The Pretender Read online

  “How many menus you want?”

  “Well, that depends. It depends on how much the menus cost.” I had no idea what quantities he was talking about. Is a menu a unit? Maybe an ounce?

  “You can have menu for four and half dollar.” Yes, a menu must refer to an ounce. (This code may seem kind of silly and definitely not something that would fool anyone listening in. However, the transcripts were indeed full of such absurd transparent attempts at concealing the true subject matter.) “My brother wants me to buy four menus. It’s the same dishes as last time, right? The same food as I had at your brother’s restaurant in New York?”

  “[gibberish] … same food … [more gibberish] … you buy four and half menus, okay?”

  What the hell? So much for the code. I came to believe that its use was simply pro forma, obligatory for any self-respecting drug dealer. Or perhaps, absorbed by the negotiations and the importance of getting the details straight, the price and the volume, these targets mental focus shifted, drifted from the underlying purpose of using codes in the first place. Could it be a product of their poor English? That they didn’t realize just how tortured the conversations appeared? Unlikely. I’ve seen equally twisted use of code words from drug dealers born here in the United States.

  And why was this boss of bosses calling me directly? Gil for his part, never called Richard or Kevin Mong. The three of us—Gil, Mark, and I—surmised that as a micromanager and a junkie still fixing in federal prison, and with a seriously twisted mind, Gong required direct communication with not only the buyer he knew in Lewisburg, but the buyer in the field. And we had no reason to discourage the calls. They could only strengthen the case against the man. I had once seen an arrest photo of Gong, glaring and scrawny, but I could not erase from my mind the mental image of Fu Manchu, only in prison garb. (A stereotype, admittedly.) Even at the end of a phone line, I found Gong menacing, and I had dealt with more than a few menacing types. I could only imagine the effect of Gong’s frequent implicit threats on his subordinates.

  After each call with Gong, except in an emergency, I would wait for the call from Gil, who would have learned from Gong himself about the call in short order, and he and I would work from the notes I had scribbled. It could take us an hour or more to figure out the ten-minute conversation. Seriously. But Gil and I had to do it, because as my uncle and boss, he had to know everything that was going on. How else could we plan our next moves—when to make a buy, what quantity, what price, who should conduct the final negotiation, him with Gong in Lewisburg or me on the outside with Richard? As Alex’s uncle and boss, Gil could always approach Gong and, visibly annoyed—my nephew sometimes forgets his place—overrule my decisions, providing me a useful safety valve.

  I ended up having umpteen phone calls with Gong, each quite a chore, due to his tortured English, and we were using a code on top of that. It was a little easier for Gil, sitting there with Gong in the big dining hall. Inside the prison walls there was no fear of electronic eavesdropping, thus no need to speak in code.

  In his conversations with Gong, it had to be clear that Gil was firmly in control. And Mark Calnan and the prosecutors certainly needed to be aware of the substance of the conversations. Not least in importance, yours truly very much wanted to know what, if anything, I had agreed to. So Gil and I persevered, but sometimes we never did figure out what Gong was talking about. His reference to “starting a union” stands out in my memory.

  “A union?” I repeated. “You mean for the people who work for me?” That would be a first in the long history of drug dealing.

  “A UNION!” Now he was loud, angry, and, of course, garbled. Maybe he needed a fix.

  “You want to start a union?”

  “Right, right, hey Sonny, it’s not up to me. I just do what I’m told. I got to talk to my brother.”

  My “brother” (Uncle Gil) had no idea what this union might be, and he couldn’t ask Gong outright without appearing unprofessional. Gil’s advice was to wait and see if unions came up again. They didn’t. Gong dropped the new code word, whatever it meant, and we stuck to our menus.

  After receiving and approving the first little sample inside the tinfoil in the pack of Marlboros, I made two small purchases of heroin from Richard’s associate Chang at one of the hotels near LaGuardia airport. My latest BuCar, procured under the auspices of another op (juggling multiple UC cases at the same time was old hat by now), was a late-model beige Acura. Great car, but of course I wouldn’t be driving it to a meet with Chang or Richard or anyone else in SUNBLOCK. I might drive the Acura to the general vicinity, then get to the meet some other way (probably a cab). For that first get-together in the diner I had hired the old limo. I could have come up with a plausible explanation for having a car in New York, but it wasn’t a part of the scenario.

  The basic set-up: Richard would call me at the 305 number in Florida, I’d fly into LaGuardia (so he believed), maybe just laying over for a few hours on my way to another meet equally important as this one, maybe more important. I’d then page Richard from whatever hotel I ended up in. Mark Calnan and I would have booked adjoining rooms the previous day, one paid for with one of Alex’s credit cards, one with an AFID credit card Mark maintained for just such instances. By the time I beeped Richard, all of the technical surveillance equipment complete with video, had been set up and tested. He understood that I wouldn’t be telling him which hotel in advance. As a professional, buying from people I had no track record with, I would not want to provide him with the opportunity to arrange for a welcoming committee. And who knows who might be listening in on my calls, or on his. So I waited until the last minute to reveal my hotel. Basic drug-dealer tradecraft.

  With everyone still happy, a larger purchase was set up. Beforehand, I met up with Mark in the parking lot at LaGuardia, as usual. He and his squad had already briefed at a staging area a healthy distance from the airport. Squad supervisor Geoff Doyle was with him, an indication that this was no ordinary meet. (Geoff always reminded me of the lieutenant in Miami Vice played by craggy Edward James Olmos.) Supervisors rarely leave the office, their administrative duties being so onerous as to discourage direct involvement in operational activities. They only turn up if there is a high possibility that events can quickly turn bad, very bad, in which case upper management would be asking, in the post-critical event review, why there had been no on-site commander for potential “critical incident” management. Very reassuring. Adding to my growing feeling of unease, Geoff told me the entire Task Force was present, FBI agents, specially selected NYPD officers, around twenty-five total. I would have been better off with three. Truly, I would have felt less stressed if it had been just Mark and a couple of guys in a minivan. But that’s just not the way it works with significant drug buys—not even then, much less now. Now there might be the same number of guys and gals on the scene, but a lot more paperwork, and several additional layers of approval.

  Inside his BuCar, Calnan handed me the cash, 1,050 twenty-dollar bills, $21,000. I had brought along a large manila envelope for the cash, which would sit in my portfolio next to another manila envelope—the one with the Nagra. Richard would have no interest in the second envelope. He knew it was none of his business. In the first two purchases, his sidekick Chang had carried a men’s leather handbag. To all appearances, I never paid note, and I certainly did not inquire as to its contents. It was none of my business. Even if it was ideally suited for carrying a .38 caliber five-shot revolver …

  I left the Acura in the lot, walked over to the terminal, and grabbed a cab to the Courtyard, where my room had two double beds to the left, and a round table straight back by the sliding-glass doors that gave way to the balcony, with its cheery, unobstructed panoramic view of the parking lot and Grand Central Parkway beyond. I placed my portfolio on the table and removed the not-yet-activated Nagra, which was, on this occasion, purely for backup and to record any conversations that might take place outside the room, which had been carefully wired for vi
deo and audio. (Under these “set piece” circumstances, there was no need for the mini-Nagra secreted on my person.)

  Using the touch-tone phone on the night table, I paged Richard and entered the hotel phone number followed by the hotel room. I knocked on the locked dividing door to the next room, which was opened by a smiling, young lanky police investigator wearing a Yankees T-shirt. He was excited to have a key role so close to the center of the action in a big drug deal. Fine, I didn’t care. He was accompanied by a C-25 agent adept at technical equipment, Jeff Lum. Jeff would go on to become the supervisor of SO-7, the NYC metro area’s premier tech squad (and would help me out in a Genovese Crime Family Group I, a decade later). I surveyed their room. It was littered with open Pelikan equipment cases, a tripod with parabolic antenna, monitor, recording equipment. On the bed were a shotgun and MP5 submachine gun.

  Back in my room, I turned on the TV and sat on a bed, leaning against the headboard to wait for Richard’s call. Twenty minutes went by, no call. Ten more minutes and I called Mark’s cell phone. He agreed that I should page Richard a second time. I did. More TV, as I reviewed the possible scenarios that could be playing out, and how best to play them in turn. How long would Alex Perez wait? How long would Gil Sandoval’s nephew wait? Those were the questions, not how long Marc Ruskin aka Alex Perez would wait. After a certain indefinable point, the scale would tip and further waiting would appear odd, would set off mental alarms for Richard.

  Mark was rotating the surveillance so that there would not be anyone in the lobby area long enough to appear unnatural. An agent would descend from the elevator, look at his watch, and take as seat and “wait” for a companion. Ten minutes later, a male-female agent couple sitting on lounge chairs would get up and walk into the bar for a cocktail. On my next call to his cell, Mark said that an unknown Chinese man had been observed walking through the lobby. He was now gone. A third page to Richard—this would be the last one—went unanswered. Then, Mark and I decided on a gamble.

  Long before, Gong had given Gil the number to Denise Wei’s hard line at her New Jersey home, but with specific instructions that he not pass it on to Alex. Mark was worried that calling Denise would piss off Gong and throw a wrench into their evolving relationship. I thought it through. Gil was my uncle and cartel boss. Would he pay any attention to Gong’s restriction? Could he care less? No. Of course not. So, from the hotel phone, I placed the call to Denise Wei. She had been patching through calls from Gong to my Hello Phone, and would know that I was a business associate. But I had never talked with her directly. A female with a heavy Asian accent answered. I told her I had a message for Richard. She didn’t know any Richard. I said that it didn’t matter, just listen. My brother is a very good friend of Richard’s brother. I’m waiting for Richard. If I don’t hear from him in twenty minutes, I will be leaving. My brother will be very angry. Richard’s brother will be very angry. Do you understand?

  Yes, she understood. Nevertheless, half an hour later, Mark called. It was over, he was breaking off the surveillance. I should check out and take a cab back to my car. Fine, but just one thing. I asked Mark to tell the various squad and Task Force members to stay put until I was out of the area. This was one of my cardinal rules: surveillance doesn’t leave until Ruskin leaves. I still had bad memories of my drive into Harlem with 8-Ball, Santiago Kuris’s henchman, after Vicki and Dave had departed the scene back in the Bronx during RUN-DMV. And years before, UC Roger Gomez had ended up staring down the barrel of a gun after his backup had made a premature departure over a drug deal that likewise appeared to be a non-occurrence.

  Not possible, responded Mark, their antsy feet were already hovering over the accelerators. He had already been dealing with much griping about the perceived waste of their time. I was adamant. They agreed to stay put. At the front desk, I turned in my key card, crossed the lobby, and was almost through the door when my pager beeped. A 917 number. Richard’s cell. I called him back from a pay phone. Very sorry, he was running late and would be there in five minutes. Angrily, I complained that I would now have to recheck into the hotel. Which he no doubt knew. Using the same degree of caution as myself, he must have had a confederate running countersurveillance. Had I been approached in the lobby by white guys in baseball caps after the operation was “over,” maybe with handi-talkies in the back pockets of their FBI standard issue cargo pants—it would have been a grim day for Marc indeed. And then for Gil back in prison.

  Back in my room, I quickly called Mark, told him the buy was a go. All hands on deck! I draped my three-quarter-length black leather coat over a seat by the table with the views. In the left “holster” pocket was my Glock .40 caliber pistol. My Guardian Leather portfolio, with its bulletproof panel was propped against a leg of the table. Behind the hidden Velcro seam was my Bureau-issued Smith & Wesson 10mm cannon. An awesome weapon. Now it was time to activate the Nagra, place it in its pinpricked manila envelope, seal it with masking tape, and return it to the portfolio. Alongside the cash. The guys in the next room were hustling to reassemble their equipment. I leaned back and breathed deeply. Show-time.

  A knock on the door. Richard and Chang walked in. And a third man, early twenties, a Bruce Lee clone. Gong’s organization used a Chinatown street gang, the Grand Street Dragons, for enforcement and security. This must have been a Dragon. Visions of an invisible flying sidekick to my head whipped through my mind as they entered the room. Richard sat across from me at the table, as I had anticipated in arranging the chairs. Chang to his right, on the foot of the bed. And Bruce Lee on the first bed, near the door, and outside my field of vision, of course.

  After the obligatory cigarette and exchange of polite inquiries regarding our respective inmate bosses, Richard nodded to Chang, who removed a paper bag from an old-style zipper-top airline travel bag. Without comment, Richard took it and placed it on the table as I slowly—while closely observed by Bruce—removed the manila envelope from my portfolio and slid it across the table toward Richard. I opened the bag. Inside was what looked like a small brick wrapped in aluminum foil. I folded the bag closed and placed it in the portfolio. Out of professional courtesy, as a sign of regard for Gong, I did not take any steps to weigh the product or examine it. Likewise, and for the same reason—a demonstration of respect for Gil—Richard simply picked up the envelope without opening it and passed it back to Chang, who placed it in his Pan Am bag and zipped it shut.

  “My uncle will be pleased. He appreciates working with serious businessmen.”

  The mood was tangibly lighter. We all smoked as we discussed our next transaction. Richard’s pager beeped, he checked the display and smiled. “All Clear” message from his lobby man, I gathered. And they were gone. With a loose tail by Mark’s squad-mates, not close enough to risk compromising Alex in the future. Mark also had cars set up at Richard’s club, and there was an eye on Denise Wei’s house in New Jersey. If the surveillance agents lost the car, one of the other sets of eyes would probably be able to call it in when Richard put down.

  In the airport lot, I gave an ecstatic Mark the paper bag of what proved to be a slightly generous weight of 95-plus-percent pure Asian heroin. Geoff Doyle wore a satisfied smile. SUNBLOCK was now a major going concern. That night, I decompressed big-time, after a long and pleasant chat with a very contented Gil. My (carefully concealed) fears preceding the meet replaced by a post-adrenaline euphoria. The next day, after an extended workout, I completed the minimal paperwork resulting from the meet and went home early. Mark obligingly drafted the bulk of the reports, including those relating my activities (the essential details derived from listening to the Nagra recordings). Starting with the SUNBLOCK case, I entered into an understanding with all the case agents. I would do the undercover work for their investigation. They would do the paperwork.

  Two weeks later, on a Saturday night, I joined my mother at the opera—the Met, where we made do with the balcony and enjoyed a performance of La Bohème. Opera was a family passion. Ebbene no, non lo
son. Invan, invan nascondo la mia vera tortura. Amo Mimì sovra ogni cosa al mondo, io l’amo, ma ho paura, ma ho paura! My father had enjoyed belting these lines from this particular Puccini triumph with gusto, dramatically lifting his arms to emulate Pavarotti or Carreras playing one of the star-crossed lovers. But now it was just my mother and her oldest son as the opera lovers in the family. For this occasion, I had the Alex Perez ponytail but paired it with a sharp blazer, to all appearances a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art across the park. Refined, no gel, Alex the hard case replaced for the evening, forgotten—but for the constant reminder, even at the opera, the Glock .40 caliber in a concealed-carry holster over my left hip.

  My SUNBLOCK pager vibrated. (Annoyingly, I now always carried at least two: one for each active case and one “real” pager, for anyone trying to reach the real me.) Because the new sting was just starting to take shape, I had to check this out. It could be Richard … It was Richard. Why was he calling at ten o’clock on a Saturday night during the third act of La Bohème? Then again, he didn’t know I was at the opera. Maybe he was just checking me out, making sure I really was Alex Perez, making sure I wasn’t at the opera, say. At intermission (La Bohème has four acts), I stepped onto the outdoor terrace, took in the cool crisp air of the winter evening, gazed at the architecture and fountain of Lincoln Center, then hustled to the pay phone in the dark velour alcove by the entrance to the balcony and called Richard. From Miami, of course, using the 305 area-code patch-through. We chatted for a moment, to no real purpose. I was right. He’d just wanted to make sure I didn’t keep a banker’s hours—or an opera lover’s hours. He wanted to confirm that I was indeed a drug dealer whose Saturday night on the town wasn’t even under way at such an early hour. As payback, I should have waited until two in the morning to return the call.