Condemned (55 page)

In order to put a fire under A.U.S.A. Dineen, Becker told him how enthusiastic Barquette was about the story, how it would be front page for days on every newspaper and the lead story on every television station in the city. A media sensation like this, Becker counseled, could propel Dineen into that job he coveted in Washington. Once so inspired, Dineen's efforts to obtain an indictment went into high gear. Fed with evidence Becker's squad was collecting on a daily basis, Dineen worked around the clock, drafting Wire Tap Warrants for telephones—including Tony Balls' private line, the phone in Sally Cantalupo's office, in Billy Legs' social club next door, even the public phone in the street outside Sally's office, where Sally went to make calls he wanted to shield from electronic surveillance. Judge Ellis willingly signed all the Wire Tap Orders Dineen presented, realizing that a major case was being developed, one that would not only cause significant disruption in narcotics trafficking, but which would result in substantial publicity for herself, as the Judge presiding over the case. The right kind of publicity had heady allure for judges, too.

“In addition to the wire you're wearing,” Supervisor Becker said to Nichols, “we've hooked you up with a transmitter, which will send a realtime signal to us out here.”

“What does that do?” asked Nichols.

“We'll be able to hear everything that's going on as it happens,” said Becker. “If anything starts to go wrong—which it won't—we can barrel in to protect you. What time are you supposed to meet them?” Becker looked at his watch.

“You said you wanted it early. I told them to meet me at noon,” said Nichols. “They didn't like that they had to get up so early, but they agreed, considering that we were going to divide up the money.”

“Perfect.” This schedule made it possible for Dineen to complete his Grand Jury presentation by the afternoon, for Becker to mount up the squad to make arrests of all the suspects at six tomorrow morning, and for Barquette to spread the story all over the early editions. Barquette asked Becker if he could send photographers with the Agents when they went to make the arrests. Knowing that pictures would make the arrests more sensational, Becker consented. This was going to be one hell of a story. Becker looked at his watch again. “Let's get it going.”

Nichols finished buttoning his shirt and tucked the shirt tails into his pants. “Ready as I'll ever be,” he said.

Becker had also considered making the story even more sensational, by arresting Nichols and other members of The Brotherhood still in the street. But he had made a deal with Nichols, and for the moment, he intended to keep his end of the bargain. Besides, the busting of the new Brotherhood, under the leadership of Awgust Nichols, was another sensational story that could be orchestrated a few months down the line. No sense pouring all the good publicity into one story; two sensational stories were better than one.

“Hey, how's it shakin'?” Awgust Nichols said to Uri. They shook hands and hugged (causing major static over the radio transmitter). He also shook hands with and hugged Sascha (causing more static, and a cringe from Becker in the van).

“Good, good, my friend,” said Uri, sitting at the table in the empty wing of the dining area of the Flash Inn. Sascha sat beside him.

“Well, where's the dough?” said Nichols, eagerly looking around.

“It's outside,” said Uri. “We want to be sure all is okay inside.”

“Everything's great,” said Nichols. “Come on, don't keep me in suspense. I want to see a huge—I mean, huge—pile of dough.”

“Where's your friend, the one with the muscles?” said Uri.

“Anton? He couldn't make it. I figure you and me can count the money from our little deal by ourselves.”

Actually, on Becker's advice, Anton Taylor has purposely been excluded from this meeting. Having Taylor recorded participating in yet another conspiracy would only complicate Dineen's pitch to Judge Ellis to give Taylor a light sentence.

“For sure,” said Uri. He nodded toward Sascha. In turn, Sascha stood and walked toward the front. “The money's in the car,” Uri said to Nichols.

“You left all that dough in the car by itself?” exclaimed Nichols.

“Not by itself. We are not thick in the head.”

“Oh? You got other people outside with you,” Nichols said purposely for the transmitter.

“They sure do,” Supervisor Becker murmured aloud as he watched through one of the two-way windows at the rear of the undercover van as Sascha exited the restaurant. Geraghty had a camcorder going full tilt though the other rear window. “Zoom in on the car,” Becker said to Geraghty.

“Already did. There are women inside.”

“Women?”

“A dark haired one with a biker's cap, and a blond one,” said Geraghty.

“Any tits?” said Castoro.

“Let's be gentlemen, gentlemen,” said Becker. “Those are undoubtedly the same women who came in with Sascha on the plane.”

“Probably,” Geraghty said as he filmed.

On the camcorder screen, Geraghty recorded the woman with the biker cap lower the window of the Lexus and hand a canvas bag to Sascha. He carried the bag back into the Flash Inn.

“Man, let me see that dough,” said Nichols, as Sascha approached.

The sound of a zipper was broadcast into the van. His voice over the loudspeaker was crisp and close. “Man, this is beautiful,” said Nichols voice. “How much is in here?”

“One hundred and thirty thousand,” said Uri. His voice was further away. Unlike a human ear, a microphone cannot distinguish and block out peripheral noises. Music from the jukebox, conversation at the bar in the Flash Inn, were also fed into and heard distinctly over the recorder. Frank Sinatra was singing “Just the Way You Look Tonight”. Between lyrics, splashing water, as the bartender washed glasses behind the bar, could be heard.

“That damn juke box,” said Supervisor Becker as he listened inside the van.

“You want somebody from Bird Dog Two to walk over there and casually pull the plug?” said Castoro.

“How could that possibly be casual?” said Becker.

“Beautiful, beautiful,” Nichols said, looking into the bag. “And the product. Did the customers like the product we brought for them?” he said, looking at Uri.

“Very much, very much,
da
?”

“One guy didn't like it so much,” said Sascha, “but not so much he didn't buy. He wants to buy two whole ones by himself next time.”

The person who had complained, the one who expressed a desire to buy the next two kilos, had actually been Bill Santiago, working undercover, who had arranged, after the last milk bottle transaction on Ocean Parkway, to meet personally with Sascha to arrange a big buy. This big buy, however, Santiago purposely insisted, had to be face-to-face with Sascha's boss, as he was a little unhappy with the quality of the last product, and wanted to make sure that the next delivery would be more to his liking.

“One guy wants to buy two kilos by himself?” said Nichols. “Wow! Business is good. You'll have to get someone to go to Romania right away.”

“That Nichols is good,” murmured Supervisor Becker to no one in particular inside the van, “covering all the bases.”

“The girls are getting out of the car,” said Geraghty as he continued to look through the back window.

Becker's eyes moved toward the Lexus. The two female passengers were walking toward the Flash. “Damn!”

“Mmmhmmm,” Castoro sounded approval.

“Lou, get your mind on the job, not those two sluts,” Becker reprimanded sternly.

“Yes, sir.”

The sound of the women entering and talking to the bartender could be heard in the background over the loudspeaker in the front of the van.

“Here are the girls,” said Sascha.

“Close the bag,” said Nichols sharply. A zipper could be heard meshing teeth.

“How long I got to wait for a Long Guy-land Ice Tea?” complained Anna.

“Take her to the bar. Buy them both whatever they want,” said Uri's voice.

“
Da, da
,” said Sascha. “Come, come.”

“On me. All the drinks are on me,” called Nichols. The sounds of the two women diminished in the background.

“Fucking Anna. She is a pain in the ass,” said Uri. “But tough like nails, more than many men.”

“Let's whack this money up before the girls come back,” said Nichols. The zipper was re-opened. “Sixty-five, sixty-five, right?”

“
Da.
And then you pay for making a new trip.”

“How much did we say for that?” said Nichols.

“Fifteen,” said Uri.

“Hmm. That's eighty for you, fifty for me,” the sounds of packets of money being placed on the table was heard on the recorder.

“You can count very fast in your head,” said Uri.

“Counting numbers is my business,” said Nichols. “You agree, sixty five for the deal, and fifteen to buy more, makes eighty?”

“I think so.”

“Which one of your people is going to go on this new trip?”

“Marat,” said Uri.

“Who's Marat? Do I know him?”

“Little bastard doesn't miss a trick,” said Supervisor Becker inside the van.

“He's a natural snake,” said Geraghty. Loud women's laughter was heard in the background.

“He somebody new, from Russia?” asked Nichols.

“No, he lives in Brighton,” said Uri.

“What's he look like? Maybe I've seen him,” said Nichols.

“I don't think so; tall as me, skinny, dark, slick hair.”

“No. Doesn't sound familiar,” said Nichols.

“No, I don't think you met him.”

“Good kid?” asked Nichols. “You trust him to fly with our money and pick up the stuff?”

“Very good kid,” said Uri. “Fifteen for the trip, makes eighty,
da
” Uri calculated finally.

“
Da
,” said Nichols. “You count pretty good yourself.”

“And you start to talk Russian very good,” said Uri, laughing. “What about the money for the last trip?”

“I'll give you that the next time. Or you can take this fifteen for the last trip, and you'll get fifteen for the next trip when we whack up the next money.”

“This fifteen is for the last trip?” asked Uri.

“
Da.
”

“Okay,” said Uri, “for the last trip. Next trip, you pay the next time,
da
?”

“Exactly,” said Nichols. “You know what I'm going to do? You did such a good job, I personally am going to throw in an extra five for you, on the side. Don't say anything to your partners. How's that?”

“How's that? That's fantastic, my friend.” Uri stood and hugged Nichols, sending grating, rustling sounds over the transmitter. “It is pleasure doing business with you, my friend.”

“It surely is,” murmured Supervisor Becker. “Now cut this thing short, so we can rush this stuff down to Dineen. The Indictment is probably already typed up, just waiting for the formalities. Call downtown,” Becker called over his shoulder to Castoro. “Make sure they're assembling the arrest teams for tomorrow morning. First thing tomorrow morning.”

“Affirmative,” said Castoro.

“Eighty for the bag, five for you,” said Nichols. “Forty-five for me. You're doing a lot better than me.” Uri laughed. “Put yours in the bag. Make sure you're all zipped up,” Nichols said to Uri.

“
Da, da
,” said Uri happily.

“Listen, I don't want to hustle you all,” said Nichols, “but I have to get downtown and bring this to my Boss, you dig? I'm just the messenger.”

“Dig, dig,
da, da
,” said Uri.

At precisely 5:59 A.M. the next morning, Becker's voice came over the radio, advising the arrest teams that in one minute, arrests should begin.

Bill Santiago and another Agent from the Task Force exited their vehicle in front of Sally Cantalupo's house. They started up the walk that led to the cement steps of the one family house in Bensonhurst. They had been sitting at the curb in the car since five-thirty, waiting for Becker's directions. In his hand, Bill Santiago held an Arrest Warrant.

Sally Cantalupo, sleepy-eyed, in shorts and a tee-shirt, opened the door a crack and peered out in confusion.

“Salvatore Cantalupo,” said Bill Santiago. “I'm Special Agent William Santiago. This is Special Agent Tim Tracy. We're from the D.E.A.”

Sally Cantalupo's eyes opened wide as saucers; his mouth dropped open.

“We have a warrant for your arrest on charges of violating the Narcotics Laws.” Tracy stepped forward, positioning his foot so Cantalupo could not slam the door shut.

Cantalupo's knees sagged.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will …” Sally didn't even hear the rest of what Santiago said. His mind was on fire. “Jesus Christ!” he said aloud. “Jesus Christ!”

Supervisor Becker had been chortling to himself in the backseat of the Government vehicle with Pete Mulvehill, as it sped from Manhattan toward Tony Balls' house in Sunnyside, Queens. He had a team of Agents watching Tony Balls throughout the night, keeping tabs on where he was, where he slept, and, most importantly, where he could be found at 6 A.M. this morning. As Becker, Mulvehill, Castoro, and Geraghty entered a Government vehicle in the garage under 26 Federal Plaza at 4:45 A.M.—Becker wasn't taking any chance of being late to arrest Tony Balls—a radio transmission announced that Tony Balls was still in his house, and that his car was parked in the driveway.

“Yes!” Supervisor Becker exclaimed, pumping his fist. Geraghty, driving, and Castoro in the front passenger seat, were surprised, actually amused, at the display of emotion by their Supervisor in the backseat. Becker told Geraghty to step on it, rotating cherry light on the roof and all, as fast as possible. This was the moment he had been waiting for, working for, throughout the week, assembling the necessary elements to arrest Tony Balls. Tony Balls was the
piece de resistance
, the cherry on top, the spur that urged on all of Becker's recent activities. When they had cleared the Midtown Tunnel, Supervisor Becker's foot began to shake anxiously behind Geraghty. As the car reached Sunnyside, he leaned forward onto the back rest of the front seat, announcing aloud the name of each street they passed.