"Al-Quaeda," I said. "Or yogurt."
"Good to know," Barry said.
I could talk diet all day with Barry, but figured I'd get down to it. "If you had a couple million in cash, where would you put it right now?"
"Under the mattress," Barry said. "This recession is killing me."
"Say you weren't that smart."
"Diamonds and art are out," he said. "All that blood-diamond business is making people turn their backs on the bling. And with art, every two weeks someone is getting held up at gunpoint for a Gauguin. Getting shot in the face for water and ink on paper, that's not my idea of wise investing. Gold is a nonstarter. Rare coins have been ruined by eBay. Same with vintage stamps. If you can get your hands on laser-guided missile technology, we could do business. My opinion? Get yourself someone legit as a front and you buy yourself a gas station."
The waiter came back then and dropped off Barry's order, which was completely made up of chocolate cereals, and my orange juice.
"This isn't for me," I said. "You ever hear of a guy named Dixon Woods?"
"Yeah," Barry said. He was trying to figure which milk to pour on his bowl. I pushed the skim milk in his direction, not that it would make a damn bit of difference. "Good example. He was around a lot last year. He fronted cash on a couple retail projects, probably made a killing. Haven't heard his name since."
"You ever see him?"
Barry shook his head no. "Everyone said he lived in a compound out there on the Fish. That he was some bad ass. People threw his name around like a threat. Figured you probably knew him."
"Where'd his money come from?"
"Big-game drugs. What I heard? He had his own opium field in Afghanistan."
"Where'd you hear that?"
"Around," Barry said.
"He move any locally?"
"Naw," Barry said. "He just chilled on the Fish. You ever see Apocalypse Now? I heard he lived like Brando did in that."
"People call Fisher Island the Fish?"
"No," Barry said. "But I do. Ten years ago, no one called diamonds bling." I took a sip of my orange juice while Barry shoveled down some of his cereal. The milk had already turned brown from the chocolate. It literally was like watching someone eating dirt. "You want a taste?" Barry asked.
"I'll pass."
"Anyway, point is, Woods was putting straight cash into projects that weren't likely to get looked at too closely. You know the Fish is privately owned, for instance."
"I didn't," I said.
"You got real estate money you don't want anyone to look at," he said, "you invest in three places: Indian land, private islands or the tourist trade. Bars. Strip clubs. T-shirt shops. I mean, you got a plane, a couple tough guys to fire guns at people, make your way to Africa or Haiti, but you gotta stay Stateside, that's your haven. Plus, a place like the Fish, it's all billionaires out there. You don't get a billion dollars by working straight. So if you've got two, three million to put down in real land to start up an espresso place, you think Bill Gates and Oprah are going to ask questions?"
"They live out there?"
"Metaphorically speaking," Barry said.
I pulled out the photo Fiona cobbled together using the shots from Palm Life. Sam had yet to get the paperwork from his contact at the FBI, so this was all I had. "You know this guy?"
"Don't know if I do," Barry said.
"Would you tell me?"
"Probably not." Barry swallowed up the last bits of his cereal. The bowl was still filled with chocolate milk. "What's the protocol here? Think I can tip it and drink it?"
"What would Chuck Norris do?" I said. That was enough for Barry. He picked up the bowl and slurped its contents down. The waiter came by and asked us if we'd like anything else. "Another bowl of dirt for my friend," I said.
"Easy on the Cocoa Krispies," Barry told the waiter.
"Say you did know this guy," I said.
"Say I did."
"Any idea where I might be able to find him?"
"Wherever there are rich old ladies," Barry said.
"Do you have a name?"
"Ronnie. Bobby. Ricky. Lonnie. Like that." There was a real look of disgust on Barry's face and palpable spite in his voice.
"Did he screw you on something?"
Barry took off his sunglasses, dabbed his napkin into a glass of water and took a few moments to wash off the lenses. The waiter came by and dropped off another bowl of cereal. "Strictly my opinion? You steal from old ladies, I don't care if they are rich, you bring disgrace on the whole criminal profession."
Made sense and I told Barry that. My cell phone rang. It was Sam. I excused myself and stepped outside. A line had formed to get into the Cereal Bowl. I tried to see if I recognized anyone from the line that usually gathered outside my place. Everyone looked familiar. In the future, people would wait in line to wait in line.
"What do you have, Sam?"
"A name," Sam said. "Eddie Champagne."
"That has to be an alias," I said.
"No," Sam said. "It checks. He filed the report on Woods two years ago after Woods kicked down his apartment door and smacked him around a little bit, but then dropped the charges."
"There statements?"
"Yeah. Woods says Champagne ripped his mother off, but Woods' mother says it's not true. They were in love. She gave him the money. Regardless, someone got Champagne to pull it back off the books."
"Does Champagne have a sheet?"
"Fraud. Bad checks. Theft. A gun charge."
"There you go. What else?"
"Cricket's call came in," Sam said. "The bad guys are coming tonight."
"Perfect," I said. "What about the picture of Dixon? Cricket recognize him?"
"No. I got my guy to pull Champagne's mug. No surprises there. It's her husband. Or not her husband."
"How'd she take that?"
"Your mom just kept pouring her drinks," Sam said.
"That's always been one of her best solutions. Something's wrong, throw a little alcohol on it. Apart from that, how are they getting along?"
"Like old friends."
"Really?"
"No," Sam said.
"No," I said. "I didn't figure that would be much of a match. Try to keep everyone placated. If you have to, lock my mother in the garage. Just throw in a carton of cigarettes and tune the TV to E! and crank up the sound. She'll be perfectly content."
"There's something else," Sam said. "I got a call this morning from D.C."
"Yeah."
"Whoever Natalya's source is has people listening," he said. "And talking."
"And?"
"That's all they said."
"Any line on who this is?"
"Someone who doesn't want you coming off the blacklist," Sam said.
"Did you tell them it's crap? I mean, Sam, you were there for these things."
"Michael, if I tell them I was there, I'm just as culpable if people really start listening. It's my pension. It's my career. All of it."
"You think I don't know that?" I said.
"I know you do," Sam said.
"Listen," I said. "I think we can take care of all of our problems. Meet me at Cricket's. Bring Fiona, too."
I hung up with Sam and went back inside. Barry was working on his new bowl. It was frankly staffing to bother me in a real visceral way, so I didn't sit back down. "Let me ask you something," I said. "If I wanted to get a legit loan on a property, but get someone to appraise it higher than it was worth, set up dummy mortgage accounts, fake a credit history, how quickly could you set something up without drawing any attention to yourself?"
"If you're good, that's not a concern."
"Consider it implied," I said.
"For you?"
"For anyone."
"Trusted business associates, I could get it done in one business day. Two at the most. Normal friendly percentages, of course. How quickly the bank would fund the loan would be up to the bank."