
between pinched lips.
“What’s the trade-off?”
“Pollard gets her interest in the South Miami
home, but he’s going to have one hell of a nut to refinance.”
“The agent chewed, making wet noises. “All
you did was exchange equity for equity.” He jiggled
a leg as the fragile desk quaked on slender footing.
“He’s stronger now than ever.”
“I milked him for every cent,” he laughed, thriving on the agent’s discomfiture. He had known him
for years and came to despise him. Behind his back,
he referred to Lanza as a foulmouth Bureaucrat, a
know-it-all, the king of misinformation. His assessment could be summarized in one sentence. A vindictive, zealous nitpicker with no life of his own
serving out 20 bitter years to retire on a government
pension.
With a look of self-satisfaction, Torres continued to spell out the terms of the property settlement.
“The children retain their interest in all the corporate
assets. I forced Pollard to buyout Sue Ann in everything, but their vacation home,” he smiled smugly.
“When you add it all up, the slug’s working for his
wife.”
Lanza dropped the divorce document on the
533
desk and turned to the lawyer. “Why,” he asked, rolling his tongue inside his cheek, “did that two-timing
bitch make out like a bandit?”
“I’m a top divorce lawyer. Pollard, out-classed.
I blew his adultery defense out of the water.”
“You showed me the proof. You did shit!” He
had risen to his feet and stood over the attorney. He
stared down, a thumb thrust in the pocket of a snug
fitting vest. “He’s worth millions. Cash stashed allover Europe and South America. A money laundering drug dealer …”
“He’s a CIA agent, no doubt about it.”
“Bullshit! He’s a criminal! I’d stake my career.”
He poked an arrogant finger in the lawyer’s chest.
“He’s under investigation by the DEA. I told you
that!” He jabbed him again pushing him downward
in his chair. “Busting Pollard’s a guaranteed promotion, bucks towards my retirement, but you...” Saliva
dribbled down his chin. “You fancy pants spic sabotaged my future.”
“Get off your lazy ass. Do your own investigation.”
“We had a deal!”
They were eye to eye, inches from each other’s
face. Lanza bent forward gripping the armrests,
knuckles white and complexion livid. He masticated
a Rolaids, savagely crunching and grinding the tablet.
He swallowed hard. “I went to the Commissioner!”
“Shush, not so loud.”
“He went to the Secretary!” He yelled, spitting
with each word. “We gave you a written commitment! Reward money! Reward money for getting
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SHELDON YAVITZ
Pollard!”
“Shut up!” Torres shoved the agent away from
him. Lanza straightened, took a deep breath, and
belched. “It’s a done deal. One I couldn’t refuse.” He
stared down at his highly polished shoes. “Consistent with financial statements, tax returns, my client’s
standard of living.” He hesitated, rubbing a hand
over his face. “She signed every document, every tax
return.” His smooth professional voice broke, harsh
and raspy. “I bury him. I burn her. I’ve got ethics.” He
stiffened defensively.
“It’s a damn shame.” Lanza sat down on a chaise
lounge luxuriously body conforming. He removed
his glasses and closed his eyes. “Your cooperation
would have killed your upcoming tax audit.” He
stretched his legs. “Your entire firm, you, Young and
Gottlieb.”
“Don’t try to scare me.”
“Scare, you smart ass.” He waved a menacing
finger. “I’m the United States Government!” He
thumped his chest. “Special Agent Richard “Rich”
Lanza, Internal Revenue Service. I’ve got more
power in my pinkie, than..,” he paused. “I’ll break
you!” He grinned.
“You wouldn’t. Not after everything I’ve done
for you guys.” He felt himself aging with each passing minute. He expected to look in a mirror and see
gross wrinkles and snow-white hair. He clenched a
fist. “How many cases have I helped you make?”
“What have you done for us today?” He studied
the lawyer, who stood with his mouth open groping
for words. “We knew from experience that tax rats
535
think they got a license.” He put his hands behind
his neck and rocked slowly, his confidence showing.
“Only as long as they’re useful.”
His smile grew grave. “Big Brother’s been
watching you.” He pulled a small notebook from a
pocket. “You bought a new Porsche 911 for cash.”
He gently tapped the pad cover, pausing as the implication set in. “You throw lavish parties for your high
society friends.” He stared the attorney in the eye.
“How does a fuckin’ refugee make it that big, that
fast? We will make a case. I promise you that.”
“I have made every dollar legit, hard work.
I’ve had good tax advice.” His voice drifted; a knee
jerked.
“I hope not from your kike partner with his not
so kosher tax shelters, junk bonds, limited partnerships.”
“Gottlieb’s not Jewish; Young is.”
“Don’t interrupt me. The Jew’s a crook. A little
push and his corrupt advice crumbles like a house
of cards. Think of the mad clients, malpractice suits,
the publicity, the indictment.” He waited while the
silence dragged like lead. “As for Young, are you
aware of his gambling debts, that he owes back taxes
and has failed to file quarterly returns? I can see a
Bar action, tax liens on your partnership.”
Torres’s shoulders sagged; his arms hung limp.
Lanza’s expression deteriorating to a malevolent
stare. “When the auditors tear you a new bunghole,
remember, it was you boys or Pollard.” He glanced at
his watch. “It’s about time for your appointment.”
“Let her wait.” He tugged nervously at a star
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SHELDON YAVITZ
sapphire cuff link.
————
It was nearing 5:30 pm when Torres emerged
from his office and escorted Agent Lanza to the waiting room. In the after business hours quiet, they chatted briefly. The lawyer’s eyes darted as they shook
hands. Lanza dropped into a chair. “I’ll be right
here,” he smiled, a bullying grin. He picked a magazine off an end table and, shielded by the periodical
stealth, tracked the attorney’s movements.
Torres had joined his secretary still at her desk.
He dictated a letter and peered over her shoulder as
she typed.
“Do you want a copy for Mrs. Pollard?”
“No.” He slipped the typewritten letter in a
folder.
“She’s been waiting over an hour.” She looked
up and made a face.
“I won’t be needing you. Go home.”
————
At the conference room door, Torres hesitated,
buttoned his silk suit jacket and forced a broad grin.
He stepped into the room, nodded curtly to Reynaldo, and took a seat beside his client at the large,
oval table. He debonairly kissed her offered hand,
then apologized profusely for the delay. “You should
be on the cover of VOGUE,” he winked.
“That’s what I tell her,” Reynaldo said.
“You are the dearest men.” Her long eyelashes
537
fluttered. She crossed her legs. “Do I have my freedom, my town house, my million?” She clutched a
handbag.
“I guess.”
“Did he sign it?” The tone of Torres’s voice
had made Reynaldo apprehensive. They had been
through this before with other women friends that
he had referred to the lawyer, but this time, it was
simply not a bird dog fee, but his future. He squeezed
Sue Ann’s hand.
“Yes, but …”
“Pooh, double-pooh.” She grinned at Reynaldo.
“You were so right, honey. I was so silly,” she girlishly giggled. Reynaldo leaned over to kiss her. She
turned her face so as not to disturb her make-up. “But
what, Tony?”
“I cannot recall a husband so financially ruined
who reacted so cheerfully.”
“He still 1oves me. The fool thinks I’ll take him
back.”
“You have played him like a violin, my dove.”
“So true.”
“I wonder.” Torres feigned puzzlement. “In
some respects, I have failed you.” He paused, swallowed affecting a lump in his throat. “I failed to get
you your Mercedes.” He hung his head, overly dramatic. “We shouldn’t have settled for that tired old
Lincoln.”
“A hand-me-down.”
“It’s brand new, less than 7,000 miles. I love
driving it. It’s you, sublimely American.”
The lawyer tensed, his palms felt clammy. He
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SHELDON YAVITZ
glared at her boyfriend. “Then, there is the matter of
my attorney’s fee. Your husband refused to pay the
entire 20,000 dollars.”
“Sue Ann paid you five. He paid you seventeen-five,” Reynaldo interjected. He eyed him suspiciously, suspecting an attempt to renege on his
referral: 10 percent, 2,250 dollars. “We discussed
this. You didn’t object.”
“I worked so hard. When I mentioned it today,
Stan laughed and said take it out in-trade.”
“He’s jealous of your ability. A mean-spirited
shit.”
She affectionately patted his hand. “It’s so, so
trivial.”
“Then you won’t mind paying the balance?”
“Me! Call him on the phone. Put your foot
down. That’s it! “
“We could delay the settlement.”
“That’s one thing about Stanton. He always gets
paid. Clients love to give him things: my town house,
cars, jewels.” She flashed a bracelet, glittering from
ears to fingers in diamonds. “I’m very disappointed
in you, Tony.”
He coughed, a clear your throat cough, and
poured a cup of coffee. “You’re right,” he remarked
after a long sip. “A man hiding millions shouldn’t be
that cheap.”
“Millions,” Sue Ann’s voice squeaked.
“I can’t prove it, yet.”
“What are you talking about?” She kept staring
at him until he responded.
“It’s this way.” He squared a legal pad in front
539
of him. “Without adequate discovery finding that
money is impossible.” Sue Ann rolled her eyes. “I
need to take his deposition, under oath, and bombard
him with probing questions.” He wrote the numeral
(1) and the word “deposition” on a yellow pad. “I
need to have him answer detailed interrogatories
directed to his assets, bank accounts, corporate interests, domestic and foreign.” As he spoke, the attorney scrawled numbers, ascending numerically, and
words labeling each point: (2) interrogatories, (3)
production of documents, (4) private investigator, (5)
accountants, (6) legal experts. “We were forced to
rely on his truthfulness.” He took a long, moaning
breath. “Do you for one minute believe him?”
“He’s worth more dead.”
Torres drew overstated dollar sign symbols on
the legal-size paper followed by the phrase, FOR
YOUR EYES ONLY, printed in large block letters.
Sue Ann shifted her body deliberately obstructing
Reynaldo’s view as the lawyer wrote: 3 to 6 MILLION-YOUR MONEY. “It’s more than a rumor. I’ve
got my sources, reliable sources.” He tore the sheet
from the pad and crumpled it in his hand. “I suspect
bank accounts in Europe and South America.” He
tossed the wadded paper in a wastebasket. “Your
husband was probably stashing money in London
when we tried to serve him with divorce papers.”
“Shit! He wanted me to meet him.”
“We have also learned of his ties to a person
called Dutch, a major drug smuggler, the biggest.”
She gave him an uncertain look. “You know
about Dutch?”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“I also suspect you know how to reach him.”
She returned a vacant stare. “You tell me where he
is, and I shall take his deposition, make him tell me
where your husband’s hoarding his money.”
“You can do that?”
“Done it before. I’m a divorce expert. Board
certified in marital and family law by the Supreme
Court, and Stan …”
“He’s had cases before the Supreme Court in
Washington.”
“I’m certified by the Florida Supreme Court,
our highest court. I tell you, he’s no match, and
Dutch won’t have any choice, believe me.”
“I hate to think …” Her eyes narrowed, face
pinched.
Reynaldo had moved from the conference table
and stood beside a wall unit. On the top shelf, an
Art Nouveau green glass vase with a frame work
of pewter; below, an ornamental bonsai plant and a
large black and gold embellished law dictionary. He
picked up the prodigious volume and turning pages
started at the words: adulterer, adultera, adulteress
and adultery. He read the legal definitions as Sue Ann
continued to converse with her lawyer. “Settle, my
love.” His face contorted in a worrisome grimace.
“Adultery, Tony. You said his proof was unbeatable.”
“I’ve reevaluated my position.”
“He gave us a break.”
“Pollard’s a pushover.” He flipped an empty
cup for emphasis. “When push came to shove, he
folded.”
“Pollard thinks like a Mafioso.”
541
Sue Ann’s face went blank. “Mafia?” She
blinked, blinked again, looked quizzically at her
young boyfriend in his rugby shirt and sockless loafers. “How cute, my little baby.”
“Please, settle.” His voice deepened attempting
to sound forceful. “Sue Ann, I wouldn’t take no for
an answer.”
Torres rapped a pen like a schoolteacher, and
gaining Sue Ann’s attention, wrote boldly on a sheet
of paper. I HAVE NO PATIENCE WITH CHILDREN-LET US TALK ALONE!!!! “You deserve so
much more.”
“Go Reynaldo!”
“You heard Mrs. Pollard.”
“My love, think of our town house.” He trudged
toward the door. “You’re making a mistake.” His gestures animated. “We’re lucky he hasn’t killed us.”
“Stanton wouldn’t dare. Be a good boy and go
before mamma gets angry.” He held the door ajar,
hesitated. “Honey, close it behind you,” she smiled,
a mother’s condescending smile, then waited until he
had gone before speaking to her lawyer. “My baby’s
so playful, so naive. Not brilliant like you, Tony.”
She gazed into his eyes.
“You are so sensible, the perfect client. Now,
my perfect client, it is very important that you tell me
all about Dutch.”
“I don’t know where to start.” She fumbled with
the cowl neck of her sweater dress. “He so horrible.”
“Relax. Would you care for some coffee, a
pastry.” He shrugged, the platter empty. She shook
her head, chewed on her lower lip. “While you are
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SHELDON YAVITZ
gathering your thoughts, I would appreciate you
signing an authorization permitting me to proceed
with our lawsuit. Just a formality,” he said, opening
a folder. He removed the single-spaced, typewritten
letter. “I’m a stickler for doing things ethically and
by the book.” He placed the correspondence before
her and pointed to where her signature was required.
“Sign here.” He put a pen in her hand.
She wrote her name without bothering to read
the paper.
“Don’t you feel better?” He said, his tone comforting, as he returned the following letter to the
divorce file.
RE: Marriage of Pollard
Case No.86-10159 CF 36
Your file: AT/224
Dear Mr .Torres :
This is to confirm that we have discussed
in detail the proposed Property Settlement
Agreement in the above case which has been
approved and signed by my husband. After
careful consideration and a full and lengthy
discussion and contrary to your strong and
repeated recommendation that the settlement is
in my best interest (EMPHASIS ADDED) , I
reject the offer, and instruct you to terminate
negotiations and proceed with the divorce litigation.
Sincerely yours,
SUE ANN POLIARD
543
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
The following morning came and went. Not a
call from Torres. Stan phoned the main house but
Sue Ann refused to talk with him. He could hear her
voice in the background shouting to the housekeeper.
“Tell that shit not to bother me. One more call, I’ll
have him arrested!” He rung up her lawyer’s office,
and according to a receptionist, Torres was in court
and would return the message. By late afternoon and
still having received no response, Stan telephoned
again and this time spoke directly with his secretary.
“Your wife was here. I went home. I don’t
know.” He inquired further conversing in Spanish. It
had a pacifying effect and she advised that as far as
she knew the agreement had not been signed. “I’m
sorry,” she said.
He hung up the receiver and leaned back in his
chair propping a foot on the desk. What could have
gone wrong? I had a bad feeling. He bent forward
dusting a speck from the toe of his boot. “Damn it!”
He hesitated, spoke into the intercom. “I got a problem,” he said to his secretary. “Set Reynaldo Martinez
down for deposition, prepare a witness subpoena and
make sure Doug serves it immediately. No later than
this weekend,” he noted looking at a desk calendar.
545
————
Reynaldo was served with a subpoena that Saturday, and his calls to Sue Ann’s lawyer captured
on tape. Stan had arranged with his investigator to
install a voice-activated, micro cassette recorder on
a home extension phone that rang in a cubicle in
the garage where he maintained his car collection. A
3.00 dollar, double coax plug in the telephone wall
jack and a little rewiring and a spy was in place.
Their conversations were a mix of English and Spanish and liberally sprinkled with Cuban epithets that
suffered in translation. He listened to the tape with
a detached amusement which turned to astonishment
and exasperation. The tape-recorded calls were subsequently transcribed.
EXCERPT FROM TRANSCRIPT: RM/ 1
R. MARTINEZ: “You said he was a pushover.
Like hell. You screwed him and he went for my
throat … Damn you!”
A. TORRES: “Calm down. He’s bluffing …
If we fight, you make more money … you’ll
make a fortune.”
R. MARTINEZ: “I had it. Her million, the
town house, the Lincoln … My future was set.”
A. TORRES: “Don’t blame me. The wacky
broad wants to fight … A greedy little cunt …
I don’t know how you can stand her … I even
feel sorry for her asshole husband.”
R. MARTINEZ: “Bullshit! … You talked her
into it … I’m not putting up with this crap for
another year … I’m going to her husband …”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
A. TORRES: “You’ll do nothing of the kind
… If Sue Ann finds out about your girlfriend,
you’ll be out on your ass.”
R. MARTINEZ: “She won’t believe you. She
met the girl and thinks she’s my cousin from
Cuba … The chick means nothing … I just
needed a hot piece.” (LAUGHTER)
A. TORRES: “Look, we got a good thing going
… I’ll pay you 15 percent and provide a lawyer
to represent you … Play along … I promise
nothing will happen … I have got to do this …
I have no choice …”
R. MARTINEZ; “I want 25 percent, 5,000
now.”
A. TORRES: “You little bastard!”
R. MARTINEZ: “Screw you … I hear Sue
Ann, asshole.”
A. TORRES: “I’ll give you 3,000 … 20 percent.”
R. MARTINEZ: “I got to go …”
A. TORRES: “Reynaldo!”
R. MARTINEZ: “I’ll call you back …”
R. MARTINEZ: “We have been arguing all day
… If he offers her anything, Sue Ann will settle
… She really scared of something … A Dutch,
somebody.”
A. TORRES: “You have to stop her … I need
time … I can’t tell you why, but it’s important
… This will benefit you …”
R. MARTINEZ: “Screw you, you liar!”
547
A. TORRES: “You got to help me … My
career’s at stake …”
R .MARTINEZ: “Screw you, you dumb prick
… We’re going to settle.”
A. TORRES: “I’ll pay you 5,000 … 25 percent
of my fee and furnish a lawyer at my expense.”
R. MARTINEZ: “Padding your fucking bill?”
A. TORRES: “What do you care how I do it.”
R. MARTINEZ: “I want 10,000, no later than
Monday, in cash. … I also want that Town
Car.”
A. TORRES: “Who do you think you’re talking
to? You … pissant bastard.”
R. MARTINEZ: “Screw you … I hear Sue Ann
… I’m going to eat her pussy until she begs
to settle.”
A. TORRES: “OK … OK.”
R. MARTINEZ: “OK … What? … Spit it out.”
A. TORRES: “10, 000 … cash by Wednesday
… 25 percent referral, a lawyer to represent
you …”
R. MARTINEZ: “The Lincoln …”
A. TORRES: “I don’t …”
R. MARTINEZ: “I want the car … Damn it!”
A. TORRES: “I’ll try … Now, you must stop
Sue Ann from settling.”
R. MARTINEZ: “How long?”
A. TORRES: “Until I get what I want.”
R. MARTINEZ: “You better not cross me.
Screw up her settlement or don’t pay me, and I
give this tape recording to Pollard.”
A. TORRES: “You dickhead, I’m on tape?”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
R. MARTINEZ: “Why would I trust a doublecrossing liar.”
————
Torres’ call on Monday came as no surprise.
Stan struggled to maintain his cool and followed a
planned presentation. The attorney’s voice came over
the phone loud and combative. “You’ve got some
nerve subpoenaing Martinez. I thought we were settling this case. Here you go acting the asshole.”
“That not what I hear?” Outside, the geese
marched by his window. A magnificent gnarled oak
defused the bright sunlight.
“You’re an alarmist. A few minor matters unresolved. Why don’t you cancel the deposition, and
I will send you a letter detailing our differences.
Answer at you leisure.”
“Spell them out now, or the depo’s on.” He
found a writing pad amid the desk clutter.
Torres initially limited Sue Ann’s objections to
a new car and his attorney’s fee. Rather than protest,
as expected, Stan said. “No problem. You win.”
“She also wants the Lincoln. I hate to say it, but
it’s for her boyfriend.”
“She put a nick in it. Hell, take it.”
“But seriously, Stan, that’s not the issue.” Beads
of perspiration dotted his forehead. “She wants
another million, more if we can find it. I know we
can.”
“I must admit I can see her point. You made a
bad deal. What about Sue Ann’s old age?”
“Old age?”
549
“What happens when the money runs out? I
love her, can’t leave her destitute. What would the
kids say?”
“I can’t figure you out.”
“I’m serious. My conscience has been bothering me.” He pulled a paper from his pocket, unfolded
it and read from a prepared memo. He stated that he
was willing to pay up to fifty thousand a year under
certain conditions, such as Sue Ann being unmarried
or remarried and divorce without adequate support
provisions. “A modified social security. Dependent
on the circumstances that’s about two million more
over twenty years, God love her.”
The line went silent; Stan tapped his fingers.
“She’ll never accept it.”
“I will put it in writing.”
“Won’t be necessary.”
“You won’t be able to talk her out of this.”
“I’m going to ruin you.”
“For a man with skeletons, I won’t be so confident.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I wouldn’t be the first.” He caught the faux pas
and laughed.
Stan would write a letter to his wife’s attorney
confirming their conversation and reiterating his settlement offer. A copy was forwarded to Sue Ann,
ethically improper during contested litigation, but
this was an emergency. There would be no reply,
and no complaint. In time, he would discover from
another taped conversation that Reynaldo intercepted
her copy, and Torres never informed his client. The
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SHELDON YAVITZ
letter was costly. Sue Ann’s lover extorted not ten,
but 15,000 dollars from Torres. “Cash, no check.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
In the early 1970s, the Miami division of the
Drug Enforcement Administration, DEA, operated
from a converted warehouse until a roof collapsed
tragically injuring and killing several agents. A black
day, but as with most federal law enforcement agencies, the War on Drugs had brought rebirth and
unimaginable prosperity. Their new offices constituted a block square building in an office/industrial
park not far from the swank Doral Country Club. The
structure was impressive rivaling any Fortune 500
company, the high-tech equipment, the best tax dollars could buy, and since the enactment of confiscation legislation, agents, rather than driving traditional
fleet vehicles, tooled around in luxury automobiles
and sports cars.
To Stan, it called to mind the remark of a homicide detective, who lamented after failing to start
a run-of-the-mill, motor pool Plymouth: “If I was
assigned to narcotics, I’d be driving a Corvette, but
there is no money in solving murders.”
Agent Bernie Salerno strutted through the executive-style suite of his supervisor, Martin P. Wilkinson, Special Agent-in-Charge of the Miami field
office. He winked at one secretary and smiled con-
552
SHELDON YAVITZ
fidently at another. Unannounced, he entered the
chief’s private sanctum. “Martin, I need a few minutes,” he said, settling into a chair before an imposing, uncluttered desk. “The Pollard file.” He spoke
casually; the men were longtime friends. He offered
him a thick folder.
“Fill me in.” Wilkinson rejected the dossier gesturing with a hand held hamburger. He sat in shirtsleeves and suspenders; a suit jacket draped over a
chair. “Has he been charged in the call girl homicide?” He reached in a packet of French fried potatoes.
“The Fort Lauderdale P.D. can’t make a case.”
Wilkinson took another bite from the burger. “Pollard has an alibi, including a hotel guest, who placed
the woman alive after he left, and get this,” he said
waving the folder. “According to one of the detectives, Washington clamped a lid on the investigation.
National security, that’s all he would tell me.”
“What do you make of it?” He sipped cola
through a straw. His steely gray eyes fixed on
Salerno.
“I’m not sure,” he shrugged, an exaggerated
shrug. “We had info that connected him with the
CIA, but when we inquired they shot back their usual
bull of neither confirming nor denying his employment.” Salerno thumbed through the folder and produced a memorandum from the Central Intelligence
Agency and gave it to Wilkinson. “We haven’t struck
a raw nerve, and I would assume we’re safe.”
“It smells.”
“He’s a major player. From what we’ve learned,
553
he’s up to his neck in a well organized drug operation
with high level influence in the Bahamas, Haiti and a
probable link to the Medellin Cartel.”
He bit into the hamburger. “Lay it out.” He
spoke with a mouth full.
“Blanton was the first informant who tipped us
to his involvement in drug trafficking. Drug flights
over Cuba, if you remember.” He withdrew from the
folder a lengthy report with the notation: DEA SENSITIVE, Not to be disseminated.
“Useless dribble.” Wilkinson fastidiously wiped
his greasy chin with a paper napkin.
“There has been substantiation. Customs provided us with a drug pilot arrested on the west coast
of Florida. He claimed to be working for a smuggler
named Dutch, based in Nassau. He confessed to
flying protected drug flights over Cuban airspace and
verified that Pollard was Dutch’s attorney. As further proof, Pollard’s associate visited him in jail.
Too late,” he smiled tightly. “Their boys already had
turned him.”
“What’s showed up on NCIC and EPIC? Anything in our own files?”
“Negative on Dutch, but Bahamian CID positively ID him as Dutch Durant, a Canadian businessman, living on a yacht in Nassau, and the RCMP
connects him to a Canadian plane crash and a four
million dollar cocaine seizure that they call,” he
laughed, “the largest in their history. They were negotiating with a key defendant, a white male, 38, Canadian, McGovern, for a plea and reduced sentence in
exchange for testifying against Dutch, when the asset
554
SHELDON YAVITZ
up and vanished.”
“Presumably dead?” Wilkinson proffered, and
went back to eating.
“The clincher occurred when we debriefed
Luther “Goldie” Clampton, busted by Broward
County narcs in a cocaine sting, 35 keys.” He handed
his boss police reports, an arrest complaint and the
State-filed Information. “During our interrogation,
he admitted to a 26,000 pound marijuana load and
confirmed that Pollard is Dutch’s attorney.”
As the agent spoke, Wilkinson reviewed the
documents. “Clampton claims Dutch cheated him
out of his share,” he remarked, looking up, paraphrasing a written statement. “Here, he badmouths
Pollard because he won’t act as a go-between in a
drug deal. That’s the same crap that discredited Blanton, and makes our SOB smell like a rose.”
“Clampton’s great. Take my word. He gave up
his partner, an uncooperative jerk named Conte, and
his supply chain. He’s been on the street making
cases, not big but significant.”
Wilkinson read aloud, skipping fragments as he
read. “At the time of the arrest, a juvenile, identified
as Juice Barry, 15, a Jamaican, was found in suspect’s
vehicle. The minor was turned over to the juvenile
authorities,” he paused, momentarily distracted by
something that he was reading. “He claimed to have
been sexually molested by Clampton and a search of
the suspect’s residence revealed,” he bristled, disgust
written across his face, “kiddy porn, child pornography.”
“The kid’s been deported. Clampton’s too impor-
555
tant to be tainted by weak sexual battery allegations.
Everybody’s satisfied.”
“Medical supported it.”
“The kid had no credibility. Pollard’s our
target.”
“I don’t see enough to justify a search warrant
of the lawyer’s office, or a wiretap or a grand jury
investigation.” He raised his opened palms dismissively. “If Customs, or the State had a case, they
wouldn’t be looking to us for help,” he drawled,
dragging out his words, flavored by a pronounced
Georgia twang. “I see no priority, just work it.”
“Our friend, Remo, wants him in the bag.”
“Fuck that asshole!” He leaned back in an executive chair. The fruits of his illustrious career spelled
out in mementos and pictures rising above the crown
of his head: a framed photograph of Agent Wilkinson, tall and lean with his hair parted in the middle,
with the Vice President; another with the Attorney
General, and a group picture with stony faced agents
armed with semiautomatic weapons standing in a
marijuana field somewhere in South America. Letters of commendation, awards for public service
and a stirring message from the President of the
United States added to the impression of the dedicated government agent. “What’s his beef?” His posture flagged.
“I guess you don’t know,” Salerno smiled cryptically. “Pollard now represents Carlos Bianco, Remo’s
ex-partner. He also represents Sky Mellow, who used
to work for both of them, and Pop Durfee until Carter
took over the case and,” he paused, brushing a ner-
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SHELDON YAVITZ
vous hand across his lips, “our boy, Ace McGonigle.”
He looked at him wide-eyed, coughed, retching
on a French fry. He took a long draw on his cola
and dried his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why
didn’t you tell me?” He tugged at his shirt collar.
“I’m telling you now,” he exhaled slowly.
“Remo’s not certain, but Durfee, who knows Ace like
a brother, told me that Ace won’t take a crap without
first asking Pollard.”
“Why didn’t we know this?”
“Remo blew it, I guess,” he shrugged. “On top
of that, Pollard and Mellow implicated Remo in a
North Florida drug conspiracy.” Wilkinson grunted.
“Don’t you remember? We stepped in and got the
indictment quashed.”
“Which means?” He cast an irritable glance.
“That Pollard’s aware that Remo’s a snitch; that
he set up Mellow, arranged for Durfee to be kidnapped, did in Bianco and,” his voice barely audible, “that we are working with Ace and that crazy
beaner.”
“Supposition.”
“No. I don’t think so. Pollard was with Durfee
after he had been kidnapped and flown to Miami. He
tricked Remo. That bigmouth threatened him.” He
raised an eyebrow. “Pollard’s one vindictive sonofabitch, and he attempted to get even by having Remo
indicted, or possibly, he was going after confirmation.” Wilkinson shook his head as if not wanting to
believe it. “If carried to a logical conclusion, we must
assume that …”
557
“Assume nothing!”
“Remo’s shitting bricks, I’m on edge. Pollard’s
got to be silenced or neutralized.” He leaned forward. “Remo’s got to be appeased. We have our
necks at stake. A rat’s the first to turn.” The well-muscled, case-hardened veteran massaged his temple. “I
couldn’t deal with prison.” He could feel a tight knot
well in the pit of his stomach.
“We can put him in a witness protection program.”
“Martin,” he said, throwing his hands up.
“You’ve been behind a desk so long that you’re out of
touch. Don’t you realize,” his voice rising to a shout,
“that damn, crazy shit’s running drugs with …
“Shut up! The walls have ears.” He paused, and
stared at him coldly. “Stop beating around the bush.
What’s the plan?” He pressed the intercom. “Hold
my calls. Tell them I’m out!”
“I want you to look at this,” he said furnishing
him the file. “This section,” he said making a specific
reference. “We’ve been monitoring Pollard’s nasty
divorce.” He paused while his boss scanned the voluminous pages.
“What’s the point?” He shoved the folder back
across the desk.
“There’s an IRS agent hot on the case. He’s the
perfect hatchet man, has an in with the wife’s lawyer.
A go-getter! He just killed the property settlement.
Pollard’s wife is some dingbat, turned down over two
million.”
“For that kind of money, I divorce him myself,”
Wilkinson chuckled. “I didn’t realize that Pollard
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was that successful.”
“As you can see from the divorce petition, the
wife’s made all kinds of wild statements about cash,
phony corporations and even drug smuggling. She’s
trying to bury her husband. We are going to help her.
From what the agent says, she also knows Dutch.”
“Really!” Wilkinson with renewed interested
returned to perusing the file. The seconds dragged
into a minute, then five. Salerno stretched, stroked
his beard and began to relax.
“They are going to push him to the wall, harass
him to death, go into all his files and feed us data,” he
smiled cunningly. “Better than a search warrant.”
“Does the wife know?”
“She’s a puppet, but here’s the idea.” He moved
forward, his eyes calculating, his voice low, that of
a schemer. “As the pressure builds, we step in with
a grand jury subpoena compelling him to disclose
records on fees earned from Dutch and his involvement in Cuban drug overflights.”
“What if the CIA steps in?”
“You sound like an old woman.”
“A lawyer with that kind of money, who can
shut down a murder investigation, with ties to Washington and the smarts to figure out our operation, is
no patsy.”
“That’s why we’ve got to make him squirm,
close down his practice, turn his clients against him,
makes them think that he’s turning snitch to save his
ass. Put him in fear and do you know what’s going to
happen?”
Wilkinson nodded, a wry country smile creased
559
his lips, then a cackling laugh. “Do you have an
AUSA on it?”
“Assistant U.S. Attorney Ted Charles. He’s salivating.”
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Stan would equate a divorce to a revolution
with the fabric of a family rather than a country torn
apart. No longer at the peace table, the parties turned
to legal skirmishes. Torres’s first volley, a slew of
lengthy discovery pleadings, designed to ferret the
minutest of financial details. Reluctantly, Stan countered with an answer to the divorce petition and a
counterclaim spelling out Sue Ann’s adultery, and set
about putting on record his proof supportive of the
charge. Torres fired back scheduling hearings seeking temporary alimony, child support, and attorney’s
fees and a myriad of other relief. Stan stared at all
the paperwork and estimated the time that would be
consumed in litigation, and remarked to Crawford,
“Who needs this?” He tilted back the antique barber
chair and propped a boot on the ornate footrest. “I am
going to hire a mad dog divorce attorney, step back,
get on with my life.”
He chose Christabel Forster, a much ballyhooed divorce lawyer, who specialized in representing husbands, with a reputation as a “hired gun”
and a personal vendetta for Antonio Torres. Apparently, it arose from an attorney’s fee dispute, and
over the years festered into competitive madness. He
561
described her as a pit viper, but the concept seemed
flawed. In the end, he reverted to his lawyer persona
and insisted on hands-on control. “I expect a copy of
every pleading and all correspondence in this case.
I, or my associate, will be present or monitor each
hearing, and any negotiations, agreements or extension of time must have my approval.”
“I am not accustomed to working under such
restraints, I demand full trust and confidence from
my clients.”
“That is not the way I do business.”
“A rather arrogant position,” she said, peering
down from her elevated perch behind a massive,
manly desk. She fluffed her red hair; her green eyes
smoldered. “You are going to be a bastard, Mr. Pollard.”
“I see no reason to change.”
————
Sue Ann wanted his law office removed from
the premises. The catch: he rented the building from
the corporation that had been set up to own their
home. The lease had a long expiration date with the
sizeable rental going to taxes, mortgage and maintenance payment. Stan gave in and a compromise
was reached. He moved his office in exchange for
a reduction in support payments. Torres hailed it as
a bold victory. Sue Ann howled, delighted, but she
soon discovered that the reduction in alimony and
increased expenses sorely crimped her lavish lifestyle.
Reynaldo sustained a shock when the Lincoln
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SHELDON YAVITZ
Town Car was sold to satisfy Torres’s temporary
attorney’s fee. Stan would always remember his telephone call to her lawyer. The phone tap had remained
in place as the result of a second condition which
allowed Stan to retain control of the garage, subject
to the erection of a privacy fence separating that
building from both the main house and former law
office.
R. MARTINEZ: “I just learned that Pollard
sold my car. Do you hear what I am saying
… My Lincoln’s gone! He sold it to pay your
legal fees … You rotten prick … I want my car
back …”
A. TORRES: “Grow up, stop your whining …
We’re pushing him to the walls … He’s desperate …”
R. MARTINEZ: “His daughter says he just
bought a sports car. He’s always on vacation,
… screwing around with that dancer … You
damn fool … You’re ruining my life …”
A. TORRES: “Stop bitching … The court only
awarded me a measly 30,000 as temp fees … I
gave you 15 … I’m working for nothing …”
R. MARTINEZ: “You promised me that car
…”
A. TORRES: “Too bad. That’s the way the
cookie crumbles …”
R. MARTINEZ: “If you just made 15 thou,
then you owe me 25 percent.”
A. TORRES: “That’s not the way it works.”
563
R. MARTINEZ: “OK. I am going to tell Sue
Ann.”
A. TORRES: “She’ll kick you out, you dumb
clown.”
R. MARTINEZ: “I will cry and beg her for
forgiveness, but you will be disbarred … Now,
fork over the money … I am on my way to
your office.”
A. TORRES: “I won’t pay you.”
R. MARTINEZ: “By, by … You will be hearing from Sue Ann’s new 1awyer.”
EXCERT FROM TRANSCRIPT: RM/ 5
A.TORRES: “It’s me”
R. MARTINEZ: “Call me back. Sue Ann’s
crying … She wants a new Mercedes … She
wants her town house … Her car is broken … I
can’t talk to you … call me back …”
EXCERPT OF TRANSCRIPT: RM/ 6
R. MARTINEZ: “We’ve been talking about a
new 1awyer …”
A. TORRES: “I was only joking … You got
the money.”
R. MARTINEZ: “I don’t know …”
A. TORRES: “Please, please … I want you to
have it …”
R. MARTINEZ: “In cash … tomorrow.”
As in war, one side doesn’t win every battle,
and Stan suffered a major setback when the judge
ruled that in spite of his adultery claim, Sue Ann had
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SHELDON YAVITZ
a right to determine the value of his law practice.
Siding with the wife, he ordered the appointment of
accountants to analyze his books and records, and
over strenuous objection that it violated the 1awyer/
client privilege, further ordered the appointment of
attorneys to review his cases to determine whether
he was reporting the actual fees earned. He based
his decision on the argument that Stan was receiving
large sums of cash and failing to declare it.
With the conclusion of the hearing, Stan and his
attorney exited the judge’s chambers. They stood in
the austere, wood paneled anteroom with its uncomfortable straight chairs.
“I can’t believe that decision,” Christabel hissed.
She threw a backward glance but did not see Torres.
“That little cunt’s probably crawling up the judge’s
leg.” She fingered a button on a soft-gray doublebreasted jacket. “Your criminal clients will be frantic when they hear of the ruling.” Her cosmetically
preserved features sullenly drooped. “Of course, we
shall appeal.” She held her head high and looked
straight at him.
“Of course,” Stan replied, masking his distraction.
Beneath a gilt-framed, hoary portrait of a
deceased jurist sat a man unobtrusively reading a
magazine. He had salt-and-pepper hair and mustache, and as Stan recalled, wore the same cheap suit
that he had on in Torres’s waiting room. Stan withdrew a cigar from his jacket breast pocket. A prearranged signal to an investigator planted in the room
on the slim chance of such an appearance. He had
565
already provided a description and the sign served as
confirmation. “Impressive,” he said, forcing a smile
that belied his growing consternation. “A masterful
job. Under the circumstances, no one could have
done better.” He took hold of her elbow and urged
her toward the elevator.
“I have been retaining water for five months,”
Christabel sighed, feeling more at ease with her
incredibly understanding client.
“I’m impressed.” His expression deadpan; his
voice intentionally loud as they passed the scheming
bureaucrat.
Within two days, a private eye’s report verified
his worst suspicion. It read in part:
The subject in question remained in the waiting
room until Mr. Pollard and Ms. Forster left.
He spoke briefly to Antonio Torres and then
entered the judge’s chambers. He remained for
12 minutes. From the courthouse, he was followed to the 15th floor of the Federal Office
Building. Subject identified as Richard Lanza,
IRS agent, Criminal Investigations.
The pieces of the puzzle were falling in place.
Yet, Stan could not fathom how to use the new
found information. He had verified the IRS agent,
tentatively confirmed his involvement with his wife’s
lawyer, and a probable, improper contact with the
trial judge, but he could not factually prove that it
was directed at him. A boldfaced accusation would
be countered by a self-righteous denial and render
any further investigation impossible. The electronic
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SHELDON YAVITZ
surveillance could not be revealed, not even to Christabel. First, wiretapping was illegal and second, disclosure might force an abrupt end to that covert
activity. His assessment of his lawyer: A fierce,
aggressive protagonist in the courtroom, but alien
to his world where the rule is survival and the key,
leverage.
He initially hoped to convince Sue Ann to hire
another attorney. An attempt at approaching her met
with an immediate and caustic rebuke. “Say one
word to me and I’m calling Tony. He will have you
held in contempt, you rotten, cheap shit!” Kimberly
treated the suggestion with revulsion. “So gross, you
make me want to puke.” Tom said. “Keep me out of
this.”
Efforts of intermediaries proved equally unsuccessful. “This is war.” Sue Ann had a determined
expression. “This is the way a divorce is fought.”
She sat rigid, scowling. “Stanton’s crazy. All he does
is talk shit. Right, Reynaldo.” She held fast to his
hand.
“Absolutely, my love. The divorce is you.”
————
Stan’s law firm relocated to a downtown office
tower, an architectural marvel of stainless steel,
tinted glass and concrete. Palm-lined Brickell Avenue
served as the major thoroughfare. From high above
the city, the suite provided a view of Biscayne Bay
and the Miami Beach skyline rather than tall oaks,
tropical foliage and a gaggle of geese. The décor and
furniture resembled his old office, and as Crawford
567
later explained. “We moved it over lock, stock and
barrel.”
It soon became apparent that Stan seemed to
have lost interest in his law practice. He would arrive
late and leave early and devoted time to fewer and
fewer cases. Crawford and the staff attributed it to
the divorce and the drastic change in his environment. There were no longer his young sons in his lap
and the dogs at his feet. Sherlock and Watson were
not there to screech in the background. When he took
a break, his time was spent at a local bar or restaurant instead of tinkering with a car or playing with
the animals.
Still, the Sol Gateman and Bianco matters
claimed his attention. A 500,000 dollar verdict in
Brittany Hoskins’ sexual harassment lawsuit brought
him nationwide publicity and the Treasure Chest
Lounge Person of the Year award.
“I won over Busty-Busty,” he remarked to Crawford, exhibiting a bronze plaque with his name
inscribed over two giant breasts. “Considering that I
was dressed, it’s quite an accomplishment.”
————
In mid-November after having been compelled
by a court order, Reynaldo appeared for a deposition at Stan’s lawyer’s office. He arrived with a boyish-faced, overweight attorney, Roberto Rojas. “An
obnoxious slob devoid of ethics,” to quote Christabel.
“Between him and Torres, I have aged ten years.”
Reynaldo wore a custom-fit sports jacket and
pleated trousers; his legal counsel, a tarnished blue
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SHELDON YAVITZ
suit, white shirt and stained tie. They joined Torres,
Stan and a court reporter, and Christabel in her sandalwood and wild orchid conference room.
She briefly explained that a deposition was a
discovery tool for obtaining information and that he
would be placed under oath and required to truthfully
answer questions pertaining to the Pollard divorce
case.
He shrugged, then looked directly at Rojas. The
lawyer nodded. “My dear lady, I speak only Spanish,” Reynaldo said. “A little English.” He squeezed
and opened two fingers to accentuate the contrived
limitation.
“Would you prefer an interpreter?” Christabel’s
long silver frosted nails beat a staccato tap.
“I insist.” Rojas glanced about the room. “I
don’t see one.” He straightened in his chair. “Let the
record reflect the husband’s attorney is totally unprepared. We will be asking for sanctions and court
ordered fee.” He rose to his feet. “Come along, Reynaldo.”
“Such incompetence,” Torres added. Reynaldo
beamed.
“Take your seat, sir. I have one on standby.”
————
After a brief recess, an attractive woman entered
with a spiritless smile and large tinted glasses. “This
is Ms. Sosa, our interpreter.” Christabel checked her
watch. “Less than 10 minutes, bill me,” she chuckled.
During the initial inquiry, Reynaldo denied an
569
extramarital affair with Sue Ann. He spoke glibly in
Spanish responding to the translation of Christabel’s
questions.
“We were simply good friends, innocent, very
platonic, like mother and son, teacher and student.”
He cocked an eyebrow, paused, grinned sensing no
negative reaction.
“Did there come a time when you had sexual
relations with Sue Ann Pollard?”
He tilted his head and closed his eyes. “My
sweet Sue Ann resisted like a tiger. She so prim and
proper like a saint.” His fingers steepled in a prayerful pose. “It was only after the divorce was filed and
the parties no longer living together that we made
love. From what I have been told that is legally permissible.”
Rojas nodded approvingly; Stan’s expression
remained impassive and Sue Ann’s attorney stared
blindly out the tenth story window.
Christabel offered six photographs to the stenographer. “Please, mark these as a composite, Respondent’s Exhibit 1.”
The pictures were marked and passed in turn to
each of the lawyers. Torres coughed, but showed no
visible reaction. Rojas scowled, flicked cigar ashes.
“Mr. Martinez can you identify the persons in
each of the photographs?”
He took a long look. His eyes moving rapidly
from photo to photo as they were spread before him
on the table. He shifted in his chair. “Where did you
get them?”
“Can you identify the woman in the pho-
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SHELDON YAVITZ
tograghs?”
“Familiar, but, not familiar.”
“Let us take them one by one. The first, Exhibit
1A.”
“I can’t tell. She’s going down on him.”
“Can you identify the man?”
“I need a glass of water.” He crossed his legs. “I
need to go to the bathroom.” His hands constantly in
motion. “I want to talk with my lawyer.”
“I demand a recess. My client’s obviously distraught by such filth.”
“He shall sit here until he answers my question.”
“I object.” Rojas slammed an open palm down
on the table.
“I join in the objection.”
“He’s not your client, Mr. Torres.”
“I object anyway.”
“Your objection is noted. Now answer the question.”
The pulse in Reynaldo’s neck pounded; he
uttered a uniquely Cuban obscenity. The interpreter
recoiled as if struck by a bullet. The court reporter
peered up from her stenotype machine. “Will the witness please repeat his answer.” Her fingers poised at
the keys.”
————
From the muffled sounds of voices and music,
it was evident on the tape recorded conversation
that Reynaldo had called from a lounge. His speech
slurred.
571
SUE ANN: “What took you so long? … Are
you at a bar?”
R. MARTINEZ: “I feel like I’ve been run
through a wringer. It’s not over … I refuse to
answer … They’re going to haul me before a
judge for contempt … Force me to testify.”
SUE ANN: “Poor baby … Are you with a girl?
Are you drunk again?”
R. MARTINEZ: “Get out of my face! … Do
you want a good slap … I’ve gone through hell
… You don’t care …”
SUE ANN: (UNINTELLIGIBLE)
R. MARTINEZ: “They know everything …”
SUE ANN: “So what … Tony told us not to
worry …”
R. MARTINEZ: “They know every hotel …
everything we bought, credit cards, the apartment … trips … They got pictures …”
SUE ANN: “Tony called and said you did wonderful … You’re such a child … Stanton’s lawyer’s talking shit.”
R. MARTINEZ: “Did he tell you about the
photos?”
SUE ANN: “We saw the pictures.”
R. MARTINEZ: “Not these! … They got us
on the beach in Acapulco … Sue Ann … Sue
Ann!”
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
The CATCH ME rocked imperceptively at its
mooring, lines creaked, and a gentle breeze fanned
the afterdeck. Dutch in a gold braid trimmed Greek
fisherman’s cap sat hunched over a disassembled
saltwater game fishing reel. The parts spread on a
table alongside a small tool chest, a large ceramic
mug and a portable shortwave receiver. Out of the
corner of a vigilant eye, he watched as a heavyset
stranger walked up the gangplank and moved toward
him. He made a mental note of the uninvited guest’s
facial features and thinning hair. He observed that he
carried a jacket slung over his shoulder and held in
one hand a rolled up sheet of paper. As Dutch would
say, “Even in the salt air, he could smell his stink.”
“Hey partner, I’m looking for Dutch Durant.”
“He’s on the bench sleeping.” He pointed to
Wink.
“The person studied the young man with a
ponytail and scraggly beard, then returned his gaze to
Dutch. “I got a message from Pollard. I have to give
it to Dutch personally, and that kid’s not Durant.”
Dutch’s hand slipped into a pocket of a navy
blue zip-front jacket and curled around a band of
brass knuckles. “That’s Durant,” he grunted, know-
573
ing that Stan would never send a courier. “Don’t
believe me. Ask him.”
The stranger shrugged, drifted over to Wink and
nudged him on the shoulder. Wink blinked. “Yeah,
man.”
“My name’s Hillman. I’m a process server. Give
this to that asshole boss of yours,” he said handing
him the paper.
Dutch had moved in behind him and lunged
slamming a brass knuckles fist in the small of Hillman’s back just above the kidney. He spun the man
around throwing a metal encased right hand into his
upper stomach. Wink brought him to his knees, then
face down on the deck with blows from a blackjack.
As wink searched the prostrate process server
for identification, Dutch stood over them reading the
subpoena. He tore it in half. “Ever try this shit again,
I’ll break both your arms and legs.”
Hillman looked up, groaned, coughed up blood.
He struggled to his feet. A kick from Wink sent him
sprawling.
Dutch stepped on his hand grinding into the
deck carpet. “Tell this schmuck,” he paused, checking the name. “Tell Torres if he ever tries this again,
I will personally cut off his head and shit in his
neck!”
————
At the time of the subpoena incident, Stan was
out of the state. Not until his return did he learn of the
following tape recorded phone call between Dutch
and Sue Ann.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
EXCERPT FROM TELEPHONE CALL:
(NOT TRANSCRIBED)
DUTCH: “Hi, Sue Ann. Got your witness subpoena …”
SUE ANN: “You’re going to help me?”
DUTCH: “Your subpoena’s worth shit in the
Bahamas.”
SUE ANN: “My lawyer can force you to tell
everything you know about Stanton’s money.”
DUTCH: “He can force shit … He’s worth shit
… I tore it up and shoved it up the schlemiel’s
ass … But, if you’re looking for information, I
might be willing to help.”
SUE ANN: “You’re such a honey … I just
knew you would.”
DUTCH: “It’s going to cost …”
SUE ANN: “How much? … I got money …
jewelry …”
DUTCH: (LAUGHTER) “I got more money
than God.”
SUE ANN: “Dutch …”
DUTCH: “I want your big ass … I want to see
why my schmuck friend found you so special.”
SUE ANN: “Where’s Reggie?”
DUTCH: “In England … I was planning to get
a whore … but you will do fine.”
SUE ANN: “Please, Dutch …”
DUTCH: “Tonight, or never.”
SUE ANN: “You can really help me?”
DUTCH: “Who knows Stan better than me.”
SUE ANN: “Do you know all about his
575
banks?”
DUTCH: “You got it.”
SUE ANN: “What do I have to do?”
DUTCH: “Earn it, and I mean earn it, like a
whore, just like a whore.”
SUE ANN: “Tonight?”
DUTCH: “I will pick you up at the airport.
Wear a short skirt … I mean short … a low-cut,
tight blouse … No underwear … I’m going to
check you out at the terminal … You better not
make me mad.”
SUE ANN: “You swear you will help me?”
DUTCH: “Would I lie?”
————
With a forty five million dollar net profit deal
with the Cartel under his belt, Stan stopped in Nassau
for the unavoidable confrontation with Dutch. He
had first right of refusal, but he realized that Dutch
would never match the offer. He would call him “traitor,” “Judas,” a “lowlife bastard,” and demand that he
compromise, take less. You owe it to me. I’m your
best friend.
As far as Stan was concerned, their friendship
had died with Laura’s murder and now buried with
Dutch’s telephone call to Sue Ann. Only money and
a hint of his innocence had kept their business relationship alive.
He had flown into Nassau on a Learjet 36A
courtesy of El Patron. He checked into the Regatta
Club and found Dutch off island. Faced with a lonely
evening, he sought refuge at the Casino, and settle in
576
SHELDON YAVITZ
for a dull bout with the blackjack table. The cards fell
in place, and he sat with stacks of chips. When you
no longer need money, you don’t lose. He felt a warm
breath on his neck, turned his head and gazed into the
hungry eyes of Angela Adorno.
“Long time, Stan.”
“Too long,” he smiled, flipping over a face down
card.
“Blackjack!” The dealer announced as he dealt
to the other players.
“I hope you’re not busy. Luck’s been with
me, and no one to spend it on,” he shrugged. She
answered with a kiss. He left a sizeable tip with the
dealer, picked up the chips, and gave them to Angela.
“I think this is more than fair.”
“Stan, you bought the time of your life,” she
would coo, counting the tokens.
————
Angela led the way through the rows of gaming
tables, and hordes of tourists, passing under a mirrored ceiling and a gargantuan chandelier. Flashing
lights and neon mingled with the unmistakable whir
and clang of slot machines. “Let’s have a drink first,”
he said. She clung to his arm, glittering in sequins
and costume jewelry.
They found a quiet lounge off the main floor
and a cozy booth dimmed by candlelight. His arm
around her bare shoulders; her hand on his thigh. She
still wore her red hair in a short, asymmetrical style.
He took a different approach and told her that the
police had found Laura’s killer. “A beach bum named
577
Labelle confessed.” His voice intentionally devoid
of emotion. “Case closed.” He sipped his drink and
waited for her reaction.
“I didn’t know that.” She frowned; her professional listening expression had vanished.
“A dead call girl’s not big news,” he said,
forcing coldness to his voice. “The trial hasn’t yet
occurred. Her murderer had to be extradited from
another state.”
“So hard to believe.” She reached in her purse
for a cigarette.
“I suspect that you, just like me, made the same
mistake,” he said, finding a matchbook in an ashtray.
He cupped the flame as she lit her cigarette. “We figured it was Dutch.”
She took a deep drag and exhaled slowly. “You
too?”
“He fit the perpetrator. Dutch had access to
heroin. They were both into S&M and porn videos,
and he had this thing for her, and you know his
temper, but I was wrong,” he smiled, a thin smile.
“He told me he was going to make her a movie star.
I was impressed.”
“That two-timer used me to get to her.” She
stubbed out her cigarette. “He was going to turn her
into an addict so he could control her.” She stiffened,
her eyes hinted of inner turmoil.
“Then, I interfered, stole her from both of you.”
“Yeah.” Her hand slipped from his thigh.
“So you all wanted her back. You found out
where she was staying.” He tensely twisted the emerald ring on his finger. “You told Dutch …”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“Me, what?”
“You told Dutch.”
“How do you know?”
“He told me,” he lied. “What difference does it
make? They got the murderer.”
“All this time, I thought he’d kill me if I told
anyone.” She sighed and melted in his protective
embrace. “Are you into something kinky?” She cuddled up to him; her hand caressing his groin. “Honey,
I feel the need to be punished.”
“It would be a new experience.” He affected titillation in his voice. “I don’t want to sound naive,
but do you do it under the influence of heroin like
Laura.”
“Baby,” she paused, sucking on a breath mint.
“You don’t do that junk unless someone tricks you.”
“Well, that’s better.” He patted her hand. “Let’s
have another drink, and you can give me pointers on
being a Dutch-type lover.”
“That bastard knows how to punch a girl’s buttons.”
“Certain girls, a few, one, maybe, two,” he
winked.
“They’re out there. When he finds one, she is
helpless. With me, it’s business first, pleasure second.
We’re a lot alike.” He listened as Angela rambled.
A breathless excitement in her voice as she talked
about her S&M lifestyle, her relationship with the
drug smuggler, and his obsession with, as he called
her, a special puta.
Stan laughed at the strange label, but his expression grew somber as she described that certain
579
woman, seduced by money, drugs or “head games,”
until she does whatever he wants no matter how base
and perverted. “For me, pain’s a sexual turn on, but
he takes you so far beyond …”
As Angela spoke, Dutch, in Stan’s mind, was
tried and convicted of Laura’s murder, the sentence
deferred (money as always and the Cartel had priority) but what of Sue Ann?
“Have you seen Dutch’s latest girlfriend?”
“Odd that you should ask.”
“Platinum blond, pretty.” His eyes burned into
her. “A Southern accent.”
“I met them once, saw them twice at the Casino.
She wears the shortest skirts. His paws all over her,
up her dress. No bra, panties, you couldn’t help
notice.” She rolled her eyes, made a face. “She’s not
local, imported, treats her like a bad pimp.”
She returned a not so subtle suspicious glance.
“I was talking with Frank. I guess you know him.”
Stan nodded, forced a smile. Her face brightened;
the fine tension lines eased. “He had drinks and coke
with them on the yacht. They’re all pretty wasted.
The girl’s high as a kite. Dutch had her strip, shows
her off. They drew cards to see who gets her first.
Frank said it was wild. He does her, then his buddy.
All the time Dutch is watching, directing it like a
movie. Boy, is he crude, but that chick’s into crude,”
she snickered. “He plugs her with bananas, wanted
cucumbers, couldn’t find any. It’s like midnight. He’s
calling restaurants. Finally, for 400 bucks a dude
showed up with a bag. He invited the guy to stay
580
SHELDON YAVITZ
and watch. They’re measuring, making bets. Dutch’s
baiting her with ounces of coke for each added inch,”
she shook her head, a contemptuous grin. “God, my
nipples are hard.” She pressed his hand to her breast.
“You’re as white as a ghost!”
“Feel sick.” He sat staring, his heart hammering
in his chest. “Give me a minute. An old war wound.”
“She’s stuffed good; Dutch isn’t finished …”
“Hold it!” His breath in spurts. “Keep the
money.” He gulped, covered his mouth. “I’ll take a
rain check.”
————
Agent Rich Lanza, IRS, met with Agent Bernie
Salerno, DEA, at a luncheonette not far from the
Miami International Airport. A bureaucratic compromise midway between both offices. The federal
agents straddled well-worn stools before a vintage
Formica counter. Christmas carols played over a
tinny sound system, and Holiday Season decorations
festively adorned a wall and glass fixtures. They each
ordered a cup of coffee and two donuts. The confab
to discuss the Pollard investigation and the divorce,
in particular.
Lanza explained that the case had failed to produce any revelations on Stan’s hidden assets; that he
had appealed every adverse ruling, and that even a
Panamanian bank lead had proven erroneous. “The
information was all wrong. The bank’s in Venezuela.”
“Didn’t his wife ball Dutch for that highly
touted info?”
581
“That animal fucks her, treats her like dirt, but
he’s doing something right. She keeps going back
for more,” he said, dunking a cinnamon coated donut
in a steamy cup. “Her lawyer’s told her she’s doing
great, better than a private dick,” he laughed. Salerno
shook his head. “Proof of the pudding, the asshole
keeps feeding her banks.” He munched on the soggy
donut, noisily slurped his coffee. “The Caymans,
Sint Maarten, Colombia.”
“How long can her lawyer go along with this?”
“He’s got no choice. I got him good.” He looked
around, as if sensing that someone was spying on
their conversation. “It’s a round robin. I’m fucking
the lawyer; he, his client; Dutch, the greedy broad
and all of them, Pollard.”
“Looks to me like you’re all hustling the wife.”
“Hell, she loves it. Besides, our lady’s been
providing the low-down on Dutch. A first-class CI.”
He leaned down and picked up a battered briefcase,
planted it on an adjacent stool and snapped the latch.
“That scumbag fucks, snorts coke and shoots off his
big mouth.” He caught the DEA agent’s attentive
gaze as he removed from the scarred case a multipage report. “She should be getting a medal.” He
handed the document to Salerno.
He sat absorbed, reviewing the investigative narrative. He slowly drank his coffee, devoured a donut
and ordered a second cup without removing his eyes
from the pages.
According to Sue Ann, as stated in the commentary, Dutch claimed to have more money than God,
and called her husband, a schmuck, who couldn’t
582
SHELDON YAVITZ
make a living without him. She referred to his yacht,
a goffer called Wink, a wife in England and vaguely
described his various investments: a hotel along
the English coast, a condominium development in
New Jersey, a topless bar, coin laundries, a check
cashing service, boats and airplanes. The memorandum related several overheard conversations. In
one, Dutch complained about a “house:” in another,
gloated over a successful “convoy,” and in a third,
mentioned “cement bags.”
“She’s working on getting names, addresses,
specifics. Her lawyer told her Pollard’s probably
involved in the businesses.”
“A scammer, but far from a bust.” Salerno yellow-lined a paragraph with a marker pen. “How long
do you estimate until you hit pay dirt?”
“Four, six months, sooner.”
Salerno banged his cup on the Formica top. “I
can’t wait!” He slid off the stool and dropped a quarter tip on the counter. Lanza added two dimes. “It’s
about time I showed you how to make an asshole
pucker.” He folded the report and shoved it into a hip
pocket.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
Dutch suggested the city, San Juan, Puerto Rico.
He would be staying at a hotel near the Condado
Convention Center. Stan chose the location: a sidewalk cafe in historic Old San Juan, on the busy Plaza
de Colon with a statue of Columbus rising above the
traffic. A quaint setting, on a long narrow islet, a first
on a tourist’s itinerary, a world apart from the high
concentration of luxury hotels and the bustling commercial, banking and industrial districts. A tranquil,
relaxed site for discussing murder and El Patron’s
buyout proposal. A place where his Colombian sicarios could blend in unnoticed. Stan selected a small
table covered with an incongruous red checkered
tablecloth. A waitress, upon serving them drinks,
promptly withdrew and kept her distance. A blind
panhandler sensed the enmity and avoided the men.
“Fuck the beaners’ offer!” A vein pulsated in
Dutch’s temple. “To hell with you, you shit!”
“Then our business is finished,” Stan shrugged.
His voice curiously distant. He scanned the street
pinpointing his hired assassins. One posted by his
parked car; the other, slurping a snow cone, stood
by an ice cream vender’s tricycle cart. Today, they
served as protection. In the future, who knows. “I am
584
SHELDON YAVITZ
going to retire. Well, limit my practice,” he forced a
smile. “Consultant to the Cartel.” He tilted back his
chair.
“Those fuckers will betray you like you all
betrayed me.” Dutch’s chins rested on flabby folds;
he nursed a beer.
“I don’t think that I have to worry about El
Patron screwing Sue Ann.”
“That’s a damn lie!” He looked him in the eye.
“I had her under surveillance. She met you at
the airport. You were together at the Casino.” He
spoke in half-truths in order not to expose the wiretap. “Two lovebirds with your hand up her dress.”
Dutch coughed, his nervous cough. “So don’t give
me your loyalty crap.”
“Humph.” He crossed his arms. “You petty,
small-time schmuck.” He found relish in the insult.
“She’s a whore, always was, still is.” He broke into a
smirk. “Damn straight, I’m fucking her.” He cupped
his hands behind his head. “Did you every put it up
her ass?” He grinned, a wanton grin. “You should see
her on coke, a filthy slut. I control her like a pimp. No
need for heroin.”
Stan jammed his tight fist in the pocket of a
leather jacket. “Heroin. That’s how you killed Laura.”
His voice dead and unemotional, a master of his
temper.
“Oh no. You’re not going to pin that on me!” He
sprung out of his chair.
“I’ve known it almost since the day of the
murder.”
“You’re damn wrong!” He tracked Stan’s expres-
585
sionless face.
“It’s on tape.”
Dutch resumed his seat. It creaked under his
weight.
“The CIA taped you.” Dutch’s complexion
turned the color of putty. “Poor Laura didn’t know
she was dating a Russian spy,” Stan lied. “They
had staked out and bugged her hotel room and you
showed up.” Dutch cleared his throat; a facial muscle
twitched. “I found out about it. You know that I got
the contacts.” Sweat trickled from Dutch’s armpits
soaking through his shirt. “Your voice was easily recognizable, but I couldn’t identify you to the police.
It would have been bad for business.” His voice hard
and callous, probing for an admission.
“Labelle did it. I proved it.”
“You murdered her, shot her up with heroin.”
“What are you going to do about it? Kill me,
chump!”
“There’s no money in murder,” he laughed. “But
the deal with the Cartel that’s revenged, and it just
started.”
“Fuck you!” He wiped the sweat from his forehead on a shirt-sleeve. “I am untouchable.” His tone
lacked confidence.
“Put it on your tombstone.” Stan shoved back
his chair. He rose to his feet, bent forward and lowered his voice. “Do you see that man in a dark blue
Mazda?”
Dutch cautiously turned his head and peered
over his shoulder.
“A sicario.”
586
SHELDON YAVITZ
“You bastard!”
“I have an army on my payroll.”
“Big man.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
“Can’t you see that I did you a favor?” His
words met with a cold, hateful stare. “You ungrateful
fuck.”
“I’ll see you in hell!”
————
Stan walked from the cafe. He paused at the
curb for an oncoming automobile, then continued
on to a gray rental car. He casually nodded to the
leather-faced sicario eating a corn dog; his piercing,
ruthless eyes hidden behind sunglasses. He observed
Quinto seated on a park bench less than 35 feet from
Dutch’s table. Stan got in a Volvo sedan, swung into
traffic and drove off. His men remained to observe
and familiarize themselves with Laura’s killer.
Dutch had paid him no attention. He sat stiff,
almost paralyzed. His mind in turmoil, mouthing
obscenities. He ran a shaky hand over his face
attempting to erase the confusion and fear. That
schmuck doesn’t have the balls. He slammed a fist
into his other palm. After all I did for him, that bum
sold me out. He peeled a twenty-dollar bill from a
roll and tossed it on the table. I hate that arrogant
bastard. I always hated him, but I showed him. His
eyes blinked. I killed his whore, fucked his old lady,
and he can do shit. He moved toward the rear of the
cafe and located the men’s room. The Cartel’s going
to shove it up my ass, twist it. He found a vacant stall,
587
stepped in and latched the door. He removed a small
vile from his pants pocket and poured the contents
on a porcelain water cabinet lid. He snorted cocaine
through a rolled up bill, felt an exhilarating rush,
wheezed and rubbed his nose. Shit on El Patron. Shit
on Stan. No one fucks with the King. He swaggered
back into the dining area and froze. The dark blue
Mazda and the occupant had not moved. What’s that
bastard up to? He turned, retraced his steps, then
rushed into the kitchen banging wide the swinging
doors. He muscled a quarrelsome cook out of his
path. He exited into an alley and hastened toward
a side street, circled the Columbus monument and
approached the dark blue car from the blind side. He
pulled open the door, slid into the passenger seat,
and grabbed the surprised driver by the lapel of a
plaid jacket. “You watching me?” The man gulped,
too frightened to answer. “Take this message to
Stan.” Dutch smashed a brass knuckles fist into the
stranger’s nose. A bone crunching sound; eyeglasses
cracked and went flying. The man howled in agony
as blood gushed from his nostrils. Dutch released
his grip. The driver fell forward across the steering
wheel. The horn wailed.
“Help! Police! Someone’s killing my husband!”
Dutch gazed out the windshield at a hysterical,
plump, middle-aged lady in a floral print tunic, polyester broomstick skirt and sandals, gesturing wildly
and screaming. He pushed open the door and leaped
from the car. Onlookers stared and the concerned
converged on the scene. He heard excited voices and
588
SHELDON YAVITZ
a police whistle. A pedestrian tried to stop him. He
flung him to the pavement. Frantic, Dutch ran into
the street. A startled horse drawing a surrey reared;
a taxi braked to be struck by another vehicle. Dutch
fled down a narrow, stone paved sidewalk shoving
people, hurling himself through the horde of tourists.
He knocked down an elderly woman supported by
an aluminum walker, kicked a bystander in the groin,
who inadvertently blocked his escape route.
Within the old world charm of Spanish and
Moorish architecture and twentieth century tourist
schlock shops, he searched for sanctuary. He raced
down a tree shrouded passageway of an eighteenth
century burgher house, now a museum, leaped a
wrought-iron railing and lost his balance. With a
twisted ankle and his adrenaline surging, he picked
himself up and limped off. A foul smelling public
toilet offered a momentary respite. He stared into
the mirror at his disheveled, ravaged appearance.
He stormed out the door as another man entered,
turned down an alley, and scaled a wooden fence.
He emerged onto a quiet street with his pant leg torn
and a gash in the palm of his hand and ducked into
a doorway taking giant gulps of breath. He imagined
hearing footsteps in pursuit and took off at a trot.
Panic set in, and he ran.
Exhausted, blinking sweat from his eyes, his
shirt drenched in perspiration and clinging to his
body, he leaned against a lamppost. I’m too old for
this shit! He timed the rapid pulse in his wrist. He
saw a beige Ford speed by and make a screeching
u-turn, but before he could react, or summon that
589
extra burst of energy, it pulled alongside him.
A stocky built man with strong mestizo features
stuck his head out the passenger side window. “Señor
Dutch! Dutch! The boss wants to know if you need a
ride?”
Dutch thought that he spied a semiautomatic.
“No! No!” He bolted, stumbling into a garbage can.
He hobbled into a blind alley and cowered behind
crates of rotten fruits and vegetables. He fingered the
metal band of knuckles and felt a warm trickle down
his pant leg.
————
“Do you want us to take out the worm,” Quinto
said, over a handheld two-way radio.
“Not today. Right now, they have other plans.”
————
Dutch returned to Nassau and remained on his
yacht in seclusion. Within a week, he had a visit
from two of El Patron’s top lieutenants, Enrique,
his nephew, and Nuñez, a taciturn individual, who
stared, nodded and made thumbs down gestures. As
in Colombia, they traveled with heavily armed security. Handguns were forbidden in the Bahamas, but
the Cartel circumvented the law with bribes and a
modicum of discretion.
At first, buoyed by their arrival, he rolled out the
red carpet reserving an entire restaurant for a lavish
banquet and hiring six high-priced call girls to cater
to the two men’s pleasures. He escorted Angela to
590
SHELDON YAVITZ
the dinner. A five-piece band provided entertainment,
and eight Cartel hatchet men ensured the ultimate
in privacy and protection. They feasted and drank
until midnight when Enrique brusquely announced:
“Can’t keep the putas waiting. See you tomorrow.”
He motioned to the women and signaled his entourage, shook Dutch’s hand and strode from the dining
room. A hooker on each arm and the others jockeying for position. Five cheerful, armed cohorts anticipating a wild party at the Boss’s hotel suite.
Dutch, appearing dumbfounded, pounded a fist.
“What a rude SOB,” he muttered to Angela.
“You still have me, and I have the most wonderful news.” She prattled on about the arrest of Laura’s
murderer and her conversation with Stan.
“Did you tell him?” He seized her wrist in painful grip. “Her hotel, that I knew her hotel?”
“He said you told him.” Her breath quickened.
The blood drained from his face. She broke free
of his grasp. He sat with fists balled up and resting on
the table. A picture of controlled fury.
She rubbed the discoloration. “Honey, I get paid
for being marked.”
“The señorita is a very special puta,” Nuñez hesitantly said. He had been staring at Angela, devouring her with his eyes. “Right, Señor Dutch?” He
turned his hands.
“What?” He spoke from the corner of his
mouth.
“He said that I was special.”
“Special, my ass.”
“She requires special treatment.” He had a queer
591
grin. Dutch glanced at him quickly. “What’s this
shit?” He squinted, acting puzzled. Nuñez groped for
words. “Oh, I remember,” Dutch laughed. “Yeah,” he
licked his lips.
Angela took a few swallows of her drink. “This
is really gonna cost.” Her declaration had a prophetic
accuracy.
Nuñez beckoned to a henchman who stepped
forward placing a briefcase on the table. He raised
the lid to a spectacle of cash. “Take,” he said, a man
of few word. He fingered the fabric of her shocking
pink cocktail dress, then her bare shoulders and the
fading bruise on her arm. The more he touched her,
the more money she crammed in a handbag. “Take,
take.” For an instant, Nuñez had a benign expression.
————
Within 30 minutes, they were aboard The
CATCH ME, and a short while after locked in a
forward cabin. A plate of cocaine beckoned from
the dresser along with the cruel accouterments of
Dutch’s perversion. A black cape clownishly hung
from his shoulders. His once firm physique naked
and swollen with fat.
“She’s going to love it.” He slapped a broad
strap against his hand. He stood over the prone girl,
the debased maiden to his Marquis de Sade. Her
wrists and ankles fastened by silk cord to stubby,
notch posts. “No limits,” he paused as she squirmed.
His malevolent intensity shielded by a grotesque
leather hood.
592
SHELDON YAVITZ
Nuñez, the voyeur, stroked an erection. Dutch
with certain stylized twists reenacted Laura’s murder.
“The key is the heroin.” Her screams echoed through
the desolate crew quarters as he brought the tip of the
needle against her flesh.
“I want that puta!”
“You shall have her.” He returned a thumbs up.
“My gift to my amigo.” He ran his fingertips over
raised welts. “Just be sure and tell El Patron of my
generosity.”
————
There was no longer a need to plot in whispers.
Angela, drugged, had lost all sense of reality. Nuñez
issued orders and made arrangements. Dutch sent
Wink to her hotel room for a suitcase, clothing, jewelry and incidentals.
“An all-purpose, high-spirited bitch,” he said.
“A prize for a connoisseur. A week or two on H and
she’s hooked.” He had untied her arms and legs. She
laid staring at the ceiling. She moaned and quivered
at his rough groping. Her face, arms and breasts slick
and wet with sweat. “Watch the dosage and purity, or
…” he shrugged. “Well, I’ll find you another.” Dutch
patted Nuñez on the back. “You’re my kind of guy.”
A bodyguard grimaced; another snickered. Nuñez
nodded, continuing to stuff Angela’s hard earned
money in his briefcase.
————
While others enjoyed breakfast, a sedated
593
Angela was on a private jet flying to Colombia.
Thirty-six hours later at a remote, well-fortified hacienda, she awoke from a stupor, and peered with
glazed eyes at an indistinct face. Her fingers caressed
the hypodermic syringe as the heat of the drug permeated the glass.
————
A subsequent inquiry by the Bahamian CID
reflected the following: Angela cleared immigration
and customs at the airport. The flight manifest
reported that she was accompanied by two men and
declared one article of luggage. An agent noted that
she appeared intoxicated and had what he described
as “a stupid grin.” She wore a pink dress with a man’s
jacket draped over her shoulders, but he observed
nothing unusual. When questioned, a cooperative
Dutch commented: “She had attended a party and
hooked up with this kindly, old Latin. I can’t recall
his name, but he was quite wealthy. You could see
that the sucker was in love, and the girl a gold
digger.” The missing person case was closed.
————
Dutch was unprepared for a business conference late that afternoon. Alcohol, drugs and a lack
of sleep had taken their toll, but he fortified himself
with cocaine and swaggered with self-assurance.
Enrique in a no-nonsense mood occupied
Dutch’s favorite sofa. His legs crossed and arms
folded. Nuñez sat in an armchair. His eyes at half-
594
SHELDON YAVITZ
mast, licentiously fantasizing. The curtains had been
drawn and guards posted. Enrique, bilingual with
barely a trace of an accent, spearheaded the negotiations. The message was clear: El Patron now controlled the transportation and supply. The product
would be delivered to South Florida at a vastly
increased price, and Dutch, a franchised distributor,
albeit an important one.
He stood his ground. “Shit on your price
increase. No one cuts my gross profit.” He calculated with a pencil on the palm of his hand. “I’m not
paying for Stan.” He flaunted an obscene finger.
“He’s a short-term built-in factor,” Enrique
explained. “In fact, we are spreading that cost over
several customers.” He wagged a finger. “Only you
have had the gall to complain.”
“You’re fuckin’ thieves. You’ve ripped off my
fuckin’ operation.” He called them two-bit scammers
out of their league. “When you fools bought out
Stan, you didn’t buy me. Conned by a bullshit artist.
I fired the bum.”
Nuñez chuckled. The first and only time he
laughed.
When his tirade failed to produce any concessions, and cursing was met with the tense movements
of edgy gunmen, Dutch ordered them off his vessel.
“I don’t take crap from shit eating beaners!” He halfrose to his feet, gesturing toward the door. “Talk to
your uncle, come back when you have a brain in your
head.”
Nuñez nodded and made a thumbs down sign.
His dark eyes inaccessible, his lips in a sinister bent.
595
“Consider it a company takeover,” Enrique said
bluntly, sounding like a hard-boiled corporate director in a three-piece suit and long black ringlets. “No
ifs, ands or buts, you are working for us. You fuck
with us, and you’re dead!” He ground a cigar butt
into the high-gloss surface of a priceless end table.
“That goes for your wife, your kid, girlfriend, dog,
cat.”
“Dutch doesn’t have a dog or a cat,” Wink
tittered. His eyes closed, until now unobtrusively
sprawled on a recliner.
“You are so correct.” An ill-humored cast soured
Enrique’s face suddenly cognizant of the scrubby
youth in a ponytail and earring. “It brings to mind
Dutch’s favorite anecdote. Remember, how you threw
a cat over a balcony to get the attention of a troublesome customer?”
“Sure, Max Kessler in Chicago.” He moved
over to the wet bar and poured a glass of Absolut
Vodka as Enrique, in Spanish for the benefit of his
men, reiterated the story. The salon rung with laughter. “Dutch’s the king when it comes to strong-arm
methods. The premier bill collector. That’s what my
uncle calls him.” Dutch welled with pride at the recognition. Someone turned up the stereo to Springsteen’s “Born in the U.S.A.”
“I didn’t know you guys loved …” Dutch’s
words cut off by a sudden, light, pop. He twisted
abruptly and stood gaping. Wink slumped in the
chair. A small entrance wound in his right temple.
His eyes wide-open. No blood on his face, but blood
and brains splattered over the seat cushion. A man
596
SHELDON YAVITZ
flashed yellow teeth and held a revolver equipped
with a silencer. A second pointed a Glock 9 mm
semiautomatic at Dutch clicking off the safety.
“That’s our cat,” Enrique smiled an ill-suited
grin. “You have not taken me seriously.” Nuñez
issued a thumbs down. “Do you have any last comments, cabron?” The muzzle of the silencer was
directed at Dutch.
“Maybe, I have been a little greedy,” he replied
slowly. “I am still making millions.” He cleared his
throat. “Nuñez and I get along great.” The kindred
sadist had two thumbs down. His black suit bore
a tinge of Angela’s heavy make-up. “I’ve always
treated El Patron with the respect of a father,” he
continued, now rambling, at times spouting nonsense. His mind racing; his speech rapid. “Forget
about Wink. We can chalk it off to cost saving,” he
shrugged. “We have a deal.”
“We have a deal!”
“It’s a whole new operation. We’re businessmen, and I expect you to act like a team member.”
Enrique paused, casting a dyspeptic glance at the
dead body. “My boys will clean up the mess and
reimburse you for the chair.”
“Forget the chair.”
“No. I insist.” He raised his palms in a placating
air.
————
Monday, January 19, 1987, Sue Ann telephoned
Dutch. He had avoided her calls. Freebasing cocaine
had dampened his interest; the Cartel takeover had
597
flagged his enthusiasm, or it could have been fear,
but he never analyzed the reason. Sue Ann relegated
to a back burner. A bimbo, who could be had for
nonexistent bank accounts. Now she was on the line
echoing Angela.
————
Stan would replay the lengthy taped conversation over and over. The fury in his eyes concealed by
dark glasses.
Sue Ann had called looking for another bank.
Dutch had told her that Stan had one in Switzerland,
where millionaires hid their money. She was ecstatic;
he refused to give her the information, taunting, baiting and demeaning her as a cheap prostitute.
“For the right bank, you know I’ll do anything.”
“It comes with a high price tag,” he had said.
“You got to earn it like a five-star whore. Hard-core
S&M … ass whippings that got you screaming …
pissing … A hot slut … a bitch in heat … doing
things you never dreamed of …”
The words burned in his memory. Dutch crude
and graphic, and Sue Ann reluctantly willing, then
pleading to be abused.
“Honey, can I get high first?” She would finally
ask.
“You bet, puta … but, I don’t want you unless
you beg for it.”
“I want it, sugar. I want it bad. I’m hot for it “
“Not very convincing. Say it again, repeat after
me.”
598
SHELDON YAVITZ
He sat alone in a nondescript office. A small
desk, one chair and bare walls added to his bleak
mood. Stan picked up a telephone listed in the name
of a shell corporation. The one function of which
to mask secretive communications. He direct dialed
011, 57, the country code for Colombia, 68, the city
code for Manizales, followed by a six digit number
and spoke in Spanish. When he hung up the receiver,
his hands were rock-steady, eyes cold and a face no
longer difficult to read. Anger permeated every pore
and muscle. “It must be done before Friday,” he had
said.
————
Following Dutch’s instructions, Sue Ann drove
the maid’s car. She wore a black wig, sunglasses, a
miniskirt and a jacket. She took a circuitous route
to the Fort Lauderdale International Airport rather
than flying out of Miami. “Stan may have a private
eye watching you,” Dutch had warned. A Gucci bag
hung from her shoulder. Her wardrobe limited to one
change of clothes, a long sleeve blouse and an anklelength skirt for the trip home. “We won’t be going
out,” he had said. “All weekend on the boat earning
your bank.”
————
Dutch was not at the airport in Nassau or at
the Casino, an alternative rendezvous. She called the
yacht and he didn’t answer. Fuming with rage, she
took the last flight to Miami.
599
(NOT TRANSCRIBED)
DUTCH: “Sue Ann, Dutch …”
SUE ANN: “Asshole … You stood me up.”
DUTCH: “You dumb bimbo, I was in the hospital … just got home Hurting like a sonofabitch …”
SUE ANN: “You’re talking shit!”
DUTCH: “I was mugged, robbed, my yacht
torn apart … My nose broke, arm in a cast,
fingers busted …”
SUE ANN: “Bu1lshitter! … You made a fool
of me!”
DUTCH: They stole my Rolex, thousands of
dollars … stripped me … shoved a banana up
my ass …”
SUE ANN: “That you deserved … Now you
know how it feels.”
DUTCH: “Cunt … Where’s your heart? …
Three men wearing stocking masks … armed
to the teeth … never said a word … Real pros,
vicious mothers …”
SUE ANN: “For real?”
DUTCH: “I can’t believe it … people that
mean …”
SUE ANN: “Poor baby … Do you want mama
to take care of you? …”
DUTCH: “Yeah, I’m getting hard just thinking
about it.”
SUE ANN: “If you tell me about the Swiss
bank, you can fuck your nurse … even use a
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SHELDON YAVITZ
banana.”
DUTCH: “I got no hands …”
SUE ANN: “Honey, I’m horny and kinky.”
DUTCH: “We’ll work it out … Come over …”
When Stan heard the tape, a sad smile crossed
his face. He never had a Swiss bank account, and Sue
Ann was relatively safe.
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
The old and weary basked in the warmth of
the winter sun like lizards on green benches. With
unspecified suspicions, they eyed the well-dressed
stranger in a Stetson hat and western boots with an
expensive attaché case as he walked up the steep
steps to the courthouse. The silver-domed, Corinthian columned, yellow brick building dated back to
1913. The year the Mexican boll weevil laid waste
to the region’s cotton plantations and forever stunted
the growth of the small North Florida community.
Now the local farmers barely eked out an existence
on tobacco, watermelons and collards, and 19 percent of residents lived below the federal poverty
level.
On the second floor of the old, county courthouse, Stan knocked on a door marked “Jury Room.”
A taped, hand-written note read: “Reserved for Deposition.” He entered a room of heavy, ugly furniture
and drab wallpaper. An energetic, young man with an
aggressive handshake stepped forward to greet him.
A woman with pinched features looked up from a
steno pad and nodded politely.
“I guess we’re a little early,” Stan said.
“Only those who live here are not in a hurry,”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
the other attorney responded. He filled a paper cup
from a gurgling bottle water dispenser, then peered
out the window at a marble monument to the Confederacy. “Still reliving the Civil War.” His disgust
reflected in the pane glass.
“Some of us still do.” Stan’s comment brought
a faint glimmer to the court reporter’s otherwise sour
face.
————
The Cynthia Hunt vs. Sol Gateman civil suit had
reached the deposition stage, and Stan had uncovered
what he considered a critical witness to reversing
his client’s criminal conviction. It was while reviewing medical records provided by the plaintiff’s legal
counsel that he discovered among the psychiatrist,
psychologist and rape counselor reports, a bill from
a small town physician for treating the victim only
days after the alleged rape. He originally scheduled
the doctor for deposition and subpoenaed his records.
By agreement, the documents were simply provided.
In reviewing a medical chart, he found a reference to
bruises and abrasions, and the name “Malcolm” and a
question mark. He called the physician and requested
an explanation. Dr. Beaufort informed him that in
the past, Ms. Hunt’s boyfriend, Malcolm Quinn, had
abused her, and he attributed the injury to a repeat
occurrence. Stan’s investigator located Mrs. Jessica
Rooney, an aunt, who lived in the town, now scheduled for deposition.
Mrs. Rooney arrived a half hour late. She
dressed matronly and carried a Bible. Her teased
603
hairdo reminiscent of the early sixties. She took
a seat opposite the stenographer. They exchanged
looks of recognition, but no indication of friendship.
During Stan’s initial questioning, Rooney testified that Hunt, her niece, had lived on and off at her
home, and had returned for a visit after “the fight.”
“What fight?” Stan asked.
“The fight with Malcolm.”
Stan pinned down the visit to correspond with
the doctor’s report and the time-frame of the claimed
rape. “Did she tell you what happened?”
“Not at first. Not until Malcolm called the
house. I heard them quarrelin’, but I weren’t really
listenin’.”
“Would you tell us what you did overhear?”
The woman patted the wrinkles in her skirt.
“Somethin’ about not wanting to do somethin’, somethin’ about money, somethin’ about a lawyer.” She
fidgeted.
Stan continued to probe and Rooney replied.
“After she hung up, Cynthia was in a tizzy. As best
as I can recall, she told me she’d gone out with
this architect fellow.” She clutched the Bible to her
bosom. “When she came home late, Malcolm beat
her somethin’ fierce. Still pretty bad when she came
to stay a spell. She said she went to the hospital,
and someone was arrested.” She hesitated, fingering
a strand of pearls.
“Who was arrested?”
“Malcolm.” She paused, forcing herself to think.
“No. It wasn’t him ’cause … he made her do it. That
boy’s no good.”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“Would you clarify what you mean by no
good?”
“Malcolm. He’s just sorry.” She shook her head
in dismay. “No account, shiftless. Think’s the world
owes him a livin’.”
“Are you telling us that Malcolm beat your
niece then she accused some other person?”
“I object,” the attorney said before she had a
chance to answer.
“Your objection’s preserved. Now answer the
question.”
“Yes. That’s what Cynthia told me.”
“If you know, who did Cynthia say she
blamed?”
Rooney’s eyes wandered the room and settled
on her bible. “The architect.” She nodded her head
recollecting the gist of the conversation. “She was
afraid Malcolm would be arrested so she said the
architect hurt her.”
“Did your niece ever mention being raped?”
“Rape! Heavens no!” Her jaw dropped open.
“No. She would have told me.”
“Does she still date Malcolm Quinn?”
“Cynthia’s talkin’ about gettin’ hitched to him.”
————
The town had a make-believe main street of two
and three story buildings with facades of masonry,
dentiliated cornices, fanciful round windows and
ornate tin of 1890s vintage. You could still buy a
cherry Coke at the local drug store fountain and the
nearest Wal-Mart was across the state-line in Geor-
605
gia. “You’re off base,” the attorney said. He was
having lunch with Stan at the local pharmacy counter.
Stan ordered a BLT, diet cola and strawberry
sundae, then returned to their conversation. “The way
I see it, she had sex with Gateman, went home to a
angry boyfriend, who did a number on her and put
her in the hospital. When the nurse asked what happened, she said that she had been raped rather than
accuse Malcolm.”
“But we have a physiatrist and people from the
rape crisis center all supporting her sexual abuse
claim, and a jury convicted Gateman. Don’t forget
that fact.”
“She lied, and Sol’s lawyer never put on a
defense,” Stan grinned slyly. “They probably concocted the story before she ever went to the emergency room.” From the counter stool, he viewed a
black cast-iron street lamp. “This is an historic old
town of deeply religious people. Even in Miami, it’s
tough discrediting a genteel aunt with a bible in her
hand.”
“I’m not worried.”
“I’d be.” Stan sipped his drink and let the words
simmer. His thoughts came swiftly as he sought to
drive a wedge between the attorney and his client.
“This case is going to trial. Forget about a settlement.”
“Sure, Stan, that way you can make a killing.”
Stan took a bite from his sandwich. “I’m already
paid in full, and you’re struggling on a contingency
fee.” He viewed the attorney with a skeptical eye. “If
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SHELDON YAVITZ
our dear Mrs. Rooney is believed, your client faces
perjury, contempt and whatever else the prosecutor
throws at her. Didn’t she hire your law firm about the
time of Gateman’s arrest?”
“Are you insinuating we did something unethical?” He shoved his plate aside in a display of protestation.
“It’s not what I think, but how it appears. Never
trust a woman dominated by a loser. I would suggest
that you get your client to admit the truth. We go to
the state attorney, work a deal, clear Gateman and
turn the wolves on Malcolm.”
“What about our court costs and my client’s liability. You could sue the pants off her.” He caught the
pun and laughed.
“A little touchy. We should be able to work it
out.”
“If she holds fast to her story?”
“I will see you both in court,” Stan shrugged.
“You can tell your client this. After her deposition, I
am no longer sympathetic.” As Stan would say, one
way to win a case is to intimidate your opponent.
————
Stan intentionally avoided the interstate on his
return to the state capital. He dawdled along the
narrow, back roads traveling a part of Florida still
lost in the early twentieth century. His thoughts on
the Gateman case and a feeling of accomplishment
tainted by the cynicism that even a crime victim lied
for money. At the airport, he checked in his rental
car, cleared his flight reservation and from a pay
607
phone called the office.
Crawford was on the line breaking into his conversation with the secretary. His voice bordered on
panic, sounding like a troubled client rather than the
calm professional. “Major problem, Stan. The DEA
just left. They were here all afternoon executing a
search warrant, took three files and served you with
a grand jury subpoena.”
“What did they take?” He removed a pen from
his pocket and small business card from his wallet,
and as they spoke made notations on the back of the
card.
“The Blanton file, Durfee and Clampton. I
couldn’t believe that you left them in your top desk
drawer.”
“I did. Yep, I did that. What about the subpoena?”
“It directs you to appear before a Federal Grand
Jury here in Miami, and to bring records showing
fees paid to you by Clampton, Durfee, Blanton and
Dutch Durant, all travel receipts including hotel and
airline expenses pertaining to trips to Cuba during
the period 1984 thru 1986.”
“Uh-huh, it fits.”
“You don’t seem upset.”
“Hold on. There is too much noise. I can’t hear
you.” He cupped a hand over one ear to drown out the
background chatter and flight announcements. “It’s a
headache, but,” he paused in mid-sentence. “I’ll talk
to you tomorrow.”
“Stan, I didn’t know you were in Cuba. We have
no files on Durant.”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“I will talk to you tomorrow.” Stan’s tone
brusque, suspecting a wiretap.
“They had news reporters with them. It’s going
to be all over the paper.”
“The price of doing business.”
————
The following morning in The Miami Herald an
article appeared in the local section, page 2A.
DEA AGENTS RAID PROMINENT
ATTORNEY’S OFFICE
Armed with a search warrant, agents of the
Drug Enforcement Administration searched the
office of Stanton M. Pollard, a prominent criminal lawyer , and confiscated files involving
several of his clients. No arrests were made,
and spokesmen for the agency and the U. S.
Attorney’s Office declined comment. Sources
familiar with the search disclosed that the files
pertained to convicted drug smugglers.
… The raid is certain to raise concerns among
South Florida attorneys … Pollard’s associate,
Edward Crawford, a lawyer, termed it an outrage. “A clear violation of the attorney-client
privilege protected under the Sixth Amendment
of the United States Constitution,” Crawford
said. “Mr. Pollard has done nothing wrong. His
name and reputation are outstanding.”
A late model Cadillac with dark-tinted windows entered a multi-story parking garage at a mega-
609
shopping mall. The car trekked from level to level
amidst rows of automobiles and evening shoppers.
The driver impatiently blew the horn muttering under
his breath. He checked his watch: 8:45 pm. Tires
squealed as he turned up the ramp to an upper floor
thinned of vehicles. The brakes screeched as the car
pulled into a space alongside a white Oldsmobile
Cierra Brougham. A well-built man with black hair
and beard exited the Cadillac and approached the
sedan. His heavy footsteps echoed on the cold, gray
concrete. He made a quick study of the area, then
stifled a yawn.
The passenger door banged against a thick pillar
as he squeezed onto the velour bench front seat.
“1 can’t believe we’re meeting like this?” Special
Agent Salerno said. He noticed Wilkinson’s scowl
and returned a puzzled shrug.
“You dinged my wife’s car door. Shit!”
“It’s been a fuckin’day.” His tired, drawn face
mirrored his words.
Wilkinson leaned an elbow on the center armrest. “Did you talk to Ace McGonigle?”
“Pollard knows everything. In fact, he encouraged Ace to go through with our deal.”
“Then, why in the hell are we attacking that
man?”
“Remo, I told you.”
“Drop it!”
“Easier said than done.” He stretched his legs.
“The AUSA is throwing a fit. He wants the files we
seized and Pollard before the grand jury.”
“Give him the Blanton, Clampton worthless
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SHELDON YAVITZ
crap.” He reached for a Styrofoam container in
a dashboard cup holder. “No deal for that child
molester.” He slurped his coffee.
“I gave Goldie my word.”
“Screw that pervert.” He stared into the rearview mirror. “Someone’s watching us.”
Salerno swiveled his head. “Calm down. It’s
only some dumb broad.” He rubbed the fatigue from
his eyes as the lost shopper reentered the elevator.
As Stan would say: “When you are under investigation give the government evidence to choke on
and discredit their informants.” A philosophy borne
from a sixth sense and years of experience. Like
an expert woodsman, he had read the signs. The
IRS agent’s involvement in his divorce case; comments made by Torres attributable to DEA sources
coupled with the awareness that Clampton, Blanton
and Durfee had been arrested and were cooperating
with government agents. Admittedly, in the case of
Goldie, a calculated guess. He had reasoned that their
inability to capitalize on the divorce would eventually provoke a witch hunt for records. Anticipating
either a search warrant or a subpoena, he laid a trap.
To his surprise, they relied on both extraordinary
methods, but Stan, the strategist, was prepared …
too prepared! Blanton’s file simply contained a face
sheet with the key words: CUBA and CIA SENSITIVE. Goldie Clampton’s provided the Haitian court
order, police reports and his lengthy, signed statement in which he described the smuggling venture,
shipwreck and abandonment of the drugs, and contrary to his admission to the authorities, claimed to
611
be acting alone. A document initially designed to
protect Dutch, but now utilized to Stan’s benefit.
“We were set up like prize suckers.” Salerno
unzipped a lightweight windbreaker. “I need some
air.” He pressed an unresponsive power window
switch. “Turn on the ignition.”
As the glass rolled down, Wilkinson pushed a
radio button. “The walls have ears.” He adjusted the
volume.
Salerno shook his head. “Martin, ease off. We’re
the good guys.”
His remark forcing a weak smile to Wilkinson’s tight lips. “Do you suspect a leak in our office
or could he have been that damn clever?” He ran
a finger around the rim of the steering wheel. “I
personally think he’s one smart son-of-a-bitch.” His
words flowed slowly in a Southern drawl. His face a
road map of strain.
“I’d hate to give the bastard that much credit.”
They were referring to the Durfee file that contained
a copy of the DEA letter sent to the Port Authority
in Freeport clearing Ace of any wrongdoing, the
Pay Day memo, a transcript of a taped conversation
between McConigle and Stan, and a chart outlining
the Luna, Rodriguez-Bianco organization including
Ace’s and their participation.
“Pollard just served a motion on the U.S. Attorney claiming he’s a CIA operative, code named
Shades, contends that Cuba, Durant and Blanton constitute CIA sensitive data linked to national security.”
“Figures.” The flesh on his face seemed to have
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SHELDON YAVITZ
lost its tone, albeit fear or the unflattering consequence of florescent lighting.
“He requested the pleading be sealed and asked
for an in camera hearing.” Salerno bent down and
scratched his shin. “Sent a copy to CIA Deputy
Director of Operations.”
“That will put an end to the investigation,”
Wilkinson said, his mind screaming for a solution.
“Even if the CIA backs off, I can still use it and pull
the chain.” He paused, absorbed, pinching a tread
from a cotton, rib-knit cuff sweater. “Did you say
Dutch Durant?”
He averted Wilkinson’s questioning gaze. “More
Pollard bullshit.”
“Which means what?”
Salerno continued to scratch his leg. “Pollard’s
caught in the middle between us, the CIA and a
badass smuggler.” He hesitated for a moment, then
sat upright. “One wrong move and he’s terminal.”
“Dead?” Wilkinson’s frown deepened. “You’re
crazy!”
“It’s in the cards. All that’s needed is a little
push.”
“What are you talking about?” His eyes glued
on the instrument cluster; clenched fists gripped the
wheel.
“It’s better than I hoped.” He stared directly at
his boss. “Hear me out. As you know, Dutch is balling the lawyer’s wife. Lanza told me that the smuggler was beaten. Nose, arm broken, a professional
hit. They even shoved a banana up his butt. Lanza
suspects the two men are at each other’s throat.”
613
“Workable.” His hands relaxed. “I don’t know.”
His grip tightened.
“Remo wants him dead. I agree. We’re in checkmate. No way can we deal with a wiseass, who’s got
more leverage over us than we have over him.”
“Can it be done without compromising the
Agency?” He gulped his coffee.
“Let’s give Dutch a shot. Need I say more.”
Wilkinson nodded complacently.
“Good.” He opened the door striking the concrete post. Wilkinson looked peeved but said nothing.
“Sorry,” Salerno grunted. He maneuvered awkwardly
out of the car, then bent forward and crammed his
head back in the vehicle. “Smile. The spooks in
Washington are probably on the same wavelength,
and with a little encouragement, Dutch will be right
along with them.” He grinned cruelly. “We might
even be able to bag the fuckin’ murderer.”
“Chalk one up for the white hats.” Wilkinson
checked his hair in the vanity mirror.
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
It began with one line in a local gossip column.
“Stanton Pollard, prominent criminal defense attorney, has been subpoenaed before a Federal Grand
Jury.” The following week, an in-depth newspaper
article focused on Stan. It elaborated on his contested
divorce, delved into the unsolved murder of a prostitute, and rehashed the DEA search of his law office.
It dwelled on his career as a lawyer passing over
his most celebrated cases in favor of those involving
drug traffickers. The story raised pointed questions
about his clients citing among others, the elusive
Dutch Durant, referred to as a mysterious, millionaire yachtsman.
Two convicted drug smugglers, DEA informants, Pop Durfee and Buddha Blanton, were interviewed. Durfee, pictured as a reformed criminal who
had undergone a spiritual rebirth in prison, claimed
that Stan “operated” in foreign countries, and in
his own case, used influence and money to thwart
his lawful extradition to the United States. Blanton
recalled how Stan masterminded his rescue from a
Cuban prison and was quoted as saying: “Pollard
told me the U.S. secretly helped get me out, but I’ve
got evidence the Medellin Cartel was behind it …
615
I was used as cover … so [Pollard’s] big drug clients could make a juicy deal with the Castro government.” When asked to explain, Blanton replied: “I
can’t say anymore, but it all will come out in the federal investigation.”
A spokesperson for the U.S. Attorney’s Office
declined comment. Stan simply responded that his
lips were sealed by the lawyer-client privilege, and
his private life too boring to talk about. Sue Ann
spoke through her lawyer. “The facts alleged in Sue
Ann Pollard’s sworn divorce petition speak for themselves.” Torres then proceeded to emphasis the worst
of the allegations.
The article concluded that Stan walked a tightrope between the law and the underworld and again
quoted Blanton. “I would rather be in jail than in Pollard’s shoes.”
————
Remo Rodriguez and Goldie Clampton fueled
speculation of Stan’s impending indictment and
a “sweetheart” cooperation agreement to avoid a
lengthy prison sentence. They sought out persons
who might have access to Dutch or one of his cronies. An easier task than one might expect since in
South Florida and the Bahamas, they associated with
a wide-range of known and suspected smugglers and
drug dealers as well as support trades, such as airplane brokers, fixed base operators, boatyards and
suppliers of marine equipment. Goldie went a step
further sending a cryptic message to Dutch. “Stan’s
turned. Your pal, G …”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
At first, Dutch discounted the rumors, but the
newspaper story had made him edgy. Subsequent
events and cocaine binges fed his paranoia. Subpoenas had been served on the Treasure Chest Lounge
and a coin laundry attempting to ascertain his financial interest. He speculated that only Stan or Lampert could be privy to such information, but had to
concede that Stan’s close association with the Cartel
would turn any form of cooperation into a death
sentence. He procrastinated, then finally called New
York and put out feelers for a hit man. “If only Hog
was alive.” He picked up an ashtray and flung it
against a wall.
————
Lanza conveyed chilling news to Sue Ann’s
attorney. “No doubt, Pollard’s going to plead, cooperate and give up a cool million dollars in assets.” He
spoke with conviction.
Salerno had convinced him. “The tough guy
folded. All we had to do was blow on that asshole.”
Torres opened the Pollard folder and hastily
scrawled “settle fast” on the jacket. He said the words
aloud as he made the notation. He looked up unable
to disguise his amazement.
“Too late,” Lanza said, chewing on an antacid
tablet. “Tell her, she’s fucked. Another prick for her
collection.”
Torres recoiled as if slapped. “I got a big fee. All
kinds of money invested.”
“You’re lucky you’re not in his position,” he
cautioned with a finger. “By the time we’re finished,
617
he won’t have a pot to piss in.” He rubbed the
center of his chest, puffed out his cheeks and exhaled
slowly. “With your help we busted that clown.” A
loud burp followed; a smile flashed. “You got a
reward of ten thousand large coming.”
“That’s chicken feed.”
“Call it what you want. That divorce settlement
is going to the U.S. Government.” He moved to the
Louis XIV desk, leaned forward staring over the rim
of his eyeglasses. “Now here’s what I want you to
say to your wonderful client.”
“It’s too soon.” He slammed the file cover.
“That’s not the way it works.”
“Actually, I think it’s hilarious.” He sat down on
the desk. A leg creaked.
“Get off my damn desk!” Torres spit, then bit
his lip. “I’m sorry,” he said, a slight quaver in his
voice.
————
The postponement of Stan’s appearance before
the grand jury had an unsettling effect. The Assistant
U.S. Attorney refused to offer an explanation, and
Stan could envision a multitude of reasons from a
typical court delay to CIA intervention to an indictment in the works with his grand jury confrontation
strategically by-passed.
Ace had informed him that he had spoken with
both Remo and Salerno. “Remo lost it,” he told Stan
over the telephone. He listened intently doodling on
the back of an envelope. The dim light of the stark,
secret office adding to his anxiety. “He cursed me out
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SHELDON YAVITZ
in English and Cuban, threatened to kill us. I broke
the little creep’s wrist,” he laughed. In his youth, Ace
had been a member of the Irish Republican Army,
and his earlier career as a mercenary made him a
formidable adversary. He related how the agent paid
him a visit in Freeport. “When I told Bernie that
you knew everything, the bloke turned ten shades of
green, even apologized for Remo. A scared shitless
leprechaun,” he said in a strong Irish brogue as he
continued to recount their conversation. “One good
thing, I’m finished working for those bastards. Eagle,
I owe you a paycheck, but if you ever tape me again
I’ll wring your neck.”
“It got the job done.”
“That’s why I’m not angry.”
————
A friend, an attorney in the Justice Department,
advised Stan not to worry. “I checked it out. The subpoena’s kaputt. Buddy, take my word. That’s all I can
tell you.”
Within the week additional proof appeared when
Stan kept an appointment at a car wash, his long
abandoned CIA dead drop. He had responded to a
telephone code message requesting that he bring his
car in for a wash and wax. As he watched the Aston
Martin pass under a fine spray with multicolor blinking lights announcing the hot wax, a familiar, powerfully built, black man stepped up beside him.
“Enjoying your money?” Kilmore said with a
snide grin.
“Beats living under a bridge,” Stan replied, his
619
eyes tracking the movement of the sports car.
“The Chief asked me to look into your little
problem.” He opened a newspaper and browsed
through the entertainment section. “I got a night in
town.”
“Topless clubs are in the sports pages.”
“I’m looking for an escort service.”
“Telephone book.”
Stan moved along the pavement watching his
car proceed under the dryer. Beads of water whipped
over the highly polished, glass-like metal surface. In
response to Kilmore’s inquiry, he elaborated on the
subpoena and records demanded.
“Who’s Dutch?” An eyebrow raised. “Dutch
Durant?”
“A drug smuggler. Colonel Haro worked for
him providing drug overflight protection in Cuban
airspace. He’s also the man Lex recorded murdering
Laura.”
“You know who killed her?” His huge, round
face buried in newsprint.
“We both know.” He dropped a dollar in the tip
box. “Always protecting your own,” Stan laughed.
“Hell! We didn’t know.”
“Who’d believe you with the Iran-Contra mess
spread all over the headlines.” He motioned to an
attendant to wipe a wet spot from a fender. “I saved
him for just such a situation. Now I want an appointment with the DDO.”
“No need.” He neatly folded the paper and
tossed it in a garbage receptacle. “We killed the subpoena. The matter’s closed.” As he turned to leave,
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SHELDON YAVITZ
he looked back at Stan. “You did the right thing.”
He hesitated until a slim, grayish man in a dark suit
moved beyond the sound of his voice. “Kept your
mouth shut, found her killer and,” he paused shifting his heft. “Your big balls got Lex transferred; the
Chief, a reprimand and,” he grinned, “me, a promotion.”
————
Still a buzz persisted of an impending indictment. Stan continued to make discreet inquiries, but
his sources could find no substantiation. Contrary to
Kilmore’s assurance, the subpoena remained enforce,
but dormant. Neither withdrawn by the prosecution
nor quashed by the court. “What’s going on?” He
repeatedly asked himself, then an intercepted telephone call from Sue Ann to Dutch led him to conclude that “they” had not given up.
(NOT TRANSCRIBED )
SUE ANN: “Sugar, I just got to see you …”
DUTCH: “What’s up?”
SUE ANN: “You’re up … big and hard …
(LAUGHTER)
DUTCH: “We can get down and dirty …”
SUE ANN: “Honey, I’ve already been fucked
… It’s Stanton.”
DUTCH: “I’m out of banks …”
SUE ANN: “Stop talkin’ shit … We’re in real
trouble.”
DUTCH: “Yeah, up to our asses in bananas …”
621
SUE ANN: “I’ll be over tonight …”
DUTCH: “Great …”
Furniture stood stacked along one wall of the
main salon. A section of the carpet rolled back. Sue
Ann threaded gingerly around power tools, a carpenter’s wooden box and a sawhorse. She caught her toe
on an extension cord and swore. Her gait unsteady.
The yacht undulated beneath her. She held a glass in
one hand. The ice cubes tinkled. She hesitated, took
a long sip, then lifted the hem of a dwarfing blue,
cotton terry robe, and descended the companionway
to the lower deck.
Upon entering the master stateroom, she slumped
on the large bed, her long platinum blond hair matted
and make-up smeared. “Sugar, are you ready to
listen.” She held the liquor glass in both hands. Her
lips pouted. “Honey, I want to talk.” She impatiently
jiggled a barefoot.
“Hold your fuckin’ horses.” Dutch was on his
knees bent over a contemporary-style coffee table
with brass trim. His pale naked backside to her. He
held a gold straw. Lines of cocaine arranged on a
silver mirrored tray.
“Get your butt over here.” A sling hung about
his neck. His injured arm free from the bandage
pressed guardedly against a protruding belly. His
nose had a slight, deviant curve. “I want that pussy
hot.”
She giggled. He moved the tray to the carpet.
Sue Ann sighed, a deep sigh, and lethargically
rose to her feet. She joined him on the shag rug,
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SHELDON YAVITZ
and on hands and knees snorted the stimulant. He
flung the bathrobe to her waist. His hand fondled
her warm, smooth flesh. “You’re so bad.” Her token
resistance to an indecorous index finger.
A grin plastered his face. He sprawled on the
carpet and gruffly pulled her to him. She planted
her lips on his flabby neck. He untied the robe. She
sucked on his forefinger. He dabbed it in the white
substance. She moaned as he slipped it between her
parted legs.
“Stanton’s made a deal with the federal attorney,” she muttered. Preoccupied, he uttered no
response. “He’s going to testify against you.”
He stiffened. His eyes bulged. “What did you
say?”
“Stanton’s giving them all my money, houses,
cars.” Her throat tightened barely able to swallow.
“Bitch, that’s not what you said.” He yanked her
by the hair pulling her head upward. “Me, me! What
about me!” He slapped her face. Her mouth opened,
a soundless scream. He struck her again. Pain shot
through his still mending broken arm and fingers. He
grunted, shoved her from him as he struggled to his
feet.
“He’s gonna put you in jail.” She rubbed her
cheek. “Make me poor.” She licked blood from her
lip.
Dutch squatted over the cocaine. She crawled to
his side. “I want him dead. Fuckin’ dead!”
————
The dim light made long, lazy shadows that
623
played to the yacht’s motion. Sue Ann lounged on the
rumpled bed sheets propped up by pillows. A paisley print comforter heaped on the floor. She brushed
her hair. Dutch, now wearing Bermuda shorts, paced
in turmoil. He had moved the tray of cocaine to the
dresser top pushing aside frosted glass perfume bottles and a hand mirror. The white powdery lines had
dwindled.
“Stan can’t do it.” His steps quickened. “The
Cartel will kill him dead.” He walked in the opposite
direction.
“He’s a schmuck. You said so, honey.”
“Only with women.” He squeezed a black rubber
ball. “He’s a motherfucker.” He raised his hand and
exaggerated crooked fingers. “I bet he crippled me.”
“Bullshit!” She gently touched her bruised lip.
“He’s friggin’ jealous.”
“More of your shit.” She picked at a chipped toe
nail, restless and frustrated.
“Go back. Stop all this crap. Treated him like a
john.”
“Piss on him.” Her glazed eyes fixed on the
second hand of a radio alarm clock. It moved in slow
motion. “I mean shit to Stanton.” She sunk in overstuffed pillows. “He’s dating some tramp as old as
Kim.”
“You dumb cunt, listen to me.” His hulking
fingers punished the ball. “Stan’s worth fifty, sixty,
eighty million. He doesn’t blow a nickel. Assholes
throw money at him.”
“Where’s the money?” Her long lacquered fingernails cut into her palm.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“I gave you the banks. It’s not my fuckin’ fault
your lawyer’s a useless puke.”
“Dumb shit! All he’s got is life insurance.”
He sat on the bed, hunched like a beached
whale. Sue Ann kissed his bare shoulder. “He’s doing
us so he won’t go to jail. My lawyer warned me.”
“Only us!”
“An IRS agent told him.”
Dutch’s eyes blinked. “Yeah, he’s chickenshit.
They want the King.” A loud flatus expelled. Sue
Ann rolled her eyes. “Me out of the picture; you
off his ass.” He slapped his forehead. “I see it!” He
flopped on the mattress. An arm extended; fingers
gripping the headboard. “Sonofabitch!” He scratched
his groin. “He screws us both, retires.”
“With what?”
“His millions.”
“He got no money.”
He grabbed her elbow. “Come here, puta.”
She straddled his hips. His eyes glued on her
dulled smile. “Thought he’d outsmart the King.” His
teeth locked rigid. “Not by a cunt’s hair.” He flung
open her robe. She shrugged it off her shoulders.
“Baby, kill him!” Her hands were at her breasts
making circles around hardened nipples. “Dead! I
want him dead.” Her body had a rhythmic motion.
“Who can I get?” His eyelids tightened. She
pressed her breast to his lips. He sucked noisily. Time
dragged. She tangled her fingers in his hair. “Think,
baby, think.” His hands roamed, probing and groping. “I got it!” A smack stung her bottom. Her eyes
snapped open. “José D. can find the shooters.” His
625
palm blistered her flesh. “Don’t fuckin’ scream!” She
clawed at the bedclothes, squirmed out of his grasp.
“Call him!” Her chest heaved. “Do it!” She
rubbed her buttocks.
“We need Stan’s picture, a plan of the house.”
“I’ll get ’um,” she squealed, bouncing with
excitement.
He glanced at the clock. “Too late.” A frown
creased his brow. “Well, tomorrow,” he sighed, lacing
his fingers behind his neck. “I’ll sleep on it. Maybe,
it wasn’t such a good idea.”
Her hand slid into his shorts. “Make the fuckin’
call.”
He nodded. She scrambled across the bed and
hungrily reached for the receiver.
“Puta!”
She gripped the telephone.
“Murder comes with a fat price tag.” He spoke
without looking at her. “Higher than a five-star
whore.” She shivered. “That was a very small
sample.” His voice cracked the silence.
“I’ll pay you.” Thin crescent lines edged her
mouth. “He’s got millions in insurance.”
“I don’t extend credit.” He stretched his arms,
yawning. “Remember what I want for a Swiss bank.”
She swallowed hard. “Puta, that’s chump change.”
She retched, wiped a dry mouth.
He softened his approach, plied seductive buzz
words: freedom, millions and Stan dead. He studied
her every move and facial expressions. “I was right.
You’ll never be nothing but a cheap slut.”
Sue Ann straightened and threw back her shoul-
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SHELDON YAVITZ
ders. “Kill him!” She held out the receiver. He shoved
it aside. “Call.”
“Not yet.” He lumbered from the bed. “Bring
the phone with you.”
She hesitated, a bewildered stare.
“Stupid! Unplug it from the wall jack.”
She was bent over the night stand fumbling with
the cord as Dutch walked to the door. He removed his
shorts and tossed them on a chair. “Hurry! We got to
call José D.”
————
Dutch spoke loudly into the receiver. “Operator,
get me Santa Marta, Colombia. José D.” He repeated
the name and supplied the telephone number. His
speech rapid, gestures agitated. He blew mucus from
his nose pressing a finger to each nostril. “Okay.
Ring back when you placed it.”
He picked up a thick, black belt laying atop
a cedar chest, and stepped to the bed. The cabin
in the unoccupied crew quarters abutted the engine
room. In sharp contrast to the lavishly decorated
vessel, it was primitive basic: a built-in dresser, one
hewn wooden chair, and a crude bed with four, short,
notched, thickset posts bolted to the linoleum floor.
“Relax, enjoy. Think of ten bullets.” Strobe lighting
evoked an illusion of slow motion.
“Count the bullets!”
The room filled with the sound of leather striking flesh. “One!”
Her legs were spread, kneeling. Her bottom protruded upward. Her nails dug into the plastic sheet;
627
face buried in a pillow. He had given her a stern
warning. “The slightest bitch and the deal’s off. No
second chances, no fuckin’ excuses.” He tightened
his grip and brought the belt down with a shattering
crack. She screamed and pitched forward. Sweat
covered her body. She twisted her head in his direction. “I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “I’ll be good.”
The telephone rang. “Break time,” he grinned,
rubbing a sore arm. “Get that fat ass in the air!” He
placed before her a paper plate with a meted dose of
cocaine. “Do it all!” He picked up the handset on the
seventh ring. White particles clung to her wet nose
and trembling chin.
“José, it’s Dutch.”
A woman’s irritated voice responded in Spanish. He scratched an armpit, coughed, a nervous
cough. “I’ll hold on,” he said. She replied that he
was not at home and to call tomorrow. “Sorry, to
wake you. Important, man, top priority.” The line
went dead. “I got a major rat problem,” Dutch said,
and continued talking. “Need two or three, a driver,
a shooter, nondescript.” He smiled amused, suddenly
recalling that it was Thursday. The night that José D.
spent with his mistress. “No Indians, no young cowboys. One must speak English.”
Sue Ann listened to the one-sided conversation.
Her heart pounded; her nerve ends tingled. A warm
rush consumed her. They were killing Stanton.
He issued detailed instructions and made
demands over the stilled circuit. “Fuck the cost. Pros,
I want pros. It’s got to be done now, which means
yesterday.” He stood by the bed barking into the
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SHELDON YAVITZ
mouthpiece. She moaned, feverishly responsive to
his invading fingers. “One week, sure. Okay. You bet.
I’ll call you back. Chow.” He hung up the telephone.
“Satisfied?” He smirked.
“Counting bullets,” she murmured.
————
After his call to José D., Dutch swore her to
secrecy. Sue Ann traveled to the Bahamas under an
assumed name, varied the departure airports, relied
on taxicabs, and disguised her appearance with an
assortment of wigs and dark glasses. Her trips prearranged, governed by strict rules, and each visit, a
payment. She carried luggage with one change of
clothes, jewelry reduced to a minimum, and submitted to a physical examination in the back seat of his
car on the way from the airport. Their telephone conversations, coded and cryptic, seemed designed to
produce the allure of a conspiracy and the excitement
of intrigue. Dutch resorted to banal phrases, such as
“chickens hatched,” “ducks in a row,” “target off the
bow,” and ready “to bob for apples.” He called her
“puta,” and told her that her room was being remodeled.
Stan had little doubt that he was the object of
their scheme. Dutch remarked: “That cheap prick
deserves it.” Sue Ann said. “I hate him. I get wet
thinking about it.” Yet, he chose to believe that it was
another con, and the gullible, willing Sue Ann, the
victim of a bizarre seduction. He saw it as a variation of the phony bank account scam. Dutch, the
arch criminal, would never trust a woman that he
629
treated like a prostitute and courted with drugs. He
bemoaned that the attack on Dutch had only delayed
Sue Ann’s fall into his hands. The depth of the perversion rang through an unguarded telephone conversation.
Dutch had called angry, screaming. Sue Ann
had missed a “payment.” He told her that the deal
was off. She begged, and he reconsidered.
(NOT TRANSCRIBED)
DUTCH: “I want you here today … Last
chance, tramp! … I’m sending a plane …
Snake will pick you up … at that motel. On
board, do him … He’s going to give me a full
report … Grade your performance … Anything
less than an A …”
SUE ANN: “Not Snake!”
DUTCH: “What did I tell you about bitching?”
SUE ANN: “He’s got to pay … He always pays
…”
DUTCH: “He’s paying with primo shit …”
SUE ANN: “You’re so good, sugar.”
DUTCH: “Too good … Now, listen up …
We’re going from the airport directly to Frank’s
out on Lyford Cay … Big night. He’s putting
on a live show … If we’re lucky, maybe he can
fit you in. Be ready … Hair tight in a bun, dress
that slips off. We can try out your new hood
… cuffs … gold-plated … expensive as hell …
I’m spoiling you like Stan.”
SUE ANN: “Jeez!”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
DUTCH: “What did you say?”
SUE ANN: “Nothing, … nothing”
By the time he heard the tape, Sue Ann had
been in Nassau for at least two days. Besides, Stan’s
options were limited. The Cartel had not only bought
out his interest in the “cement bag” operation, but
insisted that Dutch live until they declared him
expendable.
Whether it be because of Sue Ann or simply
a sober minded reaction, Dutch had taken firm control of his market base. He made frequent trips to
the States, met with his customers, and shrewdly
appointed a lieutenant for each separate account.
The Cartel might control the supply and importation,
but not his distribution network and absent that, he
still had leverage. He forced them to renegotiate and
emerged with major trade concessions and for now,
remained untouchable.
Stan thought of Sue Ann and said to himself.
“We’re all whores. It’s only a matter of price.”
————
His children’s inadvertent comments required
scant explanation.
“Momma fired the nanny for spying,” one son
reported.
“Momma’s door’s always locked. Won’t come
out,” the other said.
“She’s got this funny little bottle of white
candy,” the youngest remarked.
“Not candy, medicine,” the eldest said.
631
His stepdaughter pointed the accusatory finger.
“You and your rotten divorce are making mother
sick. It’s all your fault. I never want to see you
again!” Her words punctuated by a slamming door.
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
Friday, May 1, 1987, early afternoon. Sue Ann’s
third day consigned to the forward cabin on Dutch’s
yacht. A room, below deck, newly carved from
the crew and captain’s quarters. A partition had
been removed. A head, shower and soundproofing
installed. The porthole glass blackened. Soft lighting
failed to lessen the impression of a dungeon.
She sat on a narrow, elongated bed, propped
up by pillows. Bare, but for a towel wrapped about
her waist. She buffed her fingernails, and hummed.
Sounds of the Grateful Dead issued from a stereo.
She was unaware of a hidden camera eyeing her,
or of the others, concealed in wall and ceiling fixtures. She fidgeted, removed the towel and fingered
the welts on her bottom. She shrugged, smiled oddly,
returned to her nails. Purplish-blue circlets marred
her wrists. She shifted uncomfortably, made a face,
having dropped an emery board off the side of the
bed. She struggled and finally reached it. Her travel
restricted by a gold-plated, ankle manacle chained to
a short, thick bedpost bolted to the floor. “Shit!” She
sniffed, snorted, blew her nose in the towel. “Double
shit!”
————
633
Above deck in the redecorated main salon, a
man unlocked a wall cabinet, opened the doors and
flicked on a 10-inch video monitor. “Puta’s up.” He
had long greasy hair and tobacco stained teeth. A
tattoo of a naked woman rippled as he flexed his
muscles. He went by the moniker Snake. He stood
staring. “Horny tramp.”
“A special puta, my boy,” Dutch grinned as he
laid a shopping bag on a teakwood coffee table.
He rummaged through the paper sack withdrawing
packs of videotape. “Tonight, she becomes a porn
star.”
Snake nodded, stretched his frame, and continued watching. “Hey! See this.” He was stripped to
the waist, feet bare. A coiled rattlesnake indelibly
inked in his sun-brown skin; the sofa an ivory shade
and the carpet peach.
“When I’m right, I’m right,” Dutch said, glancing at the screen. “I hired two local boys to do her.”
He displayed a dog collar. “You, behind the two-way
mirror; me directing.” He dangled a leash. “Closeups of her face. Get it!”
Snake nodded, paused, wrinkled his forehead.
“Boss, why not have a camera out front for the
action?”
“Like it! Let me kick it around.” He picked
up the telephone. “Get her washed, douched, cleanshaven for those special shots. No make-up.” Dutch
nervously snapped his fingers. “Cuff her. I’m going
to be watching on TV.”
“Any more orders?”
“No blow ’till she eats.” He heard the operator’s
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SHELDON YAVITZ
voice. “Hold on,” he said, clasping the receiver to
his chest. “For what I’m doing for her, that whore
deserves everything she gets.” He made a dismissive
motion and put the phone to his ear. “I want to place a
call to Santa Marta, Colombia.” He coughed, cleared
his throat. “José D., person to person.”
————
That same afternoon in Miami, Stan met with
Christabel Forster at her law office intent on proposing a divorce settlement that Sue Ann could not
refuse. It would save her from herself, break Dutch’s
influence, and thwart any plan, real or imaginary, or
so Stan reasoned.
Until recently, the logistics had eluded him, but
over the past several months, he had devised and
instituted a method for laundering his money. Using
offshore corporations, he had been buying up small
companies in Colombia and Peru. Brazil was next on
his agenda. They would legitimize cash by funneling money into the United States disguised as attorney and business consultant fees, under the guise
that he had branched into international law and trade.
The elements were now in place and operating on a
modest scale, but in the near future, he could foresee
an endless array of possibilities, and a further justification for weeks and months spent out of the country.
“You’re stark, raving mad!” Christabel
responded to his suggestion of lump sum alimony of
four million dollars, payable $100,000 yearly, five
million, if she offered any opposition, accelerated
635
after age 60, and unaffected by remarriage. Stan considered it cheap, and even felt guilty. The yearly cost
approximated ten days interest on his vast cash holdings, but as he concluded, Sue Ann, herself, had fostered severe limitations on his generosity.
“Have you lost your mind?” Christabel’s voice
rose, nostrils flared. “Good God!” She threw up
jeweled hands in exaggerated exasperation. “We’re
winning! You’re destroying my case.” She glared
accusingly at the saboteur. Stan shrugged, and
resigned to the viper’s tongue-lashing. As she spoke,
her fingers punched up data on a desktop computer.
“Protective order denied, third court order compelling her deposition, certificate of nonappearance, our
motion to strike pleadings and other sanctions pending.”
“Nothing new. The judge will grant another
extension.”
“Not this time. He warned her. She’ll get this!”
The lawyer hissed; a finger thrust in an unladylike
gesture. A clock chimed Ave Maria.
“I don’t want to win that way. My children will
hate me.” He grimaced sheepishly. “Sue Ann’s so
screwed up. She can’t think straight.”
“A greedy bitch. Even Tony’s disgusted.”
“I’m not impressed.”
“Don’t play the martyr. It doesn’t become you.”
Green eyes bore into him. “Torres told me you’re
facing indictment.” She pressed a palm to her forehead. “Obviously, I’m the last to know.”
Stan leaned forward, moved a bud vase with a
red rose from his path. “Let me take you into my
636
SHELDON YAVITZ
confidence.” His tone low, secretive. His dark glasses
concealed a mischievous glint.
“About time.” She fumbled a bit with her hair.
“I work for Central Intelligence, CIA.” He
paused; she looked at him strangely. “I’m what you
call a protected person.”
“Stan, really!” A fine eyebrow arched.
He had folded his hands, smiled, a feigned
omnipotent smile. “They pay me a fortune. I can’t
even disclose.”
Christabel’s head tilted; two fingers pressed to
her lips. “The hidden money?” She asked.
“Yeah, right.” He hesitated. “National security.”
He clenched a fist. “I shouldn’t be telling you.”
Her voice softened. “You must trust me, Stan.
“She had an Annie Hall-look in pin-stripes and paisley.
“I do, Christabel.” His nod broke into scowl,
sensing that he might be overacting. “If they knew I
told you …” He never completed the sentence.
Her mouth pursed, taut age lines etched her
upper lip. “What about the indictment, the grand jury
subpoena?”
“The Company quashed the subpoena. The
indictment, a dumb rumor, bureaucratic foul-up.” He
rubbed his palms together. “All gone.” He shrugged
a shoulder. “Happens.” His voiced hardened. “Now
do what I say.” He removed his glasses and stared
sharply at her. “I can’t have my wife undermining my
cover. Submit the proposal immediately. Fax it. Give
them 72 hours to reply.”
“This is Friday.”
637
“Make it a week.”
“Why don’t we wait until I have the court order.
A few more days and they will have no bargaining
power.” She had a wicked chuckle. “We can dictate
terms and Torres will eat crow.”
Stan slouched in his chair. “You’re probably
right.”
“Of course, I am. I’m your lawyer.”
————
Homebound traffic moved slowly as it wound
south through Coconut Grove. Time crawled. Stan
tried to relax. He had removed and stowed the transparent roof panel on his Corvette. The late afternoon
heat brought perspiration to his forehead. He turned
the air conditioner on high and raised the windows.
A stately home on a rise caught his passing interest.
Tall, full trees momentarily blocked out the sun. His
mind returns to Sue Ann and that uneasy feeling. He
had acquiesced to Christabel’s position out of logic
and reason, but logic did not apply to Sue Ann and
Dutch.
————
Sue Ann sat in the ship’s galley on a dining settee
short steps from her cabin below deck. A Coriantopped serving bar with a “disappearing” microwave oven separated the dinette from the U-shaped
galley. Unbreakable, nonskid stemware hung from
ceiling-mount racks. Her platinum blond hair carelessly pinned, not a trace of make-up or hint of jew-
638
SHELDON YAVITZ
elry. Dutch, the amateur psychologist and pimp, had
stripped away the crowning vestiges of her persona.
All she had left was an obsession. A skimpy man’s
undershirt with deep armholes clung to her breasts.
She wore a studded dog collar.
“Eat it all! You’re no good to me sick,” Dutch
barked, plopping down beside her. “Drink!” He
pointed to a glass. “Added vodka, cuts jitters, makes
you mellower.”
“Tired, baby, ache,” she moaned, picking at a
tuna salad sandwich. “Fanny hurts, pussy needs rest.”
Her eyes dull and nondescript now denied luxuriant
false lashes. “I hate that Snake-freak!”
“What did I tell you about bitching?” He picked
up the glass and slammed it down on the table.
Orange juice splattered. He shook a wet hand,
grabbed at her undershirt ripping it from her body.
Her arms shot to her bare bosom. “Put those fuckin’
hands down!” He wiped his fingers on the torn rag
and tossed it to the floor.
“Sorry, I’ll be good.” Every muscle tensed. She
folded her hands demurely in her lap, caught his
scowl, and placed them flat on the table.
He picked up the sandwich and held it to her
mouth. She took a small bite. “I just spoke to José D.
We’re close. This close,” he said, bringing his thumb
and index finger within a quarter inch of each other.
She smiled at his words and licked a crumb from
her lip. “The only problem is trusting you.” Her eyes
blinked, not comprehending. “We must be realistic.
Killing Stan’s the electric chair.”
“I’m so hot.” She grasped his hand and drove it
639
down between her legs.
“Sure, today, but after I take all the risks, job’s
done, adios Dutch. You turn me in to the cops.”
“Love ya fat prick.” She brushed herself against
him. “I want this so bad.” She squirmed to his touch.
“I’m wet, so wet.”
“Let’s be honest.” He roughly cupped her chin.
“What if you get religion, or feel guilty. It happens
all the time.” She stared blindly at him. “The cops
might scare you into turning rat, or say I get worried.
You’re the only witness.” He squeezed her lips to a
pucker. “You know what the King would be forced to
do.”
“Trust me.” Her voice squeaked.
He wrapped an arm around her. “I was gonna
make a video of you from behind a two-way mirror,”
he whispered in her ear. Her jaw dropped; eyes
rolled upward. “Changed my mind.” He pinched her
nipple.
“You’re so sweet, honey.” She pecked at his
cheek.
“Leave it to the King to find a simple, honest
solution.”
She gulped the screw driver; he finished her
sandwich. “So,” he said, picking at his teeth with a
fingernail. “Instead of a mirror, you do it right in
front of the camera.”
“No! Don’t ask me to do that!” Her hands flew
to her face; a leg violently jerked.
“I’m not asking you.” He combed his mustache
with a finger. “No movies, no Stan. This is my protection.” He slid clumsily from the booth and moved
640
SHELDON YAVITZ
to the refrigerator, flung open the door, bent low
searching the compartment. “You can catch the last
plane out,” he said matter-of-factly. “I tried, spent
a fortune. So damn close.” He shrugged, withdrew
a Beck’s Beer, shoved the door shut with an elbow.
“Better safe than sorry.”
“That’s smut, porn filth.” She tugged at an ear
lobe. “How could I face my children?” She crossed
and uncrossed her legs. “What would my friends
say?”
“Our private secret locked in a vault,” he winked.
She perked her head up. “Hard-cores, puta.” He
twisted the bottle cap. “So dirty, raunchy, you won’t
dare say a word, and me, no worries.” He took a long
swig. “Three, so you can’t say I forced you. More, if
you give me any shit.”
“Are we this close, honey?” She squeezed her
fingertips together.
“Stan will be dead when the last flick’s finished.” He removed a small vial from his pocket, and
grinned. “You’re gonna love being a movie star.” He
hovered over her curling a twenty dollar bill into a
straw. “Can you smell all that insurance money?”
Sue Ann’s nose twitched. She sniffed, gnawed on a
knuckle, legs moving up and down in short, quick
jerks. “Hot to make movies?” Dutch held the tightly
rolled bill just beyond her grasp.
“Yeah, hot.”
He trickled white powder on the table top.
“Tonight, I’II even let you wear a dress.”
“Can I wear earrings?”
“Sure. Dolled up, gorgeous for those close-
641
ups.”
————
The Corvette pulled in the drive, stopped, the
motor idling, as the town house garage door raised
to a programmable opener. A ratty Toyota sat parked
by the curb. The paint faded, a dented fender and
minus a hubcap. It bore a New Jersey license plate
and AWCA BUREAUCRAT FOR JESUS bumper
sticker. Stan’s brother, Victor, had come to visit.
They had not seen each other for almost seven years,
ever since Vic had married and moved north. The
brothers had little in common, but both were getting
divorced.
He found Vic by the swimming pool reclining
on a cushion chaise. His shirt unbuttoned; a beer can
in his hand. A six pack within reach. “Trying to catch
some sun,” he said.
Stan looked up through the screened enclosure
and shrugged, removed his suit jacket and draped it
over a chair back. His tie undone and collar open.
He walked over to Sherlock’s outside perch and
extended his wrist.
“Kiss my beak,” Sherlock cooed, parroting Ginger’s soft, feminine voice.
With the big bird on his shoulder, Stan pulled up
a chair beside his brother. “How you doing?”
“Same shit; another day.”
“Found a job?”
“No luck.” A cigarette dangled from his lips.
“Couldn’t hit the lottery if I bought every ticket.”
There was a striking family resemblance between the
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SHELDON YAVITZ
two men, but Vic’s hair had thinned, combed forward
to camouflage a bald spot. While Stan watched his
weight, all the more since living with Ginger, the
younger Pollard sported a flabby beer gut.
“I’ve been thinking,” Stan said. “I represent a
foreign investor (referring to himself) interested in
financing a business in the States.” He noticed his
brother’s brow knit. “With your background in shoe
sales, we could open a first-rate store. All it takes is
my recommendation.” Based on his brother’s track
record, an expected “no strings attached” loss, but he
could afford to gamble. The money didn’t matter.
“No thanks. I wasn’t born yesterday.” He flicked
the cigarette. Butts and ashes littered the patio tiles
about his chair. “I read how you make your money.
The lowlifes you represent. Sue Ann’s told me how
crooked and violent you’d become.”
“Forget it.” He kissed at the bird’s beak.
“Good Lord, don’t involve me!” He glared at
Stan, exhaled bellowing puffs of smoke startling the
cockatoo.
Sherlock shrieked, took flight, and plummeted
head first in the water. Its wings clipped, not fullfeathered. Stan rushed to the pool edge, kneeling,
offering encouragement.
“Dumb bird,” Vic scoffed, and popped a tab.
The cockatoo righted itself, coughed, sneezed,
and paddled to Stan’s outstretched arm.
“I may be broke, but I haven’t sunk that low.”
“Sherlock’s going to catch cold.”
“Where’s your conscience? I’m your flesh and
blood.”
643
“Hand me that towel.”
While Stan dried the squawking, nipping bird,
Vic with self-righteous fervor accused Stan of desecrating the family’s good name and being in league
with spics, niggers, drug dealers and commies. “It
was all in the newspaper, clear as the nose on your
face. Sue Ann showed me. You’ve put that poor girl
through hell.”
“Talkin’ shit,” Sherlock croaked.
Stan tuned his brother out.
“I can’t believe you’d be living with a girl who’s
for gun control.” His head shook from side to side.
“I’m out here, minding my own beeswax. She comes
out of the pool and starts chatting. Do you know what
she’s got on?” He gulped, blushing with embarrassment. Stan laughed as his brother’s face reddened.
“What about that tattoo?” The words came tumbling
out. “Sue Ann says she’s a stripper.”
“An exotic dancer.”
“Is that the best you can do?” He looked at Stan
oddly. “Ma would turn over in her grave.”
“Kiss my beak.”
“You mean, kiss my ass.”
He squared his shoulders. “I feel sorry for
you.”
“Do you need any money?”
“Does a fly live in shit?”
“A thousand, two, five. I had a good week.”
“No loan, can’t pay it back.” He dropped a butt
in a Coors can.
“A gift.”
“If you insist. Make it five,” he said, settling
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SHELDON YAVITZ
into the cushion. The corners of his mouth twitched.
“Can I have it in cash?”
————
Ginger had the look, fragrance and feel of a
long, soothing bath. Her eyes dreamy; her lips warm
and responsive. She sat cross-legged on the black,
ultra suede spread. Her hair wrapped in a towel. She
wore a Leopard print satin kimono.
“What’s wrong?” Stan asked, sensitive to her
pout. She turned her face away and didn’t answer.
He removed his soiled shirt tossing it on a chair.
White down clung to a pocket. “Vic’s a dumb prude,”
he said, forming the wrong conclusion. His hands
framed her face as he drew her to him.
“He’s harmless,” she sighed complacently.
“What’s wrong?” Her long face had returned.
“Something amiss with the ozone layer. Another
tree cut down in the rain forest?” he teased, laying his
keys and wallet on the dresser.
“That’s not funny, Stan.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Look!” She was up on her feet, standing legs
spread. The robe wide open. Her anguish reflected in
wall and ceiling mirrors. “I’m ruined!”
Stan squinted, nodded, forced a concerned look,
finally covering his mouth with a hand to hide a
grin.
“I was smoking a joint and kept shaving.” The
kimono dangled from her fingertips and floated to the
bed. “Can’t work!”
He rocked on his boot heels. “Cute.”
645
“How can you say that?” She tapped a barefoot.
“I like it.” He smiled approvingly and she smiled
back.
“I can work bald in Boston.” She was off the
bed, up on her toes, arms around his neck. “You have
to come with me. I won’t leave you alone.”
“I got a better idea.” His fingers roamed. “We
can take a vacation.” He paused, squeezing his eyes
shut. “Saint Martin. They have nude beaches. We can
stay until you’re professionally fit.”
“You really like it?” Her lips pressed to his.
“You can shave everyday, and we stay away forever.”
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
On a 34 square mile island in the outer arc of
the Lesser Antilles, due east of Puerto Rico and over
a thousand miles from Miami, Stan and Ginger vacationed at a secluded hideaway. A real estate agency’s color brochure aptly described the seaside villa
as bright and airy, charming decor, contemporary
design, with a breathtaking view of a sugar sand
beach and turquoise ocean. A gated entry and a
winding drive through a natural hammock added to
the serenity. “We’re living the life of the rich and
famous,” Ginger chirped.
The island’s split personality offered a change
of pace. The bustling tourist-oriented, commercialized Dutch Sint Maarten, one of the busiest cruise
ports in the West Indies, and the laid-back, pastoral,
European flavored French Saint Martin. He knew the
island well, but not as a vacation resort. To Stan, Sint
Maarten meant a Tax Haven highly suitable for offshore corporations and banking.
He played a round of golf for the first time
in years, tried his luck at the casino and found his
wining streak intact. Superstitiously, Stan attributed
it to Ginger. Since she had entered his life, his fortune had skyrocketed. Even, the businesses that he
647
had purchased simply to launder money were prospering. The CIA and DEA had danced to his tune.
The grand jury subpoena withdrawn and a court hearing declared moot. Within weeks, Sue Ann should
cease to be a headache. As a pundit would say, life
was good.
They dined in serious restaurants featuring
French cuisine and lunched on seafood with a view
of the harbor. Stan preferred long afternoon drives
going nowhere. Ginger took to browsing the dutyfree shops on Front Street in Dutch Philipsburg, and
the chic, spicy fashion boutiques of French Marigot.
She loved the beach. It became a daily ritual.
Stan enjoyed the sun, sand and water, but only from
a distance. At times he would join her enchanted by
her zeal as his topless environmentalist sermonized
on global warming, the greenhouse effect, and issued
dire predictions of floods, droughts and starvation.
She would cringe warning of the destruction of the
earth’s forests and extinction of millions of plant and
animal species. Ginger would grit her teeth in frustration, clench a fist and demand that he do something.
“Stop saving criminals and save the whale!” Her suntanned cheeks tear-stained. Any negative comment
met with handfuls of flying sand and her stomping
off for a swim, shortly to return glistening wet with
her hands on her hips, and a playful look.
————
Initially, Stan maintained daily contact with his
office, but by the second week, the frequency of his
calls dwindled.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
He would phone Vic checking on Sherlock and
Watson.
“They hate me!” His brother complained. “Can’t
get near them. Almost lost a finger.” Stan finally telephoned his daughter-in-law and paid her to take care
of the birds. No one in his family did anything for
free.
It came as a surprise when Vic expressed an
interest in opening a shoe store. “Been talking it over
with Brenda. It could mean we get back together.
Want a guaranteed 25,000. Otherwise, it’s bullshit.”
“If I was you, I’d demand at least fifty.”
“Are you trying to kill the deal?” Suspicion gurgled in Vic’s throat.
“You know best,” Stan replied, only later to cynically ponder his brother’s response had he known
that it was his money.
As the days passed, Vic’s enthusiasm grew.
He spoke of franchising, shopping center locations,
and pitched his expertise and worth with a salesman’s fanaticism. Delighted, Stan set the machinery
in motion. He formed a Netherlands Antilles offshore corporation to shield the undisclosed investor,
arranged with an island bank to serve as a conduit for
funds originating in South America and hired a local
attorney to front the operation. To all concerned, Stan
represented a wealthy Latin client. It kept people
honest and avoided unanswerable questions.
————
Christabel provided distressing news.
“Damn it! No!” Stan shouted, but to late. The
649
pit viper, in a rare show of professional courtesy,
had agreed to a postponement of the critical motion.
“Torres begged for a continuance. He said Sue Ann’s
disappeared. Aren’t you concerned?”
“A con job.”
“I never realized you were so heartless.”
His daughter explained Sue Ann’s absence.
“Spoke to mother. Doing great. Found a millionaire
movie director,” she said with a sly titter. “The dude’s
so wild about her. Won’t stop taking pictures. Oh,
she feels like a movie star.” The words sunk into his
brain burning visions of Dutch, Sue Ann and pornography. “See, father, if you’d been that attentive,
mother would never have divorced you.”
Stan rubbed his forehead and felt a sickening
gnaw in his gut. “What kind of pictures?”
“Of mother. Doing things.”
“How did she sound?”
“Excited, tired.” A long pause. “I don’t know,
sorta odd. Happy, yeah, having a good time.”
“Did you tell her lawyer?”
“Ah, well. I’m sure mother spoke to him.”
————
Reality raised its ugly head again. Stan returned
a call to his office from Ace McGonigle.
“Did you hear that Remo’s out to get us?” He
asked.
“He took his best shot. All he’s got left is
smoke.” Stan sipped a rum punch, 1¼ ounce Myers’s
dark rum, 3 ounces orange juice, lemon juice, sugar
and a dash of grenadine. His feet propped on an
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SHELDON YAVITZ
umbrella-topped patio table. “He might attempt to
set us up. I could see that.”
“We made a fool of the bloody prick.”
“Snitches are blow-hards.”
“The blokes at the DEA are shitting, put the
cretin out of business.”
“Temporary, but they keep a tight rein.”
“Salerno gave me the same crap.”
“They can’t be a party to murder.”
“He put a contract. Take my word. I’ve known
him for years. He’s a crazy, vengeful asshole.”
“What do you suggest?” Stan asked, up on his
feet. An ear to the conversation, his eyes following
Ginger below on the white sand conversing with a
stranger.
“Pack a gun!”
‘’I’ll think about it.” A wrinkled brow faded as
the beachcomber moved on.
At first, he shrugged off the warning, then reconsidered, and decided to extend their stay. For Ace to
be worried, the average man should be panic-stricken
and, of course, Dutch and Sue Ann had to be considered.
————
Friday, June 5, 1987, they had been home for
one day. Stan had stayed away from the office concerned with home security. During his absence, his
investigator had laid the groundwork, but it would
probably be a week before the measures were completed. Closed circuit surveillance cameras, high-tech
perimeter sensors, motion detectors, and a backup
651
wireless cellular phone system scheduled for installation to augment the in-place, less sophisticated,
burglar and fire alarm blanket. As to a bodyguard, the
idea crossed his mind. After living in South America,
Stan found employing sicarios second nature, and
ignoring Ace’s warning reckless, if not stupid.
Stan described the state-of-the-art electronics as
a duplication of the systems in use at his South Miami
home. A necessary safeguard in a crime ridden city.
The delay blamed on procrastination, but an armed
guard would require a stretch of the imagination.
————
What he didn’t expect was the furor caused by
restoring Ginger’s old Datsun 240Z. While on vacation, the car had been consigned to a custom shop
for body repair, repaint, and mechanical work. She
had refused to allow him to buy her a new one, and
Stan, the car buff, not to be deterred, did the next best
thing. He never counted on her reaction.
“How much is this going to cost me?” Her
mouth drawn in a tight line, face moist and warm. He
watched her thighs vigorously pumping the upright
stationary bike.
“A present. I told you.”
“You know damn well I don’t take your
money.”
“The neighbors complained. It was a public service.”
“How much?” Her skin-tight leotard soaked
with sweat. The heat of her body intensified her perfume.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“None of your business.”
“Stop fuckin’ with me!” She tossed her head.
“Okay. Two hundred dollars.”
“You’re lying! Vic told me you spent over four
thousand.”
Stan stared, blankly. “A bargain, a client, a
favor.”
She adjusted the peddle resistance. A digital display flashed information. “You’re not getting away
with this!” Her back straight, legs in rapid motion,
taking out her anger on quadriceps and gluteus maximus muscles.
————
Ginger, dressed in a textured cotton tunic, denim
jeans and high-heeled ankle boots, glowered at Stan.
“My fuckin’ car won’t start!” Her blond hair with
gentle waves for a tossed, offhanded look, lips pink
and blue eye shadow. “You ruined it!” A Treasure
Chest Lounge kewpie-doll carrying her stage outfit
in a canvas tote. “Do I call a cab or can Vic drive
me?”
“Let me look at it.” He gazed up from the television.
“I’m already late. I promised Roy.”
“Stay home.” Stan had a sad-eyed expression.
“We’ll fix it tomorrow. I’ll even turn your car back
into a wreck.” A sheepish grin, a seldom heard pleading in his voice. “Anything to keep you happy.”
She bent down and kissed him. “You’ve got to
learn. You can’t buy me.”
“Stop being an ol’ fogy. Give the girl a break,”
653
Vic interrupted, the perennial salesman in a striped
dress shirt and a geometric pattern tie. “When Brenda
comes, I’ll be grounded. This is my big chance to see
some real giant bazookas, the … the … whole enchilada, pardon my French.”
Stan shook his head. “Talk to them, Sherlock.”
“Kiss my beak.”
“Let me borrow the Jag.”
“Drive your own damn car!”
“Fuck him!” Ginger grabbed Vic by the arm.
“C’mon. I want to look like a big shot.”
————
Stan stood by the living room widow and
watched the black Jaguar back out of the drive. “We
should have never come home,” he said to the bird.
Later, he would recall feeling uneasy, an ill-defined
premonition, but he had felt that way ever since talking to his daughter and Ace. On the island, he had
seen death in the Tarot cards. Not his, but Ginger’s.
She had chosen the Star, a naked girl by a pond,
as her significator. An inappropriate selection, by
meaning, but apt by appearance. Nine cards were
dealt; six, including the significator, disposed in the
shape of a cross. The last four to the right, one above
the other. The final card, an armored skeleton on a
white horse, representing what would come: Death.
Stan saw it, claimed that he misdealt, and abruptly
ended the reading.
The car’s got a vanity plate. “Damn!” He hurried toward a telephone. It rang before he reached it.
“Overseas from José D.,” the operator said.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“Been calling you for a week.” He could hear
his frustration.
“I’ve been away,” Stan muttered, impatient.
“I guess that jerk never told you.”
Stan snapped his fingers, inattentive, barely
responsive to small talk, put José D. on hold and
dialed the number to the car cellular phone. “My
initials are on the license tag,” he said as Ginger
answered. “I don’t think you should be driving it.”
She called him crazy and hung up.
“Dutch called a couple of times,” José D. said,
when the conversation resumed. “Looking for sicarios to do a broad’s husband. Damn evasive, but that’s
Dutch.” Stan’s hand choked the cordless receiver.
“First week of May, Thursday, I think, I sent him up a
smart, savvy kid.” Stan paced as the story unraveled,
then moved from room to room unable to stand still.
“Spent two days on The CATCH ME. Got snapshots
of the mark, address, floor plan of the house, lots of
details, but Dutch wouldn’t tell him the man’s name.
Thought two guys could do it, and they agreed on a
price.”
Stan was out on the patio staring blindly at a
pitch-dark, starless sky. A waning moon obscured
by clouds. Sherlock on his shoulder plucking at a
wing feather. “He told me Dutch had this nude bitch
on a leash. For real, Stan, the mark’s wife, cuffed,
hooded so she couldn’t identify the hit man. You
won’t believe it, but the crazy broad wanted to fuck
the guy killing her husband.” Stan’s face ashen, a
hand balled in his pocket. “You know Dutch don’t
trust no one. He even chained her up when they
655
talked business. Serious shit. I hated to tell you this,
but you should know.”
The night air felt suffocating and Stan returned
to the living room. He slumped against the stone fireplace. On the mantel, Sherlock pecked at the hardwood. “My man had some friends check it out in
Miami. They come up with the name. The guy’s
high-profile.” Stan ignored the cockatoo, and walked
over to the bar, poured whiskey in a water glass. “The
shooter comes to see me, wanted advice. Thinks it’s
worth more money, probably four men, two to a
team. Shows me a photo.” Stan took a deep breath,
and drained the glass. He knew. “It’s you!” The
words superfluous. “Don’t worry. I stopped it.” Stan
nodded, speechless. “Told him, I’d have to kill him
first.” Stan muttered something unintelligible; José
D. continued. “Paid off my boy, and sent Dutch back
his money. That was over a week ago. The best I
could do.”
————
An inflatable sport boat moved slowly up the
deep water canal. The rigid V-hull sliced a clear path
through the rough chop. Two men in dark full-length
wetsuits looking like commandos; one aft at the outboard throttle, the other forward counting house lots
abutting a seawall. When they spoke, they conversed
in Spanish with an obvious Cuban dialect. In sight
of a Bertram cabin cruiser, they cut the engine, and
paddled toward the vessel shrouded by a dismal night
sky and a low silhouette.
The taller of the two, thin, sinewy with aged
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SHELDON YAVITZ
muscles, unwrapped an ugly, ornament-free semiautomatic of rigid, sheet metal construction, and moved
briskly to the dive platform at the stern of the yacht.
He climbed the port side transom platform anodized
aluminum ladder, scrambled to the dock, and in
a crouch, hurried forward and squatted beside a
wall. Now, in position, the second man spoke into a
weather-proof handheld radio. His voice answered a
half-mile away by a third conspirator, who nervously
paced near a pay phone. As cued, he dropped a coin
in the slot and dialed a number. His broad black forehead shined in the glow of the street lamp. “Hey,
Ace,” he said with a strong Bahamian intonation.
“Look, man, your boat’s sinking!”
Outdoor lights flashed on. The curtain behind
sliding glass patio doors cautiously parted. Ace
looked out across the pool in the direction of the
Bertram. The assailant, 35 feet to his right and at
an acute angle, leaped from behind the stucco wall.
The Mac 10 exploding with bursts of rapid fire. The
killer moved forward with brutish, methodical determination, no emotion, no expression, and no words,
squeezing off repeated rounds as glass shattered and
the body whirled, spun, and jerk in front of him.
The Nissan outboard sprung to life. Cold, hard
eyes gazed at the luminous display of an analog dive
watch. 9:14 pm, (June) 5.
————
The black Jaguar XJS passed the Mediterranean-style gate house. The entrance lined with tall,
showy feather palms. Vic waved to the uniform secu-
657
rity guard and swung north on South Bayshore Drive.
He adjusted and readjusted the rearview mirror,
gripped the walnut gearshift knob. His eyes roamed
from speedometer to tach and from climate control
to audio system. He spoke a mile-a-minute as he
pushed buttons. “Stan’s mechanic came the other day
and takes away his Corvette and leaves this. Comes
back later and exchanges a BMW for a Porsche.
What’s he up to?”
Ginger shrugged. “They were dirty.” She ran
her tongue over the puffy fullness of her upper lip.
“He should be driving an electric car. Instead, he’s
our number one polluter.”
The cellular phone rang. Ginger reached for it.
“Hi. Yeah. You’re crazy,” she shouted and hung up
the receiver. “Stan with more of his bullshit.”
“You’re awful hard on him,” Vic said, watching
her out of the corner of one eye. “I wish he’d buy me
a car.”
“He will, then one for your wife, then a house.
He’ll spoil you rotten just like his wife. Then you’ll
also hate him.” She slumped down in the aromatic
leather bucket seat. “I love him too much to let him
do that to me.”
“Doesn’t sound that way.” The big Jag slowed
for a yellow light. Vic punched the accelerator. The
two-ton, V-12 purred and surged through the intersection. “Hey, did you see that fool behind run the
red?” He laughed.
She paid him little attention. Her eyes closed. “I
only want Stan. I’ve got to prove that to him.”
“Dancing naked proves it, I guess.”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“I want my independence. Nobody owns me.”
“If my wife stripped, I kick her ass out,” he
scowled.
“Stan’s no fuckin’ prude.” She pressed her feet
to the floor as the black coupe whisked up the
expressway ramp and merged with northbound traffic. “He’s wonderful. Just too darn rich.” A gray vehicle behind them struggled to keep pace. Vic was on
the mobile phone talking to his wife. “Going great
guns,” he said. “Stan’s back. Driving his Jag. Going
to get me one.” His voice animated. “ What do you
mean? You’re not coming!” He was pounding the
steering wheel. “Oh, sweetie pie, gimme a break.
Don’t say that!” The gray Dodge remained six car
lengths to the rear. “Stan’s buying us a house. Ginger
told me. That’s his girlfriend.” The auto speed slackened approaching the exit. “A Jag, just like his. You’ll
see.”
The Dodge still followed. Two men sat in the
front seat; a third in the rear. One stroked an Uzi
submachine gun. The weapon had a cyclical rate of
fire of 650 rounds per minute; a velocity of 1310
feet per second, and fired a nine millimeter parabellum bullet from a detachable staggered box magazine. Fully loaded it weighed 8 pounds. It had a slide
selector switch which permitted single action or fully
automatic bursts. The gunman spoke in Spanish, an
unmistakable Cuban accent. He dressed casually in
an open neck knit shirt and slacks. His loafers had
tassels; his teeth uneven, expression cold and indifferent.
“Taking her to work. Oh, ah, a ballet dancer.”
659
Vic brushed cigarette ashes off his pants. “Where’s
the GD ashtray?” They had made a left turn proceeding onto a service road. The bright neon lights of the
Treasure Chest Lounge beckoned.
“Stan’s reserve spot’s right there.” Ginger
stretched her arms above her head. “Maybe, I should
have stayed home. Stan seemed so lonely. He’s helpless without me. Did I tell you that?”
Brown beady eyes blinked. A bony hand missing a middle finger released the safety on an AK-47.
A hollow laugh escaped taut lips.
“Helpless like a shark. I was speaking to
Ginger,” Vic remarked on the telephone. He had
pulled into a space facing the pink and blue entrance
canopy and parallel to the street. He shifted into
park; the gray Dodge sedan pulled alongside. The
front and rear windows rolled down and two men
smiling. Ginger reached to the rear for her tote bag.
A gun muzzle flashed. Blood roared in her ears. The
still air split by the rat-tat-tat of rapid gunfire, the
screech of tires and the hum of 12 cylinders.
————
Roy Rodgers broke the news to Stan. By then,
Vic and Ginger had been dead for more than an hour.
Contrary to a later published account, he was not the
first on the scene. In fact, he had been in his office
when B. Hoskins barged in sobbing, reporting that
Stan and Ginger had been gunned down in front of
the lounge. “Shit!” He muttered. “Youse deal wit’
dem cops. Now, get out!” He slammed a fist on the
desk. She hastily closed the door behind her. His
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SHELDON YAVITZ
shoulders sagged. “Ferchrisesake!” The veins in his
temple throbbed. “Fuckin’ Dutch!” He tore the wrapper from a cigar, bit off the tip and spit.
It had been nearly four weeks since Dutch paid
him a surprise visit. In the parking lot, he showed
him a rental van loaded with movie equipment: professional camcorders, a monitor, lighting, reflectors,
tripods, an auto dolly and a heavy duty grip with
swivel front wheels. “My first love,” he said, wrestling with boxes containing components to a video
post-production system. “Can do my own editing,”
he boasted.
Dutch went on to explain that his first picture
had been of poor quality, but the next ones would
rival the best in skin flicks. When Roy inquired as to
whether he was looking for “talent”, Dutch replied.
“I got the top porn slut.” He paused, grinned, as the
bar owner searched for a name.
“Stan’s wife,” Dutch said.
He gazed in stone silence. “Well, I’ll be
damned!” Then broke out laughing.
As he outlined the scenario for his premier feature, Roy muttered: “Oh God! Oh, shit! No, she
won’t.” Dutch not missing a graphic detail, answered.
“She will. She does it all. Been training her to act
natural before the camera. Photograph her bare ass
day and night, indoors, outside, can’t take a … unless
her picture’s being taken.”
“Does Stan know?”
“Who the fuck cares,” he glared. “I’ll teach that
no good prick. I’m not through with him yet.” He
inquired as to Stan’s whereabouts and learning that
661
he and Ginger were on vacation, said. “Call me the
minute that bastard gets back.”
Roy had called that evening, and now Stan was
dead.
It was only after a detective identified the victim
as Victor Pollard, did Roy put on his bereaved face
and in his most consoling voice telephone his friend
and lawyer.
————
Rotating, oscillating and stationary red, blue
and amber lights threw strobes of color. White and
green police cruisers blocked the street. Barricades
had been erected for crowd control. Uniform sheriff
deputies keeping spectators at a distance. Unmarked
homicide detective cars, their flashing blue lights on
the dash, mixed with crime scene units and those
from the medical examiner’s office. Television camera-men, reporters and newspaper persons had converged on the scene. Above, a helicopter circled with
a roaming searchlight.
Stan parked a block away and approached on
foot. It looked like a war zone with countless emergency vehicles, sirens wailing and crackling shortwave radios. He walked with a slight stoop. His
hands in his pockets, expression impassive. Dark
glasses, incongruous for the late hour, hid the tears
in his eyes. What could he say? My wife arranged
the hit with Dutch, or Remo Rodriguez and the
DEA were behind it, or maybe, it was some client
fearful that Stan might cooperate with the government. Shadowy, elusive people, all beyond the law,
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SHELDON YAVITZ
and Sue Ann cloaked in motherhood.
He identified himself to a police officer and
haltingly drifted toward the black Jaguar. Three-inch
wide, highly visible, vinyl yellow tape with bold
black print CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS encircled the car and the immediate area. Forensic specialists and investigators moved in and around the site
painstakingly collecting evidence and taking photographs. The driver’s door was open. The interior a
sea of blood; glass shattered and a stark pattern of
bullet holes. The paint peeled to the primer at each
gaping puncture. The windshield bullet scarred and
frostlike. The bodies had been removed. Stan was
selfishly thankful for that. An officer with a rolatape
measuring distance ordered him to move further
back.
“Who did dis, Stan?” Roy was standing beside
him. An arm on his shoulder. Stan shrugged. “The
dirty bastards fired point-blank. De fuzz estimates
from 25 to 30 rounds. Haven’t seen da likes of dis
since da cocaine cowboys,” Roy continued talking.
“Who’s after ya, Stan-boy?” Stan remained silent.
“Dutch?” He asked.
“Why?” Stan replied.
“How da fuck should I know?” He gestured to
a detective. “Dis is Stan Pollard,” he said making the
introduction.
Lieutenant Drury flexed his shoulders and
offered a handshake. He was tall, maybe 45, with
black wavy hair. He briefly explained what had happened and inquired whether Stan would answer a
few questions.
663
Stan nodded, listened inattentive, aware that
contract murders typically remain unsolved, and the
killer could try again. He found himself growing
detached, steeling his mind for what was to come.
Drury cracked chewing gum. The sound made his
skin crawl. It was all so senseless. He shook off
pangs of guilt. He withdrew into a hard, protective
shell stepping across the line to the criminal’s code
of silence.
“Did your brother or your girlfriend have any
known enemies?” He hauled the knot from his tie
and unbuttoned his shirt collar. “Did either of them
receive any death threats or been involved in any
criminal activity?”
“Nope,” Stan responded to the queries.
“There’s an obvious assumption that this was
meant for you?”
“No,” Stan said. “Or I’d be dead.”
He looked intently at him, a disbelieving gaze.
“Can you give us a lead?” He held a clipboard with a
writing tablet; a pen poised for an answer.
“If I’m the target, the killer will find me.”
Later, the detective would remark. “What a cold
son-of-a-bitch.”
————
Saturday dawned with word of Ace McGonigle’s death, a call from his wife after four that morning.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Abby said. “Ace is
dead.”
“How did it happen?” Stan fought to remain
664
SHELDON YAVITZ
calm, a professional tone. He had just returned to the
big, empty house after driving alone for hours. Emotions restricted to his private hell, determined to survive, but on his own terms.
“Shot to death,” she replied, as the cold blood
slaying became a vivid nightmare.
“Ginger and my brother were murdered last
night,” Stan quietly remarked. “They were in my
car. No mere coincidence.” His mouth twisted in an
anguished grimace. “Remo Rodriguez.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, but Ace was a good judge of men.”
Within 24 hours, Stan lost any semblance of
self-control. He raged, yelling until hoarse. Sherlock
shrieked along with him. Exhausted, he crumpled in
a chair, then punched the play button and listened
again to a telephone recorded tape. He buried his
face in his arm and wept.
EXCERPT FROM TRANSCRIPT: SA/ 1
SUE ANN: “Have you seen the TV? … The
Herald?”
DUTCH: “What? You mean about Ace being
blown away?”
SUE ANN: “You’re talking shit. Vic … that
tramp killed … Right in front of the topless
bar … Stan’s alive … You fuckin’ killed his
brother!”
DUTCH: “Shut your dirty mouth! … It wasn’t
me …”
SUE ANN: “You missed! … Damn you!”
DUTCH: “How many movies did we make? …
665
Two, right … How many were we to make?”
SUE ANN: “Three …”
DUTCH: “Four … dead, when the last flick’s
finished. You coked out whore, use your head.”
SUE ANN: “Well … Sure … Oh … Oh, shit!”
DUTCH: “Calm down … You know the King
wouldn’t miss. Listen to me … Whoever tried
is going to try again. There’s probably a price
on his head … Get it?”
SUE ANN: “Really! … Gosh … The whole
world hates Stanton … Isn’t that great!”
DUTCH: “Great, my ass … Those schmucks
tipped him off … Made the job harder … If
you hadn’t been such a lazy, worthless cunt,
we …”
SUE ANN: “Sorry, baby … Don’t get mad.”
DUTCH: “Snake’ll pick you up tomorrow …
We are moving … Show time … Taking the big
trawler … Tired of the Bahamas.”
SUE ANN: “I get seasick … Still can’t wear a
bathing suit.”
DUTCH: “What did I tell you about bitching?”
SUE ANN: “Are you worried about Stanton?”
DUTCH: “Do I sound worried? (DRY
COUGH) … May do it myself, or at least
watch.”
SUE ANN: “You won’t miss? Promise.”
DUTCH: “Guaranteed …”
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
Stan flew to Freeport for Ace’s funeral, then
to Montgomery, Alabama to bury Ginger, and on to
New Jersey, the final rest for Victor Pollard. A bodyguard accompanied him. He considered the precaution preventive, but not a solution. Nothing stops a
person intent on killing you.
Brenda Pollard lived in a neat, two-bedroom,
red brick, white trimmed home on a tree shaded, car
cluttered street in a modest Newark suburb.
“Third on the right,” Stan said, leaning forward.
The strong, solid built man behind the wheel
nodded, and the rental car pulled to the curb. The
driver, a local private eye, patted a shoulder holster.
The bodyguard in the front seat got out and warily
scanned the area. Stan waited for an all clear sign,
then approached the house. He rang the bell.
A white wash rocker sat on the porch; a hanging basket fern in need of water. A mangy gray
cat coughed up a fur ball. The front door opened.
Stan faced a woman in her mid-thirties, dark-haired
with frosted streaks, potbellied in polyester and spandex stirrup pants. Not the svelte figured girl that he
remembered, but as Vic would joke: She spread out
667
like Newark.
A heavyset stranger lingered in the background.
His features not clearly discernible, other than a luxuriant mustache and bushy eyebrows. Brenda looked
at Stan with knife blade eyes. She took a step back.
“Murderer!” She shouted, flinging the door shut. The
cat bolted. Stan gritted his teeth.
Later, after the funeral service, he stood alone
by the grave site. He turned slightly as Brenda
walked up beside him. She wore widow’s black; a
veil cloaked heavy make-up. “It’s your fault Vic’s
dead. The good die young. Bastards like you live forever.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry won’t bring him back.” She raised her
hand and slapped his cheek. He winced. “I wish you
were dead,” she said.
Stan shrugged, hands clasped behind his back.
He averted her gaze as the lie unfolded. “Vic may
not have told you, but we took out mutual life insurance policies from a company I represent in South
America.”
She glared at him, inquisitively. “Insurance?”
She hesitated, unsure, thinking. “So, you’re making
money on poor Vic’s death.” He could feel her
scorching resentment.
“Never expected it would turn out this way.” He
shuffled his feet, head bowed. “I arranged with the
insurance company to pay you the money.”
“Guilty conscience?” She picked at a ragged
fingernail.
“Call it what you like.”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“How much?” She moved closer; her fingers
touched his arm. She wore cheap perfume, too
much.
“Three hundred.”
“Three hundred dollars?” Her lips quivered.
“How fuckin’ generous.” She yanked her hand away.
“Three hundred thousand.”
“What! That’s more than Vic could make in a
lifetime.”
“Made it in one day,” Stan muttered. “You’ll
have the money in a couple of weeks.” He shook his
head, his composure failing. “Sorry.” He turned and
trudged in the direction of the limousine.
“What about the house and Jag you were buying
us?” Stan didn’t look back. “Cheap prick!” Her
jagged voice resounded amid the stone markers and
monuments. Her tone softened. “Hi, Freddie.” The
mustached man had joined her.
“Do you want me to bust that creep’s head?”
“Nah, screw him.” She cradled against him.
“Gonna miss the old boy?” He offered a cigarette.
She lifted her veil. “Shit, he’s been dead for
years.” She almost grinned.
————
From a hotel room in Newark, Stan called Christabel Forster. “Have you had the hearing?”
“Not yet.”
“Has it been scheduled? “
“The judge’s calendar has been brutal. I’ve been
in trial.”
669
“I want you to know I’m withdrawing the offer.”
He sat at the edge of the bed. A magazine opened
before him. “I will confirm it in writing.”
“Finally came to your senses. Knew you would.”
He could hear her snicker, and suspected that she had
intentionally delayed the motion hearing. Christabel
wanted it her way. Lawyers think they know what is
best for their clients.
“No more postponements,” he said skimming
an article on bullet-proof automobiles. “Do I make
myself clear. Don’t fall for anymore of Torres’s garbage.” He studied a photo of a Jeep Cherokee and the
caption: For $100,000, a car is transformed into an
armored vehicle. “If you had checked last time, Sue
Ann was on vacation dating a movie mongrel.”
“You mean mogul.”
“Mongrel!”
“Huh! So that it! You’re jealous.”
“Call it what you like. Get it done, or you’re
fired.”
————
A raggedy wood-hulled, 46-foot trawler lumbered at a leisurely 8 to 9 knots, no strain on a pair
of 375-hp Caterpillar diesels. With additional fuel
tanks, it had a cruise range approximating two thousand nautical miles. It could sail for weeks and never
touch port. The name had been changed on the slim
chance Stan might remember. Dutch had used the
unobtrusive work boat hauling marijuana, and later
as Wink’s live aboard and for moving money. A large,
seedy stateroom aft with a bulkhead berth, a port
670
SHELDON YAVITZ
and forward cabin accommodated a total of six. A
teak deck in need of varnish, and a small pilot house
deceptively outfitted with a Loran, a back-up GPS
graphic-plotter, radar, depth sounder with a high-resolution screen, VHF and CB radios. The main salon,
which included a galley, jammed with video equipment.
Sue Ann found the vessel cramped and oppressive, so unlike Dutch’s flamboyance.
“After being chained, how can you bitch?”
Snake had asked.
“I didn’t have to cook, clean up shit. Had my
privacy.”
She was the designated cook and movie star;
Dutch, captain, producer and director; Snake, a now
practiced cameraman and second mate. Three budding porn actors had joined the party: two Bahamians and a handsome Jamaican with dreadlocks. They
doubled as crew as the necessity arose. Sue Ann
prayed for rough weather when she would become
seasick and left alone.
Dutch abandoned his original script and dubbed
the new film, a travelogue.
“Travelogue, shit,” Sue Ann griped. “All I do is
cook. Fuck with a camera in my face.” She yanked
off a sandal and threw it at him. “Asshole! I wanna
go home!”
Dutch didn’t answer; his face twisted in rage.
He grabbed her arm and dragged her struggling on
deck, then up a ladder. Her bare legs banging against
the stainless steel. On the open bridge, he lashed her
to a radio mast and called to the men. “Show time!
671
Snake, get the fuckin’ camera! Otis! Places everybody!”
They were 250 miles south of San Salvador and
north of Great Inagua in the open Atlantic. No shallows to “eyeball,” no all-weather anchorages. The
sun was boiling, the wind calm.
“I’m tired of your shit! Scream!” He raised an
open palm. “No one will fuckin’ hear you!” She
flinched, shrieked on command. “Louder!” He held
his head jauntily, listening. “Yeah. Sounds good.”
Otis, the Jamaican, stepped forward, a whip in
his hand. Sue Ann saw his broad grin. He moved
with a certain animal magnetism. “Punish the bitch!
I’ll tell you when to stop,” Dutch barked. “Hold it!
Snake’s not ready. Let me outline the action.” He
paused, closed his eyes, feeding on images. “Let’s
start from scratch. Here’s the way I see it. Sue Ann’s
below in the cabin. Otis puts the make on her. They
get down and dirty, real filth. Out of the blue, the
ungrateful cunt says fuck you, spits in his face,
throws a sandal. He teaches her a lesson in respect.”
He nodded to Otis, who tore off her T-shirt and
cracked the whip across her naked flesh. “Up here at
the mast, that’s just classic.” Dutch cocked his head,
gazed at the crew. “Any suggestions. Speak up, slut.
You got a big ass in this.” His patience temporarily
restored, immersed in movie making.
He was running, panicked, convinced Stan
would find him. Sue Ann reduced to an amusement
and perversion.
“Stan’s more criminal than I’ve ever been,”
Dutch later confided to her. She lay in a berth nuz-
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SHELDON YAVITZ
zling his brawny hand. “He will track me down
unless I get him first.”
“He knows?” Her red, puffy eyes widened.
“José D. snitched us out.” He kissed her forehead. “We’re in this together.”
“I’ll be good, sugar. Just kill him.”
“Great performance.” He wiped her eyes. “That
Otis is a chip off the old block.” He rolled her on her
stomach. She drew up her knees and arched her back.
“Realism, puta, that’s what makes top flicks.”
Dutch became preoccupied with Stan’s murder.
Alone at the wheel countless schemes crossed his
mind, dissolving with the realization that he failed in
securing a hit man. The New York mob boys had provided no solution. He had interviewed two claimed
pros and considered them overrated. “All mouth and
no balls, who would rat in a New York minute.”
After, the José D. fiasco, Colombians were out of
the question. Of course, he could still shop the contract, but who could he trust, and what if the shooter
missed, or worse. He could envision being set up by
a police informant or the perpetrator subsequently
arrested and confessing. “Shit, the odds favor Stan,
guarded and alerted with sicarios on his payroll.”
Dutch buried his fears in cocaine, diverted his apprehension in film making and resolved to do it himself,
or hide until someone else did the job. He had no
choice.
————
Remo Rodriguez had no such fears. Bahamian
and Miami newspapers accounts of the slayings and
673
videotapes of the television coverage had been delivered by couriers to his island retreat in the Dominican Republic. He had dealt swiftly with his perceived
enemies and found the results gratifying. As to Stan
surviving, he considered the murder of his brother
and girlfriend “frosting on the cake.”
“How sweet it is,” he grinned. A pint-sized
smuggler mimicking Jackie Gleason with a Cuban
accent. A replay broadcast suddenly interrupted by
the appearance of Agent Bernie Salerno. Remo heard
his loud voice, a commotion at the front door. Salerno
barged into the living room lugging a flunky held in a
head lock. He flipped him to the carpet, confronting
armed men, on their feet, guns drawn, pointed. “Call
the dogs off!” His muscles flexed; jaw firm.
Remo clicked off the big screen television. “Get
out! Take the broads with you.” Eyes darted, bodies
moved hesitantly. A girl pulled up her top, giggling.
A revolver slapped in a holster. “Get out!” Remo
yelled, gesturing. A thin man in a guayabera shirt
rose shakily to his feet and followed the others. Remo
waited until the room cleared. He had an indulgent
smile, a hint of mockery. The agent stepped forward,
standing before the squat, dark, beetle-browed drug
dealer. Some described Remo as ugly. Others said
that his face mirrored his soul.
He remained seated; legs crossed at the knees.
Arms folded defiantly. “Slumming?”
“Cut the shit! We know you did it.”
“Us,” Remo smirked. “Us, partner.” He flicked
the remote. A black Jaguar flashed on the screen,
close-ups of bullet holes, and shell casings on the
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SHELDON YAVITZ
pavement. “Excellent work.”
“You crazy bastard!”
“I’m satisfied.” He reached for a liquor glass.
Salerno squared his jaw aggressively. “Pollard’s
alive.”
“So what! Let him piss in his pant.” He fluffed
out a plump pillow. “What else can that lame shyster
do?”
The Agent walked to sliding glass doors and
gazed, an aimless stare. A facial muscle twitched and
immeasurable silence.
“What a great view. Ninth hole. You guys don’t
know how to live.” Remo noisily sipped his drink.
Ice crackled.
“Pollard’s a CIA agent,” Salerno said. Remo
scowled. Thick lips tightened; ferret-like eyes
squinted. “They killed the investigation. He’s the
real power.” Remo got to his feet and moved toward
the agent. “You put us all at risk!” Salerno had the
diminutive smuggler by the shirt collar. “Do it right,
or you’re next!”
Remo looked him straight in the eye. “Take
your fuckin’ hands off me!” The agent released his
grip, swallowed hard.
“He knows shit!”
“He named you!”
“He’s dead!” Remo spit with teeth-grinding
ruthlessness. “Dead!” He opened the plate glass and
stepped out on the balcony. “Ah, smell that salt
air. Feel that sunshine.” He leaned over the railing.
“Where is he?”
“Disappeared!”
675
————
Crawford knew that Stan was somewhere in
South America. He had returned from his brother’s
funeral, spent a day arranging for the purchase of
armored vehicles, and another tending to business,
then packed and caught an airplane.
“I’ll call you,” he said. “Need time to think.”
“Where are you going?”
“South.” He looked up from his desk, an expressionless face.
Stan had returned to the security of his hacienda
outside of Manizales, Colombia, safe and protected
in the most lawless country in the Western Hemisphere.
Elena found him unsociable and morose. He
said little and remained to himself in deep thought
and fighting his demons. At war, but psychologically
unprepared for battle. He could run, but how long
could he hide? He could return to Florida and await a
bloody confrontation, or issue an order to hunt down
and revenge the murders, and eliminate Dutch and
Remo. He had become another animal in the jungle
of his choosing.
————
Long walks in the countryside soon occupied
his mornings. Quinto accompanied him; armed sicarios at a vigilant distance. He had investigative reports
forwarded to him, routed through Panama. One confirmed that Dutch had left Nassau on a trawler with
a blond, a man known as Snake and three black men.
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SHELDON YAVITZ
Dutch was running, Stan concluded. He would eventually regain his nerve. The die had been cast. He
could no longer be under-estimated.
Stan reviewed an earlier dossier prepared on
Remo. He was awaiting an update. His last known
address: Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic. He had
little doubt that the smuggler lived outside the U.S.,
guarded, plotting, aware that Stan knew. He regretted informing the police that he suspected Remo
Rodriguez. “Lost my cool,” he remarked to Quinto.
“Tipped my hand. The detective checked with the
DEA and called my allegation baseless.” He kicked
at a rock. “The big reason, I left.”
The getaway car had been located, burned. All
traces of evidence incinerated. The gunmen unknown.
Daniel, his investigator, surmised the shooters were
Cuban. The vehicle reported stolen in Little Havana,
Miami’s Cuban sector, and if Remo orchestrated the
hit, he would rely on fellow countrymen. Not much
to go on, but it fit the modus operandi.
Quinto’s feelings as to Sue Ann rang with Latin
machismo. “An unfaithful wife. Kill her! No one will
blame you.”
Stan shook his head slowly. “I couldn’t face my
children. Couldn’t live with myself.” They sat beside
a rushing stream. He tossed pebbles that vanished
without a ripple. “I’m to blame for Sue Ann. No one
could hate that much without good reason.”
“I don’t understand?”
“I wish I did.” He raised a hand to his mouth as
if in pain, regained his composure. “She’s beautiful,
you know.”
677
————
A golden-chestnut Irish setter jostled at Stan’s
side. He signaled the dog to sit, then stepped off a
distance. A revolver strapped to his hip, dressed in
faded blue denims, boots and a Stetson.
“Have you spoken with El Patron?” Quinto
asked.
“Yep. Can’t touch Dutch until they have control
of his operation.” He aimed a gun and fired at tin
cans. The targets jumped in the air. “Then, they’ll do
him as gift. Too much invested.” A sober expression
reflected his thoughts. “Here, I have their protection,” he shrugged, his tone unhurried. “Don’t need
it.”
“Give the word. We do him, all of them. You’re
the boss.”
Stan fired. He could smell the cordite, muzzle
smoke. “Can’t cross the Cartel, and as for Remo,
I presume it’s him, but I have no proof. Could be
someone else.”
“So what. We will track the bastards down, kill
them, bring them to you. You can watch. Do you
want it to look like an accident?”
His finger squeezed the .38. Bang! Ping! Tin
leaped.
“You’re a good shot, Doctor.”
“There’s no difference between pulling the trigger, and ordering someone’s death. I listened to my
wife.” A bitter smile turned up the corners of his lips.
“She said kill him. She was talking about me as if
exterminating a household pest. All so simple.”
“Eye for an eye.”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
Stan opened the cylinder, pressed a catch, shells
dropped into his palm. He reloaded. Quinto moved
forward stringing bottles to tree limbs.
“Some foolishly think what goes around comes
around. It needs a little help.” Gun shots echoed,
glass fragmented.
————
Elena basked in her life of affluence. As Stan
learned during his most recent visit, she had become
the belle of Manizales, a patron of the arts and the
local theater, active in charities and social affairs. A
much envied beautiful blond “señora” with her palatial hacienda, entourage and mysterious “husband,”
who came, went, but was seldom seen. She referred
to him as a world traveling journalist, and heir to an
immense fortune.
He had been the center of her attention when
his stays were brief: a devoted, pleasing mistress and
passionate lover. Now, having remarked that he considered remaining full-time at the estate, Stan sensed
an unsettling uneasiness, a scowl of annoyance, and
thought he heard her say: “You’re talkin’ shit.” Elena
did not speak English, but the implication seemed
inescapable.
Bored with writing, she had turned to sculpturing. Her bodyguards served as models. A bust
prominently displayed on a pedestal, a nude with a
semiautomatic in the bedroom.
“Very detailed,” Stan said, his eyes narrowed.
“I’m an artist.” She wore a cascading black chiffon chemise with a shimmery sequin lace bodice.
679
“Of course,” he sighed, then fired the guard.
As he would explain to Quinto. “It’s not jealousy,
simply self-preservation. A man who poses naked for
my mistress is not going to raise a finger to save
me.”
Upon hearing the news, Elena confronted Stan
on the patio. The Irish setter hovered at his side, a
writing pad and a cup of café con leche on a wroughtiron table. He looked up, turned toward her voice, a
quick smile.
“How could you do that?” Her body language
underscored her outrage. The Paris original outlined
every curve.
“Easy.”
“I need my freedom and space.”
“You’re free to leave,” he replied in a harsh
monotone. Her eyes screwed tight, a sudden intake
of breath. “With enough money to live a more than
comfortable life. You can even keep your model.” He
petted the dog’s head.
“Sergio, this is my home, my servants, guards.”
She threw back her shoulders. “What would all my
friends say?” Her fingers languished in long blond
hair.
“I’ve been through this before.” For an instant,
he almost called her Sue Ann.
“There’s another woman!” Her eyes smoldering, teeth gritted. “I’ll kill her!”
“Think what you like.” His gaze wandered,
tracking a blue and gold macaw in a treetop. It
blurred with the foliage.
“I won’t leave!” She squeezed a fist; an amo-
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SHELDON YAVITZ
rous smile creased her lips. She dropped in his lap.
She traced her fingertips gently across his cheek.
“I’m nothing but a sex object. You’re cruel.”
“I have only known two persons, who I couldn’t
buy or weren’t corrupted by greed or power. Both
lovely, both dead. You’re sadly not an exception.” He
smiled into her eyes. “I can live with that.”
“I love you, Sergio.”
“Why not?”
“You’re jealous!”
“Sure, jealous. I have no other reason to be
upset.”
————
As the weeks passed, he grew more relaxed.
Stan had found a measure of peace and a solution.
Elena had been a comfort. At least, she tried: forced,
artificial, rarely warm and spontaneous. Maybe he
judged her too harshly, but his cynicism showed.
Then again, he was no prize to live with. His protective coldness, well-suited for dealing with criminals,
caused him to appear aloof, uncommunicative and
at times, unfeeling. His life, part lie; the truth unexplainable. Who knew how he felt? Only a dog and
a hired assassin had a shred of his confidence. He
could not become a murderer and stubbornly refused
to be a victim. He resolved to let the haters hate and
step out of the picture. It was a game that he could
not win, even if he won on their terms. He thought of
Irv Rhodos. When trapped in a no-win situation, he
said. “That’s life”, and retired to the Riviera with his
wealth, a young girl and a new Porsche. “The wisest
681
man that I had ever met,” Stan smiled, a sad smile.
————
“I have decided on a fatal auto accident,” he
remarked to Quinto. They were driving en route to
the city. The sun drenched the dirt road. Dust formed
a trailing cloud. “I want the car to burn, go over a
cliff.” The Irish setter perked its ears, emitted a low
growl. “Can you make it catch fire without evidence
of arson?”
Quinto pondered for a while, his face a tapestry of expressions. “There’s an old home remedy.”
Stan nodded, scratched his chin. “A tube sock filled
with chlorine powder like for swimming pools, and
brake fluid.” He pointed to a turnoff beyond a stand
of trees. “We rig it to a plastic gasoline can. It ignites,
bang, blows up the gas, everything up in flames. We
can do it that way, or set it up as a pipe bomb, or we
can use another method. No problem.”
“Good.” The Ford Bronco wheeled onto a highway.
“Who are we killing?”
“Me.” Stan said, his eyes twinkled behind
shaded glasses. “I have to survive to make it work.
That’s the hard part.”
EPILOGUE
Fitzgerald Moore stared at a check and counted
the zeroes. His magazine article on Stan had opened
the door to a large advance on a nonfiction novel,
tentatively titled: A JUNGLE OF HIS CHOOSING:
THE LIFE AND DEATH (?) OF STANTON M.
POLLARD.
“Prove him alive and we triple the money,” the
publisher said. It was written into his contract.
Stan had been dead for almost a year. Moore
shifted through his notes, taped interviews and documents, and concluded that his investigation had
just begun. He contacted Edward Crawford and
requested available trial transcripts, pleadings, depositions of Stan’s most significant cases, and his personal divorce file. Crawford hesitated.
“Didn’t I make you look good in print?” Moore
asked.
“Better than the rest,” Crawford chuckled. The
writer had a keen eye on the future.
“Help me out. Pick cases that mirror your ability.” He clicked a ball point pen. “Be my silent
adviser. It will be great for business.” He pressed the
record button of a micro cassette recorder. “Talk to
me, Ed.”
683
The lawyer tipped back in his executive swivel
chair, eyes closed. He had rented out office space.
with Stan’s death both the size of the law practice and
his income had dwindled. He tipped forward, eyes
open, up from his chair moving around the room. “I
have to look good.”
“This book will make you a star.”
Crawford agreed and would immediately suggest that Moore interview Sol Gateman. Stan’s last,
and according to the attorney, their most striking success. “We worked on it together. Stan, as always,
took the credit for my genius.”
————
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 11, 1988
COCONUT GROVE, FLORIDA
Gateman greeted Moore at the door to his Coconut Grove town house dressed in a multi-colored
striped polo shirt and pleated front wrinkle-free
slacks. He sported a new toupee and held a cordless
phone. During their interview, it would ring repeatedly. “Sorry, business. Sorry, a girlfriend,” he would
say. “Oh, that’s mother.”
He took him on a tour of the house. They stood
in the bedroom surrounded by mirrors. “Stan not
only reversed my conviction, he left me the house
in his will.” He flipped a switch and the bed slowly
rotated.
“Fantastic!” Moore patted the Panasonic micro
recorder fitted in a jacket pocket. An ultra-sensitive
built-in microphone chronicled the following:
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SHELDON YAVITZ
EXCERPTS FROM TAPE TRANSCRIPT:
GATEMAN: “Why you ask? … Hard to
explain. Wrote in his will that an innocent man
shouldn’t have to go broke proving his innocence … He had taken me aside … I had
already been released … said that after Ginger
was killed, the house depressed him … Slept in
the guest room instead of the master bedroom
… Guilty conscience over some nutcase …
Something else, pretty strange … Left his car
collection … God, over 25 valuable cars, classics, I hear … to some cockamamie foundation
concerned with saving the whale … He used to
kid that she called him the number one polluter.
Said he should be saving the whale instead of
criminals … I’m glad he didn’t listen to her
… No, I don’t own the house outright … Mrs.
Pollard’s contesting the will …”
————
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 8, 1988
EL RENO, TEXAS
Behind a double, 12-foot high, chain linked
enclosure with razor wire barriers on top and between
the fences and an electronic perimeter detection
system, Moore visited Bill “Buddha” Blanton, the
third in a string of interviews with Stan’s former clients. Earlier, he had conferred with Luther “Goldie”
Clampton, free and accessible, in Fort Lauderdale,
Florida. According to Goldie, the State had awarded
him for his “cooperation.”
“Yessuh, made more criminal cases than ten
685
cops,” he bragged, picking corn from his teeth. “On
probation, not a day in jail.”
“All friends?”
“Hardly knew some of the fuckers. Whoever
dealed with me got busted. A pound, key, all adds
up.” He smacked his lips, licked a greasy finger. “In
police work, body counts the game.” He ordered a
second platter of buffalo wings.
They sat in a diner; a teenage boy, long scraggly hair and pimples, at Goldie’s side. “Muh ward,”
he drawled, petting the boy on the head. “Go, play
the juke box.” Goldie pinched his thigh. The youngest shrugged. “Get ya ass outta here!”
Moore pulled out his recorder. “Talk to me,
Goldie. You’re a key to my story. Too important to
be misquoted.” “Well, suh,” he said. “Pollard was a
fuckin’ crook.”
CLAMPTON: “Stan was the brains … When
he died, Dutch went ta shit … Doin’ drugs …
makin’ fuck movies in Medico … Did ya hear,
wit’ Stan’s ex … I’m not shittin’ … Saw um?
… Watcha think? … I don’t go for that crap …
Stan, a snitch? … Bull! … Feds put out that
shit … Why? Testin’ … baitin’ a hook … see
if he’d bite … If ya ask me, Stan didn’t have
the balls … Gotta be tough to do what I done
… Oh, sheet me, busted with 35 keys … small,
less ‘n a million … Jes’, ovuh the years, 50,
60,000 pounds of grass … Wadya mean only
probation! … Ya copping some fuckin’ attitude
686
SHELDON YAVITZ
… Callin’ me a child molester … I’ll break ya
face!”
Moore handed his briefcase to a federal corrections officer, took off his shoes, put his wallet, eyeglasses and belt buckle on the small table. He walked
through a Garrett Magna scanner. A monitor light
flashed; a buzzer sounded.
He passed through it again. The ultra-sensitive
machine alerted. “Forgot! My tape recorder.”
“We don’t allow tape recorders in Federal
Prison,” the sullen faced guard said. He noticed
Moore’s scowl. “Don’t like it. Take it up with the
AW.”
The federal correctional institute was a self-sufficient complex with a utility plant, food service,
prison industries, warehouses and the institution.
“I work at the powerhouse,” Buddha said.
“Check meters on boilers. It’s a living,” he laughed.
He was dressed in prison khaki. Epaulets added a
military touch. “Gave up smoking, drinking for sure.
Exercise put years on my life.” He had lost weight,
firmed up his belly. His hair continued to thin, but
a neat trim lent a more youthful appearance. “If it
wasn’t for Pollard, I’d be out already. Now, I got to
wait until I testify in a few cases.”
“You were quoted in a newspaper article about
Pollard that all the facts would come out in a federal
investigation.” Moore looked up from his pad. “Did
you testify before the grand jury?”
“Well, you know nothing is certain.” Moore
studied the subject, mentally constructed a profile,
687
observed his mannerisms: a fidget, roaming eyes.
“Do you want a coke?”
“You’ll have to get it. Make it diet.” A corrections officer watched from a distance. They sat at a
table in the visiting room. Inmates with their wives,
friends or relative chatted nearby. Children unable
to stay still, chastised by their parents. The afternoon sun beamed through large windows. Wall heaters contributed a toasted warmth. Moore walked to
a vending machine and plucked in quarters, then
bought a bag of pretzels. “The DEA backed off. The
CIA stopped it.” Buddha resumed the conversation,
munching on a pretzel. “You should know the truth. I
owe it to Stan. Pollard was a damn CIA agent. That’s
how, the hell, I got out of Cuba.” He reached in the
cellophane package; it crackled. “My guess, he had
infiltrated Cuba and the Drug Cartel.” The pretzel
crunched between his teeth. “Bet, one or the other
ordered him hit.”
“Are you saying, his death was no accident?”
“Murdered. He was a dead man the day that
newspaper hit the stand.”
————
On his return trip to Miami, Moore made a stop
at the federal prison camp, FPC Eglin. No fences, no
razor wire, a relaxed environment and wooden buildings resembling military barracks. A prison official
pointed out the golf course, tennis and racquet ball
courts. “Gee, can I get arrested?” Moore grinned.
“That tape recorder’s contraband. Bring it in
and you go behind the big wall. That’s a high-level
688
SHELDON YAVITZ
criminal offense,” the thickset officer said. “We only
house drug smugglers, bank swindlers, tax cheats
and corrupt politicians here. Pretty great, huh.” He
didn’t smile.
Alvin Godofsky a/k/a Frank “Pop” Durfee
walked with an alert, aggressive step. Head moving
sharply, a confident man. He lit a cigarette with
the butt of the last. “Cheap, no tax, like being an
Indian.”
He spoke freely, relished the attention. “No
question. Pollard knew too much,” he said. “That big
investigation going on involving DEA agents Salerno
and Wilkinson, Pollard caused all that.”
He explained that in addition to his will, Stan
left sealed envelopes directed to the Attorney General’s Office, the Drug Enforcement Administration in
Washington, a Senator and a Congressman. According to Durfee, Stan implicated the agents and Remo
in a drug conspiracy, and the murders of his brother,
girlfriend and Ace McGonigle.
“Pollard was right on target,” he confided. “Now
that Rodriguez is dead, I’m the star witness to the
whole damn mess.” They occupied an outdoor, cast
ceramic tile table. A North Florida chill provoked
a shiver. Durfee puffed on a cigarette and talked
with little need for encouragement. “Take it from me,
Remo’s was making a deal when he drove head-on
into a bulldozer.” He was laughing, a shoulder shaking belly-laugh. “Accident? You’re pretty naive. Who
did it? Take your pick. Happened in the Dominican
Republic where Remo figured he was safe.”
Moore took a break from the story line, digress-
689
ing, probing the subject’s background. “God looks
out for me,” Durfee said. He carried a bible, read
aloud a passage. “Flew 257 flights without a scratch.
This bust cost me a few coins, at most another year.
Then I’m out, a fully ordained evangelist. Look for
my TV show. Praise the Lord, brother.”
“You must have made and stashed millions?”
“If you’re talking about money, this gig’s fuckin’
over.” The Holy Bible rested inches from his right
hand. “Fuck you, asshole!”
————
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 3, 1989
KINGSTON, JAMAICA
Reginald Wallace had agreed to an interview. “I
would not be talking to you, but I want the record
straight,” he said to Moore. The slight built attorney
had a strong presence. “Stan was my very dear friend,
not simply an associate. A personal loss.” His dark
eyes blinked as if for emphasis. “Stan was not one
to complain, but the strain showed. He came to rest,
relax.” He blew his nose with a large handkerchief.
“How ironic?”
He explained that Stan had rented a home in
Port Antonio on the Northeast coast of Jamaica, an
exclusive resort and favored for movie shoots. “From
his bedroom window, he could see the late Errol Flynn’s island estate.”
“I might take a trip there,” Moore declared; later
to learn that Sue Ann’s current lover came from Port
Antonio. “Another odd coincidence,” he would jot in
his notes.
690
SHELDON YAVITZ
“May I suggest that you follow the coast road
rather than through the mountains,” Wallace offered,
his tone earnest, as he recalled the fatal accident.
“Stan was traveling towards Kingston, about 20 kilometers south of Annotto Bay, above the Way Water
River, where the road winds up into Blue Maintains,
hairpin turns. Somehow, he lost control, went over
the edge.” He shook his head, jabbed with a finger.
“A tourist, I think, a South American, said the car
exploded on impact. I didn’t believe it. Stan drove
like a professional.”
“Could it have been faked?”
“There was a body, an inquest. The coroner
would never have made a mistake. I know the man
personally.” His voice bordered on confrontational.
“A bribe?”
“Unthinkable! This is Jamaica!” He pressed the
intercom. “Ms. Blackburne, please bring me Mr. Pollard’s file.”
Moore tossed a wad of gum around in his
mouth. His eyes bore in on the attorney. His skepticism showing. His smile, a surface courtesy, as the
secretary entered delivering a folder.
“The identification was made by Dutch Durant,
a friend of Stan’s, coincidentally on holiday.” Wallace raised an eyebrow, shrugged, an apocryphal
shrug. “Durant claimed to have read the account in
our local newspaper.” Moore’s doubting eyes fixed
on a ceiling fan. The blades leisurely whirled. “He
viewed the remains, went to the crash scene, identified his Rolex, an emerald ring. There was no doubt
in his mind,” Wallace elaborated, perusing reports
691
and documents. “Here is his sworn statement.”
“Dutch Durant. What a small world.”
“He was in my office when he called Stan’s
wife.” Wallace tugged at the lapels to his black suit
jacket. “Durant didn’t know it, but I had my stenographer listen in on the extension taking notes
in shorthand.” Let me show you that transcript.”
He withdrew a typed, single-spaced document from
amid the papers. “No. You can’t have a copy,” he
said, before the novelist even made a request. “We
must respect Mrs. Pollard’s privacy. When you read
it, you will understand.”
EXCERPTS FROM TRANSCRIPT:
DUTCH: “Hey, baby, it’s me … In Kingston …
Stan’s dead.”
SUE ANN: “Oh, shit! … Oh, great! … Can’t
wait to tell the kids.”
DUTCH: “Car accident. Went over a cliff …
Burned to a crisp …”
SUE ANN: “See , honey, I told you Stanton
was in Jamaica. Dumb schmuck told the children …”
DUTCH: “I identified the body.”
SUE ANN: “So gutsy, so clever … A car accident … Double indemnity … Millions … Love
you, sugar Want your big prick …
DUTCH: “Watch what you say … I’m in the
lawyer’s office. He wants to know what you
want done with the remains?”
SUE ANN : “Shit! Are you trying to ruin my
day?”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
DUTCH: “Cremation? Burial at sea?”
SUE ANN: “’Who cares …”
DUTCH: “Mr. Wallace, Mrs. Pollard suggests
cremation and burial at sea. Stan loved Jamaica
… Please, arrange for the funeral here … Fine,
I’ll extend her your condolences … She’s so
upset.”
SUE ANN: “Bullshitter.”
DUTCH: “He’s gone … Great guy. We can talk
free … When can we get together?”
SUE ANN: “I’m in mourning, sugar … Let a
poor widow rest her ass and pussy.”
DUTCH: “Next week, we’re starting a new
flick.”
SUE ANN: “Hell no! I’ve paid … Don’t you
fuck with me!”
DUTCH: “ Shut up, cunt. Remember, who’s
got the movies.”
SUE ANN: “You filthy bastard!”
DUTCH: “What did I tell you about giving me
shit?”
SUE ANN: “You promised!”
DUTCH: “Promised, shit! … I’ll call you from
the hotel.”
————
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 21, 1989
MIAMI, FLORIDA
Crawford had proven invaluable, a constant
source of information. He now represented Sue Ann
and provided full details on the Last Will. It specifically stated that Stan had canceled all his life insur-
693
ance policies. A paragraph explained his thinking:
“In that my wife’s divorce case pleadings
have been stricken and adultery proven to my
satisfaction, I can find no legal, moral or financial reason for maintaining the coverage. Prior
arrangements more than amply provide for her
future. In addition, my wife is dating a movie
mongrel (sic) and has an oral contract for four
(4) movies.”
Crawford would term the clarification “gratuitous prattle” since life insurance to a designated
beneficiary passed outside probate.
“Everything Pollard did had a certain madness
behind it,” Moore noted.
At the will reading, Sue Ann also received a
sealed envelope. Kimberly Pollard would inform
Moore that when her mother examined the contents,
she turned, quoting her words: “several shades of
pale, then slapped Reynaldo’s face.” Sue Ann refused
to reveal to Crawford all the documents claiming
some were personal, but he did obtain transcripts and
tape recordings which had formed the basis for a lawsuit against Antonio Torres, her former lawyer, and
a complaint to the Florida Bar Association. In point
of time, he was the second attorney that she hired.
The other withdrawing from the case for unspecified
reasons.
“It’s really big,” Crawford remarked that February. “We’re thinking of joining the IRS. Might be
worth a fortune.”
“What are the chances of success?”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
“I don’t know.” He hesitated, framing his
response. “The good news is that Reynaldo is talking. The bad, the telephone tap was illegal. The tapes
may be held inadmissible.”
“Stan must have known that,” Moore suggested.
“Of course, he did.”
“Then what was his purpose?”
“The way I see it. Torres can still be disbarred,
IRS Agent Lanza fired, and if Torres cooperates, even
prosecuted, but Sue Ann unable to collect a penny.”
“A damn good reason for not representing her.”
“I have to.” The lawyer had a resentful expression. “Sue Ann sued, claimed an interest in our law
practice. I’m working off our settlement.”
“Stan’s way of assuring the best legal representation.”
“Dead, but still playing games.”
————
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 8, 1989
NASSAU, BAHAMAS
“Yo! Can I come aboard?” Moore hailed a shirtless man in jeans, with tattoos on his arms, chest and
back. He had an unshaven, craggy face. A welcome
wave of a beer can brought a silent response. “Looking for Dutch. Heard you work for him.” The writer
made a short leap from the dock to the deck of an old
wooden trawler.
“His cameraman.”
“My name’s Moore. Where is he?”
“Dead.”
695
“Gotta beer?” Moore shoulders hunched. He sat
down on a white vinyl, portable fighting chair. “Do a
lot of fishing?”
“I’m called Snake.” He reached in a high-impact
plastic cooler and pulled out a Michelob. “Waiting
for his wife to show up. Almost three weeks since I
phoned her.”
Moore took a swig. “I’m a writer. Doing a book
on Stan Pollard.” He removed a magazine from a
briefcase. “Wrote this article.” He flipped through
the pages, then folded them back.
A daguerreotype-style photograph stared up
from the glossy paper. Stan in a gambler’s outfit,
long jacket and plaid vest with an ace jutting out
from a shirt cuff. Sue Ann dressed like a saloon hall
dancer. Her heavy lashed eyes narrowed, a disturbing
grin, pointing a six-shooter at his head. “Very funny,”
Snake snickered.
“Did you know Pollard?”
Snake nodded in the negative.
“Did you know Sue Ann?”
“Knew a Sue Ann Diamond.” He tossed an
empty beer can on the teakwood deck.
“Diamond. What does she look like?”
“Platinum blond, great figure, Southern drawl,
looks a little like the lady in the magazine. She’s
a whore, balling her since ’85, not some lawyer’s
wife.”
“What happened to Dutch?”
“What’s in it for me?”
“With Dutch and Stan gone, I’ll make you the
star of my novel.”
696
SHELDON YAVITZ
“Worth shit.”
“Might open a lot of doors for a topflight cameraman. I can do it with a few well-placed introductions.”
He leaned back, clasped his hands behind his
head. “Calvin Burt, Snake to my friends.” He offered
a hand. Moore shook it vigorously, then withdrew
his cassette recorder. “Talk to me Snake. This is our
lucky day.”
“Dutch and me made hard-core porno. Did
eight, no nine, together.”
“Sue Ann?”
Snake returned a broad, tobacco stained grin. A
wide gap between his front teeth. “Do you want to
know what happened to Dutch?” Moore nodded. The
cameraman continued. “We went down to Colombia.
Me scouting locations for our tenth shoot. Dutch on
business, I guess. Anyway, we get off in Medellin,
home of the Drug Cartel. We’re met at the airport and
taken up into the mountains. Big home, iron-studded,
wood front door, mucho guards, chickens in the front
yard. A horse strolled in and out of the house.”
“Wild West,” Moore cracked, scribbling notes
on a pad.
“This big cheese asshole ran the place. Dutch’s
buddy, name, Nuñez. That’s all Dutch ever called
him. Let me think.” Snake paused, pulling on a beer.
“The dude was weird, right out of a horror movie.
Stared, nodded a lot, thick accent, hard to understand. Did this.” Snake made a thumbs down gesture. “When he did this,” he said, pantomiming the
sign with two thumbs. “You were in fuckin’ trouble,
697
believe me.”
“Dead!”
Moore’s jaw went slack. He leaned forward
with the recorder in his hand. “Talk louder,” he said.
SNAKE: “Dutch said we’re going to stay …
make a video of this slut … He showed Nuñez
two of his movies … The weirdo’s jerking off
… They talk about co-starring Sue Ann and the
chick in a porn flick … If he agreed … Dutch
would leave her on loan … We don’t see the
girl until dinner … Pretty, red hair, huge, jiggly
jugs … wears a long skirt … She’s got a funny
look … Stupid smile, dead eyes … Says little,
quiet … but can’t sit still … Dutch tells me
she’s striped … I said she’s crazy … They’re
both crazy … Just four of us, and this old
biddy waiting on us hand and foot.” “We’re
in the living room … Cheap furniture out of
Goodwill … marble … floor, big TV, satellite
dish outside. Dutch is sitting in this brocade
armchair … Doing coke. I’m drinking Chivas
… The creep’s got gallons … Nunez nodded
to the girl … She left. Dutch told me that he
gave her to Nuñez as a gift … When she comes
back, Nuñez says to Dutch … Tell puta what
you’re going to do to her in the movie … Dutch
is smiling … I think he laughed … He starts
rattling off trash … She’s standing in front of
him … Same stupid smile … same dead eyes
698
SHELDON YAVITZ
… hands behind her back. Dutch isn’t talking
sex … not regular sex … He’s no longer into
doing it. Just into chains, whips … He’s into
watching … putting it on video … The girl
looks at Nuñez. Both his thumbs are down.
Moore had moved to the edge of his chair. The
same beer in his hand. Snake is having another.
Empty cans and a bottle littered the deck. His eyes
blinking; sharp lines creased the corners of his
mouth. Moore would write in his notes that Snake
had the muscle tone of a construction worker, skin
like leather. “The girl’s hand comes out from behind
her back. She’s got this cannon aimed at Dutch.
I’m looking at the girl. She’s cool, cold, guess she’s
stoned.” Snake is on his feet, gesturing, mimicking
Nuñez. “His thumbs are down, grinning. The only
time I saw him grin. Dutch must be shitting. He
yells something. The girl fires, keeps firing, pulling
the trigger, the gun’s clicking.” As he spoke, Snake
pointed a finger at Moore, jerking it in a recoil
motion as if a revolver. “I think Dutch’s face is gone.
I’m sure I’m next. I look at Nuñez.” Snake scratched
his head. “Nuñez’s thumbs are up. We don’t kill the
messenger, he says. Tell Sue Ann, Dutch is dead.”
“Did you tell her?”
“She said. Where’s my movies?”
————
Sue Ann brought out the tabloid journalist in
Moore. He could smell a bigger story: her masquerading as a prostitute, sex, murder and pornography.
699
He remained with Snake on the trawler unwilling to
let him out of his sight.
Moore pressed him on how he meet Sue Ann.
Snake explained that he stopped and changed a flat
tire on her car. “I gave her my number and tell her if
she’s up to a real wild fuck to call me.” She did, and
said: “Her pussy has a price tag.” After, they met at a
cheap motel. “Once, twice a month, for a good while,
then I get a job out. of state.” Upon his return, he
rang her beeper and they got together. “Hot, a freak
on coke. Cruder, the better, less she charged. Did her
with a buddy, one time, drove her out of her skull.
When I lost my new job, Sue Ann says she’s working
exclusive for this millionaire, and sets up this intro
to Dut.ch. Greatest job I ever had. Start off as his
mechanic, jack-of-all-trades, wind up this high paid
cameraman, and whore handler.”
According to Snake, after the fifth movie,
Dutch’s wife came to spend the winter in Nassau.
“He had to act fast,” Snake said. “Video equipment,
tapes, scripts, everything moved off the boats. The
Big Guy looks at the shit and says, fuck Reggie!
We’ll open a real movie studio.” One film was made
during his wife’s stay. Actors, technicians and crew,
construction workers and carpenters imported and
generously paid for their silence. “We had miles of
tape, hundreds of hours of video on Sue Ann,” Snake
divulged.
“I’d like to see the pictures.”
“Burned, gone, fried.”
They took a taxi to the remote studio site, off the
South West Road, in an area known as Pine Barrens,
700
SHELDON YAVITZ
miles from the city: pines, palmettos and not another
building.
“So damn secret, the fire department couldn’t
find it.”
Moore walked through the charred, blackened
ruins of a two-story, wood frame house reporting the
damage on his recorder.
“Happened when I was down in Colombia.”
Snake picked up a scorch camera, brushed at the
soot.
“Arson?”
“This is the Bahamas. A fire’s a fire.” He kicked
at a pile of burnt wood and ashes. “The boats were
broken into. Anything about Sue Ann stolen.”
“What about the movies Dutch took to Colombia?”
“The jerkoff’s got them. Me, I got a couple of
still photos.” Snake pointed to what once was the
remnants of a set. “Our seventh flick, Dutch’s best,
LOVE SLAVE, shot entirely at the studio and in the
woods,” he said, running a finger along a blistered
iron bedpost. “She helped write the script.” He held
up singed, gnarled leather manacle. “Starred.”
“Sue Ann?”
“Yeah, her and Otis.”
SNAKE: “With his wife in town, Dutch
wouldn’t let Sue Ann on the yacht … not even
phone. I don’t want that whore around Reggie,
he said to me. But he made her stay on the
island and she’s bitching … rude, nasty. Dutch
701
beats the hell out of her … They been fighting
ever since Mexico … Says he broke his promise … He rents her a house. .Next thing I know,
Otis shacks up with her … He did pictures 3
and 4 … not the one in Mexico … Looks like
a Jamaican Rasta … the hair … I figured Sue
Ann’s trying to make Dutch jealous … He’s
laughing … Otis won’t take her shit … That
boy’s worse than me. Just wait … We’ll be
back making flicks … Dutch pays them a visit
… Comes back, says … She’s dirty, stinks,
never seen her so striped. Crying … all he
does is ball her … Can’t even pee without his
permission … Dutch asked her, but she didn’t
want to leave … Later, I heard she’s keeping
house, cooking whole snappers, rice and peas,
spicy, Jamaican style.”
“I guess it’s two months before I see the lovebirds … The movie studio is part finished.
Dutch wants a video update on Sue Ann …
Otis has her ready … naked on a coffee table
… Goes like clockwork … We go out to dinner,
a local dump, not for tourists … Even I’m out
of place … Sue Ann’s gone native, barefoot …
hair in braids, eating with fingers, rubbing all
over him, giggling like a teenager. We’re getting engaged, she tells me double rings, Otis’
idea … We wound up on some back street, then
down an alley … near the sport center … small
house, no sign … As soon as we go inside, I
know it’s a tattoo parlor. Otis told me to get my
camera … Dutch is waiting for this, he says.
702
SHELDON YAVITZ
Had it all on video … Sue Ann fitted with rings
… Now, I can’t show you squat.”
————
FRIDAY, MARCH 24, 1989
SOUTH MIAMI, FLORIDA
Sue Ann had reluctantly consented to an interview. She had little choice, Crawford insisted. After
returning from Nassau, the novelist approached the
attorney, recounted his meeting with Snake, playing
taped conversations and showing him several scurrilous photographs.
“Unsubstantiated, proves nothing. The photos,
if they are of Sue Ann, and I am not conceding the
issue, are a clear invasion of her privacy.” Crawford
tossed them on the desk, paused, picked them up
again. A faint grin, a chuckle. “Looks like her, but
I’d have to sue you if you attempted to publish this
obscene crap.”
“Not if she admits them and the videos,” Moore
replied. “This is what makes a top selling novel.” He
folded his arms across his chest. “Sue Ann refused to
talk with me. You can make her.” Crawford sighed,
massaged his neck.” A best seller will make you
famous.”
“Obviously, the tramp’s free to deny the smut.”
“Obviously.”
————
A gold Mercury Sable moved slowly up the rear
driveway to the Pollard residence. “The main house
703
has been rented,” Crawford remarked to Moore. He
explained that the eldest children were in control.
They had decided that their mother did not need such
a large home with the young boys away in private
school, her so frequently gone, and the office remodeled into a guest house. They cited the high cost
of maintenance and taxes, and when she objected,
Kimberly and Tom, joined by the guardian ad litem,
court appointed to protect the financial interest of the
minor children, outvoted her.
“Where’s the dogs?” Moore’s fingers inches
from the door handle, eyes darting frantically.
“If it barked, flew or swam, it’s gone, sold. Sue
Ann even cut down his favorite tree.”
The garage in which Stan housed his auto collection had a door raised. Two lone vehicles in the
once jammed space, a Jeep Wagoneer belonging to
Sue Ann, and a new red Pontiac Firebird.
“I wonder who’s here?” Crawford asked.
“Otis. Wanna bet?”
Crawford would comment that the grounds
seemed neglected, hedges overgrown, grass in need
of mowing, and outbuildings wanting repair. The privacy fence that Sue Ann had insisted upon now had
a gate leading to the cottage. Moore rapped on the
door. They waited. Wind chimes hung from an eave.
He impatiently knocked again.
Sue Ann finally answered. Moore would write
in his notes that she looked like a “glazed-eyed”
hippie, braless, barefoot and hair unkempt. She wore
no jewelry, smelled from sex, her feet dirty. He
thought she appeared older, but attributed it to a
704
SHELDON YAVITZ
lack of make-up. He reported that her dress had a
loud patchwork pattern, wide, deep scooped neckline, shaped to the waist, a full sweep, ankle length
skirt and a button front from neck to hem, all but four
undone.
The waiting room and secretarial area had been
converted to the living room. The furniture recycled
from the main home. Artificial plants replaced natural ones. She would say that Stan’s office had become
the master bedroom and the library, her playroom. A
Persian cat sat on the sofa licking itself. The room
appeared spotless, neat as a pin.
Moore asked about the children.
“Making money hand over fist.” She scratched
her breast. “Nasty shits like their father.”
Crawford elaborated that the acreage in Mississippi had been sold to an offshore corporation from
Sint Maarten for ten times its value, but what most
upset Sue Ann was a South American buying out her
interest in the feed store, and then pouring a fortune
into the business. “They now have four stores, a fifth
in the planning stage, and still have only dealt with
the investor’s attorney,” Crawford said.
“My rotten kids touch shit and it’s gold.”
————
The double doors opened to the master bedroom. A black man emerged with a swagger in his
step. Moore would describe him as about thirty, average height, well-built with Caucasian features. His
long matted hair, plaited into “tails,” garbed in navyblue slacks; a long-sleeve shirt worn untucked.
705
She introduced him as her “husband,” Otis
Bowden.
He shrugged, offered her a toke on a marijuana
cigarette.
She inhaled deeply. “He’s mad. Soon, sugar, I
promise.” Sue Ann took another drag. “I’m such a
scaredy-cat.”
“Of marriage?” Moore asked, sounding the
straight man.
She childishly stuck out her tongue. “More
rings.”
Otis nodded, and joined the cat on the wicker
sofa, the guests on soft cushions, Sue Ann on a low,
three-legged, hardwood stool. She shifted uncomfortably, squirmed in her seat, and giggled. Moore
and Crawford exchanged glances.
She admitted to knowing Dutch, but only as
Stan’s client. “Surely not as criminal as Stanton.”
When Moore asked her to explain, she looked
puzzled, hunched forward, elbows on her knees.
“Dutch told me that. If it wasn’t true, honey, why
would he say it?”
She denied making movies. “Stanton was always
talkin’ shit,” she drawled, referring to the four-movie
contract mention in his will. At the suggestion of
pornographic videos, her expression went blank, and
Otis laughed. When Moore asked if she knew Shake
Burt, she spit. “I never met that tattooed prick.”
“He said that he’s known you since 1985 as a
prostitute.”
“Where’s your evidence, mun. Don’t give my
woman shit!”
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SHELDON YAVITZ
Moore produced a series of 8 by 10 inch glossy
prints from his briefcase and offered them to Sue
Ann. A micro cassette recorder concealed on his
person taped her response. She spoke, unaware of its
existence. Crawford had approved its use, and agreed
that if questioned, he would confirm that Sue Ann
had consented.
She looked at the pictures passing them one by
one to Otis. “Beautiful girl,” she purred, studying the
first photo. “A likeness. Hard to tell heeling like a
doggie,” she said of the second. “The sweet thing’s
counting bullets.” Her eyes fixed on the third photograph. “So elegantly striped, so hot.” She licked her
lips. Sue Ann peered up at Otis; she sat at his feet.
“My tits are firmer; my nipples ringed.” Otis nodded.
“My ass is rounder with this pretty tattoo, a rose in
an “O” for Otis.” Her lover grinned, petted the cat.
“That is definitely not my pussy. I am positive.” She
covertly winked at Otis. “I could never take anything
that big.”
Crawford grimaced, noticeably blushed. “Mrs.
Pollard, you do not have to be that explicit.”
“The only nude pictures of Suzy, I take.”
“Otis, I got to pee.”
“Be quiet, woman!”
“I have a sworn statement, notarized, official,
from Snake Burt,” Moore exaggerated, “that he took
these pictures and hundreds of hours of pornographic
video of you having sex with men, and engaging in
…”
“Lyin’ shit!”
“What are you up to, mun? Blackmail!”
707
“Trying to find the truth.”
“The point is well taken, Mr. Bowden.” Crawford rose to his feet. The cat scurried from the couch.
“Mrs. Pollard’s word is good enough for me.”
“Thank you, sugar.” She was no longer sitting
but bouncing on the stool. “Otis, please, Otis!”
He nodded, and Sue Ann hurried from the
room.
“Look here, mun,” Otis said, concern in his
voice. “No can have this shit. I’m a businessman.”
Moore pulled himself from the chair and moved
closer. Otis’s pronounced Jamaican accent, so unlike
the British educated Reginald Wallace, would make
a subsequent transcription of the tape difficult and
incomplete, but the gist was clear. He owned a video
production company in Jamaica: multi media presentations, commercials and infomercials, and had
landed two big accounts, one in Rio de Janeiro,
Brazil and the other in Colombia. “Nar afford dirty
shit. My lawyer warned me, mun. That’s Mr. Wallace, Kingston. Don’t care. Go ask him.”
————
When Sue Ann returned, she barely wore a
towel, held in place by an arm pressed to her breasts
and a clasp of fingers. “Let’s stop talkin’ shit.” She
stepped up on a coffee table as the towel slipped
from her body. “Do your tit to ass inspection.” She
spread her legs, hands behind her head.
“Please, Mrs. Pollard!” Crawford’s face reddened.
A tattoo, rings, and a bruised, welted bottom
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SHELDON YAVITZ
flaunted her lifestyle.
“Then shit, I’ll be in the playroom.” She stepped
down and walked off, stopped, threw a backward
glance. “Show time, sugar.”
“Suzy demands my time, mun.”
Crawford rolled his eyes; Moore smiled.
Otis sat with his head in his hands. “Hot woman,
mun.”
————
The tape recording revealed that Otis invited
them to stay and watch, but not for publication.
Crawford refused; Moore more than willing. A handwritten agreement was drafted and redrafted by the
lawyer. Otis found the legalese confusing; the writer,
an invasion of the First Amendment. Sue Ann had
rejoined the conversation, showered, perfumed in a
metallic black and gold bustier with matching thong.
Her neck ringed in a collar; fingering gold-plated
handcuffs.
SUE ANN: “Watch! … You’re a sick puppy,
Mr. Writer.”
MOORE: “Your husband’s suggestion, Sue
Ann.”
SUE ANN: “Otis is so sweet, but there’s a price
of admission; 2,500 will buy you a front row
seat.”
MOORE: “For that kind of money … I want to
be able to write about it.”
SUE ANN: “Honey, it’s too hot for print, but
709
for 20,000 I’m game …”
MOORE: “I would have to get an advance
from my publisher.”
OTIS: “Suzy …”
SUE ANN: “Be quiet, Otis …This is business
…”
MOORE: “I will see what I can do.”
SUE ANN: “Talk to my lawyer … Show them
out, baby … I’m tired of this shit …”
Moore’s publisher was disinterested in Sue
Ann’s deviant sex life, but the idea had whetted
her interest. She sought Crawford’s assistance. He
responded with outrage. “If you don’t care about
your reputation, think of the children.” Otis turned to
Wallace for advice. He tried to dissuade him, but her
lover made it clear that Sue Ann was intent on hiring
an agent and selling her story. “Suzy’s the boss lady,
mun. The bedroom’s my trip.”
Within the month, the Jamaican lawyer informed
them that the Venezuelan investor involved in the
feed store chain would purchase the rights to a book
and a movie. Negotiations ensued and an agreement
was reached for an undisclosed sum in excess of a
quarter of a million dollars, paid in advance.
When Sue Ann later grumbled about neither
meeting the ghost writer nor being interviewed, she
was told that her story was “too torrid” for the present conservative climate.
“So true,” she said. “Tough shit! No refund.” By
then, a new BMW sat in the garage and costly cosmetic surgery from eyelids to bust ensured a youthful
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SHELDON YAVITZ
appearance for years to come. In mid 1990, Sue Ann
and Otis traveled to Europe in search of an environment conducive to their lifestyle. She wore a second
set of rings and shaved her head. At a sex club in
Amsterdam, Holland, they met a movie producer and
launched careers as porn stars featured in six pictures, dubbed in Dutch and German, descriptively
titled BERLIN DOES FRÄULEIN SUZY, FRÄULEIN SUZY UNCENSORED, FRÄULEIN SUZY
EXPOSED and the trilogy, FRÄULEIN SUZY IN
HEAT, LUST AND PASSION. The videos rated as
hard-core pornography pandering to the most prurient of interests were banned in the United States and
100 other countries, but developed a cult following
and fostered a fan club. An underground copy sold
for as much as 500 dollars and her calendars priced
at 20 dollars in a plain wrapper.
Upon returning to Miami, the couple opened
FRÄULEIN SUZY’S LUST BOUTIQUE featuring
lingerie and leather, adult toys and fetish accessories.
Her hair had grown back, dyed a bright red, a pictorial in HUSTLER and an 800 number — Fräulein
Suzy Talks Sex.
————
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 12, 1989
MIAMI, FLORIDA
By April, Moore had interviewed an estimated
40 people from lawyers, judges and prosecutors to
friends, relatives and former clients. The CIA, DEA
and U.S. Attorney’s Office had all declined comment, but Crawford provided Stan’s grand jury file
711
which supplied proof of his involvement with the
Central Intelligence Agency. The local police departments proved uncooperative, acknowledging that the
investigations in Laura’s death, and the homicides of
his brother and Ginger were unsolved, pending, and
not subject to public disclosure. Ever helpful, Crawford furnished Stan’s own inquiries into the slayings.
In search for answers, he turned to Doug Daniel,
Stan’s private investigator. No longer associated with
Crawford, his office had moved to an old, rejuvenated building on Flagler Street in downtown Miami.
As Moore would recount, the suite was small, modestly furnished, a reception area and a part-time
secretary. Stan’s roll top desk, inherited by the investigator, dominated his office. A black vinyl couch
and chairs, metal file cabinets, and a wood veneer
work center with a computer rounded out the furnishings. The walls were bare with the exception of
his framed license, a notary certificate, and a Currier
and Ives print.
The investigator still specialized in criminal
cases and claimed a “few good” accounts with
divorce lawyers and ambulance chasers. The days of
the six figure income were gone. “Dead as Stan,”
Daniel sullenly said. “He was more than a friend and
employer, but my best client.”
Daniel had initially refused an interview. “I’ll
talk with you when I have Stan’s consent,” he
smirked. “I’m not a whore like Ed.” Later, as Crawford released more and more information, including
his investigative reports into Laura’s death, the Sue
712
SHELDON YAVITZ
Ann adultery, and the DEA/Remo conspiracy, Daniel
changed his mind, “but you will have to pay me for
my time.” Moore agreed; he had run out of sources.
Moore arrived for his meeting with the ever
present tape recorder. Daniel objected, and a compromise was reached. The private eye would receive
a copy of the tapes with the right to make corrections
and additions, but not deletions.
The proposed topics covered a wide range from
the divorce to murder to their most celebrated cases.
Moore came prepared with lists of questions.
“As you can see from the reports, Stan was
aware of Sue Ann’s adultery long before any divorce
case,” Daniel said, reviewing his investigatory file.
“Reynaldo wasn’t her only lover. She had a brief
fling with a diesel mechanic named Burt, another but
unknown male, and an affair with one of his clients,
Dutch Durant. We tracked her to the Bahamas and to
his yacht. Stan handled it from there. He had his own
local informants.”
“Maybe he tapped her phone. There’s no question of the existence of an illegal wiretap.”
“Stan did not have access to the house. An
extension was found in the garage where he kept
his car collection, but no telephone.” Daniel’s eyes
brightened; a sly smile formed. “Sue Ann accused
him, and me. Torres blamed all of us. When push
came to shove, and we demanded to see the entire
contents of the envelope, she backed down, and by
then, Reynaldo was spilling his guts, and the tapes
became irrelevant.”
The writer would note that Daniel had the
713
look of an FBI agent, tall, six foot one, handsome
in a rough sort of way, firm chin, broad forehead
and a “policeman trim” haircut. His sentences clip,
and phrasing precise, matter-of-fact like an official
report.
“Why did Stan continue to offer his wife such a
sizeable settlement?”
“Love.”
“Bullshit!”
“Above all, Stan was fair, a reasonable man.” He
leaned forward, and spread his hands. “We knew Sue
Ann was being duped by her lawyer, Reynaldo, and
the IRS, even Dutch.”
“At the end, he did withdraw all offers and canceled his life insurance.”
“Only when he confirmed that Sue Ann and
Dutch had plotted to kill him.”
“Uh-huh, but that doesn’t explain the cancellation of life insurance payable to the children.”
“Good point.” Daniel held a business card in
the fingers of his right hand, flicked it with a thumb.
“Interesting.” He stared at the card, then tossed it on
the desk. “If Stan was still alive, he wouldn’t want to
commit insurance fraud.”
“Damn!” Moore slapped his knee. “I knew it!”
They would spend hours discussing the murder
of Laura, and to Moore’s surprise, the CIA entanglement. Daniel detailed the probe, Stan’s alibi, his
obsession in pursuing the homicide, and the surveillance in Delaware when he met with “agents.” Daniel’s conclusion, admittedly speculative: the CIA had
bugged her hotel room, overheard the murder and
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SHELDON YAVITZ
did nothing to stop it, and that Stan made them pay
for it, “somehow, someway.” He also knew her killer,
Daniel disclosed.
Moore glanced up from his pad, turned to face
him.
“Ask Sherlock.”
“Are you telling me, Pollard only trusted the
bird?”
Daniel nodded. “Sad, isn’t it.”
————
The interview resumed the following morning
in a coffee shop across from the Dade County Courthouse. The tape recorder rested on the table between
the ham and eggs and pancakes.
The subject under discussion, the murders of
Victor and Ginger, Stan’s immediate reaction and
the aftermath. “He hired a bodyguard and bought
armored cars,” Daniel said, using a fork for emphasis.
DANIEL: “Stan wanted my opinion … So, I
went along with him. The auto body shop was
in Daytona Beach, off Bellevue, not far from
the Daytona Speedway … Stan bought one in
stock … A Mercury Grand Marquis 4-door,
silver gray, a beauty. Some Saudi prince had
backed out on the deal. They said the car would
withstand rifle fire from an M-16, AKM-47.
That’s a 7.62 caliber bullet … hand grenades,
car bombs … The windows and windshield
715
were layers of plastic and glass...the body reinforced with a steel cage, composite plastic and
ceramic … even the tires were shatter-proof …
He orders another, a Jeep Cherokee. Wanted
it in white so it wouldn’t show scratches …
It would take about 90 days to build. As I
remember, the Mercury was delivered to his
home. The Jeep exported by the body shop.
Just before he went to Jamaica, Stan shipped
the sedan and his old English sports car, an
Aston Martin, to a client, I suppose … a South
American. Sure, I got the name of the body
shop in my office … We can call them … See
what they know …”
Moore was impatient, on edge as the private
detective spoke on the telephone. “130,000 for the
Mercury, 100,000 for the Jeep, not counting the price
of the car,” he said, repeating the information; the
phone cradled between his shoulder and ear. “Wire
transfers from Panama and …” he paused. “Oh, Sint
Maarten, that’s in the Netherlands Antilles.”
“Where, to where?” The writer mouthed the
words.
“Condor Paving Company, 47-95 Bombona
Street. The Jeep went to Medellin, Colombia.”
————
TUESDAY, JUNE 20, 1989
MEDELLIN, COLOMBIA
Moore’s tentative assessment: Stan was either
alive or wielding an uncanny influence from the
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SHELDON YAVITZ
grave. He saw a recurring connection to South America. Even little things like Stan’s birds being sold
to a Latin, also his dogs. The purchaser vaguely
described as short, heavyset, dark, ugly with a strong
Spanish accent. He would appear unannounced and
inquired whether the animals were for sale, and paid
the asking price no matter how outlandish. His telephone number, an answering service, and a name,
José Gomez, common and untraceable.
The “piece of junk stuffed crocodile,” as Crawford called it, bequeath in Stan’s will to a Panamanian attorney and picked up by a special messenger.
To Moore, the armored car remained the only
viable link to Stan. He could spend the rest of his
life trekking the Caribbean, South and Central America and Europe and never find him. An address that’s
something to work from, but as his editor said. “It
proves nothing. Follow the sports car or the bird or
the crocodile.”
“Those trails are dead.” He sprawled in a chair,
sipping bourbon. “The worst that can happen is I
wind up like Dutch.” His grin paled to a sickly grimace. “Shit, I don’t want that.”
“What about the Venezuelan attorney involved
with the children?”
“I called him, but he refused to talk to me?”
————
It would be weeks before he traveled to Medellin. Moore found, as he would say, a thousand reasons for putting off the trip, but one proved more
compelling: he had no final chapter.
717
A commercial airline flew him to the city. The
Hotel Eupacla offered a central location; a taxi, transportation, and an interpreter, communication. He
wasted no time and by midmorning of the following
day arrived at Condor Paving Company, a doublewide office trailer in a large fenced yard. An asphalt
roller, a Mack tandem axle with a 20 yard dump
body, and a grader on a low boy indicated that he
found the right place.
He had cued the interpreter in on his plan. The
story line: he was an American journalist for a trade
magazine writing on the paving contracting business
in Colombia and Venezuela.
A secretary greeted his presentation with an odd
smile. Moore depicted her as young, plump and marginally attractive with dark hair and “flashing” eyes.
“We’ve been in business for about five years. Our
main office is now opened in Manizales,” she said
through the interpreter. “Our work here is more limited. There, they pave city streets and roads. We only
work for the Cartel.” Moore detected a giggle. She
explained that paved driveways and access roads had
become very popular with the drug kingpins. “Ever
since the Doctor paved the road to his hacienda.”
Moore reached into his briefcase and withdrew
a photo. “Do you know this man?” His impatience
got the best of him.
She studied the picture, cocked her head,
removed her eyeglasses from a purse, put them on
and examined it more closely. “Maybe, could be.
Why are you asking?” Her eyes tapering to slits. She
spoke in the intercom. “Señor, please come here.”
718
SHELDON YAVITZ
An office door swung wide and a huge man
stepped forward. He nodded to the men and spoke
to the secretary in a low tone. Moore estimated his
weight as in excess of two hundred pounds, brawny,
rough, muscled from hard work rather than a fitness
regime. Thick, bushy black hair and a scar running
diagonally across his chin coupled with a frown that
deepened by the second. “We do not know this man.
You better leave!”
“Do you have an armored Jeep?”
“Get out!”
————
There were two commuter flights daily from
Medellin to Manizales; the fare 18 dollars U.S.
Moore made immediate reservations. That afternoon,
with his interpreter, Francisco, in tow, he arrived at
the modernized La Nubia Airport on the outskirts
of Manizales. He would write that he felt unnerved,
but had found Pollard, or was at least close. He
checked into a reasonably priced hotel near the Gold
Museum with its small collection of Qumbaya gold
and ceramic work, renting two rooms, one for the
interpreter. He vowed to be more tactful. This was
his last opportunity.
————
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 21, 1989
MANIZALEZ, COLOMBIA
Moore awoke early. The sky a deep black; the
narrow, cobblestone street below his fourth floor
719
window dimly lit. He showered, and fastidiously
shaved, carefully trimming around his beard. “The
hot water is cold, and the bathroom lighting poor.
I already hate Pollard’s world,” he wrote. Francisco
joined him and they hailed a cab. “Condor Paving,”
the interpreter said. His inquiry regarding the company met with a curt response. “Pave streets.” He
showed him a picture of Stan. The driver yawned.
The new plan was simple. They would park near
the business, follow a small work crew to a job site,
and try to conduct an interview free from the intrusion of bosses.
Condor Paving occupied a small, but modern
concrete structure about a mile from the city. Behind
a high wall that ringed the property, Moore observed
a steel building repair shop and heavy equipment.
A pickup truck with two men became their target,
trailed to a dirt side road and a Pucket grader.
Moore spoke in the recorder. “We’re about a
quarter mile from the bullring in Manizales. Two
workmen: one about 40, average height, dark hair, a
jovial smile, seems to be the equipment operator; the
other, much younger, probably his helper. We will
show them a picture of Pollard and ask if they know
him. If pressed, we will say I’m trying to find my
long lost brother.”
(TRANSLATION)
YOUNG MAN: “Looks a little like the Doctor
… The man in picture looks older, heavier …
no dark glasses …”
720
SHELDON YAVITZ
OLDER MAN: “Doctor’s one of the owners of
the company … Has a big hacienda … I know
… paved his road … Great man … My house
was destroyed in a fire … I go to the Doctor for
help … Invited in like a friend … imagine me
in the big mansion. We had coffee on the patio.
I told him what happened … He said I can’t
have a man working for me who doesn’t have a
place to live. I was trembling … thought I was
fired. He’s talking to this big, white bird … He
called me by my first name … Felipe, we will
rebuild your house … I ask him how much
it’s going to cost … 10 pesos a year, he said
… It will take me 1,000 years to pay you
back … Let’s worry about that after the first
one hundred … He’s talking about the road.
Smooth, perfect … Said he watched me work
on it, knows how many kids I have …
With four children, you need more money …
He picks up the phone … I got a big raise and
a house to live in while mine was being fixed
… He said some people will call you lucky, but
we make our own luck … This is my eldest
son …”
YOUNG MAN: “Doctor offered me a chance
to go to college or trade school and work for
him … I turned down college … No one pays
his men better than the Doctor … One of his
bodyguards said they’re paid better than the
Cartel … You will never meet more loyal men
… I pity his enemy …”
OLDER MAN: “His wife, Señora Valdez, a
721
real lady …”
YOUNGER MAN: “Beautiful, blond, elegant
…”
OLDER MAN: “His hacienda … Up in the
hills … let me give you directions …”
A gate house and an armed guard served as an
immediate deterrent. “Turn the cab around,” Moore
said, peering at a semiautomatic assault weapon. “I
wasn’t prepared for this.” He felt a shiver run down
his spine. Stan’s world frightened him. He would ask
the interpreter the significance of the name “Doctor,”
and he would reply that in Latin America, the word
applies not only to persons in the medical profession,
but professors and lawyers, but “it could just be a
nickname.”
Upon returning to the hotel, he called his editor,
brought him up to date and voiced his fears. “If
you don’t hear from me once a day, call the U.S
Embassy.”
By that evening, Moore had formulated a strategy which included the following: the purchase of a
camera with a telephoto lens for documentation, binoculars for surveillance, and data gathering through
local interviews. Only when fully prepared would he
attempt a face-to-face with the Doctor. He learned
that Manizalez, described as the Colombian version
of San Francisco with a topography and climate
strikingly similar to the Northern California city, had
a population in excess of 275,000, and concluded
that with some judicious probing his elusive quarry
would soon be unmasked.
722
SHELDON YAVITZ
He began the next day with credit card purchases: two cameras, the second as backup, binoculars and clothing for an extended stay. He held
interviews with Condor Paving Company’s competitors, but the results were disappointing. No one
personally knew the Doctor. From the information
gathered, he confirmed that Condor performed extensive work for the city, and over the past two years
had an infusion of capital. “A big investor with the
mayor in his pocket,” one man said, insisting on
remaining anonymous. “Too powerful to argue with
and too wealthy to compete against,” he conceded,
a cynical grin. Another, who, Moore dubbed the
roly-poly paver, remarked that he had heard that the
Doctor had given the police chief an armored car as a
present, and that his wife was very influential, a society lady. “They live in an upper strata reserved for
business tycoons, drug lords and movie stars. I think
he got into the business on a whim, simply to pave
the road to his hacienda.” He suspected that his interpreter improvised and improved on the translation.
That afternoon, Moore commenced the first day
staking out the hacienda choosing a spot where the
road to the estate converged with the highway. They
would follow a Ford Bronco with two men and a dog,
but lost sight of the vehicle in the city traffic congestion and irregular street pattern that rose and fell
sharply.
————
SATURDAY, JUNE 24, 1989
MANIZALES, COLOMBIA
723
Moore was once again on surveillance. The
taxicab concealed behind a thicket, and a gnarled,
weathered gray-brown tree, and further obscured by
a bend in the road. The driver asleep at the wheel.
Francisco and Moore fifty yards ahead, crouched in a
gully, taking turns at the binoculars. In his notes, he
characterized the interpreter as young and studious,
thin, narrow featured, looking like a scruffy priest in
dire need of a haircut and shave. Francisco first saw
the car coming down from the hill. Moore grabbed
the glasses. “Wake up the driver. Hurry! Keep low,”
he yelled, adjusting the thumb wheel focus as a silver
gray Mercury sedan loomed in the spyglasses.
————
Moore sat in the rear of the cab, the cameras by
his side, recounting the pursuit on tape.
EXCERPT FROM TAPE TRANSCRIPT :
MOORE: “The car is exactly as Daniel
described it … Dark tinted windows make
viewing the occupants impossible.
Where in the city … passing the National bank
… The car’s pulling to the curb … in front of
a dress shop … real high-class. The chauffeur’s
getting out … opening the rear door … I got
my camera … God, she looks like Sue Ann …
long blond hair, young, expensively dressed …
fitted jacket … slim skirt above the knee …
Got at least 4 good pictures … They’re moving
again … that’s the Hotel Embajador, Avenida
Centenerio … twenty-fourth street … Stopping
724
SHELDON YAVITZ
… Get this, a jewelry store … Guess she didn’t
spend enough … Look at that … must be the
manager … He’s come out to greet her … This
is really something … Been 40 minutes …
I think the chauffeur noticed us … Wrong
… He’s back in the car … Now he’s out …
There she is … Can’t get over the similarity …
She seems so bubbly, charming … Taking pictures … Going great … We’re on the move …
What’s this … We’re on the Plaza de Bolivar
… near the main gate to the Cathedral … The
guard let them drive in find a place to park …”
FRANCISCO: “There’s a police car behind us
… Flashing lights … There’s another! One
more! …”
MOORE: “What in the hell! … I better hide
my shit …”
They were surrounded, officers approaching
with guns drawn. Four handguns and a shotgun
pointed at the taxi; stern, hostile faces glaring at them.
“Don’t make a wrong move. Don’t even breathe,”
Francisco cautioned upon being ordered from the
car, hands in the air.
Moore found himself bent forward against the
vehicle, palms down on the hood, legs spread, being
frisked like a common criminal.
“Why were you following Señorita Valdez?” A
sergeant shouted at the writer. He asked again, and
Francisco made the translation.
“No habla Español.” Moore could feel his knees
buckle. A crowd had begun to form. A thrown bottle
725
shattered against the taxicab door.
“Gringo, I speak English.” Moore heard a
second voice, but was too frightened to look. “What
were you doing following Señorita Valdez?”
“I wasn’t!”
“Liar!”
Moore groaned as a baton slammed into his
back. “I’m an American journalist.” He struggled to
regain his footing. “Thought she was a movie star.”
He grunted, struck again.
“Kidnapper! Assassin!” His arms were twisted
behind his back and handcuffed. The steel pinched
and pressed against his wrists.
“Look in my wallet. I.D., paparazzi, was going
sell the pictures to a tabloid.”
A search of the cab produced two cameras, binoculars and a cassette recorder. An inspection of his
wallet substantiated the identification. The sergeant
and the officer conversed in Spanish. Taunts and
catcalls rang from a swelling, unruly mob. A rock
glanced off the windshield striking him in the chest.
All Moore later recalled were black and white police
cars, a blue raid jacket and gun barrels. Faces blurred,
disjunctive recollections: a walrus mustache, blubber
nose, and a jagged scar on an officer’s cheek.
“We’re confiscating the cameras, those binoculars and this recorder.” Moore hunched his shoulders,
too afraid to object. “If you ever again follow the
señorita, you will be arrested. Do you understand.”
Moore nodded. “Or shot!”
“Shot!” Moore could not stop shaking.
“Dead, cabron!”
726
SHELDON YAVITZ
“That means asshole,” Francisco translated.
————
The taxicab driver quit; the translator demanded
a raise. “This Doctor you’re seeking has more power
than the mafioso,” he said, warily glancing about the
small hotel bar. “We’re probably being watched.” He
froze. A bottle of Bavaria Beer clutched in a rigid
hand. “I can feel it.”
“Damn! All right. I’ll pay you more money.”
The writer’s eyes roamed wildly. “Do you think it’s
the waitress or the bartender?”
————
MONDAY, JUNE 26, 1989
MANIZALES, COLOMBIA
Moore had remained in his hotel room over the
weekend. Surveillance was out, visiting the Doctor
untenable, and the advisability of further random
interviews questionable. He decided to visit the local
newspaper, examine back issues and make inquiries.
A woman as socially prominent as the Señora, or was
it, Señorita Valdez, must have appeared in print, and
he was correct.
He introduced himself as an American journalist writing an article on famous Colombian women.
He suggests Elena Valdez as a starting point, and
the morgue librarian produced a file of clippings and
photographs.
Moore had a self-satisfied smirk as Francisco
translated the articles word-for-word on a newly pur-
727
chased tape recorder. Elena Valdez photographed at
a charity ball, recipient of the Woman of the Year
Award, shown at the opera, and pictured in the company of local dignitaries. She was referred to as
a novelist and sculptor, a woman of the eighties,
praised for her charitable work, generous donations,
and civic contributions, but no mention or photo of
the Doctor.
His presence at the paper did not go unnoticed.
Paulina Garcia-Miranda, society columnist, joined
him at a table in the musty, dingy basement. A green
glass shade lamp hung overhead. His notes would
reflect that he portrayed her as stunning, stylishly
dressed and regal of bearing, very cosmopolitan,
her hair and make-up perfect. She had a magical
laugh and spoke fluent English. He referred to her
as manipulative and all too aware of her effect on
others.
Garcia-Miranda remarked that she wrote the
column as a diversion, a hobby, and considered herself one of Elena’s dearest friends. She appeared
more than willing to cooperate in adding depth to his
proposed story.
He followed her to the third floor and a small
cubicle with an oak-finish desk and a window view
of wooden balconies overhanging the narrow street.
A church spire rose above tile roofs.
She would explain that Valdez was Elena’s
maiden name which she elected to use for professional reasons. Her husband, a multimillionaire philanthropist, devoted to his wife. “She is the most
envied, admired woman in the city.”
728
SHELDON YAVITZ
“Pampered?” Moore asked, playfully tapping
the keys of a vintage IBM typewriter.
“A chauffeur and servants, a bank account that
she jokes is bottomless. A husband who’s never
home. What could be more ideal.”
“Could she simply be his mistress?” Moore
winked.
She eyed him caustically. “They’re expecting
their first child, Mr. Moore.”
“Obviously, you must know the Doctor very
well,” he said, trolling for information, searching her
face for a reaction.
When she replied in the negative, he did not
believe her. Her explanation that the Doctor never
attended social and public functions was greeted with
a skeptical shake of his head. Yet, as she spoke, a picture unraveled of an enigmatic man, who disguised
his generosity by crediting his wife with sizable charitable donations and funds raised from anonymous
sources. She proffered that the Doctor actively supported causes from saving the Amazon rain forest
to housing for the homeless, and privately financed
school construction in remote, poor villages, “but all
done in Elena’s name.”
She related the story of a drug war that terrorized the city, of car bombings and street violence,
and a failed attempt on the police commandant’s
life. According to the columnist, the Doctor gave
the police chief an armored Jeep for protection and
somehow intervened with the Cartel. The fighting
ended abruptly, and the innocent victims were wellcompensated. “The commandant went back to the
729
Doctor to thank him for a miracle. Do you know
what he said?” Moore shrugged. “Only the good
Bishop performs miracles.”
He grunted. The disclosure ran contrary to his
mind-set.
“Commandant Lopez told me,” she grinned, a
quick smile. “If you were to ask the Doctor, he would
probably deny it.”
“He would probably deny everything?”
“Do you desire an appointment?” Her hands
demurely folded in her lap; a voice polite, but taunting. “He knows you’re here.”
Moore sprung the latch on his briefcase. “Is this
the Doctor?” He inquired, producing a photograph.
“No,” she said scarcely glancing at the picture.
————
Moore would attempt several more interviews
before accepting the invitation. The Bishop declined
to give him an audience. The Mayor announced that
he was too busy. He decided against talking to the
police commandant. “Only a madman would be that
crazy,” the translator warned him. The dress shop
and jewelry store management claimed they did not
discuss their clientele. Civic and charitable leaders,
and several close friends of Elena’s declined his
request. The door had “proverbially” slammed shut
on Fitzgerald Moore. He suspected his hotel telephone calls were being monitored, and as Francisco
pointed out. “We are under constant police scrutiny.”
There was no U.S. Consulate in Manizales.
730
SHELDON YAVITZ
————
TUESDAY, JULY 4, 1989
MANIZALES, COLOMBIA
9:00 am, and a knock on the hotel room door.
“My name is Quinto. Your car is waiting.”
Moore couldn’t help observe a gun bulge under
his jacket. He nodded; the stranger entered, doffing
a broad brimmed hat. “You look familiar? Have you
been to Miami?” He asked, vaguely recalling the
description of a heavyset, short man who purchased
Sherlock, Watson and the dogs.
“Your interpreter will not be coming,” Quinto
replied, ignoring the question. “He’s on his way to
the airport.” Moore’s shoulders shagged. “Returning
to Medellin.”
“You got a hell of a nerve.”
“Your car is waiting.”
He ran his hands through his dark wavy hair
and suddenly felt alone and helpless. He tugged on a
nylon, zip-front jacket, and picked up his briefcase.
Moore hesitated, gazed forlornly at the telephone.
“What are you up to?”
“Your car is waiting,” Quinto repeated.
“Can I bring my tape recorder?”
An indifferent shrug.
————
Moore sat in the rear of a black Ford Bronco,
Quinto in the front along with the driver. A blue 9 mm
automatic conspicuously resting on the stocky man’s
lap. They rode in silence. The novelist recorded his
731
impressions on tape. They were approximately fifteen miles from the city and had turned up the paved,
secondary road leading to the hacienda.
EXCERPTS FROM TAPE :
MOORE: “About 3 miles up the private drive
… approaching the gate house … An armed
guard, over six feet, 205 plus pounds …
There’s another … Passed through with a military salute … About a mile … uphill, twists
and turns … a bend … a high wall … an
access road to the left … Quinto said the
Doctor bought all the land down to the main
highway … Wants his privacy … Just like Pollard … The wall seems endless … There’s a
huge wrought-iron gate … posted sentry … If I
didn’t know better, I’d swear this was the home
of same Cartel bigwig … Gate’s opening … a
long brick driveway … circular … looks like
the house to the right … huge … Spanish colonial … sprawling, opulent … Six-car garage to
the left …
There’s that Mercury again near the front
entrance … Oh, Elena’s getting in it … Same
chauffeur … Why is Señorita Valdez leaving?”
QUINTO: “She has her reasons …”
MOORE: “Does she always travel in a bulletproof car?”
QUINTO: “The Doctor’s orders …”
MOORE: “We are parking near the garage …
That’s Stan’s old English sports car … Another
house toward the rear … I’m getting a feeling
732
SHELDON YAVITZ
of déjà vu. All I need is dogs.”
QUINTO: “No tape recorder, Mr .Moore.”
MOORE: “You said I could bring it.”
QUINTO: “No tape recorder … Hand me your
briefcase … I need to check it.”
Moore paused before exiting the Bronco. From
the corner of his eye he spied a Rottweiller. He
looked to his right: a Doberman. His stomach knotted. An Irish setter and a Great Dane stopped short
of the vehicle. He felt himself besieged, cornered:
snarls, growls, sharp white teeth and a second Doberman.
“Come on, Señor.”
“The dogs!” His palms felt clammy.
He waited until they moved off disappearing
into the woods, tails wagging. Hesitantly, Moore followed Quinto down a cobbled footpath leading to a
smaller home architecturally similar in design and
construction to the hacienda. The lawn and hedges
manicured; the guest house built amid towering fir
trees. A goose lowered its head and hissed. Moore
quickened his step. He held a tight grip on his briefcase. He heard the raucous screech of a parrot.
Contrary to his initial impression, the home was
an office with an indoor/outdoor relationship reinforced by a courtyard with lush foliage, a cascading
waterfall and sparkling fish pond.
“Got any piranhas?”
“They’re for the Doctor’s enemies. You don’t
want to see them,” Quinto replied, his expression
unreadable. Moore forced a nervous chuckle, but his
733
knees were shaking.
The richly decorated reception area had maintained the motif: exotic plants, paintings with nature
scenes, animal sculptures, earth colors, leather, wood
and glass. The secretarial station replete with word
processors, a computer monitor and printer, telephones and telex, but no clerical staff. Moore noticed
a half-filled coffee cup, paper in a typewriter, and a
sweater on a chair back. “Where’s everybody?” He
inquired; a shrug in response.
Quinto rapped on mahogany double doors,
turned the knob, and beckoned the writer to enter.
Moore stepped into the room, hesitated, peered over
his shoulder. He was alone. The sun shown through
skylights between the beams in the ceiling.
“Kiss my beak.” A large white cockatoo’s greeting.
The office displayed a familiar western flavor
from a cluttered roll top desk and Tiffany lamp to
animal mounts and a firearms collection; an executive-style leather chair with its high back to him. The
chair slowly swiveled until facing the visitor.
“Sit, señor.” A harsh, thick Spanish accent, a
thumbs down gesture.
The novelist stood motionless, transfixed, staring at an unrecognizable face. “I’ve come to interview Ms. Valdez.” He slowly lowered himself to the
seat cushion. The briefcase straddled his lap like a
writing table. “I’m a journalist doing an article about
successful Colombian women such as the señorita.”
The man shrugged.
“I thought the señorita would be here.” He
734
SHELDON YAVITZ
looked carefully at him, scrutinizing his hard, lined
face, struck by unsettling piercing eyes, and stone
silence. “Are you the Doctor?”
“I know why you’re here. About Pollard and
Dutch.”
“So you know Stan Pollard?” The man nodded.
Moore opened his attaché case and removed a pad
and photograph. He leaned forward and offered the
picture. His hand had a slight tremor.
“Dead,” the man said, two thumbs down.
“And Dutch Durant?”
An affirmative nod and a thumbs down sign.
“Do you know how they both died?”
“You already know, Mr. Moore.” He tore the
photo in half. “I can tell you that my men are in
your hotel room. Your apartment was entered,” he
said, tearing the print into small pieces. The fragments trickling to his feet. “Tapes, notes, everything
destroyed. Just like smut movies.”
Moore’s tall frame crumbled; his expression an
anguish grimace.
“Just like your amigo, Snake.” A queer smile
crossed the stranger’s lips. “Fool forgot, he was
simply a messenger.”
“You killed him?” A shrug in reply. Moore’s
mind radiated images of a redhead with a gun; Dutch
without a face, and a man who nodded, stared and
gestured with his thumbs. He heard the words. “Talk
to me, Mr. Moore.” He attempted to rise to his feet,
but found his legs unsteady. “I’ve come to find out if
Pollard’s living or dead.” His voice broke. He looked
blindly at a blank sheet of paper.
735
“All dead, but you.” Dark, penetrating eyes bore
into the journalist, a thumb in a seesaw motion.
“Pollard’s the Doctor!” He swallowed the lump
in his throat.
“Talkin’shit, señor.”
Moore glanced at the bird. His eyes blinked,
wandering disconnected from the snowy cockatoo
flapping its wings and squawking “Talkin’ shit” to
an antique barber chair to a huge stuffed crocodile,
then back to the taciturn stranger in a black suit and
narrow necktie. The man’s arms comically extended
forward; thumbs curved down, but no one was laughing. The journalist’s face grew ashen. A pen slipped
from his fingers falling silently on the beige carpet.
He heard the sound of a door creak as it opened.
Beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead. Piranhas moved languidly in an aquarium. A bullet clip
snapped in a handgun. Moore nervously clutched the
gold cross about his neck …
————
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 14, 1989
CAT CAY, BAHAMAS
A 38-foot Island Packet, cutter configuration,
bobbed lazily at its mooring. The sea was a flawless
blue-green as found only in the Bahamas. In sight,
a white, sandy beach and palms. Aft in the cockpit
area, an open, small, fold-away table bearing a typewriter, ream of letter-size paper and a glass of rum
punch. A bearded man with dark wavy hair came
up from below deck. He blew a kiss to a girl clad
in a white bikini, forward with a bottle of suntan
736
SHELDON YAVITZ
lotion. He slowly sat down before the vintage portable. He stretched his fingers, cracked his knuckles
and slipped a sheet of paper in the platen. His fingers
flew across the keys at 65 words a minute typing in
uppercase letters.
SOME MAY SAY THIS STORY IS TRUE,
BUT I WILL DENY ITS AUTHENTICITY
AND CLAIM THIS NOVEL IS A TOTAL,
COMPLETE FIGMENT OF THE AUTHOR’S
IMAGINATION. ANY SIMILARITY TO
PERSONS LIVING OR DEAD, AND
EVENTS AND PLACES DESCRIBED
HEREIN ARE PURELY COINCIDENTAL.
FITZGERALD MOORE
DECEMBER 14, 1989
He reached for the ice cold glass. “Baby, time
for a swim,” he said.
Life is mostly froth and bubble,
Two things stand like stone,
Kindness in another’s trouble,
Courage in your own.
Adam Lindsay Gordon (1833-1870)
Australian Poet
Synopsis
Stanton Pollard, the controversial criminal
defense attorney, triggers a series of new questions
following the lawyer’s death in a fiery car crash
in the mountains of Jamaica: Was it an accident,
murder or faked? As a prime suspect in a call girl’s
murder, reputed to be a CIA operative with links to
the Colombian drug cartel, Cuba’s Castro, and Haiti’s “royal family,” and helpful connections in the
Bahamas and the money-laundering tax haven of
Sint Maarten, the Miami attorney amassed fortunes
and bathed in a lifestyle of splendor with wife Sue
Ann. When she filed for divorce and wished the husband dead, she opens Pandora’s box for the DEA,
the IRS, and a drug-smuggling kingpin client seeking revenge, and who plots with Sue Ann to carry
out her obsessive wish. Fitzgerald Moore, journalist
and author, contracted to write an article for a major
national magazine (then expanded to a nonfiction
book on the attorney’s life and questionable death),
sets out to research and confirm facts. His interviews
with some 40 persons in the U.S., Jamaica, the Bahamas, and Colombia unravel Pollard’s life. In Manizales, Colombia, he interviews the “Doctor,” then
clutches the golden cross about his neck as a bullet
clip snaps in a hand gun following the thumbs-down
gesture of the Doctor. In the final segment, Moore,
on an expensive sailboat with a bikini-clad blond, is
no longer interested in writing the nonfiction book.
He is living a different, new life.
About the Author
Sheldon Yavitz wrote this book as
a cross between reality and fiction,
tempered by time and perspective.
The author, semi-retired now, was
a criminal defense lawyer for 26
years whose career was terminated
by a federal prison sentence.
He writes from experience, and
while put away — that gave him
time — he wrote this story. Though the manuscript
lingered for more than 10 years, he now shares
this story with us, ripe for our time.
Though not part of the book, Shelly’s life is filled with
stunning episodes:
o He represented serial killer “Mad Dog” Paul John
Knowles and landed in jail on a contempt citation
because he refused to violate his attorney-client
commitment.
o He ran (though unsuccessfully) for Circuit Judge
in Miami-Dade County while beginning to earn
himself the label “premier drug lawyer in South
Florida.”
o He appeared before a U.S. Senate subcommittee
chaired by Senator John F. Kerry, representing his
convicted drug smuggler clients who testified
about gun-running to Nicaragua for the CIA and
carrying drugs on return flights. (See “Drugs, Law
Enforcement and Foreign Policy” aka The Kerry
Report.)

Jungle Of His Choosing

Transcription

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