Condemned (16 page)

“I have no idea what it's about. Just wanted to let you know, in case of, in case of … I don't know what. Just wanted you to know.”

“One good thing about it, though,” said Sandro.

“What's that?”

“At least you know to be careful, somebody's watching.”

“It's going to cost me a fortune to replace that tail lamp.”

“You coming down?”

“I'm going to wait here for a little. I'll call you back when it's clear.” Galiber hung up the phone and went upstairs to his apartment.

The red TransAm sat silently in the shadows, a block and a half from Galiber's building. After a while, its motor started and its lights came on. The driver wheeled the car around and disappeared into the night.

Penn Station, New York : June 18, 1996 : 10:15 P.M.

D.E.A. Supervisor Michael Becker made his way slowly against the tide of belligerent fans cascading out of Madison Square Garden at the end of the Knicks/Miami Heat game. He was thin, with closely-cropped reddish hair, and a prominent, bony nose. In the cab on the way to the Garden, the radio had been tuned to the game. The announcer said that the atmosphere both on the court and in the audience had become more belligerent as the Knicks, expecting to clinch the division playoffs, found themselves on the short end of the score. The closer the buzzer, the rougher the game, the more irate the fans, until at the final buzzer, there was a free-for-all between the Knick and Miami Heat players.

Becker was inching his way to the fourth incarnation of Madison Square Garden. The original Garden had been built in the 1880s near Madison Square Park and the Fuller Building, now known as the Flatiron Building, downtown in the east Twenties, just off of Fifth Avenue. After the first burnt to the ground, a second structure was built in the same locale. The third was built on Eighth Avenue between 49
^th
and 50
^th
Streets, where the Friday night fights were the social event of the week for all New Yorkers in the swing during the forties and fifties. The latest version was erected on the site of the magnificent Penn Station, inexplicably razed at 33rd Street and Seventh Avenue to make room for the present uninspired cylinder. The tracks and sidings of Penn Station were secreted beneath street level.

“Game's over, asshole,” a beery fan in suit jacket and tie shouted into Becker's face, pushing past him.

Becker steadfastly continued to move through the tide of exiting fans.

“Wrong way, wrong way,” announced another impatient fan in a Knicks windbreaker, as he bumped into Becker.

Becker shifted sideways, reaching quickly toward the bulge at his waist; that last bump had almost dislodged his service revolver.

Immediately after leaving the abbreviated proceedings in front of Judge Ellis early this morning, Awgust Nichols had paged Becker from the courthouse. When Becker returned the call to Nichols' cell phone, Nichols told him that he was going to have something really important to tell him later on. Becker suggested they meet at six-thirty. Nichols said he wouldn't have the information by then, as he was meeting his source at around seven. Nichols suggested they meet at their usual place at ten-thirty. Becker said that was too late.

“This is something that's really going to turn you on,” Nichols had told him.

“It's too late,” said Becker.

“Even if it's about a huge, new drug smuggling operation in Russia?”

There was a silent pause. “
Russia
? Are you kidding?”

It was the first time Becker dropped his cool emotional mien to react to anything.

“Now you're interested, hanh?”

“Ten-thirty tonight. Usual place” Becker said tersely.

The usual place for Nichols and Becker was Penn Station, aboard Amtrak's overnight Washington sleeper train as it sat beneath Madison Square Garden waiting for its 2 AM departure. When they made the appointment, Becker hadn't realized that a playoff game was scheduled.

Struggling forward against the tide of disgruntled Knick fans, Becker finally reached a stairwell leading down to Penn Station. A large number of people from the surge were also diverting down the steps to catch eastbound Long Island Railway trains.

When he reached the Amtrak ticket counter concourse, Becker's wing-tipped cordovan footsteps echoed sharply on the wide terrazzo floor of the deserted, dimly-lit station. The ticket windows each had a ‘Position Closed' sign displayed. The chairs and benches intended for waiting passengers were empty, the escalators leading to the tracks below weren't moving. The only activity was a lone porter pushing a rotating polishing machine on the terrazzo, his head moving rhythmically to something he heard from a set of headphones. The Porter saw Becker and waved an arm. “Closed,” he shouted.

“Washington Sleeper,” called Becker. The Porter lifted one of the ear pieces, inquiring with a nod of his head.

“Washington Sleeper,” Becker repeated.

The Porter nodded. “Track four.” He pointed toward a stairway as he replaced his headphones and continued to follow the polishing machine.

Becker walked down a dim stairway. On the right side of the lower platform were empty, polished steel tracks. On the left side, a long silver train stood silent. Staggered interior lights illuminated a windowed corridor within the passenger cars. Standing on the platform two cars down, a black man in a blue uniform with a patent leather peaked conductor's cap was talking to another man in railroad work coveralls, holding a lantern.

“Washington?” called the Conductor. He had a pencil thin moustache. His uniform was very neat, a tight little knot in his tie, the peak of his conductor's cap highly polished.

“Yes,” Becker replied.

“Name?” The Conductor took a few steps forward, taking a manifest from inside his jacket.

“I'm supposed to meet a friend on the sleeper,” said Becker. “Brothers. He said something about compartment twenty five.”

“Twenty-five?” the Conductor said, reading his list. “Brothers,” he nodded agreement. “Next forward car, sir. You can go up right there,” the Conductor pointed to a stairway into a nearby car. “Walk through this car to the next. Twenty five is in the middle, on the right.”

“Thanks.”

“If you folks need anything, just let me know.”

Becker nodded. The Conductor resumed his conversation with the man holding the lantern.

On one side of the narrow interior corridor were windows through which Becker could see the two men talking on the deserted platform below. On the other side, were closed doors every few feet. The entire car was silent. Becker slid open the door between cars. The second car was the same as the first. Little signs on the doors indicated 32, 31, 30. Becker reached compartment 25. He looked around, listened. There were no sounds anywhere in the train. He knocked.

A solemn-looking Awgust Nichols opened the door. “Hello, Michael.”

“Something the matter?” said Becker.

“A little upset.”

“About?”

“Things aren't going right,” said Nichols.

“What things?”

“Want a drink. I've got that Moscovskaya Vodka you like.”

“You expecting anyone else?” said Becker, glancing at two bottles of champagne and a bottle of vodka steeped in a bucket of ice.

“A couple of trapeze artists,” Nichols said, fluttering his eyebrows. “Later.”

“Too bad I didn't wear my party suit,” said Becker. “You said something about a new Russian route?”

“They're available if you're interested—the girls. Exotic dancers. From one of the clubs.”

Becker shook his head. “What time are they coming?” He glanced at his watch.

“Eleven-fifteen. It's up to you. I need a drink myself.” Nichols popped a cork from a bottle of champagne. It fizzed up out of the bottle, some splashing on his silk tie. “Damn.”

Becker smirked, taking the bottle of Moscovskaya from the ice, pouring some, straight up, into a tumbler. “Next time, put a cloth over the champagne bottle before you pop the cork.” He raised his glass. “
Na zdvrovye.
”

“Man. Everybody in New York is speaking a different language these days. What language is that?” said Nichols.

“Russian.”

“That's what those other guys were talking tonight, Russian.”

“What guys are those?” said Becker.

“First let me tell you why I'm upset.”

“If you have to.”

“This whole situation is takin' too long.”

“What situation is taking too long?” Becker sipped his vodka.

“I was at court today, man.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“I'm the main man, remember,” said Becker. “Geraghty, my Case Agent, saw you there, talking to Taylor. He called me, wanted me to assure him for the umpteenth time that you were okay.”

“And what did you say?”

Becker's mouth soured. “What about the new route?”

“I assume you also know about the lawyer's nose bleed.”

“It was on the news. At this point, everybody in New York knows about the lawyer's nose-bleed.”

“That's what I'm talking about when I say this thing is taking too long,” said Nichols. “It's going on and on.”

“Give me a clue what you're talking about?” Becker topped off his glass of vodka. “I didn't come over to play Jeopardy.”

“Our agreement.”

“What agreement?” Becker said, lowering the glass from his lips, studying Nichols.

“I agreed to help you, give you information about the Brotherhood, so you could make a big collar. In return, you agreed to get Red off the street—” Becker frowned. “You're frowning? Like it wasn't me who gave you the information where to put the bugs in Red's club, who told you what time Money and the others were there every day? Who convinced Taylor—somebody right in the very middle of the conversations—to go along with the program so you could get the wire tap and bug order?”

“No question about it,” Becker said with a shrug. “You did all those things.”

“Which just happens to be the main evidence in the biggest case around here in a hundred years. In exchange, you were going to help me and Taylor.”

Becker sipped his vodka, listening.

One day, a couple of years back, when the investigation that led to The Brotherhood trial was just beginning, Becker arrived at Red Hardie's office to serve a subpoena for all of Red's accounting books and records. Red wasn't in, but the secretary directed Becker to Nichols who said it would take a few days to gather the material. Subsequent conversations when Becker returned revealed that the two of them had mutually compatible goals. Becker mentioned that he was out to nail Red Hardie, which would be the biggest collar he made since he moved from the C.I.A. to the D.E.A. At that very moment, a thought occurred to Nichols. If Becker and his squad had enough information, they might cause Red Hardie—with his fame and fancy suits, his cars and women—to fall into the abyss of the justice system. At which point, he, Awgust Nichols, with all his inside information about the operation, his knowledge of how things worked, and, most importantly, where all the money was buried or hidden, would be standing right there to grab the tiller for “Uncle” Red Hardie. Nichols realized that once Red went to jail, he would be there for a long time. And in the interim, if things were worked right, Nichols would be standing in the place of honor and respect Harlem so long reserved for Red Hardie.

To pursue his burning ambitions, Nichols provided Becker with information about Money Dozier and the other major players in the Brotherhood, revealing when each visited Sport's Lounge on the corner of 137th Street each day, how Money sat in the same booth and seat in the rear of the club, every day, sorting out, on Red's behalf, various business matters that arose amongst the toilers in the drug trade. Nichols even told Becker about the picture of Sugar Ray Robinson that hung on the wall above Money's booth. In addition, after obtaining a vow of secrecy from Anton Taylor, Nichols told him of the D.E.A.'s investigation, and the impending indictments that were going to hit the Brotherhood like a ton of bricks. He convinced Taylor that he was about to be run over by a steam-roller, but if he worked with the Government and A.U.S.A. Dineen so that an application for Electronic Surveillance could be presented to Judge Ellis, he, in turn, would receive substantial help from the Government in his own case.

At first, Taylor resisted. But Nichols, ever Taylor's guide, convinced him that arrests were inevitable, The Man was about to pounce on the Brotherhood, and shit was really going to hit the fan. He assured Taylor that with some quiet help and information—he didn't have to be a testifying witness—the length of Taylor's prison sentence could be kept to the minimum. When Taylor agreed to assist the Government, he insisted, as Nichols had advised, that he would only give information, not testify. Dineen, anticipating the day that copies of his Application for Electronic Surveillance would have to be turned over to the Defense Counsel for those indicted, in his papers, referred to Taylor only as “Confidential Informant Number One (C.I. 1)” and Nichols as C.I. 2.

Once the Electronic Surveillance Order, based upon the information provided by C.I. 1 and C.I. 2, was obtained, the D.E.A. staged a common burglary of the Sport's Lounge in order to place a bug in the premises. Except for Red, all the men who comprised the upper ranks of the Brotherhood gathered there regularly to lay plans, strategize the importation, sale, and distribution of the product.

That Red was never present during those meetings did not deter the Government from pursuing a conspiracy prosecution against him. The invocation of Red's name by the others, references to his being involved in or approving of the actions taken by those who met at Sport's, served as the necessary predicate for Red's inclusion in the conspiracy.