B. L. Gastlin sat at a small table in Duarte's office. They had not handcuffed him, even though he was only temporarily out of jail. They had checked him out earlier in the day to make more undercover phone calls to Ortíz.
Félix gave him one of his ready smiles and said, "You done good, Byron. You got the man hisself on the line, and you set up a deal. Snap! Looks like it'll work out."
Gastlin grunted. "Not for me. You think my life will be worth anything after I do this?"
Félix leaned on a desk and said, "You have my guarantee you'll be safe. Or at the very least we'll find your killer." The DEA man laughed at the old joke, but it didn't seem to amuse the chubby drug dealer, so Félix said, "The judge will go a lot easier on your ass."
"I know it'll go easier on me if I talk, but I'm more worried about what'll happen outside this office. My business associates didn't go to Harvard. These guys are badasses."
Félix answered right back, "And some of the brothers at Marion or Leavenworth aren't dangerous? You look like a big, puffy chance to get rich or get a blow job. Either way, bro, you won't be happy."
"But I'll probably live."
"Look, besides pot we found the Beretta. My boy here," he nodded toward Duarte, "will lay down a simple 'armed trafficking' count, and you'll be one step closer to permanent residence in federal prison. Then there are the state charges for the assault on the old lady."
"Assault? I wrecked the truck."
"Yeah, then you grabbed a half-naked sixty-one-year-old woman and dragged her into a closet. That's not only assault, I think the state's attorney will manage a lewd and lascivious count, too."
Gastlin reached up and touched his swollen eye. "That lady got her revenge. My face and ribs are killin' me."
Félix didn't let up. "Then there's the theft of the truck and the reckless endangerment of the guy up in the bucket."
"I didn't even know he was there."
"Yo, dude, you sayin' your defense is that you did steal the truck, but inadvertently almost killed the FPL worker?"
Gastlin looked down at the table, then picked some spilled food off his orange jail shirt.
Duarte could read that signal easily. He was a beaten man. Félix was not only a good undercover, the guy had some interview skills as well.
Félix looked at Duarte, nodded, then with a tilt of his head, tried to get the ATF agent involved in the interview.
Duarte sat across from the despondent prisoner.
"Look, Gastlin." He waited for the man to look up into his eyes. "What do your initials, B. L., stand for again?"
Félix chuckled and said, "Based on my sore dick, I'd say 'butt licker.'"
Gastlin's face flashed red, and he looked down. "Byron Leon." He looked at Félix and said, "I already apologized. I just got the wrong vibe from you. I'm not gay."
Félix snorted, "You could've fooled me."
Duarte interrupted. "It doesn't matter."
Gastlin held firm. "It does. It does to me. I'm not gay."
Félix held up his hands. "Okay, you acted gay." He started to chuckle, and Gastlin sat, silent.
Duarte gave him a few moments to get over the joke at his expense. "We can protect you, and you can save a lot of years behind bars if you just cooperate."
Gastlin nodded slowly, then started to cry.
Duarte waited as the tears started to flow harder. "Wait, wait, don't cry."
The man looked up like he was about to be comforted. Like his day might turn from horrible to merely miserable.
Duarte added, "There's no crying here. You had a loaded pistol and drugs. You're a criminal. An armed trafficker. You don't have the right to cry. You didn't lose a house to a hurricane or have your family swept away by a tsunami. You're just a dimwitted guy who did something stupid. Now we're giving you the chance to make it right. Talk or take it like a man, but stop crying right this second."
Gastlin sniffled, wiped his nose with his hand and looked at Duarte. "You're right. What do you want to know?"
Duarte had to take a second because he had meant what he said; it hadn't been an act. But he was still stunned that it had worked. Now he was part of this case.
After debriefing Gastlin and finding only passing references to Ortíz in a couple of intelligence reports, the two federal agents slowed down.
Félix said, "Yo, Rocket, we need a break. We been at this since ten o'clock."
Duarte glanced at his G-Shock watch. It was almost three now. They had both skipped lunch. That didn't happen much with Chuck. In fact, he knew that Chuck, who had taken Gastlin back to the jail, had probably stopped for lunch over an hour ago.
Duarte turned and stared through the tall window that looked out over Flagler Boulevard and onto the intracoastal waterway. The brilliant sky met the ocean and the colors set off a fresh feeling in him, like when he'd been a teenager and slept the whole night through, and dreamed of building things instead of blowing them up or investigating how they were blown up. He had missed Florida in the service, and once he'd come back he had never taken it for granted. He only wished the window was open so he could smell the fresh air.
He heard the office doorbell and then the buzzer as the secretary let someone in through the outer door. A minute later, the office secretary leaned into his doorway and said, "Rocket, you got a visitor." He didn't ask who. He just cut across his cramped office, looked up at Félix and walked into the entryway. He stopped when he looked though the thick ballistic glass and saw the young woman there, her hair short and pulled back, her glasses resting on a nose that had been broken more than once.
He cracked open the door and said, "May I help you?"
She turned and said, "Are you Alex or Félix?"
"Alex Duarte. What can I do for you?"
She gave a sly smile and said, "I think it's more like what I can do for you." She held out her hand and let her wallet fall open.
All he saw were three initials that stood out: FBI.
As one of the few federal prisoners housed at the Palm Beach County jail, Byron Gastlin didn't feel cramped in his cell with the six other prisoners. But he didn't feel safe either. One of them, a Hispanic guy, was also a DEA victim and Gastlin knew him from the area. They had traded pot and coke a couple of times. Three of the others were being held on criminal tax charges while they waited for a bond hearing, and they were all bitching about a hard-core IRS agent named Robinson who had figured out their scam-they were no threat either. But a giant, flabby, toothless redneck from The Acreage kept looking at him like he was his next meal. Maybe Gastlin had seen Deliverance one too many times, but this guy made him nervous to the point of nausea. He was a failed bank robber, apparently, and kept saying the government was responsible for his problems because they hadn't provided him with help when he'd been fired from his job as a marine mechanic at the Port of Palm Beach after beaning a guy with a wrench. The guy was no Einstein, but that didn't make him any less dangerous.
Gastlin sat on his lower bunk listening to the inmates in the general section make their never-ending racket. It in no way quieted down, even after lights out. If he had known he might end up in a place like this, he never would've sold drugs for a living. But it was just so damn profitable. As a boat salesman, he'd been lucky to make thirty-five grand a year. After allowing someone to use one of his company's boats to run in a load of coke, he'd had the contacts to sell product himself, and in the first three months in the trade he had made a hundred thousand bucks. He took a lot of vacations and didn't work too much, so things had leveled off, but he made a nice living. He shepherded in one load every couple of months and sold mostly pot the rest of the time. But now it didn't seem nearly worth it. He hadn't slept. He hated the baloney sandwiches and Kool-Aid for lunch and he didn't want to wake up to find he was a pillow for the bank robber. He felt his eyes well with tears again. The swollen right one hurt to wipe. In the general population, he might worry about getting a beating for being soft, but here, with the federal prisoners, crying was accepted.