The Racketeer

He laughs and says, “Gee, I’ve never heard that before.”

My car is packed and I leave town. Four hours later I’m in McLean, Virginia, looking for a copy center that offers executive services. I find one in an upscale shopping center, pay a hookup fee, and plug in my laptop to a printer. After ten minutes of fiddling and haggling, I get the damned thing to work and print the letter to Nathan Cooley. It’s on Skelter Films stationery, complete with an address on 8th Avenue in Miami and a full selection of phone and fax numbers. On the envelope, I write: “Mr. Nathan Cooley, c/o Bombay’s Bar amp; Grill, 914 East Main Street, Radford, Virginia 24141.” To the left of the address, I write in bold letters: “Personal and Confidential.”

When it’s perfect, I cross the Potomac and drive through central D.C., looking for a post office drop box.





CHAPTER 28




Quinn Rucker turned his back to the bars, stuck his hands through, and touched his wrists behind him. The deputy slapped on the handcuffs as another one opened the cell door. They escorted Quinn to a cramped holding area where three FBI agents were waiting. From there, they walked him through a side door and into a black SUV with dark windows and more armed guards. Ten minutes later, he arrived with full escort at the rear door of the federal building, where he was whisked inside and up two flights of stairs.

Neither Victor Westlake, nor Stanley Mumphrey, nor any other lawyer in the room had ever taken part in such a meeting. The defendant was never brought in for a chat. If the police needed to talk to the accused, they did so at the jail. If his appearance was needed in court, the judge or magistrate called a hearing.

Quinn was led into the small conference room, and the handcuffs were removed. He shook hands with his lawyer, Dusty Shiver, who, of course, had to be present but was uncertain about the meeting. He had cautioned the Feds that his client would say nothing until he, Dusty, allowed him to speak.

Quinn had been in jail for four months and was not doing well. For reasons known only to his keepers, he was locked down in solitary confinement. Contact with his guards was minimal. The food was dreadful and he was losing weight. He was also taking antidepressants and sleeping fifteen hours a day. Often, he refused to meet with anyone from his family, or with Dusty. One week he demanded the right to plead guilty in exchange for life in prison; the next week he wanted a trial. He had fired Dusty twice, only to rehire him days later. He occasionally admitted killing Judge Fawcett and his girlfriend but always recanted and accused the government of doping his food. He had threatened the guards with promises of death and the deaths of their children, only to offer tearful apologies when his mood changed.

Victor Westlake was in charge of the meeting and began by saying, “Let’s get to the point, Mr. Rucker. We have it on good intelligence that you and some of your fellow conspirators desire to knock off one of our witnesses.”

Dusty touched Quinn’s arm and said, “Not a word. Do not speak until I say so.” Quinn smiled at Westlake as if killing a government witness would be a delight.

Westlake kept going: “The purpose of this little get-together is to warn you, Mr. Rucker, that if any of our witnesses are harmed, then you will face additional charges, and not just you. We’ll go after every member of your family.”

Quinn was grinning, and he blurted, “So, Bannister is on the run, huh?”

“Shut up, Quinn,” Dusty said.

“I don’t have to shut up,” Quinn said. “I hear Bannister has left the warm sun of Florida.”

“Shut up, Quinn!” Dusty snarled again.

“Got him a new face, probably a new name, the works,” Quinn continued.

Stanley Mumphrey said, “We’ll indict Dee Ray, Tall Man, several of your cousins, anybody and everybody we can throw the book at, Quinn, if you harm any of our witnesses.”

“You don’t have any witnesses,” Quinn shot across the table. “Only Bannister.”

Dusty threw his hands up and slumped in his chair. “I advise you to shut up, Quinn.”

“I hear you,” Quinn said. “I hear you.”

Westlake managed to maintain a scowl as he stared at the defendant, but he was stunned. The meeting was supposed to intimidate Quinn, not frighten the government. How on earth were they able to find Bannister in Florida and now know he had fled? It was a chilling moment for Westlake and his assistants. If they could find their informant, they would certainly bring him in.

“Your entire family could face capital murder charges,” Stanley plowed on in a feeble attempt to sound tough.

Quinn just smiled. He stopped talking and folded his arms across his chest.



I have to see Vanessa Young. A meeting has an element of risk; to be seen together by the wrong people would create questions I’m not ready to answer. But a meeting is inevitable and has been for several years.

I saw her at Frostburg, on a snowy day when many visitors didn’t make the drive. While I was talking to my father, Henry, she walked in and sat at the next table. She was there to visit her brother. She was gorgeous, early forties, soft brown skin, beautiful sad eyes, long legs, and tight jeans. The whole package. I could not keep my eyes off her, and Henry finally said, “You want me to leave?” Of course not, because if he left, then my visiting time was over. The longer he stayed, the longer I could look at Vanessa. Before long, she was looking back, and we were soon making serious eye contact. The attraction was mutual, at first.

But there were a couple of sticking points. First, my incarceration and, second, her marriage, which, as it turned out, was a mess. I leaned on her brother for information, but he wanted to stay out of it. We swapped a few letters, but she was afraid of getting caught by her husband. She tried to visit more often, to see both her brother and me, but she had two teenagers who were complicating her life. After her divorce was final, she dated other men, but nothing worked. I begged Vanessa to wait for me, but seven years is a long time when you’re forty-one. When her kids left home, she moved to Richmond, Virginia, and our long-distance romance cooled off. Vanessa’s background is such that she is extremely cautious and keeps one eye on the rearview mirror. I guess we have that much in common. Using encrypted e-mails, we manage to arrange a time and place. I warn her that I look nothing like the Malcolm Bannister she met in prison. She says she’ll take that chance. She can’t wait to see the new-and-improved version.

As I park outside the restaurant, in a suburb of Richmond, I have a bad case of the butterflies. I’m a wreck because I am about to finally touch the woman I have dreamed about for almost three years. I know she wants to touch me too, but the guy she was so physically attracted to back then looks entirely different now. What if she doesn’t approve? What if she prefers Malcolm to Max? It’s also unnerving to realize I’m about to spend time with the only person, outside the Feds, who knows both men.

I wipe perspiration from my forehead and consider leaving. Then I get out and slam the door.

She’s at the table, and as I almost stutter-step over, she smiles. She approves. I kiss her gently on the cheek and sit down, and for a long time we just look at each other. Finally, I say, “Well, what do you think?”

Vanessa shakes her head and says, “Pretty astonishing. I would have never known. Got any ID?” We both laugh and I say, “Sure, but it’s all bogus. It says I’m Max now, not Malcolm.”

“You look thin, Max.”

“Thanks, and you too.” I caught a glimpse of her legs under the table. Short skirt. Funky high heels. She’s dressed for action.

“Which do you prefer?” I ask.

“Well, I suppose I don’t have a choice now, do I? I think you’re cute, Max. I like the new you, the whole ensemble. Whose idea was the designer eyeglasses?”

“My consultant, same guy who suggested the slick head and four days of stubble.”

“The more I see, the more I like.”

“Thank God. I’m a nervous wreck.”

“Relax, baby. We’re in for a long night.”

The waiter takes our drink orders-a martini for me, diet soda for her. There are a lot of things I don’t want to discuss, namely my sudden exit from prison and witness protection. The brother she visited in prison got out but is already back behind bars, so we leave him out of the conversation. I ask about her kids, a daughter who’s twenty and in college and a son who’s eighteen and drifting.

At one point, as I’m talking, she stops me and says, “You even sound different.”

“Good. It’s a new speech pattern I’ve been practicing for months now. A much slower delivery and a deeper voice. Does it seem genuine?”

“I think so. Yes, it’s working.”

She asks where I’m living, and I explain I’ve yet to find a home. I’m moving around, trying to avoid getting trailed by the FBI and others, lots of cheap motels. I’m not a fugitive, but I’m not exactly in the clear. Our dinner arrives, but we hardly notice.

She says, “You look a lot younger. Maybe I should see your plastic surgeon.”

“Please, don’t change a thing.” I talk about the changes-primarily the eyes, nose, and chin. I amuse her by describing the meetings with my surgical team and our efforts to design a new face. I’m also twenty pounds lighter and she thinks I need to put on a few pounds. As our nerves settle we relax and talk like a couple of old friends. The waiter asks if our food is okay, since we’ve hardly touched it. We hit a number of topics, but in the back of our minds we’re both thinking the same thing. I finally say, “Let’s get outta here.”

The words are barely spoken and she’s reaching for her purse. I pay cash for the meal and we’re in the parking lot. I don’t like the idea of her apartment and she agrees. It’s rather small and bare, she explains. We check into a hotel I spotted down the street and order a bottle of champagne. Two kids on their wedding night could not possibly exert more energy than Vanessa and I. There was so much ground to cover, so much catching up to do.





CHAPTER 29




While Vanessa is at work, I run a few errands around Richmond. At one store, I spend $70 on a cheap prepaid cell phone with one hundred minutes of call time, and at another I buy the identical phone and plan for $68. I’ll give one phone to Vanessa and keep the other. At a pharmacy, I load up on prepaid credit cards. I have an appointment with a man who owns a camera shop and calls himself a videographer, but his fee is too high. If I’m lucky and get an interview, I’ll need two people-a cameraman and a gofer. This guy says he works with a full crew or doesn’t work at all.

Vanessa and I have a sandwich for lunch in a deli not far from her office. For dinner, we go to a bistro in the Carytown section of Richmond. Our after-dinner routine is remarkably, and wonderfully, similar to the night before, and in the same hotel room. This could be habit forming. Our plans for the third night, though, are derailed when her son calls. He’s passing through town and needs a place to stay. She figures he’ll need some money too.

We’re finishing dinner when the cell phone in my pocket vibrates. The caller ID says “Unknown,” but then all calls to this phone are unknown. Expecting big news, I say to Vanessa, “Excuse me,” and step away from the table. In the foyer of the restaurant, I answer the phone.

A vaguely familiar voice says, “Mr. Reed Baldwin, this is Nathan Cooley. I got your letter.”

I tell myself to speak slowly and deeply. “Yes, Mr. Cooley, thanks for the call.” Of course he got my letter-how else would he have my phone number?

“When do you want to talk?” he asks.

“Anytime. I’m in Washington right now and we finished filming today. I have some downtime, so right now is perfect. What about you?”

“I’m not going anywhere. How did you find me?”

“The Internet. It’s hard to hide these days.”

“I guess so. I usually sleep late, then work at the bar from about two until midnight.”

“How about lunch tomorrow?” I say, a bit too eagerly. “Just the two of us, no cameras or recorders or stuff like that. I’m buying.”

A pause, and I hold my breath. “Okay, I guess. Where?”

“It’s your neck of the woods, Mr. Cooley. You pick the time and place. I’ll be there.”

“Okay, at the Radford exit off Interstate 81 there is a place called Spanky’s. I’ll meet you there at noon tomorrow.”

“I’ll be there.”

“How will I recognize you?” he asks, and I almost drop my phone. Recognition is a far greater issue than he’ll ever realize. I have subjected myself to surgery that radically altered my face. I shave my head every other day and my beard once a week. I have starved off twenty pounds. I wear fake tortoiseshell glasses with round red frames, along with black T-shirts, fake Armani sport coats, and canvas sandals one would find only in Miami or L.A. I have a different name. I have a different voice and delivery.

And this entire charade has been carefully put together not to mislead the people who want to follow me or kill me but to conceal my real identity from you, Mr. Nathan Cooley.

I say, “I’m six feet tall, black, thin, a slick head, and I’ll be wearing a white straw hat, Panama style.”

“You’re black?” he blurts.

“Yep. Is that a problem?”

“No. See you tomorrow.”

I return to the table where Vanessa is waiting anxiously. I say softly, “It’s Cooley. We’re meeting tomorrow.”

She smiles and says, “Go for it.” We finish dinner and reluctantly say good-bye. We kiss outside the restaurant and act like a couple of teenagers. I think about her all the way to Roanoke.



I arrive fifteen minutes early and park so that I can watch the vehicles as they turn in to the Spanky’s lot. The first thing I’ll see is his car, or truck, and this will reveal a lot. Six months ago he was in prison, where he had served a little over five years. He has no father, an alcoholic mother, and no education past the tenth grade, so his choice of vehicle will be interesting. As we talk, my plans are to make a mental note of everything I can possibly see-clothing, jewelry, watch, cell phone.

The traffic picks up as the lunch crowd rolls in. At 12:03, a sparkling-new silver Chevrolet Silverado half-ton pickup arrives, and I suspect it’s Nathan Cooley. It is, and he parks on the other side of the lot. He glances around nervously as he walks to the front entrance.

It’s been four years since I’ve seen him, and he appears to have changed little. Same weight, same blond shaggy hair, though he once shaved his head in prison. He looks twice at the Florida tags on my car, then goes inside. I take a deep breath, put the Panama hat on my head, and walk to the door. Be cool, you idiot, I mumble to myself as my bowels flip. This will take a steady hand and nerves of steel.

We meet inside the front foyer and exchange pleasantries. I remove the hat as we follow the hostess to a booth in the rear. Across the table, we face each other and talk about the weather. For a moment, I’m almost overwhelmed by my ruse. Nathan is talking to a stranger, while I’m talking to a kid I once knew quite well. He doesn’t seem at all suspicious: no staring at my eyes or nose; no squinting, or raised eyebrows, or distant glances as he listens to my voice. And, thankfully, no “You kinda remind me of a guy I once knew.” Nothing, so far.

I tell the waitress I really want a beer, a tall draft, and Nathan hesitates before saying, “The same.” The success of this long-shot mission could well depend on alcohol. Nathan was raised in a culture of hard drinking and meth addiction. Then he spent five years in prison, clean and sober. I’m assuming he’s back to his old habits now that he’s out. The fact that he owns his own bar is a good indication.

For a hillbilly who was never taught how to dress, he looks okay. Washed jeans, a Coors Light golf shirt some salesman left at the bar, and combat boots. There is no jewelry and no watch, but he does have an incredibly ugly prison tattoo inside his left forearm. In short, Nathan is not flashing around money with his appearance.

The beer arrives and we tap glasses. “Tell me about this film,” he says.

Out of habit, I nod, pause, tell myself to speak slowly, clearly, and as deeply as possible. “I’ve been making documentaries for ten years now, and this is the most exciting project I’ve seen.”

“Look, Mr. Baldwin, what is a documentary film exactly? I watch some movies and all, but I don’t think I’ve seen too many documentaries.”

“Sure. They’re typically small, independently produced films that you don’t see in the big movie houses. They’re not commercial. They’re about real people, real problems, real issues, no big movie stars and all that. Really good stuff. The best win awards at film festivals and get some attention, but they’re never going to make a lot of money. My company specializes in films that deal with the abuse of power, primarily by the federal government, but also by big corporations.” I take a sip, tell myself to go slow. “Most are about an hour long. This one might run for ninety minutes, but we’ll decide that later.”

The waitress is back. I order a chicken sandwich, and Nathan wants a basket of wings.

“How’d you get into the bar business?” I ask.

He takes a gulp, smiles, says, “A friend. The guy who owned the bar was going under, not from the bar, but from other properties. Recession got him, I think. So he was trying to unload Bombay’s. He was looking for some fool to take the deed and assume the debts, and I said what the hell. I’m only thirty, no job, no prospects, why not take a chance? So far, though, I’m making money. It’s kinda fun. Lots of college girls hanging around.”

“You’re not married?”

“No. Don’t know how much you know about me, Mr. Baldwin, but I just finished a five-year prison sentence. Thanks to the federal government, I ain’t had too many dates recently; just now getting back in the game. Know what I mean?”

“Sure. The prison time arose out of the same incident in which your brother was killed, right?”

“You got it. I pled guilty and went away for five. My cousin is still in prison, Big Sandy over in Kentucky, a bad place. Most of my cousins are either locked up or dead. That’s one reason I moved to Radford, Mr. Baldwin, to get away from the drug business.”

“I see. Please call me Reed. My father is Mr. Baldwin.”

“Okay. And I’m Nathan, or Nate.” We tap glasses again as if we’re suddenly much closer. In prison we called him Nattie.

“Tell me about your film company,” he says. I anticipated this, but it is still shaky ground.

I take a gulp and swallow slowly. “Skelter is a new company based in Miami, just me and two partners, plus a staff. For years I worked for a bigger production company in L.A., an outfit called Cove Creek Films, you may have heard of it.” He has not. He just glanced at the rear end of a shapely young waitress. “Anyway, Cove Creek has won a ton of awards and made decent money in this business, but last year it blew up. Big fight over creative control and which projects to do next. We’re still in the middle of some nasty litigation that looks like it will drag on for years. There’s an injunction in federal court in L.A. that prohibits me from even talking about Cove Creek or the lawsuit, pretty crazy, huh?” To my relief, Nathan is rapidly losing interest in my film company and its problems.

“Why are you based in Miami?”

“I went there a few years ago working on a film about bogus government defense contractors and fell in love with the place. I live on South Beach. Ever been there?”

“No.” Except for the trips arranged by the U.S. Marshals Service, Nathan has never ventured more than two hundred miles from Willow Gap.

“It’s a happening place. Beautiful beaches, gorgeous girls, wild nightlife. I got a divorce four years ago and I’m enjoying the single life again. I spend about half the year there. The other half, I’m on the road filming.”

“How do you film a documentary?” he asks, then knocks back some beer.

“It’s far different from a feature film. It’s usually just me and a cameraman, maybe a technician or two. The story is the important part, not the scenery or the actor’s face.”

“And you want to film me?”

“Absolutely. You, maybe your mother, maybe other members of the family. I want to go to the place where your brother was killed. What I’m after here, Nathan, is the truth. I’m onto something, something that could really be big. If I can prove the DEA systematically knocks off drug dealers, that they murder them in cold blood, then we might be able to bust these sumbitches. My nephew was breaking bad, getting deeper into the crack trade, but he was not a hard-core dealer. Stupid, yes, but not dangerous. He was seventeen and unarmed, and he was shot three times from point-blank range. A stolen pistol was left at the scene, and the DEA claims it belonged to him. They’re a bunch of liars.”

Nathan’s face slowly contorts into anger and he looks as if he wants to spit.

I press on: “The film will be the story of three, maybe four of these murders. I’m not sure if my nephew’s will be included because I’m the filmmaker. Maybe I’m too close to his death. I’ve already filmed the story of Jose Alvarez in Amarillo, Texas, a nineteen-year-old undocumented worker who was shot fourteen times by DEA agents. Problem is, no one in his family speaks English and there’s not much sympathy for illegal immigrants. I’ve filmed the story of Tyler Marshak, a college boy in California who was peddling marijuana. The DEA broke into his dorm room like a bunch of Gestapo goons and shot him dead in his bed. You may have read about it.” He has not. The Nathan Cooley I knew played video games hours a day and never looked at a newspaper or magazine. Nor does he have the innate curiosity to check out either Skelter Films or Cove Creek.

“Anyway, I have some great footage of the dorm room, the autopsy, and statements from his family, but they’re currently tied up in a lawsuit against the DEA. I may not be able to use this.”

Lunch arrives and we order more beer. Nathan rips chicken off the bone and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Why are you so interested in my brother’s case?”