Condemned (32 page)

“Be serious. And don't get crazy,” said Billups. “Leave girls out of it. None of us pots want to call the kettle black.” He laughed at his own cleverness. “Now look'a'here. Suppose we uncovered something—something real, of course—I don't mean cook up some phony thing, you know?”

“Of course not,” said Carelton.

“If we had some information about some impropriety, something, maybe campaign contributions that weren't kosher, and you gave it to your D.E.A. man, that Becker you mentioned, who, in turn, would bring it over to Merola, well, hell, there's no way that could be traced back to us. A little immediate adverse publicity, even if it's a one or two shot deal, would slow this whole thing about Galiber being Deputy Mayor down, maybe out, you get me?”

“The Mayor wouldn't make the appointment if there was some investigation going. The negative publicity would leave a bad taste in His Honor's mealy mouth,” said Carelton.

“And we all could make a hew and cry about the Man making phony charges to discriminate against blacks,” said Billups. “We'd be good guys on Galiber's side for the community, and nobody'd be the wiser.”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Carelton.

“What are we doing for a front page story this morning, gentlemen?” Ed Barquette said to the Associate Editors ranged around the outside of the Copy Desk. He was tilted back in his swivel chair, the sleeves of his blue button-down shirt rolled back to his forearms.

“You want to run this accident story from the Long Island Expressway? Hell of a picture,” said Seymour Tucker, picking up a picture of a man draped over the top of the open driver's door of a small car that had been T-Boned by a tractor trailer.

Barquette grimaced. “We had an accident on the front of this morning's edition, didn't we?”

Tucker shrugged and nodded agreement.

“Don't start that shrugging shit. It's too early in the morning,” razzed Barquette. The other editors snickered. “Drives me crazy, every day, with that shrugging.”

“Maybe we could run—”

“Hold it a second, fellas,” said Barquette, seeing Annie the copy boy standing quietly next to his desk. “What is it, Annie?”

She bent down to whisper. “That Supervisor from the D.E.A. who came to see you a week or so ago. He's here again. Said it'll only take a minute.”

“Becker?” Annie nodded. “Yeah? Talk it up amongst yourselves for a few minutes, fellas.” Barquette said, rising. “Where is he, Annie?”

“In your office, Chief.”

Barquette walked toward his office. As he moved behind Milton Adler, one of the reporters sitting at a desk, he hit him playfully on the left side of the back of his bald head, stepping quickly out of view. Adler twirled, but there was no one there. “Gotcha,” laughed Barquette. He reached his office and went inside. “Hey, Mike,” he greeted Becker.

“Ed, how's it going this morning?”

“It's not. You've got to push it,” Barquette chuckled. “What brings you to my office on a nice day like this?”

“Something that requires some quick action,” said Becker.

“What's that?”

“The Mayor announced he's considering the appointment of Joseph L. Galiber as Third Deputy Mayor. I know you know that,” Becker said quickly. “And apparently the Mayor wants to move along with swearing Galiber in right away, before some negative information comes up about him, like what happened with David Dinkins.”

“Okay.”

“I understand the Bronx District Attorney, Merola—”

“Yeah, Mario. Nice guy.”

“Merola is beginning to look into allegations that there are some discrepancies in Galiber's reporting of campaign contributions when he was running in the Primary for Comptroller a while back.”

“Is that right?”

“Apparently, a report of contributions must be made within a certain period of time, and some research has uncovered that Galiber's wasn't filed timely. In addition, some of the donations were made with corporate checks—which is against the election laws. The reason I'm telling you all this is that, as I said, the Mayor is evidently determined to make a quick swearing-in, to side-step the investigation process before it uncovers improprieties.”

Barquette nodded. “How does any of this affect you and the D.E.A., Mike? It sounds like small potatoes.”

“Galiber is not on the D.E.A.'s list of favorite people.”

“Because of these financial things?”

“Because of the legislation to legalize drugs, which he's sponsoring in the State Senate. Legislation like that sends absolutely the wrong message to the public and, particularly, drug traffickers who are heartened in their clandestine trafficking by support from supposedly responsible Government officials.”

Barquette nodded. “What can I do for you?”

“You know we helped you when your grandson …”

“You don't have to remind me, Mike,” Barquette said. “I appreciate all you did for me. I definitely owe you guys one, more than one.”

“How is your grandson doing?”

“He seems to be straightening himself out. Starts at Albany Law School in the Fall,” said Barquette.

“I'm glad we were able to get that done for you, Ed,” said Becker.

“So am I. He'd never have been able to get into law school with a drug tin can hanging from his bumper.”

“It's our view that the inquiry by the D.A. in the Bronx, coupled with some publicity about it in a newspaper as popular as the Post would cause the Mayor to reconsider his appointment of Galiber,” said Becker. “All we need is a pause. It'll give us time to get some other guns in place, to really skewer Galiber's appointment. We don't think the Mayor will relish a controversy at this time.”

“At any time.”

“Particularly at this time. We think we might be able to make him change horses and appoint someone else.”

“After Dinkins, now Galiber, you think the Mayor'll still appoint a black? He said he would, but how much can he take?”

“We have no problem with a black man, as long as it's the right black man?”

“A
white
black man,” said Barquette.

“Just a decent, law-abiding one will do.”

“Same thing.”

“What the heck are you doing in Washington, Billy? You missed the swearing in ceremony?” Maurice Billups exclaimed into the phone. He was speaking to Billy Carelton. “You know who got the biggest hand of the day at Gibson's swearing in? Our man, Dave Dinkins, that's who. The Mayor introduced him and the crowd—mostly our friends—gave him a heck of an ovation.”

Paul Gibson, a black Vice President of American Airlines had been tapped by the Mayor instead of Joe Galiber to fill the position of Third Deputy Mayor in charge of Planning. The Mayor also announced that he'd be happy to reconsider Galiber for an appointment in his Administration once the Bronx investigation was resolved—which, the Mayor added, was sure to happen.

“That's right, that's right. Gibson is exactly the right man for the job: no political connections, no political aspirations. Just a wonderful, clean-cut man for the job.” Billups listened. “Both Dave and I were interviewed afterward. I indicated, individually, and on behalf of the Council of Black Elected Democrats, that I was saddened to see Joseph Galiber withdraw. I said, he is a man of the highest integrity and ability and would have served well as Deputy Mayor. I thought it had the right note myself.” He listened to Carelton again. “No, I know Merola said that he was going to impanel a Grand Jury, but it's unlikely that the investigation will really go anywhere. I mean, after all, the law regarding corporate checks has already been changed. Too late for Galiber, of course.” Billups gave out a little chuckle. “Besides, we're talking about a single corporate contribution. Galiber told the papers that it was for his Senatorial Office expenses, not for his campaign. So it wasn't illegal at the time either. The thing'll die by itself.” He listened. “No, me either. I wouldn't want to see Joe have any real trouble.”

Bucharest: July 6, 1996 : 3:30 P.M.

Alexander (Sascha) Ulanov sat in a window seat just ahead of the wing on Touron Airlines, Flight 364, as the plane settled into its final landing approach to Bucharest Airport. Anna Petrovski sat beside him. Below, Sascha could see fields dotted with mounds of hay, horse-carts on roads pulled by narrow, bony, little horses, stone houses with terracotta roofs, curling chimney smoke that disappeared beneath the wings.

“Still a shit house,” said Anna, leaning across Sascha, looking down.

The wheels of the landing gear, port side first, squealed as they hit the ground. The plane bounced harshly, then settled to a roll toward the small building that housed Passport Control.

Sascha looked at his watch. It was still on New York time: 6:55 AM. He counted on his fingers to gauge Romanian time. He reached into an inside jacket pocket and took out an American passport. His photograph and the pedigree details of someone named David Pivovarova were all neatly and newly preserved under a plastic coating. He smiled. A lovely job they did on this passport. It was just as it would be if Sascha were really David Pivovarova, a newly naturalized citizen of the United States.

Anna had a new passport as well. The documents identified her as Anna Pivovarova.

After the plane rolled to a stop, Sascha remained in his seat, smiling pleasantly. Anna, like most of the other passengers, stood immediately, pulling her carry-on from an overhead compartment, crowding forward, waiting for the front hatch to open. As he sat, Sascha studied the baggage handlers through the plane window. They were pushing antiquated wooden wagons up to the plane to off-load the baggage. How ridiculous, he thought. They still have horses and carts in this backward shithouse.

As he watched the baggage handlers, Sascha was working an index finger into the left breast pocket of his shirt. In the center of a small fold of American currency was a twenty dollar bill folded into a small square. Inside the folded twenty was a small amount of white powder: cocaine. Sascha removed his finger, coated with some of the white powder, and placed it into one nostril, inhaling deeply. He put his finger back into his shirt pocket to service the other nostril, then did both again.

“You coming?” said Anna, pushing further into the crowded aisle.

“Go ahead, you're so anxious,” said Sascha. “I'll meet you outside.”

“If I meet my girlfriend, I'm going. I'll call you. I know where you're staying.”

Sascha shrugged indifferently. He had been a little high all the way across the ocean, not only from the cocaine in his shirt pocket. He had instantly become happy when Uri told him that it was time to go on another trip to Romania—he fingered the ten new hundreds in his pants pocket. His fondness for the American cocaine kept him constantly broke. But the main source of his joy came when Uri told him that this trip was the first trip on which he was buying heroin for themselves; that he and Uri—and the blacks, of course—were all going to make plenty of money. He vowed he would never be broke again.

Sascha originally met Taylor in one of the dance clubs on West 21st Street in Manhattan about three months ago. After meeting a couple of times, Taylor and Sascha shared a couple of lines of cocaine in the men's room one night. When Sascha inquired if Taylor knew where to obtain more, Anton said he might be able to get him some, but it would be cash on the barrelhead. Which was all right with Sascha, just after he came back from a trip to Romania. Between trips, however, when Sascha was tapped out, he occasionally did some muscle work for Taylor in exchange for cocaine. He had to collect money from drug customers who were reluctant payers. Right about the time Uri told him another trip was required of him, Sascha was suffering a double tragedy: Taylor hadn't needed any strong-arm services—he was busy with a court case, or something—and Sascha didn't have any money.

When the aisle was clear, Sascha rose from his seat and moved to the front of the plane. After he exited, he strolled casually toward Passport Control. As he had suspected, with relief, Anna was nowhere to be seen when he arrived in the passport area. Good! He thought to himself, he wouldn't have to be bothered with that bitch for a few days.

Although he had been born in the Ukraine, his mother had divorced his father and married a Romanian butcher when Sascha was eight. For the next five years, before he ran away from home, back to the Ukraine, Sascha had lived in Brasov, Romania. As a result, once inside Passport Control, Sascha kidded the humorless Agent behind the window in fluent Romanian, telling him he ought to make the trip to New York, get a bright, shiny new passport himself. The Passport Agent smirked, a nod of his head indicating the direction of baggage claim.

“No baggage. I am an American,” Sascha said in English. “Only carry-on,” he smiled, holding up his small overnight bag.

The Passport Agent shrugged. “Perhaps in America, you went a little—” he twirled a finger in a circle at his temple.

“Because I am in good humor? You have to have good humor to fly on Touron. You should see the airlines in America. You would run from here like it was hell.”

“Stop breaking my eggs.” The Passport Agent reached for the passport of a woman behind Ulanov. She wore a tight kerchief on her head. Her two little girls also had kerchiefs on their heads.

Sascha hailed a cab and directed it to Brasov, an ancient medieval city on the old commercial trail between east and west. It was in Brasov, as a young man, that Sascha first learned to help a local crime crew by being the drop for pickpockets, secreting the loot as the booster moved away from the victim quickly. From there he graduated to mugging drunks; thence, after returning to Kiev, to strong-arm protection rackets. It was in Kiev that Sascha first met Uri Mojolevsky. Uri was raking in dough transporting drugs from Tashkent to Kiev for some Americans. He gave Sascha the job of bringing heroin to Vasily Marcovich in Leningrad. For this work, for the two years it lasted, Sascha was making fabulous money, until Uri told him that everyone had to lay low, that things were very hot from Kiev to Leningrad. After that, Uri disappeared, and Sascha was flat broke, as before.