The Racketeer

“Nothing. He has the gold.”

McTavey’s tired and worried face suddenly became jovial. He chuckled, threw his hands into the air, and said, “Beautiful, brilliant, I love it! We gotta hire this guy because he’s a lot smarter than we are. Talk about a set of balls. He gets his dear friend indicted for the capital murder of a federal judge and he knows the entire time he can get it unraveled and walk him out. Are you kidding me? We look like a bunch of fools.”

Westlake couldn’t help but join in the fun. He smiled and shook his head in disbelief.

McTavey said, “He’s not lying, Vic, because he doesn’t have to. Lies were important earlier, during the first phase of the project, but not now. Now it’s time for the truth, and Ba

Westlake nodded in agreement. “So what’s our plan?”

“Where’s the U.S. Attorney on this? What’s his name?”

“Mumphrey. He’s squawking about another indictment, but it’s not going to happen.”

“Does he know everything?”

“Of course not. He doesn’t know that we know Fawcett was selling gold in New York.”

“I’m having brunch with the AG in the morning. I’ll explain what we’re doing and he’ll get Mumphrey in line. I suggest the two of you meet with Ba

“Yes sir.”

CHAPTER 42

I wait for another delayed flight inside the sweltering terminal of V. C. Bird International Airport, but I’m not the least bit a

Vanessa looks like a model when she bounces down the steps of the commuter flight from San Juan. A straw hat with a wide brim, designer shades, a summer dress that is delightfully short, and the easy grace of a woman who knows she’s a knockout. Ten minutes later, we’re in the Beetle and I have a hand on her thigh. She informs me she has been fired from her job because of excessive time off. And insubordination. We laugh. Who cares?

We go straight to lunch at the Great Reef Club, on a bluff overlooking the ocean, with a view that is hypnotic. The crowd is well-heeled and British. We are the only black diners, though all of the staff is of our kind. The food is just okay, and we vow to search out the local joints so we can eat with real people. I guess we’re technically rich, but it seems impossible to think in those terms. We don’t necessarily want the money as much as we want the freedom and security. I suppose we’ll grow accustomed to a better life.

After a dip in the ocean, Vanessa wants to explore Antigua. We put the top down, find a reggae station on the radio, and fly along the narrow roads like two young lovers finally escaping. Rubbing her legs and watching her smile, I find it difficult to fathom that we have made it this far. I marvel at our luck.

The summit is at the Blue Waters Hotel, on the northwestern tip of the island. I walk into the colonial-style main house, into the breezy lobby, all alone. I spot a couple of agents in bad tourist clothing as they sip sodas and try to appear i

We meet in a small suite on the second level, with a view of the beach. I am greeted by Victor Westlake, Stanley Mumphrey, and four other men whose names I don’t even try to remember. Gone are the dark suits and drab ties, replaced by golf shirts and Bermuda shorts. Though it’s early August, most of the pale legs in the room have not seen the sun. The mood is light; I’ve never seen so many smiles in such an important gathering. These men are elite crime fighters, accustomed to hard, humorless days, and this little diversion is a dream for them.

I have one final, nagging doubt that this could be a setup. I could be walking into a trap, with these boys ready to spring an indictment, a warrant, an extradition order, and whatever else it might take to drag me back to jail. In that event, Vanessa has a plan, one that assures the protection of our assets. She is two hundred yards away, waiting.

There are no surprises. We’ve talked enough on the phone to know the parameters, and we get down to business. On a speaker-phone, Stanley places a call to Roanoke, to the office of Dusty Shiver, who now represents not only Qui

We first review the immunity agreement, which basically says the government will not prosecute me, Qui

Qui

Next is a Rule 35 motion to commute his sentence and set him free. It has been filed in the D.C. federal court from which he was sentenced for cocaine distribution, but Qui

We take a break, and Vic Westlake asks me to join him for a cold drink. We find a table under a terrace beside a pool, away from the others, and order iced tea. He feigns frustration with the wasted time and so on. I am assuming he’s wearing a wire of some variety, and he probably wants to talk about the gold. I’m all smiles, the laid-back Antiguan now, but my radar is on high alert.

“What if we need your testimony at trial?” he asks gravely. This has been discussed at length and I thought things were clear. “I know, I know, but what if we need some extra proof?”

Since he does not yet have the name of the killer, or the circumstances, this question is premature, and it’s probably a warm-up to something else.