He will be wary. But curious.
In a world that relied on disposable cells like the number he’d given, finding a freestanding telephone could be a trick. Student #5 had spent a little time that day reconnoitering the ten-block area around the drug dealer’s home and had identified four different locations where old-fashioned pay phones still operated. He will either go to the Mobil station on Calle Ocho or to the McDonald’s on Douglas Road. Both are well lit and busy, even late at night. He will feel safe in either. Maybe.
This made Student #5 smile. Things were reversed: The criminal with the gun will feel he’s in danger. Mister Helpful-that’s me-is in control.
He thought a little harder and then drove toward the gas station. The McDonald’s was likely to attract cops needing coffee.
He was correct in this supposition. He parked on a side street after seeing the dealer pull into the station. Within seconds his phone rang. He let it ring twice, smiling. That 413 area code won’t be lost on him. Western Massachusetts.
“Okay, I’m listening,” the drug dealer said. “Secure line. So, no bullshit.”
“What do I get for giving you a name?” Student #5 asked.
“What do you want?”
“Cash and some blow.”
“How much of each?”
“How much do you want the name?”
“I want the name. But how do I know you’ve got the right information?”
“You don’t. But it is.”
“Fuck you. I don’t believe you. Made me come out for nothing.”
Student #5 was already enjoying the conversation. It was an unusual match of wits. The dealer was sophisticated about the mechanics of crime-but not as sophisticated as Student #5 was. “Not nothing,” Student #5 said.
“You a cop?” the dealer demanded.
“That’s a stupid question,” Student #5 replied. “I can say no. I can say yes. You’re not going to believe either answer.”
“The law says you have to identify yourself if…”
“I don’t really adhere to many laws,” Student #5 said. “Of course, that could be true for all sorts of people. Good guys. Bad guys. Rogue cops even.”
The dealer hesitated. “Okay,” he said. “Then give me a plan.”
Student #5 took this moment to pause, as if he was thinking, when he had already decided what he was going to do: make himself seem greedy. “Two ounces and five grand cash.”
“That’s a lot.”
“Not really. The amount of coke is low enough so even if I’m stiffing you, you can easily make it up by cutting your next batch a little more carefully. Same for the cash. Not a huge sum. Hell, in a legitimate business it would be a tax write-off-like taking some executives out to a fancy dinner and ordering an expensive bottle of wine-and the government would end up paying a third of it when it came off your tax return. Think of it the same way. And you can afford it, even if I’m lying. Which I’m not.”
“Okay, if I agree, how do we…”
“Same place where you are standing. In twenty minutes. I’ll call that line.”
“Twenty minutes isn’t nearly enough…”
“Sure it is. I figure you’ve got that much cash lying around your house. And don’t be stupid enough to bring anyone with you-even if you could get some muscle out of bed and hustle over here in twenty minutes. Hurry home. Grab the coke. Grab the cash. Hurry back. This transaction is going to take ten seconds. You hand me an envelope and I give you a name. Then we never see each other again.”
The dealer paused again.
“This sounds like a scam. I think maybe fuck you.”
“That would be your choice. But just how many people know you got pinched and then released so fast it would make your eyeballs spin? Not too many, I bet. Other than the cops, the guy who turned you in, and me, who else knows your business ventures took a little side trip to the Dade County Jail? I suspect you would prefer to keep this blip on your financial horizon quiet. Too easy for your clientele to say ‘So long, thanks for everything’ and find someone who isn’t on the police radar.”
This was an argument that Student #5 believed would ring true. Economics of drug dealing in Miami: There was always someone ready to step into an artificial void.
“Tell you what,” the dealer said cautiously. “One grand. No blow. You give me the name. It pans out, and I’ll fix you up with the rest.”
“Now who needs to trust whom?” Student #5 said. Not stupid, Student #5 thought. Handing over that much cocaine is a felony and he still thinks I just might be a cop or a DEA informant. Handing over cash isn’t anything.
“My lawyer will get the informant’s name.”
“If he could, he already would. Tell you what,” Student #5 said. “One ounce. Two grand and that’s it. Just enough for me to have a little party.”
“Can’t do the blow,” the dealer said. “You should know that when the cops showed up they seized my whole supply. Wiped me out. So it’s cash only for the name.”
Student #5 hesitated, to give the impression that he was thinking, when he’d expected this. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Two grand. And a taste. Oxy. Grass. Something for a party.”
“Where do we meet?”
“Right where you’re standing now.”
“Twenty minutes, and back here,” the dealer said. “Twelve hundred and whatever I can dig up and we have a deal.”
The taste would be some very small amount of something that looked like but wasn’t actually OxyContin. Probably over-the-counter antihistamines. He didn’t care.
“Done,” Student #5 said. “Clock is starting now.”
Hang up.
Dealer gets back in his car. A black Mercedes, as familiar in Miami as palm trees. Pulls away. Moving fast, but not fast enough to attract unwanted attention.
Wait seven minutes.
Walk across to the Mobil station. Approach the exterior phone from an angle where the only attendant inside behind the counter can’t see.
Drop the baseball hat on the concrete beneath the phone.
Walk away.
It took twenty-two minutes for the dealer to return. From his vantage point, Student #5 watched him hurry to the pay phone. Student #5 dialed the number and saw the dealer seize the receiver.
“You were late,” Student #5 said.
“No I wasn’t,” the dealer replied.
“Not worth arguing over,” Student #5 said. “Here’s what you do: Look down… see the hat on the ground?”
The dealer did as he was told. “Yes.”
“Okay, you’re going to put the agreed-upon elements of all this into that hat and turn it over so it’s hidden. First, though, hold up the cash so I can see it. And you should figure that from where I’m watching you, I can even read the serial numbers on the bills.”
Student #5 saw the dealer smile. “You sound like someone who’s done this before. Makes me think this is bullshit.”
“Just don’t be stupid, like put the stuff in, get the name from me, and then pick it all up and try to leave. That would anger me immensely, and I have some resources.”
“You threatening me?”
“Yes.”
The dealer laughed a bit.
“So, we’re not going to meet?”
“You want to?”
Again, he saw the dealer smile.
“Not really.”
The dealer removed an envelope from his pocket. He fanned a few bills in front of his chest: $100s.