“You know who I am?”
“Gregorius told me to expect a call from you. What do you want?”
“To meet with you.”
There was a long pause. “Gregorius gonna agree to my proposition?” Stocelli asked.
“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” I said. “Where and when can we meet?”
Stocelli chuckled. “Well, you’re halfway there now. I’ll meet you in Acapulco tomorrow.”
“Acapulco?”
“Yeah. I’m in Montreal now. I’m going down to Acapulco from here. I’ll see you down there. You check into the Hotel Matamoros. You got that name? My boys will get in touch with you and we’ll get together.”
“Good enough.”
Stocelli hesitated and then growled, “Listen, Carter, I heard things about you. So I’m warning you. Don’t play no games with me!”
“I’ll see you in Acapulco,” I said and hung up on him.
I fished another dime out of my pocket and called Denver again.
“Carter,” I said, identifying myself. “I want a printout on the operation out of Acapulco. Who’s tied in with Stocelli down there? How big is it? How does it operate? Everything you can pull out on them. Names, places, dates.”
“Got it.”
“How long will it take?”
“You’ll have the information by the time you get to Acapulco, along with the other material you asked for. Is that soon enough? Anything else?”
“Yeah. I want a Telecopier air-shipped to me at the Hotel Matamoros. And I want it waiting for me when I arrive.”
Denver began to protest, but I cut him off. “Goddamn it, charter a small jet if you have to,” I said brusquely. “Don’t try to save pennies. It’s Gregorius’ money, not yours!”
I hung up and went outside to hail a cab from the rank. My next stop was the Mexican Tourist Bureau for a visitor’s permit, and from there I headed across the border to Juarez and the airport I barely had time to catch the Aeromexico DC-9 to Chihuahua, Torreon, Mexico City, and Acapulco.
CHAPTER FOUR
Denver had been a good boy. The Telecopier was waiting for me in my suite when I checked in to the Hotel Matamoros. It wasn’t time for the report yet, so I went down to the broad, flagstone terrace that overlooked the bay, sat down in a wide, wicker armchair and ordered a rum drink. I sipped it slowly as I looked out across the bay at the lights of the town that were just coming on, and at the dark indistinct hills rising above the town to the north.
I sat there for a long time, enjoying the evening and the silence and the lights of the town and the cool sweetness of the rum.
When I finally got up I went inside for a long, leisurely dinner, so it wasn’t until almost midnight that I got the call from Denver. I took it in my room.
I set the Telecopier up and put the handset in it Paper began coming out of the machine.
I scanned it as it slid out, until finally I had a small stack of paper in front of me. The machine stopped. I picked up the receiver again.
“That’s it,” said Denver. “I hope it’ll be of help to you. Anything else?”
“Not for the time being.”
“Then I have something for you. We just got the information in from one of our contacts in New York. Last night, three Frenchmen were picked up by Customs agents at Kennedy airport. They were caught trying to smuggle in a load of heroin. Their names are Andrè Michaud, Maurice Berthier and Etienne Duprè. Recognize them?”
“Yes,” I said, “They’re tied in with Stocelli on the French end of his narcotics operations.”
“You’ve been scanning the report as it came through,” Denver accused me.
I thought for a moment and then said, “It doesn’t make sense. These men are too big to carry the mer-chandise themselves. Why didn’t they use a courier?”
“We can’t figure that out, either. According to the report we got, the plane came in from Orly. Michaud picked up his bags at the luggage turntable and carried them over to the customs counter just as if he had nothing to hide. Three bags, but one of them was crammed with ten kilos of pure heroin.”
“How much did you say?” I interrupted.
“You heard me correctly. Ten kilos. You know what that’s worth?”
“Street value? About two million dollars. Wholesale? It’ll run about a hundred ten to a hundred twenty thousand for the importer. That’s why it’s so hard to believe.”
“You’d better believe it. Now comes the funny part. Michaud claimed he knew nothing about the heroin. He denied the bag was his.”
“Was it?”
“Well, it was an attaché case — one of the larger ones — and it had his initials stamped into it. And his name tag was fastened onto the handle.”
“What about the other two?”
“Same thing. Berthier was carrying twelve kilos in an overnight bag, and Duprè was carrying eight kilos. All together, it adds up to some thirty kilos of the purest heroin Customs has come across yet.”
“And they all say the same thing?”
“You guessed it. Each one puts his bag on the inspection counter bold as brass, just like there’s nothing in it but shirts and socks. They’re yelling it’s a frame-up.”
“It could be,” I said, reflecting, “except for one thing. You don’t have to blow some three hundred fifty thousand dollars’ worth of drugs to set up a frame. Half a kilo — hell, even a few ounces — is enough.”
“That’s the way Customs has it figured.”
“Was there a tip-off?”
“Not a word. They got the full search treatment because Customs knows about their operation in Marseille and has their names on the special list. And that’s what makes it even stranger. They knew they were on that list. They knew they’d get thoroughly examined by Customs, so how could they figure on getting away with it?”
I made no comment. Denver went on. “You’ll find it even more interesting when you put it together with another piece of information in the file we just transmitted to you. Last week, Stocelli was in Marseille. Guess whom he met with while he was there?”
“Michaud, Berthier, and Duprè,” I said. “Smart boy.” I was silent for a moment “You think it’s a coincidence?” Denver asked. “I don’t believe in coincidences,” I said flatly. “Neither do we.”
“Is that all?” I asked, and Denver said yes, wished me luck, and hung up. I went down and had another drink.
Two hours later, I was back in my room undressing when the phone rang again.
“I’ve been trying to reach you for a couple of hours,” Denver said with a touch of irritation in his voice.
“What’s up?”
“It’s hit the fan,” Denver said. “We’ve been getting reports in all day long from our men. So far, the tally is Duttoit, Torregrossa, Vignale, Gambetta, Maxie Klein and Solly Webber!”
I whistled in amazement Denver had just named six of the top narcotics racket men associated with Stocelli in his East Coast operations. “Give me the details.”
Denver took a deep breath. “This morning, at La-Guardia airport, the FBI arrested Raymond Duttoit Duttoit had come in on a flight from Montreal. Duttoit was searched and they found an airport locker key in his overcoat pocket. The suitcase in the locker was packed with twenty kilos of pure heroin.”
“Go on.”
“Early this afternoon, Vinnie Torregrossa received a carton at his home in Westchester. It was delivered by a regular United Parcel Service van. He barely had time to open it when he was raided by agents from the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs who were acting on a tip. The carton held fifteen kilos of horse!
“Gambetta and Vignale were arrested this evening around seven o’clock by New York narco squad police,” he continued.
“They’d been tipped off by telephone. They picked those two up in Gambetta’s car in mid town Manhattan and found twenty-two kilos of heroin packed into the spare tire compartment in the trunk.”