8
ALEX DUARTE FELT HIS FRUSTRATION RISE AS HE AND FÉLIX attempted to get the assistant U.S. attorney to approve Gastlin's trip to Panama.
The pudgy, dark-skinned man peered over his half-glasses and said, "Last week you guys told me to ask for 'no bond' because of how the guy ran. Now you want me to ask a judge to allow him to leave the country?" The Harvard-bred disdain in his voice never failed to annoy the agents who worked with him.
"You understand perfectly," said Félix, containing a smile.
"I don't see the humor in it."
Duarte said, "Look, Larry, this is a big target. It's gonna take some extra effort on everyone's part to make the case. Otherwise we should give up on anything but the street-level dealers."
The assistant U.S. attorney peered over at Duarte and said, "If you remove all the street dealers, then the problem is solved, because there is no outlet."
Félix stood up. "Are you stupid? No, don't answer that; it was a referential question."
The attorney sighed and said, "Rhetorical."
"What?"
"It's a rhetorical question."
"What is?"
"If I'm stupid."
Félix said, "I'm glad you agree. Look, I know this is a pain and you have to work harder, but this is what needs to be done, brother."
Duarte watched the young attorney shift in his seat. He was obviously not used to being bullied by agents. Duarte tried to ease his anxiety by adding, "I'll testify at the hearing that it was our idea and explain why we needed this extraordinary change in procedure."
The assistant U.S. attorney leaned forward and said, "Didn't you let a prisoner escape a few months ago?"
Duarte felt his face flush. "I did."
"And what happened in that case?"
"He was killed before being recaptured."
"Gentlemen," the attorney said, leaning back in his seat. "I believe you have my answer."
Duarte and Félix met up with Lina for dinner about six. Duarte had been simmering ever since they'd left the attorney's office. But all that was about to change.
Lina, dressed in a simple blouse that showed her lean frame, smiled as she approached the table and handed Félix a sheet of paper. The DEA man looked at it and said, "She got us approval. Too bad we can't bring Gastlin."
Lina said, "What happened?"
Duarte sat back while Félix relayed the whole conversation with the assistant U.S. attorney.
She calmly took out her phone and dialed a number. Duarte could see the first numbers were 202, so he knew it was Washington. She said, "We have a holdup in the U.S. attorney's office on Pale Girl." She paused and said to Félix, "What's the attorney's name?"
"Larry Gandle."
She repeated the name into the phone and said, "Thanks." She put the phone away and looked up at her dinner companions. "That should do it" was all she said, and Duarte knew better than to ask.
William "Ike" Floyd had spent the better part of the day trying to reach the man that Mr. Jessup, the president of the National Army of White Americans, had provided to help at the ports. Ike didn't know the guy's job title, but his area code was 504, which was in Louisiana. He was calling from the pay phone and had to feed quarters into it every time he even left a message, which was to call him at the pay phone off Forty-second Street at eight o'clock. Two nights in a row he had hustled down to wait for the call. He had even missed American Idol one night, and now he was starting to doubt the man would ever call him back. Besides, he was sick of phones. It felt like he spent his every waking hour on them. He didn't mind his phone solicitation job; it paid okay, and they didn't expect him to do too much except call people who were too stupid to be on the national do-not-call list. Tomorrow he was calling about some vacation rental places for sale on the west coast of Florida. He liked the weather in Florida, but there were too many niggers for him to be happy. He'd stay in Nebraska a while longer until things got too hot and he had to move.
Then, as he looked down the long, straight, empty street, he heard the phone ring. He picked it up on the second ring. "Yeah, this is Ike."
"Good, good," came a man's gravelly voice. "I like someone who keeps to a schedule. Old Jessup said you'd be calling."
"He say why?"
"Only to help you at the port."
"Can you help?"
"All I need is a ship name and the date of arrival. If it comes into New Orleans, I can handle anything."
"Excellent." Ike considered this new asset.
The man said, "Ike ain't your real name, is it?"
"No. I'd rather not use my real name."
"Just wonderin' because my pa loved Dwight Eisenhower and always called him Ike. Till the day the old general died, my pa called him Ike, like they was old friends or something. That who you're named for?"
"Nah, just a nickname one of my mom's lame friends gave me. Had something to do with a musician in Chicago, I think."
"Good name just the same. Now what will you need me to do at the port?"
"Just unload part of one container. One item I'm told will be under a thousand pounds and about seven feet long."
"I can do that. And you want it quiet, right?"
"Yeah, no one can know."
"No problem."
Ike said, "Is it dangerous?"
"I don't know what's coming in exactly, but, yeah, of course it's dangerous. Financing a revolution is always risky. But it'll be worth it when we're written about in textbooks one day."
"President Jessup didn't give you the details?"
"Just to help. He said there was money and benefit to the Cause in it."
Ike considered this and how it might sound to a cop. "You sure your phone is safe?"
"This is a pay phone, and you're at a pay phone. I'd say it's safe."
"So you can help?"
"To save my country? You bet your sweet ass I can."
For the first time, William "Ike" Floyd thought this might work. He had thought that about other plans to spark a revolution and once he'd even been right. Too bad he hadn't been able to take any credit. Maybe he was better off. He'd either be dead or in jail if he hadn't had that special arrangement with the government. And this time they had much bigger goals than a truck bomb. As he slowly walked back to his apartment, a shiver ran down his back. He had never thought of textbooks before. He hoped they used his real name.
This was gonna be big.
Duarte knocked on the door to the town house north of the airport near West Palm. He felt a little like a fool, standing there at eight o'clock at night with some flowers he had just bought at Publix, but he felt as if he needed to apologize to Alice…even though he wasn't sure what he had to apologize for.
He stood, staring at the front door, until finally he heard a voice inside. "Who is it?"
"Alex?"
The door opened quickly. Alice, in a sweatshirt and shorts, immediately smiled. "You're not a jerk, are you?"
"Is that a referential question?" He smiled at his own joke as she ushered him inside.
9
THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED TAUGHT DUARTE THE MEANING OF government bureaucracy. If it weren't for Lina Cirillo cutting through all the red tape, they might not ever have been able to pursue the case. The most amazing incident occurred when Duarte and Félix went back to the assistant U.S. attorney who had denied their request in the first place. As they walked into his office, he looked over his half-glasses and reached to his desk.
"Here, and I'm sorry if you misunderstood me." He handed them a single court order.
Duarte looked at it, then up at the attorney.
"All charges dropped?"
"For freedom of travel. We can indict him if it doesn't work out. But for now he's a free man."