This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2017 by Todd Merer
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
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ISBN-13: 9781477806012
ISBN-10: 1477806016
Cover design by Jae Song
FOR SORAYA
CONTENTS
START READING
ALUNE
A FEW YEARS LATER
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
ALUNE
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
ALUNE
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
ALUNE
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
ALUNE
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
ALUNE
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
CHAPTER 89
CHAPTER 90
CHAPTER 91
CHAPTER 92
CHAPTER 93
CHAPTER 94
CHAPTER 95
CHAPTER 96
CHAPTER 97
SIX MONTHS LATER
ALUNE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
It ain’t no sin if you crack a few laws now and then, so long’s you don’t break any.
—Mae West, actress
Just win, baby.
—Al Davis, Brooklyn boy
ALUNE
The Logui people live beside a mountain they call Anawanda—“the center of the world”—which is the highest peak of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta, the northernmost Andean range in Colombia.
Things happen in Colombia.
Like the Logui being manipulated and murdered by assorted bad actors: right-wing paramilitaries, left-wing guerrillas, narco-traffickers.
I feel the Logui’s pain.
Not that the Logui reveal their feelings. They simply observe that there are two kinds of people: Those Who Know More and Those Who Know Less.
The Logui believe it is perfectly fine to commit the occasional sin in order to protect Those Who Know More from Those Who Know Less.
As do I.
I think of the Logui as my family, my sisters and brothers, especially Older Brother and Younger Brother. In turn the Logui revere me as Alune, their living, loving God, The One Who Knows Most of All.
But regardless of who or what I really am, I presently find myself in need of a new name, a proper nom de guerre for my own protection. Because, come the dawn, I’m venturing to the outside world to do a little sinning.
I need the new name now, for the sun’s nearly up, and soon I will be in Anawanda’s shadow—
Hmmm . . .
Shadow?
Perfect.
A FEW YEARS LATER
BENN
You need four things to tell a story: a beginning, a middle, an end, and you can’t be dead.
Survival’s my ticket to tell this story. No one else is left to contradict it. The other characters have gone to hell and aren’t coming back. I tell myself that I’m blameless; that they would have perished whether or not I was involved; that, if not me, it would have been someone else. But, deep down, I know I’m lying.
Because I was not merely an instrument but the key.
Because I ignored lines between good and evil.
Because I recognized the portents from the moment they appeared. Who ever heard of a story with a happy ending that begins with a quadruple-whammy like Christmas, Hanukkah, and Kwanzaa all falling on the very same day that a blizzard just happens to blanket the Apple?
No one.
So why was I out in the snow instead of comfortably at home?
Work.
Lucrative, morally questionable work that had me wading through drifts on Police Plaza and climbing icy steps to the entrance of the United States Attorney for the Southern District of New York and, once therein, escorted to the conference room of the International Narcotics Bureau.
It was cozy there, and pin-drop still. Tea for two, without the tea. Me and the INB chief. Our relationship was best described as a mutual abomination society. He thought I was unethical and grossly overpaid. I thought he was self-righteous and envious. Probably we were both right.
I shifted in my seat and recrossed my legs.
He sighed theatrically. “Today of all days? You drag me out for . . . this? For Christ’s sake, your guy’s a fucking CPOT.”
I simply nodded, though acronyms annoy the hell out of me. Unfortunately, I labor in a system that’s an alphabet soup. At this very moment, an AUSA, or an assistant US attorney—the INB chief—was reminding me that the DOJ—Department of Justice—had authorized the DEA to designate my client a CPOT, or Consolidated Priority Operational Target. CPOTs tend to grow old and die in jail, which was why I’d made the government a hard-to-refuse offer:
My client Fernando Ibarra (aka Fercho)—facing life sentences on indictments here and in the Southern District of Florida—pleads to a concurrent five-year bit. In exchange for this extraordinary laxity,
Fercho gives up evidence on the Colombian government’s murderously corrupt antidrug czar. A huge takedown that would ignite the career of the prosecutor who initiated it. A bonfire of the vanities that would prove irresistible. I hoped.
“If I authorize this—I’m not saying I will, but if I do—my ass is on the line,” the chief said. “You better not be fucking with me.”
For most SDNY prosecutors, the job was a stepping stone between a top-ten law school and a top-ten firm partnership. The chief was an exception. He was a career prosecutor. He’d taken the subway to law school and now was riding the rails toward Main Justice. A hard case who trusted nobody. In that respect, we were alike.
“Fucking you would be fucking myself,” I said.
He eyeballed me, parsing my obscenities. I understood his concern. Was I expressing a shared worry . . . or mocking him?
“We’re in this together,” I said. “I want this to happen as much as you do.”
“I bet you do. All right . . . if. How long would it take?”
I shrugged. “You know how these things go.”
“Do I ever.” He sighed again. “Okay, bring me the head of General Uvalde.”
“Funny,” I said, although it wasn’t.
I wished the chief a very merry, happy whatever, then buttoned up my overcoat and went to try to find someone to warm me during the cold night ahead.
For sure, it wasn’t going to be my ex-wife, although she remained my one true love. The last time I tried—and failed—to mend fences with my ex, she’d punched me in the mouth. And while I was spitting blood, she said nasty things about my moral compass, to the effect that I was an abject slave to a risky business.
She was partially correct.
Yes, I was consumed by my work, but there was little danger in my doings. The sins of my clients ranged from personal betrayals to crimes against humanity, but never had I felt the slightest twinge of fear. Not because I was brave or reckless, but because I did not lie or steal, and I played well with others.
But why quibble?
The real reasons she left me? Not how but with whom I played. Also, that I wasn’t a one-woman man. She was right about both.
Mere hours after arranging to bring a mass murderer to justice in exchange for a lesser killer being wrist-slapped, I was pleasantly inebriated in the back of a hansom cab fondling a snow-stranded Avianca flight attendant, the treetops glistening and the two of us listening to the sound of our horse clopping through Central Park . . . me, about to instruct the top-hatted driver to end the journey at my place, when—
“Let’s go see the tree at Rock Center,” said my date.
“Sounds like fun,” I lied. I hated group jollity but was a big believer in patience earning rewards. Right I was. After a few freezing minutes amid a jam of sniffling tourists, she shivered and pressed against me.
I said, “Umm?”
“Mm-hmm.”
My place. We shared a joint and popped a cork and lay by the fireplace. In the flickering light, her body glowed like honey and tasted even sweeter. It was one of those glorious moments when you think life can’t get any better.
But then it did.
As I was about to close the books on what already had been my personal-best year, a trifecta of new clients suddenly emerged from the free-fire zone of the war against drugs: three major criminals willing and able to pay XXX-size fees for top-notch legal representation.
Modesty aside, that was me.
It went like this . . .
CHAPTER 1
By the following morning, the snow was dirty. Reminded me of the recent extremes of my life: sprinkled with fairy dust at night; sooty and littered by day. I walked to my office in an old mansion off Fifth, one of the few Upper East Side buildings not yet renovated, its ambience midway between faded glory and louche.
Alongside its faded marble entrance hung bronze plaques bearing the names of its tenants: a private financial consultant, an art dealer to the crème de la crust, the New York representative of a Swiss firm. The fourth plaque denoted yours truly:
BENNJAMIN T. BLUESTONE
EXTRADITIONS
The double n in my given name is a testament to my mother’s quirkiness. The ingenious specialty Extraditions, a tribute to my own. I’d considered esquire, lawyer, and counselor at law, but no longer saw myself fitting any of these descriptions. Extraditions was more accurate, as well as vaguely innocuous, in keeping with my deliberately low profile. My top-floor office was modestly shabby chic: old armoire, worn leather couch, threadbare Caucasian rugs, walls lined with sketches of juries I drew back when I actually tried cases.
I neither sketched nor tried cases anymore.
I took on very few cases. Solely extraditions in which I led my clients—mainly deep-pocketed cartel chieftains—down the yellow-brick road of cooperation. Except for my driver-factotum—a loyal fellow named Valery—I ran a private one-man shop.
My phone rang. When I answered, a man spoke in Spanish: “Good morning, Dr. Bluestone. Felipe Mondragon here.”
I’d been leaning back with my feet atop my desk, but now my soles hit the floor. Courtesy of my ex-wife, Spanish is my second language.
“Good morning to you, Doctor,” I said, standing. Colombians call lawyers Doctor.
Felipe Mondragon was a connected Bogotá lawyer who referred well-heeled clients to a despicable clique of Miami Cuban lawyers. I’d crossed paths with Mondragon, but we’d never acknowledged each other. Until now.
“Sorry to trouble you during the holidays,” he said.
“Not at all. So busy here, I’m still working.”
“Not too busy to meet a person, I hope.”
“As a professional courtesy, never too busy. What jail?”
“He’s not yet incarcerated. He is considering a negotiated surrender. You’ll have to travel to meet him. Someone will deliver expense money shortly. Yes?”
“Perfectly fine.” I figured Mondragon’s guy was a fugitive from an extradition-generated capture order. Meaning a hefty fee for negotiating his surrender; another fee after he surrendered.
“The meeting will be three days from now, at noon, in the cathedral of the city among the three volcanoes.”
I knew the city. I’d find the cathedral. “I’ll be there.”
We exchanged the usual courtesies and terminated the call, leaving me once again marveling at the unpredictability of my business. Fifteen minutes ago, Mondragon was just another hole in a world of asses. Now he was my great olive-skinned hope. Which got me wondering . . .
Why hadn’t he referred the case to one of his usual Miami Cuban attorneys? Could be they’d stolen a buck too many. They were like that. Or maybe Mondragon had overreached from them. He was like that, too. Everyone liked money much too much. Except me. Well, actually, I loved money; it was the making part I was sick and tired of.
But I had no choice.
In my years of lawyering, I’d earned fortunes, but subtract from them the sums of my unholy trinity—drugs, drink, divorce—and the subtotal was troubling. Now, like a shark needing to keep swimming to breathe, I needed to keep working to maintain my extravagances. My fees, although sizable, were a fraction of what I needed to retire in the manner to which I was accustomed. I was all alone in the world and wanted the kind of nurturing only big bucks could buy.
The other day while online, I was required to select my date of birth by scrolling down a numbered wheel. I watched the years pass, thinking how quickly they had gone. My next birthday was a year ending in zero, and I didn’t want to go on working until I ran out of juice. Couldn’t, because sooner or later, the whole rotten-drug-lawyer monopoly game was going to crash, and a lot of players would be drawing cards that said Go to Jail. I planned to be long gone by then.
Because I had a dream . . .
I’d snag a client named Biggy who would deliver unto me the mother of all scores. I knew that my Biggy existed in the realm of possibility. In fact, he might even be Mondragon’s guy. One ne
ver knew—
My phone rang, the second of the day’s three momentous calls.
The caller was requesting FaceTime. I accepted, and there was my pal Foto, smiling with all thirty-two pearly whites. “Benn, old boy,” he said. “I’ve got a proposition: come spend the holidays here.”
Here was Panama City. “I’ll try, but I may be elsewhere. Work.”
“Try hard. There’s work for you here, too.”
Foto’s mirrored shades reflected several young women in bikini bottoms, lounging about his penthouse terrace. He was a so-called comisionista who introduced certain people to certain people, then took his fee and stepped from the picture. The smart thing to do. Career drugsters have a life expectancy akin to World War II bomber pilots flying missions over the Third Reich. Most end up shot down by the law of averages. But Foto went on flying.
“Very serious work,” he added.
“In that case, I’ll be there.”
We settled on a day, and I clicked off. I’d juggle and manage. You learn to in a business that’s totally unpredictable—months without a peep of new work, then two cases in two minutes. The work itself, however, was totally predictable: same old, same old, researching and developing deep-throat information Uncle Sam deemed significant—drugs by the tons and seizures in the multimillions of dollars—then horse-trading it for minimal jail time my clients could do standing on their heads.
Being the keeper of such secrets entailed great responsibility—and, if one were careless, a fair amount of risk. I reduced that hazard by maintaining constant vigilance and trusting no one. The password to my password-keeping app was PARANOID.FLOYD, and along each step of all my ways, I buried vital paper trails—insurance policies of a sort that I sold to myself, being the natural-born salesman I am.
And the extradition business is all about selling. A shining example of my craft was the line I used in my standard client rap:
Walk with me . . .
Uttered alone, the words sound like a cheap imitation of Christ, but in circumstances requiring faith, they rang clear as a bell to prospective clients. Besides, it was true. My clients did walk with me . . . at least as far as the departure terminal of the plane extraditing them stateside.
Ping!
The third call of the day was actually a texted message from a Colombian lawyer named Paz: URGENT YOU COME SOON! STAND BY!
Decoded, Paz had a case for me.