The Infiltrator, page 9
I told him that my cousin was coming to explain a few details about a new company. “Roberto,” I said, “I promise it won’t be long but I want you to meet some of the people in my family who are critical to our success. Dominic handles the development of new businesses, but more importantly he watches my back. There’s nothing he can’t handle, if you know what I mean.”
Dominic’s booming, raspy voice filled the restaurant as he approached the table with an armful of shirts and a bag full of suntan lotion.
“Hey, boss, how ya doin’?” he said as we did the traditional Godfather embrace. “Sorry to intrude. I’ll make this fast. This stuff is part of the line we’ll be manufacturing under the Caribbean Sol suntan-lotion label. I can’t thank you enough for bankrolling this. Here’s some shirts for your friends and some of the lotions. Jimmy took your offer, and we now have the controlling interest. We expect to go nationwide within a year.”
Alcaíno’s eyes and ears trained on Dominic, searching. Dom handed out the gifts and then turned to me with a serious eye. He whispered in my ear, but with his bellowing voice Alcaíno heard every word. “Bobby, we took care of that other thing. You should have seen the look on that fat fuck’s face when we showed up. He won’t be coming back.”
When Dominic left, Alcaíno turned to me and said, “He’s Sicilian, from Brooklyn, and was probably stealing cars when he was twelve.”
I smiled. “Almost right — except he started when he was eleven.”
Alcaíno’s belly jiggled with laughter. Dominic’s visit had already paid its dividends.
Emir had heard that, since New York City was an operations base for Alcaíno’s dope business, the Jeweler was headed there soon. After Dominic left, I mentioned to Alcaíno that Kathy and I would be headed to New York after his visit to announce our engagement officially. He suggested that we three take the same flight to LaGuardia the next evening.
“That would be wonderful,” I said, “but Kathy and I will be heading to New York in one of the jets owned by my family’s air charter service. Why don’t you join us, and we’ll get you to New York?”
Alcaíno grinned. “Fantastic. We should have a meeting tomorrow afternoon with Mora and Emilio, and then we can take off for New York. There are some important things we should discuss before we leave.”
At that meeting, Alcaíno divulged again that because of Pisces some of the key players in Medellín worried that I was a fed running another sting. He didn’t share that concern, and, if he could win the trust of his friends, there was no limit to what we could do.
“But if it is a sting operation,” he said, “then Mora’s head and my head isn’t worth a damn, and neither are our families’.” Alcaíno suggested that I join him on a forthcoming visit to Colombia to help him convince his associates that I wasn’t a narc. Then he mused about what would happen if I did turn out to be an agent. “You have to take risks sometime. So what, you lose about thirty years. Thirty years will go by in no time. Thirty years passes by fast, you know?”
Total silence.
Then he erupted into laughter that infected the whole room.
When the mirth subsided, he launched into the numbers.
“Some of the big boys are coming here with 3,000 units” — kilos of coke — “every ten days, so let’s say 9,000 units per month.” Some months, those dopers didn’t move anything, but they averaged at least 50,000 units per year. “Let’s say only if they wholesale it at $12,000” — per kilo — “So you got 50,000 times twelve. How much is this? You’re talking over $600 or $700 million in a year. They have a profit of about 40 percent. So when you’re talking about a profit of 40 percent from $600 million, you’re talking about $240 million a year profit.”
A staggering number, and that was only the wholesale baseline.
After the meeting, Emir drove Alcaíno, Kathy, and me to Hangar One, a private airport service at Tampa International. We hopped on a Cessna Citation elegantly appointed with beige leather seats and teak trim throughout. Two Customs pilots — who had initially resisted the black epaulets and gold stripes of a corporate jet-pilot uniform — flew us to New York.
Halfway through the flight, I told Alcaíno that I had work to complete for a meeting the following morning. I moved a row away and pored over what looked like accounting papers. On cue, Kathy began filling Alcaíno’s head with stories about how diligently I worked for my family and how serious we were about building a life together. With her background in art, conversational French, and extensive travel experience, she kept Alcaíno busy with stories about her childhood, her hopes for the future, and the finer details of our undercover story — as she had the night before.
She even read Alcaíno’s palm and claimed that his future was filled with great success and achievements, putting him at ease and complimenting him every chance she got when he told his bold stories about his life. Alcaíno liked her, which offered a much-needed respite for me.
By the time we landed, Kathy knew more about Alcaíno’s life than he did about mine. He fancied himself an art collector, and he enjoyed fine wines. He had two daughters, one in high school and somewhat rebellious. These details gave me a menu of issues to study and exploit.
The next morning, at Bruno Securities, nearly twenty different brokers embraced me with exclamations that it had been far too long. Frankie apologized that his uncle Carmine couldn’t immediately greet us because two SEC auditors had come unexpectedly, demanding to speak with him. We had been waiting only a minute when the door burst open and Carmine shouted the two SEC regulators out of the firm.
“You fuckers are all alike!” he bellowed. “Just because my name ends in a vowel you think we’re hoods. Get your asses out of here!” As the doors closed, Carmine took a deep breath, smiled, and said, “Please excuse me for getting a little excited, but I don’t give a shit who they are. No one is going to insult me and my family. If this shit keeps up, one of these fuckers is going to get whacked!”
Then Carmine bear-hugged me. “Little cuz! You shouldn’t be away so long. The family needs you, and you’re working too hard. Let’s talk.”
He led Frankie, Alcaíno, and me into his office, where, over espressos, he talked about the business and how important I was to their success. Every movement had been choreographed perfectly — even the supposed SEC auditors hightailing it out of the office.
Outside, a sleek black limo took us to lunch at Harry’s restaurant in the Woolworth Building. Alcaíno talked about his jewelry business and consignments of diamonds and emeralds to wholesalers across the world — one of the ways he was hiding his drug profits.
But as usual his talk turned to women. “I have three wives,” he said, “one in New York, one in L.A., and one in Ecuador.” Only one of these ladies was married to him. His theory held that if he had a continuing sexual relationship with a woman, she qualified as his wife.
During the ride back to his apartment near the U.N., Alcaíno said, “I hope to be going there” — Colombia — “in the next ten days to talk with the people. I’ll get their reaction and call you when I return.” Then he turned to Kathy and said he hoped to see her and me at his home in L.A. in the near future, so he could return our hospitality.
Breakthrough!
We had his trust. No one at Alcaíno’s level would invite someone to his home if he thought even remotely that the guest might be a federal agent. We had climbed another rung of the ladder to the big boys.
The limo stopped at the Rivergate, an apartment building on East Thirty-fourth Street where Alcaíno lived when he was in New York, and he started to climb out. The perfect moment had arrived. I followed him outside the car.
“Roberto,” I said, nodding in Kathy’s direction, “I never speak business in front of her. I don’t want her near this stuff.” Then I gently grabbed his shoulder, looked into his eyes, and delivered my pitch. “Roberto, I hope you’ll soon reach the point where you know we are good people —”
“But I already have,” he interrupted.
“I can only then assume that we now consider ourselves partners,” I said.
“Yes,” Alcaíno replied. “Thank you. I do.”
“Well, then,” I said, pulling something from my pocket, “I have a gift I want to give you. I don’t take important relationships with others lightly. It has been a tradition in my family to cherish these types of relationships. They are lifelong, and we will protect them until the end. That is part of our code. These are the types of relationships that cause people to become part of us, our tradition, and part of our future. I want to bless our friendship and partnership by giving you this gift.”
As he opened the small box, the gold bars of the cross encrusted with diamonds glittered brightly beneath the city’s dreary autumn clouds. The Jeweler beamed with approval.
“Bob, you shouldn’t have. This is wonderful and something that I will cherish all my life.” He hugged me, thanked me for my hospitality, and took the bait.
A man of his word, Alcaíno made his pitch for me in Colombia — though it took a little longer than expected. Someone in New York killed one of his workers, and someone in Medellín killed one of his partners. Many thought Alcaíno gave the order. Either way, he delayed his trip to Colombia and lay low for a while.
He always flew first class and packed lightly, so when he struggled off the plane with a whole collection of black leather soft-sided luggage, I knew something was up.
“Bob, I thought of you when I was in Medellín and picked up this luggage for you. Since you travel so much, I thought it would be nice if you had some good Colombian leather bags.”
“Thanks, Roberto. That’s very kind of you. Welcome back to Tampa. Let’s head to my car, Kathy is waiting for us.” The cost of the luggage paled in comparison to the diamond-studded gold cross — but it was a start.
Kathy and I brought Alcaíno to a new waterfront home in New Port Richey, where Financial Consulting was, an hour outside Tampa. Customs had installed a state-of-the-art concealed monitoring system that captured high-quality audio and video. To make sure Alcaíno was in the house at all times — and would sing on tape — we had a catering company send over a chef to prepare dinner at the house. After dinner, Kathy took Alcaíno for a walk while I powered and tested the system. When they returned, Emir and Kathy excused themselves and gave me a chance to have a private discussion with Alcaíno.
He recounted what had happened in Medellín. He met with four of the cartel bosses, who pulled him to the front of the line of those waiting for an audience. He explained everything he knew about my operation and my condition that a portion of their money be invested. Nothing was finalized, but, as Alcaíno put it, “The first meeting you have to go slowly with them. It’s like it is with Italians.”
Since he wanted to cement our partnership, he enumerated the opportunities on offer.
First, he wanted me to know that the cartel had decided to move a lot of their product to Europe. Since the market there wasn’t nearly as saturated, they could enjoy an additional kilo profit of $17,000. At the moment, he had 150 kilos stockpiled there and, doing the math, would soon be receiving over $4 million that he wanted transported to Panama or Colombia. And that was peanuts compared to what los duros would need moved from Spain, France, and Italy.
He was also working out a deal with an Israeli friend in the States to set up a heroin-importation operation that stood to net millions per month. He had an opening for another investor, and that spot was mine for the asking.
Lastly, he felt he was on the verge of convincing the cartel to allow me to handle $700,000 per week for them. The problem, though, was that “a guy named Molina” was moving $20 million a month for them in New York, and it would take another trip to Colombia to get the $2.8 million piece of Molina’s pie. Luís Carlos Molina was the top launderer for the cartel.
I, in turn, told Alcaíno that, though I was pleased with the opportunities, it disappointed me that there were no immediate commitments for me to handle investments. As a result, I was going to cut back my operations for los duros. Alcaíno supported that decision.
The next day, Alcaíno bought first-class tickets for himself, Kathy, and me to fly to New York. Before leaving, I phoned my contact there, Customs Supervisor Tommy Loreto, to inform him that we would be flying into Kennedy. Loreto didn’t like the idea of Kathy and me on our own with Alcaíno, but I insisted against a surveillance team covering us on arrival. Alcaíno was still feeling out our partnership. If he spotted surveillance, we stood to lose everything. I carried a phone and pager; calling a safe number to report our status seemed adequate to me. Safeguarding my contact with Alcaíno in the U.S., while turning down his invitation to spend time with him in Colombia, looked bad. Loreto acquiesced.
Joaquín Casals, Alcaíno’s right hand, met us at Kennedy. Even at a distance the young, burly, Cuban former Marine looked like the strong arm for a dope organization. Before we even left the Van Wyck Expressway, we knew his full name, what schools he attended, where he owned property, and where he had traveled in the past several weeks.
As we dodged New York’s infamous potholes on our way to Manhattan, Casals pulled off the expressway onto the back streets of Queens. It looked like he was checking for a tail. As we cruised through Corona — a rough neighborhood — Kathy appeared tense. Trained as a cop, she was already thinking worst-case scenario. At this point, a surveillance team wasn’t going to be able to save our lives. They’d only be able to find our bodies quickly.
Like dogs, quality criminals can sense your fear, and, like dogs, if they sense fear, they bite. As we neared Manhattan, I joked about how Queens reminded me of the tough neighborhood of my youth. I played the angle that Kathy had lived the privileged life, a diplomat’s spoiled little princess. She ran with the story and filled Alcaíno’s head with her tales of her privileged youth spent traveling Europe. By the time we arrived at the Helmsley Palace, everyone was at ease. Before Casals drove him off, Alcaíno instructed us to meet him at 8:30 in the lobby of the hotel, where he would pick us up for dinner.
There was only one bathroom in our hotel suite, so we took turns getting ready. After reporting to Loreto, I headed to the lobby. The elevator doors opened to reveal Alcaíno beaming at me in his tailored, double-breasted suit.
As we waited for Kathy to arrive, our discussion turned to the Helmsley Palace, and Alcaíno asked me whether I thought it was profitable. Which immediately brought to mind a story that Charlie Broun, Bruce Perlowin’s accountant and the manager of the Red Carpet Inns, had once told me. According to Charlie, his people often prepared records to show every room occupied, even though the hotel was virtually empty. It allowed them to push dope money through as hotel revenue. With all the hotel’s write-offs, no taxes had to be paid, and the dope money was legitimized.
As I was halfway through the story, someone on the other side of the lobby shouted, “Bob!” My head snapped toward the voice, and there before me stood Charlie Broun in a business suit, with his wavy Colonel Sanders hair and a huge smile.
Oh, shit. Charlie had done his time and was now apparently back in action. He started charging in my direction, his eyes glowing with surprise.
Time stopped.
In a split second that felt like a century, I turned to Alcaíno and said, “An old friend. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
I paced toward Charlie as fast as I could. As I held him in a bear hug, I whispered in his ear, “I’m under again, Charlie. Play along.”
As I let go, I saw that Alcaíno had followed me. He was standing at my shoulder.
Did he hear me?
No, he had been too far away, but now I couldn’t coach Charlie anymore. Beads of cold sweat rolled down the small of my back. Casals was outside and no doubt packing heat.
To my grateful surprise, Charlie took my lead as though we had been working together for years. In his Mississippi twang, he drawled, “Well, Bob, the boys in Vegas really miss you. Why the hell are you working so hard? You need to come out there and relax with us the way you always have in the past. You’re getting too wound up. I know you’re doing everybody a great service, but you need to make time for you.”
We joked and hugged again before Charlie walked off with my promise to join him the next morning for breakfast at the hotel.
When Kathy came down, Casals drove us to a lavish meal at Il Cortile, a high-end mob hangout on Mulberry Street in Little Italy. Alcaíno introduced us to his favorite meal, palafitta: a thin, pie-shaped crust filled with lobster tail, stuffed mussels, jumbo shrimp, stuffed clams, stuffed calamari, and octopus — all smothered in a rich marinara sauce. Casals waited outside, the car running the whole time.
From there we hit the Blue Note, an old jazz club in the Village, where, over snifters of Louis XIV cognac, we soaked up some of the hottest jazz in town and talked for hours about everything but business. At 2:00 A.M., after cannoli and cappuccino with amaretto, Alcaíno dropped us back at the Helmsley Palace with an invitation to lunch the next day before he caught a flight to Paris.
The next morning, at breakfast with Charlie, I gave him a vague overview of the operation. He immediately offered his full support.
“Listen, Bob. I didn’t burn you because I’m a different man from the Charlie Broun you knew. I appreciate how you treated me. While I was in prison, I read Watergate burglar Charles Colson’s book and became a born-again Christian. My faith in God is more important to me than anything. You’re a good man, and you’re doing important work. I still have some strong connections in Vegas, especially at Caesar’s Palace, so if you’d like me to set you up so you can comp a bunch of these Colombians and show them a good time, you just let me know.”
“Charlie, you’re a good man,” I said sincerely. “I can’t thank you enough. Sometime soon I’ll take you up on your offer.”
Alcaíno took Kathy and me to lunch at Aperitivo on West Fifty-sixth Street, another exclusive Italian haunt where he was well known.
