waiting. Special Agent Glenn Yeager.”
Danny rose slowly, and they shook hands. “Did you say ‘Special Agent’ . . . ?”
“Come on in. We’ll have a talk and I’ll explain. This shouldn’t take long at all,” the man called Yeager said, holding the door open for Danny.
They went down a long corridor. Yeager seemed to have a slight limp. The walls were curved, following the curve of the building’s façade, and painted government-agency white. The floor was covered in ugly gray indoor-outdoor carpeting.
Yeager stopped at the first open door. A man was sitting at a round conference table in a small windowless room, talking on the phone, papers and folders spread out in front of him. He put down the phone’s handset when he saw the men, and got to his feet.
“Mr. Goodman, this is Special Agent Philip Slocum.”
Slocum was slim and had shoe-polish-black hair parted on one side and an athlete’s wiry build. He was whippetlike. His face was sharp and inquisitive, foxlike, lean and lined, with a heavy five-o’clock shadow. He looked coiled, compact and restless. Instead of offering his hand, he showed Danny a black leather badge holder.
The badge was gold-colored metal. The words DEPARTMENT OF JUS TICE over an eagle and, below it, the words US DRUG ENFORCE MENT ADMINISTRATION and SPECIAL AGENT and a number.
“You guys are DEA?” Danny said. “Now I’m totally confused. What’s this got to do with postage stamps?”
“I trust you haven’t mentioned this meeting to anyone,” said Yeager. He spoke in a precise, almost scholarly tone you wouldn’t expect to emanate from that froglike mouth. He sat at the round table, and beckoned Danny to do the same.
Danny remained standing and gave a barely perceptible nod. “What’s going on?”
“It’s for your own protection.”
“My
protection
? The citizens’ stamp committee—”
“Was a pretext to get you in here, Mr. Goodman,” said Yeager. He glanced at his colleague, who slid a sheet of paper across the table to Danny.
“Do you know what this is?” Yeager said. He seemed to be the one in charge.
The paper was covered with columns of figures. At first glance it meant nothing. When he looked closer, he saw his name and his bank’s name and his checking account number.
Then:
WIRE IN
and a series of numbers and the words
T. X. GALVIN
and more numbers and
$50,000.00
.
“Is that your bank account?” Yeager said.
“Yes.”
“This record is accurate? Thomas Galvin paid you fifty thousand dollars?”
“He didn’t ‘pay’ me anything. It’s a loan. Anyway, what the hell kind of invasion of privacy—?”
“Do you have paperwork for this ‘loan’?”
“Paperwork? A guy lends a friend some cash, he doesn’t make you go to a notary.”
“Thomas Galvin gave you fifty thousand dollars without any paperwork?”
“He’s a friend. He trusts me.”
“I’ll bet he does,” the other one, Slocum, said. His raspy tenor had the harsh sound of metal grinding against metal. His right leg vibrated, pistoned.
“You mind telling me what this is all about?”
“Thomas Galvin is the target of a DEA investigation.”
“Drugs? You seriously think . . . ? He’s an Irish Catholic guy from Southie, for Christ’s sake.”
“Ever hear of the Sinaloa cartel?” said Yeager.
“Mexican drug ring? What about it?”
“We have reason to believe that Thomas Galvin is working on behalf of the Sinaloa cartel.”
Danny stared in disbelief. Then he erupted in laughter. “Ah, now I get it. The Mexican wife. Sure. He’s married to a Mexican woman, so he
must
be connected to a drug cartel. Because, of course, all Mexicans work for the drug cartels, right?”
“Celina Galvin’s father was Humberto Parra Fernández y Guerrero,” Yeager said.
“Am I supposed to know who that is?”
“The former governor of Michoacán, one of the Mexican states, and later on a major player in the narcotics trade.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. This is
Danny rose slowly, and they shook hands. “Did you say ‘Special Agent’ . . . ?”
“Come on in. We’ll have a talk and I’ll explain. This shouldn’t take long at all,” the man called Yeager said, holding the door open for Danny.
They went down a long corridor. Yeager seemed to have a slight limp. The walls were curved, following the curve of the building’s façade, and painted government-agency white. The floor was covered in ugly gray indoor-outdoor carpeting.
Yeager stopped at the first open door. A man was sitting at a round conference table in a small windowless room, talking on the phone, papers and folders spread out in front of him. He put down the phone’s handset when he saw the men, and got to his feet.
“Mr. Goodman, this is Special Agent Philip Slocum.”
Slocum was slim and had shoe-polish-black hair parted on one side and an athlete’s wiry build. He was whippetlike. His face was sharp and inquisitive, foxlike, lean and lined, with a heavy five-o’clock shadow. He looked coiled, compact and restless. Instead of offering his hand, he showed Danny a black leather badge holder.
The badge was gold-colored metal. The words DEPARTMENT OF JUS TICE over an eagle and, below it, the words US DRUG ENFORCE MENT ADMINISTRATION and SPECIAL AGENT and a number.
“You guys are DEA?” Danny said. “Now I’m totally confused. What’s this got to do with postage stamps?”
“I trust you haven’t mentioned this meeting to anyone,” said Yeager. He spoke in a precise, almost scholarly tone you wouldn’t expect to emanate from that froglike mouth. He sat at the round table, and beckoned Danny to do the same.
Danny remained standing and gave a barely perceptible nod. “What’s going on?”
“It’s for your own protection.”
“My
protection
? The citizens’ stamp committee—”
“Was a pretext to get you in here, Mr. Goodman,” said Yeager. He glanced at his colleague, who slid a sheet of paper across the table to Danny.
“Do you know what this is?” Yeager said. He seemed to be the one in charge.
The paper was covered with columns of figures. At first glance it meant nothing. When he looked closer, he saw his name and his bank’s name and his checking account number.
Then:
WIRE IN
and a series of numbers and the words
T. X. GALVIN
and more numbers and
$50,000.00
.
“Is that your bank account?” Yeager said.
“Yes.”
“This record is accurate? Thomas Galvin paid you fifty thousand dollars?”
“He didn’t ‘pay’ me anything. It’s a loan. Anyway, what the hell kind of invasion of privacy—?”
“Do you have paperwork for this ‘loan’?”
“Paperwork? A guy lends a friend some cash, he doesn’t make you go to a notary.”
“Thomas Galvin gave you fifty thousand dollars without any paperwork?”
“He’s a friend. He trusts me.”
“I’ll bet he does,” the other one, Slocum, said. His raspy tenor had the harsh sound of metal grinding against metal. His right leg vibrated, pistoned.
“You mind telling me what this is all about?”
“Thomas Galvin is the target of a DEA investigation.”
“Drugs? You seriously think . . . ? He’s an Irish Catholic guy from Southie, for Christ’s sake.”
“Ever hear of the Sinaloa cartel?” said Yeager.
“Mexican drug ring? What about it?”
“We have reason to believe that Thomas Galvin is working on behalf of the Sinaloa cartel.”
Danny stared in disbelief. Then he erupted in laughter. “Ah, now I get it. The Mexican wife. Sure. He’s married to a Mexican woman, so he
must
be connected to a drug cartel. Because, of course, all Mexicans work for the drug cartels, right?”
“Celina Galvin’s father was Humberto Parra Fernández y Guerrero,” Yeager said.
“Am I supposed to know who that is?”
“The former governor of Michoacán, one of the Mexican states, and later on a major player in the narcotics trade.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. This is
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