White Death (13 page)

“Hello.”

“Will you accept a call from James Sixkiller?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Go ahead, Sixkiller.”

“My first conversation with the real world. How are you, Fran?”

“Fine. How long were you in the hole?”

“Six days. No shower. Really ripe. Was dreaming about dancing with you.”

Laughter. Both of us were playing this by ear. Guards monitor all calls.

“I’m glad it was only a dream,” she said. “But keep up the good work.”

“Hey,” I said. “I’ve only got fifteen minutes. Is Roy or Ray around?”

“This is Roy. If you’re dreaming about me, we can cut this call short. How are you doing?”

“I’m okay. My cellmate isn’t an asshole, a big plus. Some guy named Ramirez, a smuggler like me. Interesting story. Says he was importing and selling weed in Miami. His friend or partner in Miami has this buddy in D.C. who specializes in heroin but needed to dump two extra keys, kind of like car dealers who advertise overstocked, low price. Asked if he had a Miami contact who would buy it. Although he doesn’t deal heroin, the big shots are acquainted with each other. Problem for Ramirez was he approached a dealer who had been busted and flipped. No good deed goes unpunished, right?”

“James, not much time left. Do you still have your half-sister’s number? She might like to hear from you since you’re invading her space soon?”

“Yeah. I got it. Say hi to Ray for me. I get three hundred minutes a month, so staying in touch shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll call her tomorrow about this time, okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll call her and let her know this is a good time for you.”

“Thanks, bye.”

“Less than three weeks. Stay tough.”

After getting out of the way of other prisoners who wanted to make calls, I went over the conversation in my head. The first call he made would not be to my FBI “half-sister,” but to Karen with an upbeat report, just short on details. “Not an asshole” means Ramirez was comfortable talking to me, including his criminal background. A bonus was the information that Marcus Sterling is
cozy with a major D.C. heroin dealer. Ramirez was amiable, but I sensed he was being careful, maintaining his distance. The words of Jerry rang in my ears: Trust no one in prison. He would definitely talk to Sterling before approaching me. I reflected on the fact that bad things happen to bait.

Later, I walked out into the yard to look for a gathering of Indians. About six or seven stood together, talking, smoking, and joking. As I approached, one yelled out, “Hello, Sixkiller.” Several laughed.

“How did you get that name,” said one.

“I earned it,” I deadpanned.

There were no introductions made the way the white people do. They were passing the time telling raunchy, racist Indian jokes, and I just joined in.

“How do you kill a Lakota warrior,” said one, not waiting for a reply. “You catch him drinking water and slam the toilet seat on his neck.”

Contagious laughter was followed by other bad jokes. The most offensive jokes about a tribe usually come from a tribal member. I was certain that some were Miccosukee and Seminole, Florida tribes. Others had high plains and southwestern features. BOP tries to keep inmates within two hundred miles of their home. Accordingly, those from distant tribes were being punished. I listened and told a few jokes, trying to assess the cohesion of the group. If they had a sweat lodge, for example, their leaders would become apparent. They seemed content to pass the time. Finally, one asked me, “What are you in for?”

“Smuggling drugs.”

“Didn’t you know that is illegal?” said another to laughter.

The conversation turned to Indian country discussions and legal battles over tribal sovereignty issues, and grew more serious and bitter. The American Indian Movement had been founded only a year ago. All speculated what role it might play in the future. Many Indians are well-versed in Indian history and
law. After all, whites wrote American history, which omits or glosses over the crimes committed by whites against Indians, especially in the hundred-year period from 1790 to 1890. My own parents, born in Oklahoma at the turn of the last century, were not U.S. citizens until enfranchised in 1924. They were only Indians without a vote and few rights. One older man, probably Kiowa, had memorized the most notorious words of the Supreme Court in a 1903 case. Indians are “an ignorant and dependent race that must be governed by the Christian people” of the United States.

At dusk, the yard began to close, and we trekked back to our units. One tall Indian in his thirties caught up to me and said, “I’m Jim Hightower. We know you’re short time, but there are more of us, and we’re here for you.”

“Thanks,” I replied. I was isolated and grateful for the offer of support, even if it was only companionship.

He accepted an invitation to head over to the gym with me, which consisted mostly of weights and minimal exercise equipment, treadmills and a couple of stationary bikes. I needed the exercise, not only because of the hole, but also because of the stress from the sense of walking on eggshells.

The gym crowd was tough. The skinheads and Chicanos were heavily tattooed, and some of the blacks were hulks. All moved carefully around each other to avoid conflicts. A guard entered and looked around repeatedly. It struck me as odd how a single shared interest forced them to get along, sometimes being polite to each other. Outside, organized crime groups of different ethnic backgrounds and former enemies occasionally sit down to make peace for money and a lower profile. Dead gang members in restaurants and streets draw a lot of law enforcement attention.

Hightower and I worked out in silence for more than an hour, always mindful of the clock. Recreational activities ended at 8:30 p.m. with the final institutional count at 9:00 p.m. Despite a few
stares at the two Indians in the weight room, the workout was uneventful. We headed for the showers and began to talk. I asked him if he knew Ramirez.

“Yeah. He’s a loner, knows how to do time, and avoids the other Latinos for the most part. Rumor is that he has some bad-ass connections on the outside. Last year a Cuban was shanked by another Cuban, reportedly on orders from Ramirez.”

“What happened to cause Ramirez to put out a contract?”

“The dead Cuban liked to brag a lot about being a big shot in the Miami drug business. The grapevine says he started talking a lot about going back into business with Ramirez and his partners when he got out, and he had met a Colombian boss. Ramirez is keeping his head down and should be out in a year. He didn’t need this loudmouth.”

“What does a prison contract cost?” I asked.

“I hear about three-hundred dollars. Life is cheap here.”

“What happened to the killer?”

“Nothing. Latinos encircled the victim. None of them saw anything. Be careful with your cell mate.” Advice I intended to heed.

Ramirez and I stood by our bunks waiting for the final count at 9:00 p.m.

“Are you still working as a grounds orderly?” he asked. All inmates are required to work at some job.

“Yeah. The unit manager told me I had too little time left to train for a new assignment.”

“We call your job ‘picking up cigarette butts and polishing rocks.’”

I laughed. “That pretty much describes it.”

“The laundry isn’t bad. I could have asked for something else, but my priority is not to make any waves. Here they come.”

After the guards passed, I sensed the end of our conversation and climbed into my bunk with a book. I had already called Jamie, my “half-sister.” She was either a good actress or truly
amiable, maybe both. We had a foolish conversation about nothing much. She warned me not to expect my “new wife” to do any home cooking. Food often arrived in white boxes with Chinese letters. I was looking forward to meeting her and getting out of prison.

Days passed under the rigid structure of prison life. Breakfast begins at 6:00 a.m. All meals revolve around rotations based on your unit. Sick call at 6:30 a.m.; work at 7:30 a.m.; lunch rotations begin at 10:30 a.m.; work resumes at 12:30 p.m.; the commissary closes at 3:00 p.m.; yard recall at 3:30 p.m. for the 4:00 p.m. stand-up count; commissary reopens and evening meal rotations begin; pill line at 7:45 p.m.; recreation recall at 8:30 p.m.; final institutional count at 9:00 p.m. The routine has a numbing effect, leaving no doubt about who controls your life.

In one of my conversations with Roy, I found a way to mention “Colombia” as a tourist destination for surfers. Despite the discovery of the “pregnant” women method, Intelligence was not sure if the current influx of cocaine was from the same group using new methods. If I developed information on which one of four Latin American countries was the original source, not leaf but product, I was to mention the country in an innocuous context. Possibilities included one of the Andean countries through Mexico, direct to Colombia, or refined in Colombia. Claiming to be a big deal was not the real reason for shanking the Cuban. Rather, he linked Ramirez and a Colombian boss in the same sentence.

After about ten days, Roy asked me if I had seen any interesting birds while out in the yard, a code for anything from Ramirez about working with somebody outside, no matter how indirect. I joked that scarecrows with machine guns staffed the towers. An awkward silence followed. Both of us understood the odds of a contact would decrease after my fast-approaching release date.

Release

Ramirez and I were standing by our bunks for the 9 p.m. institutional count, a ritual now too familiar. After the guards were well along the corridor, I was looking through my books when Ramirez said, “Got a minute?”

“Maybe two or three,” I replied.

“One of everybody’s parole conditions is to seek and obtain lawful employment. I was just curious if you had anything lined up?”

I surprised myself at being so casual, since I knew that something was coming. “Nothing really. I’m going to live with my half-sister for free until I get work.”

“Very generous of her. What does she do?”

“An interior decorator. Not exactly my field. I still have a valid Airframe and Power Plant license, so I can repair planes, but not fly them. They took my commercial license.”

“What kind of planes have you flown? Is that the right question?”

“I had single and multi-engine land certificates. I’ve flown just about all of the single engine planes out there.”

“I have a friend,” began Ramirez, “who is looking for an agricultural pilot. It pays extremely well for Ag flying. If you’re interested, he can contact you at your sister’s house next week. He knows you’ve lost your license, but respects your experience.”

“Flying again. That would be fantastic. But I still need legit work.”

“We know. So, he can set you up as a mechanic at a small airfield near Miami, and you can pay your sister instead of freeloading.”

We both smiled at the mutual arrangement. I was filled with joy and fear at the same time. I had to put the thought that this scumbag was doing me a favor out of my head, although in some ways he was. The investigation can proceed to the next level with
a tighter focus. The next day I told Roy that I had seen a red-shouldered hawk from the yard.

I had gone through most of the pre-release motions. I met my parole officer (an FBI agent familiar with the situation and able to cover for me on required reports). And I met with the occupational counselor regarding employment. Both agreed that working as an aircraft mechanic would be feasible and help prevent my recidivism and a life of cycling in and out of jails. Of course, my half-sister would help provide a stable home environment off the streets. I said goodbye to Hightower and my Indian friends, and I gave Ramirez a sheet of paper with my sister’s phone, name, and address. Although he took the paper gracefully, I was certain he already knew that much and more.

As the prison door slammed shut behind me, I noticed that this time, the sound was beautiful.

Miami, Florida, October 1969

Jamie picked me up in a blue Plymouth. The Intelligence Division had shown me her photo before entering prison. We hugged like family, and I dumped my few belongings into the trunk. A two-hundred-and-sixty-mile drive lay in front of us. I felt a little nervous, something I put off as strange, especially since being liberated from a wretched experience. How big was the bonus they promised me? Jamie was quiet, nothing like the bubbly young woman on the telephone. She was attractive but not flashy. About five-foot-six-inches, long, light brown hair with bottle-blonde streaks, lovely figure, feminine, but somewhat plain. Of course, she was also undercover so her attire and presentation had to fit with her job. Jamie broke the silence.

“I’m going to take you shopping. I saw what you put in the trunk.”

I laughed, “Not suitable for an ex-con pilot.”

“Not suitable for anything except wash rags.”

“I’m offended,” I replied solemnly.

She answered with a gentle laugh.

After a few more miles of bad road in silence I said, “Tell me about crime in Miami.”

“We call Miami an open city. It’s not controlled by any one of the twenty-four La Cosa Nostra, or LCN, families like New York, Cleveland, New Orleans, Buffalo, and so on. The crime rate rose dramatically since arrival of the Cuban Exiles. We are watching, for example, Jose Miguel Battle, who controls a group of thugs who call themselves
The Corporation
. By the way, I now have permission to tell you about my activities. I argued that the living
arrangement with knowledge on only one side would be awkward and possibly dangerous. Back to crime. How about kidnapping, bribery of public officials, extortion, and bombings for starters.”

“Bombings?”

“Oh, yes. Freelancers or made men from the Bonanno family in New York commit most of the serious crimes if Santo Trafficante, the Tampa Mafia boss, sanctions their activities. He considers Florida his territory for LCN operations, and the families generally respect that.”

“You mentioned bombings,” I said.

“Three months ago, the FBI arrested a guy named Henry Kiter, who was extorting Delta Airlines for three-hundred-thousand dollars. If they didn’t pay up, then he would blow up a departing Miami flight. He was not affiliated with any group, just homegrown pond scum.”

“Can I ask what your undercover role is?”

“By training, I’m an accountant. I keep the books for one of the major players in Miami, and I’m part of an FBI team that’s trying to gather intelligence on organized crime in a disorganized city. So, how was prison?”

“Don’t give up your day job for a life of crime. I was in Coleman for less than a month, a very long month. I could never understand why some prisoners released after a long sentence deliberately violated parole to go back inside. But now I can. They have stayed so long that the rigid prison structure becomes part of their life, not to mention three-hots-and-a-cot plus medical care. I heard that old Appalachian moonshiners liked to be caught occasionally. A short sentence was ideal to get their teeth and other medical problems taken care of before they went back to work again, a perverse safety net.”

Miles of flat land passed in silence and short conversations. Around Vero Beach I said, “Shall I spell you on driving?”

“Do you have a license?” she asked, turning toward me with
a smile.

“It’s a perfect forgery of an Oklahoma license, done by the FBI’s finest.”

“Works for me, Sixkiller,” as she pulled off the highway.

Approaching Miami, I asked Jamie if the Intelligence Division had kept her up to date on new developments while I was in prison. She seemed informed about the Colombian nexus, the heroin dealer in D.C., and the general situation.

“Other than my half-sister, are you going to play any role in this?”

“Actually, SAC Wainwright, the U.S. Attorney, and your inspector are discussing that right now. Undercover work is highly unpredictable. Until they reach a consensus, I think the answer is that I have a passive support role, which protects both of us. Of course, if you get your dick in a wringer, we will help. In addition, it appears that my current assignment is about to close down. The U.S. Attorney expects to issue warrants in a month or two. For sensitive or classified calls to Washington, I have a new STU-1 secure phone in case someone puts an illegal tap on mine. The house is swept and the regular line is checked weekly, but I use the STU-1 for sensitive or classified matters. That is the long answer.”

“Thanks. What happened to the bubbly, silly girl I had telephone calls with?”

“Oh, I can do that too.”

“So, who’s the real Jamie? I don’t mean your name, but the real you?”

Miles passed without an answer.

“How long have you been a D.C. cop?”

“A little more than three years, counting prison time.”

“Funny. Have you changed?”

“Older cops seem to fall into two categories. Those who are cynical, burned out, and waiting for their twenty years to be over. As a rookie, I once asked an officer how many years of service he
had on the force. He replied, ‘I can retire in eleven years.’ And there are those who manage to maintain perspective. They take some joy in knowing that, from time to time, they improve the quality of life for the people. Camus concluded one of his essays by saying that one must imagine Sisyphus happy.”

Jamie gave me a long look. “So, you’re content with the struggle, rolling the stone up the hill?”

“Yes. If that changes, I’ll leave.”

“It’s hard being a female FBI agent in Hoover’s Bureau. He and Clyde don’t care much for women. Away from Washington, I can be more feminine, but in general, austerity rules. I suppose I was naive when I joined the Bureau. The violence and cruelty people are capable of was only an abstraction. Now I need to handle its reality. Basically, I’m the girl on the telephone who now has a more serious side with tougher skin. Does that answer your question?”

“I think we’ll get along fine,” I said.

Endless flat roads, cattle ranches, and orange groves seemed numbing to someone accustomed to hills. Finally, we turned onto the Sunshine State Parkway, which would lead us to Miami in approximately one hundred miles.

“Tell me about Karen,” said Jamie.

I answered with superlatives and felt slightly foolish after I noticed her smiling.

“Too much information, huh?”

“Not at all,” she replied. “Do you know what most men say when asked by a woman about their wives?”

“Um, I’m going to find out.”

“Well, the answer is: ‘She’s okay’ or ‘She’s nice;’ like they were talking about a bag of used golf clubs. No wonder she loves you, a macho man who can wear his heart on his sleeve when he wants to. Personally, I consider you an endangered species. That’s praise, by the way.” She beamed a smile at me and punched me in the leg.

“Do you have a steady boyfriend?”

“Used to. He didn’t like my job. He didn’t like this or that. He wanted me to be somebody else. Familiar story, right?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you do before becoming a G-Man?” I asked.

“I was a military brat. We moved constantly within the United States as well as to Germany and Korea. My mother could not handle the constant dislocations, and I wanted to attend college in the United States, so eventually we moved back. Before college, it was nearly impossible to have lasting friendships, and I think it turned me into a loner. Finally, I could make friends who wouldn’t disappear with the next set of reassignment orders. I wanted to become an FBI agent, and they were recruiting accountants. So, I have an accounting degree.

“Your job is tough on relationships. Karen had a hard time with this assignment. Did she tell you not to do it?”

“No. It was close. I would have declined if she couldn’t have handled it.”

“Female to male friend. She can’t handle it. She didn’t say no because she loves you and understood how much you wanted the job.”

I looked over at Jamie. She was right, of course.

“You know how to make a man feel good.”

“Love is always a balancing act. After you return home in one piece, you owe her big time. A romantic vacation would be my recommendation. She already has all the things money provides.”

“Thank you. I’ll do that, except I don’t feel so macho right now. My ass is hanging out in the breeze without a lifeline. I don’t like the part of waiting around some indefinite period of time for some unknown thugs to appear with some unknown offer of employment. Do I sound paranoid?”

“Actually, you sound like you have a firm grasp on reality. Welcome to the undercover shakes. You’ll need the vacation just
as much as her.”

We got off the parkway and turned south on Twenty-seventh Avenue, left on Seventh Street, and left again on Seventeenth Court. Near the end of the street was a pink, stucco rambler with a Spanish tile roof, a two-car garage, and a yard that needed watering and care. The house was L-shaped with large overhanging eaves, vented for natural cooling. As we walked in I noted the family room, three bedrooms, one converted to an office, and a functional kitchen. Well, this was home for a while.

“I want a short nap,” said Jamie. “Afterward, let’s go shopping for you and eat dinner.” Jamie noted my look and added, “You stink and have nothing to wear. Take a shower while I nap. I have an extra pair of jeans and a shirt that might fit you – my old boyfriend’s. You should look like a reputable gangster, and when was the last time you ate real food?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Also, I have a thousand in cash for you as well as a Sig model 210 with some extra clips, and various holster styles.”

“You can be my date anytime!”

“Yeah, well maybe when you smell a little better.”

I called Karen on the secure line. She squealed with delight to hear my voice. Then she paused. “You sound terrible,” she said. “Are you hiding anything from me?”

“No, except I haven’t slept much lately. I’m in a quiet house now and plan to rest for a few days.”

“Please call me whenever possible. I guess you can’t say anything about where you are.”

“No. I’m so sorry. Did Roy or Ray come by to see you?”

“Roy did. I liked him. He was nice, yet kind of somber at the same time, like his eyes had seen a lot.”

“Yeah. That’s Roy. I trust him. How are you and the family?”

“Fine. I bought a dog. It was actually Roy’s idea, but I wanted one anyway. I got him from one of those places where people moved or something and need to give away their pet. He’s so
sweet.”

“Tell me about our new roommate.”

“Well, he’s only three and is a German shepherd who weighs more than a hundred pounds. The vet said he has stopped growing.”

“Jesus. What do you feed it?”

“A lot. I call him
Wuffe.”

“That sounds like a girl’s name for a hundred-pound dog. Karen, I need to do some errands, but I’ll call when I can. If you don’t hear from me for a week or so, don’t worry. It means I’m working. I will be able to return to this house for breaks, okay? I love you, take care. Feed Wuffe. Bye.”

“Bye, Jake. I love you too.”

After we hung up, I thought,
Jake is my real name. Jamie has seen my profile, but always calls me James. Protocol; stay with the script. I don’t know Jamie’s name. I’m growing accustomed to strange
.

Contact

Jamie and I were famished and ate dinner first. Later, I decided an Indian gangster in Florida wore black alligator cowboy boots, Levi’s jeans, a black leather belt with a suitable silver and turquoise buckle, and western shirts. We actually found a western store that looked like it opened during the last century.

The old man was a little crotchety. “You ain’t no Seminole. You make a wrong turn about a thousand miles west of here?”

I laughed, said “Yes,” and told him that I was from Oklahoma.

“You like this heat and humidity?” His ribbing was good-natured.

“I plan to return home after I finish my business here,” I replied.

Since I didn’t know how long I had to wait for my business partners, I also bought a few books.

We drove home; I showered and slept hard. I never heard
Jamie make breakfast and leave for work.

Two days passed followed by a loud knock on the morning of the third day.

“Sixkiller?” One Cuban and one American stood in the doorway. The American did the talking and obviously was a boss. Jamie didn’t help them with their clothes shopping. The Cuban was dressed in black except for white socks. The boss wore some ill-fitting beige pants and a Hawaiian shirt that concealed the bulge under his left side.

“Maybe. Who wants to know?”

“Ramirez sends his regards. Says you’re expecting us.”

“Right. Let me leave a note for my sister. Am I returning here tonight?”

“Probably.”

I left a short message for Jamie and slipped the Sig into the small of my back. The three of us walked out to their car; the Cuban got in the back.

The American spoke first. “We are in the drug-smuggling business. You’ve just done four years and are on parole. If you’re caught again, you’ll be an old man when you leave prison. I want to make certain that you don’t have no second thoughts. If you do, you can step out, and we’ll drive off with no hard feelings.”

“I appreciate your directness. I’m in. Smuggling drugs is what I do. What’s your name?”

“Tony.”

“How about him,” motioning to the back seat.

“He is called No Name One, one of two professional enforcers we keep on the payroll full time. No Names Three and Four are part-time employees. We point out the targets, and the enforcer kills them using whatever plan works best for him. Number Two is sometimes called Napalm Josey because he likes to fire bomb homes and kill everybody. He says he gets off on the screams. We leave the methods up to them.”

“Handy to have around,” I replied.

“The boss is also Cuban and maintains two companies of professional soldiers who will assist in the next invasion of Cuba. A former U.S. special forces colonel trains and leads them. He keeps them ready since we don’t know the timing of the next opportunity.” We drove in silence for a bit.