It was that drink with Galvin that did it.
The way Galvin had talked about how those snooty blue-blood types had looked down on his money. Galvin, the plumber’s son who’d made a fortune, thought of himself as an outsider and always would.
Something had flicked a switch in his brain, because he finally understood Jay Gould. The problem had been that he didn’t like his subject. Because he didn’t quite understand him. But Gould was no worse, really, than any of the other business titans of his time. He gave to charity, gave money to his employees and to all sorts of people in need. He just didn’t publicize it. Jay Gould’s career was your classic rags-to-riches story. He was born on a farm in upstate New York and went to New York City with five dollars in his pocket. After he hit it big, the newspapers of the time trashed him, and he didn’t bother to defend himself. He let his enemies write his biography. That was his strategic blunder.
Buzzing with satisfaction, Danny called a taxi and got a ride to downtown Boston, to the big ugly building called One Center Plaza, where the stamp commission had its offices, along with a bunch of other government agencies. He got there fifteen minutes early. He had his laptop with him in a shoulder bag, in case he needed to do some work.
The offices were on the second floor. There was no sign on the door, just a number: 322. The gray wall-to-wall carpeting was soiled, a large blob of a stain at the threshold of the office door.
A pretty young African American secretary was sitting at a cheap-looking government-issue L-shaped mahogany-laminate reception desk. She smiled and held up an index finger to signal she’d be with him shortly. After a minute or so she said, “I’m sorry, Mr… Goodman, right?”
He nodded, smiled.
“Would you like to have a seat? I’ll let them know you’re here.”
He sat in one of a row of chairs against one wall under the DEA seal, which showed a stylized eagle’s head in gold on black. Most Wanted posters lined the walls, offering MONETARY AWARDS for MAJOR TRAFFICKERS.
About two minutes later, she said, “He’ll be right out.”
The door to the inner offices opened and a squat, slump-shouldered man in an ill-fitting navy suit emerged. He had a large bald head a size too big for his body, almost no neck, and a fringe of wispy gray hair that reached his collar. With his thin downturned mouth, he vaguely resembled a frog. He had a bristly mustache and a face that bore the scars of serious teenage acne. He wore steel-rimmed bifocals and looked to be around fifty.
“Mr. Goodman, thank you for coming,” the man said. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Special Agent Glenn Yeager.”
Danny rose slowly, and they shook hands. “Did you say ‘Special Agent’…?”
“Come on in. We’ll have a talk and I’ll explain. This shouldn’t take long at all,” the man called Yeager said, holding the door open for Danny.
They went down a long corridor. Yeager seemed to have a slight limp. The walls were curved, following the curve of the building’s façade, and painted government-agency white. The floor was covered in ugly gray indoor-outdoor carpeting.
Yeager stopped at the first open door. A man was sitting at a round conference table in a small windowless room, talking on the phone, papers and folders spread out in front of him. He put down the phone’s handset when he saw the men, and got to his feet.
“Mr. Goodman, this is Special Agent Philip Slocum.”
Slocum was slim and had shoe-polish-black hair parted on one side and an athlete’s wiry build. He was whippetlike. His face was sharp and inquisitive, foxlike, lean and lined, with a heavy five-o’clock shadow. He looked coiled, compact and restless. Instead of offering his hand, he showed Danny a black leather badge holder.
The badge was gold-colored metal. The words DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE over an eagle and, below it, the words US DRUG ENFORCEMENT ADMINISTRATION and SPECIAL AGENT and a number.
“You guys are DEA?” Danny said. “Now I’m totally confused. What’s this got to do with postage stamps?”
“I trust you haven’t mentioned this meeting to anyone,” said Yeager. He spoke in a precise, almost scholarly tone you wouldn’t expect to emanate from that froglike mouth. He sat at the round table, and beckoned Danny to do the same.
Danny remained standing and gave a barely perceptible nod. “What’s going on?”
“It’s for your own protection.”
“My protection? The citizens’ stamp committee-”
“Was a pretext to get you in here, Mr. Goodman,” said Yeager. He glanced at his colleague, who slid a sheet of paper across the table to Danny.
“Do you know what this is?” Yeager said. He seemed to be the one in charge.
The paper was covered with columns of figures. At first glance it meant nothing. When he looked closer, he saw his name and his bank’s name and his checking account number.
Then: WIRE IN and a series of numbers and the words T. X. GALVIN and more numbers and $50,000.00.
“Is that your bank account?” Yeager said.
“Yes.”
“This record is accurate? Thomas Galvin paid you fifty thousand dollars?”
“He didn’t ‘pay’ me anything. It’s a loan. Anyway, what the hell kind of invasion of privacy-?”
“Do you have paperwork for this ‘loan’?”
“Paperwork? A guy lends a friend some cash, he doesn’t make you go to a notary.”
“Thomas Galvin gave you fifty thousand dollars without any paperwork?”
“He’s a friend. He trusts me.”
“I’ll bet he does,” the other one, Slocum, said. His raspy tenor had the harsh sound of metal grinding against metal. His right leg vibrated, pistoned.
“You mind telling me what this is all about?”
“Thomas Galvin is the target of a DEA investigation.”
“Drugs? You seriously think…? He’s an Irish Catholic guy from Southie, for Christ’s sake.”
“Ever hear of the Sinaloa cartel?” said Yeager.
“Mexican drug ring? What about it?”
“We have reason to believe that Thomas Galvin is working on behalf of the Sinaloa cartel.”
Danny stared in disbelief. Then he erupted in laughter. “Ah, now I get it. The Mexican wife. Sure. He’s married to a Mexican woman, so he must be connected to a drug cartel. Because, of course, all Mexicans work for the drug cartels, right?”
“Celina Galvin’s father was Humberto Parra Fernández y Guerrero,” Yeager said.
“Am I supposed to know who that is?”
“The former governor of Michoacán, one of the Mexican states, and later on a major player in the narcotics trade.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. This is insane. Galvin’s an Irish guy from Southie. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d get involved in the drug business. Not at all.”
“And you know this… how?”
Danny paused for a long moment. “He just doesn’t seem the type.”
Yeager gave him a long stare. “Neither do you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Please sit down, Mr. Goodman.”
Danny’s heart was beating crazily, though he wasn’t sure whether out of panic or out of anger. He stood with his arms loosely folded. “What’s this all about?”
“You are directly and financially linked to the international narcotics trade.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Danny.
“That money links you,” Slocum said. “You are now officially a coconspirator.”
“Hold on a second,” Danny said, raising his voice. “Tom Galvin was nice enough to lend me money for my daughter’s goddamned private-school tuition!” He paused, looked at each agent one at a time, then went on more quietly. “Two hours after I received the money from Galvin, I wired sixteen thousand dollars to the Lyman Academy. So maybe you can tell me how that fits into your theory.”
“It makes no difference what you did with the funds,” Slocum said. “I don’t care if you gave it all to an orphanage in Rwanda. You received a wire transfer of dirty money, which means you’re implicated.”