Bill must’ve ridden his Chrysler like a lawnmower up and down Broadway because I’d spotted him in the opposite lane before he banged a U-ey and collected me. I thought of Jim Rockford’s gold Pontiac Firebird Esprit when Bill had cut the wheel hard and swerved, which included a squeal, a little smoke, and the scent of rubber. It was everything but the orphaned hubcap.
I opened the door and jumped in. “Could you be any more dramatic?”
Bill didn’t apologize. He hopped to the top of the page and read the headline. “All the dead Italians were mobbed up, and the FBI is in town, along with Interpol for the Canadians. It’s feet and suits everywhere.” He kept his eyes on the road. “Even Sergeant Duffy made an appearance, and I think the Fibs told him to pull his men back because they were taking ownership of the scene.”
“Typical Fed move. Did Duffy see you?”
“Yeah, of course, he did, but to be honest, I think he was glad to see I was there. I could tell he wanted to pick my brain, but he ordered me the hell outta there.”
“What did you see and hear?” I asked,
“Someone brought product to the meeting. There was residue on the table.”
“Residue?”
“This isn’t the movies, Shane. Everybody thinks some drug lord puts a kilo on the table, and the interested buyer takes out his little penknife and slits the package for some nose candy. No, you bring a small taste, so if you get busted, it’s possession and not intent to sell and distribute.”
“Okay, that makes sense. Anything else?”
“The place was blown apart to hell.”
“Hear me out on this thought, Bill. You’re the supplier and you’re coming to Boston to make the deal. With me?”
“In other words, I’m Puerto Rican.”
“Correct,” I said. “You’re meeting Italians from the North End. They have money and serious pull, agree?”
“Okay, and what’s with the Canadians?”
“Let’s set the stage, Bill. We have rogue Italians from Mr. B’s crew. We had four shooters, also Mr. B’s people, and three dead Puerto Ricans. Agree?”
“Yeah, I agree, but answer the question. What about the Canadians?”
“They’re either Sicilians or Calabrians. The Sicilians are mafia, like Mr. B.”
“And the Calabrians?” Bill asked.
“They have their own organization, and they own the cocaine trade in Canada.”
“How do you know that?” Bill looked to me.
“I read it in the newspaper.”
“The Calabrians run cocaine in Canada?” Bill shook his head.
“What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong is they have their source. Why would anyone be interested in the Puerto Ricans? Puerto Rico can’t possibly compete against the cocaine from Colombia, and let’s not forget Bolivia and Peru. Whether they were Sicilian or Calabrians, why would either of them want to do business with Puerto Rico?”
“Easier distribution. Puerto Rico is closer to the United States, and the mob finances operations.” I didn’t tell Bill about Bonnano or the war north of the border. I said, What do you think?”
“I don’t know, man. If I wanted to bring coke into this country, I’d do it through Florida and deal with the Cubans instead of the mob. Those guys would love an income stream for the fight against Fidel. It would be money and mojitos all night long.”
I sat back, somewhat stunned. Bill noticed. “What? Did I say something wrong?”
“It’s exactly how the CIA would think, but don’t forget that we might have a third buyer.”
“What third buyer?” Bill honked his horn at a grandma in front of us.
“The Winter Hill Gang.”
Bill’s forehead wrinkled like an abused road map. “There were no bodies on the floor that belonged to the Winter Hill crew.”
“You forgot the barkeep. Everybody assumed he was collateral damage, but the meeting happened in Southie, in his bar, at a godforsaken hour. He might well have been the eyes and ears for the Winter Hill Gang.”
We rested at a red light. I thought about the storm on the horizon for Mr. B. It wasn’t only narcotics infiltrating New England and traitors within the ranks; it was Calabrians to the north and his brethren to the south, in New York, and the Irish in his backyard. Mr. B was on the cusp of an international incident, a war on three fronts.
Canada. New York. South Boston.
Most of the mafiosi walked around with a criminal history, which ranged from misdemeanors to felony assault and murder. He was one of the rara avis of the underworld, having flown under the proverbial radar for years with nothing more serious than being tripped up once when he was younger for running a numbers operations. Nothing else had ever stuck to his name, which was a rare feat in organized crime. He’d graduated from the numbers racket to owning nightclubs. And even then, nobody could hang a letterboard around his neck.
“The suits you saw, Bill. How many were there?”
“Twelve total.”
“Alphabet soup,” I said. “Did any of them look like Burt Reynolds?”
“Burt Reynolds? What are you on?”
“Did any of them have moustaches?”
Bill realized the question was no joke. I was serious.
“No,” he answered. “But they were all government-issued. You know the look. Dark suits, white shirts, and dark ties. Ray-Bans.” I could almost count backwards from five before Bill’s brain arrived at the station because he said, “Who else do you think came to the party?”
“Definitely FBI, and I can tell you they weren’t DEA because I met them.”
“They looked like Burt Reynolds?”
“Yep, and vets, like us. Only problem is Lusk and Miller are wrong.”
“Lusk and Miller?”
“The DEA agents.”
The light turned green. Bill stepped on the gas. My head jerked back, short of whiplash. I think he wanted to prove to me his maligned vehicle was capable of some muscle.
“Wrong about what?” he asked.
“Their approach on drugs into Boston is based on what they knew about the Golden Triangle during the war. What does that tell you, Bill?”
“That they’re expecting heroin, and they think Boston is the next French Connection.”
“More like the Canadian Connection, and you got me thinking when you mentioned money and mojitos.”
We both knew the CIA had bankrolled operations in and out of the Triangle to destabilize Southeast Asia. Vietnam and Cambodia sided against the US, and the United States supported the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia to limit the spread of Communism and buy time for the US to withdraw its troops from Vietnam. As for Laos, the US bombed the country around the clock from ’64 to ’73, and then the CIA loaded up Laos with money and military supplies.
“I have to ask,” Bill said.
“Hunter was with the CIA. He did what he thought was right. We all did.”
“Is he still with the Company?”
I answered. “He says he isn’t.”
“Believe him?”
“I do, why?”
“Because I saw what he did to Joey Cologne.”
“Same thing was done to Pedro, and Pedro was his friend.”
My mind went elsewhere with Hunter. I could’ve reminded Bill that we never forget our training. We were left with habits that civilians don’t understand. Vigilance. Back to the wall, eyes on entrances and exits. Our sense of time was different.
“What about the three dead cops?” Bill asked. “They were killed the same way.”
“Those cops lived by the book. Somehow, they stumbled onto the fact that someone wanted to bring cocaine into Boston. I don’t know how, but I’m convinced they were killed because of it.”
Bill reached for a cigarette and lit it. “With what he did to Joey Cologne, he’s sending a message to Company headquarters.”
“All part of psychological warfare, Bill. It’s like what operators did in Vietnam when we used AK-47s. Know why?”
“Because the M-16 rifle was a piece of shit?”
“Because the AK-47 was a VC weapon, and it confused the hell out of them when they heard it. They didn’t know if it was us, or their comrades.”
Bill took short hits from his Marlboro Red. I told him to drive to Newton.
We drove and enjoyed the silence for a few minutes. The car hummed heat.
“And what are you going to tell Mr. B about Hunter?”
“Hunter wants revenge for his dead friend.”
“You forget that Mr. B lost men?”
“I haven’t forgotten. When you were at the scene, did you hear anything on calibers?”
“Thirty-eights, thirty-twos, and some three-eighties. No nine millimeter, like you asked.”
We slowed down and waited for our turn to hop onto the Turnpike.
“You have any more revelations for me?” Bill asked.
“I visited the morgue. I viewed Hoban’s body.”
“At least we know Hoban wasn’t shot,” Bill said.
“His organs were sent out to Toxicology. Standard. Routine.”
“And?”
“They’ve disappeared, and he didn’t die from exposure or on the Common, and Pedro Gonzalez’s body is missing. I ask myself, who else, other than our friend in Newton, is good at making people and things disappear?”