‘I work out of the Bureau’s New York office. Last year, in Harlem, New York City, we saw a rapid spread of the illegal supply of heroin. This summer we have an epidemic on our hands… an epidemic of negroes injecting themselves with this stuff.’
‘So this is Largo’s business. He’s the one who’s supplying it to the blacks?’
Devereaux shook his head. ‘John Largo is supplying the people who supply the negroes. The Syndicate. But Largo’s not the only one supplying the Syndicate. Glasgow isn’t the main supply port, and Largo isn’t the only exporter.’
‘Who’s the competition?’ I asked.
‘Corsicans. Between you and me there’s a rumour that Uncle Sam did a deal with the Corsican Mafia to keep the commies out of Marseille. Uncle Sam in the form of the CIA. The flip-side of the deal is that the same Corsicans are running heroin from French Indochina to Turkey and into Marseille and supplying the stuff to the New York Syndicate. The story is that Largo uses a different route and the stuff ends up here in Glasgow. Then it’s shipped to the States.’
For a moment, I considered what Devereaux was saying. I leaned back on the bench, hooking my elbows over the back and tilting the brim of my Borsalino to let the sun bathe my face.
‘So why are you here and not in Marseille? Sounds to me like Largo is small fry in comparison to these Corsicans.’
‘He’s not. Anything but. Largo represents serious opposition, and the Corsicans don’t take kindly to opposition. Trust me, John Largo has more to fear from his swarthy islander competitors than he does from law enforcement. Fact is the Syndicate is largely made up of Neapolitan and Sicilian families. There’s some kind of animosity between the Italians and Corsicans. The Corsicans are the wrong type of Guinea or something, I guess. And Largo has been undercutting their prices. So, he’s slowly been carving out a bigger share of the US market.’
‘How did you find out about him?’
A couple of young women walked past and we again raised our hats. The girls laughed in a stupid way and walked on. No class, I thought. The one nearest to me had on a white linen skirt so lightweight that the sun shone through, outlining her thighs and hips. No class but nice ass.
‘Six months ago I got a lead,’ said Devereaux. ‘The Italians don’t talk because of their omerta, but they have to work with others. In the Syndicate and out of it. They’ve been setting up a network of coloured middlemen throughout Harlem. One of them was a guy called Jazzy Johnson, who also happened to be one of my snitches. Johnson wasn’t able to pass on information of any quality because they never told him anything more than the barest minimum he needed to know. But what made Jazzy a good snitch was the way he was all ears and he told me everything he could pick up. One of the things he overheard was a conversation about an overdue shipment that was coming from Glasgow, and the name John Largo was mentioned.’ Devereaux shrugged. ‘That’s it
… not much to go on, but at least I was able to put the name to a figure we knew was operating in Europe. Still not much information there except he was an ex-soldier…’
‘Ain’t we all?’ I interrupted.
‘Sure, but Largo is supposed to be some kind of ex-professional. You know, career-type soldier.’
‘Which army?’
‘Don’t know. US, Canadian… maybe even British. The start of the supply chain has to be out in the Far East and it could be that John Largo started out in some Brit colony like Hong Kong. Or fought the Japs rather than the Krauts. Wherever he did his fighting and whoever he did it for, the rumours are that he is one deadly son-of-a-gun. There’s been a lot of blood spilt across Asia and Europe just setting this thing up.’ Devereaux stopped again and looked around the park. ‘Say, do you think we could do this wet?’
I looked at my watch. ‘The pubs are open. I know a place near here
…’
There tends to be an architectural style or design vernacular that unites buildings used for a common, specific purpose. Glasgow bars seemed to be themed eternal gloom. Where there were windows, the glass was frosted or misted for the twin purposes of concealing the earnest business of Scottish drinking from the outside world and to attenuate any sunlight into an insipid milky-white bloom.
We didn’t speak further about Largo or the FBI all the way through the park and onto the main road. Instead, we talked about Vermont and New Brunswick. Different sides of the border but pretty much the same way of life and pretty much the same way of looking at life. A few heads had turned in our direction when we entered the gloom of the bar, but we were ignored once we had ordered a couple of whiskies and sat over at a corner table away from the smattering of other customers.
‘So your informant. Can’t he find out any more about Largo?’
‘He can’t find out anything about anything any more.’
I raised an eyebrow but Devereaux shook his head. ‘Bar fight. The same old crap… about a woman, or a spilt drink, or a remark. He took a knife in the ribs.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I said, and a fleeting thought that Glasgow was maybe twinned with Harlem fleeted. ‘And you have no other leads?’
‘You got all I got.’ It was the first time I’d seen Devereaux close to gloomy. But it might just have been the pub.
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘don’t get me wrong, I’m not haggling… but a thousand dollars isn’t much for the FBI to be offering for information leading them to someone as big, and someone who you have so few leads on, as John Largo.’
‘We have other priorities. Commies, mainly. Between Hoover and McCarthy we’ve spent the last five, six years chasing red spectres and letting the Syndicate get away with murder. Literally. The other thing is my bosses don’t put the same importance on Largo as I do. They see the French Connection, as they call it, as the biggest threat. And, to be honest, this problem isn’t a problem as far as a lot of my superiors are concerned so long as it’s in Harlem. Upper Manhattan or Nassau County and we’d have a task force set up with a million-dollar budget. But Harlem… it’s just niggers.’
I took a breath and let it go slowly. It all fitted. ‘You can keep the reward money,’ I said. ‘If I find anything out about Largo I’ll give it to you for free. Like I said, I’ve got a lot of people paying for my time to find people I can’t find.’
Devereaux stared at me as if he was unsure if I was serious. ‘Why, Lennox?’
‘You liked this coloured guy? Jazzy?’
‘He was a cheap hoodlum.’
‘You liked him though?’
‘I guess.’
‘The reason there’s only a thousand up for this reward is because it’s your money, isn’t it?’
‘No one else sees the big picture.’ Devereaux sighed. ‘These people are stuck in a shithole of a place and heroin gives them a holiday. It’s supposed to be the most incredible feeling, puts you in a different place a universe away from your troubles… but it turns your brain to mush and makes you its slave for the rest of your life. And that, my friend, means that it offers the criminal opportunity of the century. There’s no way that it’s going to stay in Harlem or Watts or Englewood. And even if it does, I didn’t join the FBI to watch people rot to death to make a buck for organized crime. Like I said, everything I told you in your apartment was true. My investigation here is private. Or semi-private. The Bureau agreed to pay my transport and accommodation and give me some kind of official sanction as far as the City of Glasgow Police are concerned. But if I don’t come up with the goods… literally come up with the goods, then I have a long and happy career in filing and archiving to look forward to.’
‘What do you mean “literally come up with the goods”?’
‘The New York Police Department have had to deal with all of the consequences of what’s happened in Harlem over the last two summers. Consequences on the street. It means that NYPD beat cops have become our best source of information. That information tells us that there’s been a hiccup in supply. About three weeks ago a shipment was supposed to arrive. It didn’t. There are a lot of itchy customers on the street as a result and, last I heard, it still hadn’t arrived. Which is why I’m here. There’s been some kind of wrinkle and I reckon that John Largo is here in Glasgow with iron in hand. Let’s just hope it’s a big wrinkle and I have enough time to find him.’