troubles into publicity and self-promotion. Whether or not the accusations and rumors were true wouldn’t matter; what mattered were the headlines to be made. Congressmen loved headlines written in somebody else’s blood. So Neil Shire and others now found themselves sitting behind new desks in new cities, and the men running the bureau waited for the telephone to ring with an invitation to appear at an inquiry.
For his first five months in Manhattan, Neil Shire sat in a cubicle shifting papers. Four times he made it to the street as backup for somebody else on a buy. But that was nothing leading to nowhere. If it hadn’t been for a Manhattan cop he’d met in Washington a few years ago at federal narcotics intelligence school, Neil would still have a numb ass from sitting. The cop, Fred Praether, had telephoned and offered him Lydia Constanza.
At the federal intelligence school attended by agents and policemen from around the country to update themselves on narcotics, Neil had given a week of lectures on the increasing thefts of amphetamines, barbiturates, and methaqualones from legitimate manufacturers and distributors.
Four lectures a day, one hour each, six days a week, and when it was over, Neil felt as though he’d been hit in the throat with an ax. All that damn talking, answering questions. Fred Praether, a stubby cop with a jaw like a pelican’s and eyes that rarely blinked, took detailed notes and asked sensible questions. Neil had invited him home for a meal, so that Praether could continue telling him about the rise of Cubans in New York City dope dealing.
During that week, Elaine had found Praether a date, and the four of them had gone to the Kennedy Arts Center to see a Beckett play, which only Elaine claimed to have enjoyed. Praether had remembered Neil’s hospitality.
Ordered to turn Lydia Constanza over to federal narcotics agents, Praether had called the bureau’s Manhattan office two weeks ago and was shuffled around until he made contact with Walker Wallace’s group. Neil Shire, assigned to telephone and radio duty that day, had been the first to talk with Praether.
Walker Wallace picked his nose with his pinkie, using his other hand to wave to an agent walking past the open door of his office. “Katey. He coming in today?”
Neil, unable to get friendly with Detective Sergeant Edward Merle Kates in three weeks of knowing the cop, loosened his tie. “Said he’ll try. He’s in court this morning. Bust he made a month ago.”
A young black agent with a bushy afro, .38 in the waistband at the small of his back, strolled slowly into Walker Wallace’s office while reading a report. Without saying a word he dropped the report on Wallace’s desk, nodded to Neil, and left. The area outside the office was coming alive. Agents sat in chest-high cubicles of yellow plywood and gray plexiglass, huddled over telephones while pecking at reports. Scotch-taped to plexiglass were color snapshots of wives, girlfriends, children, dogs, along with black-and-white snapshots of narcotics informants and suspects.
In front of the cubicles, teams of secretaries typed from tapes of court-ordered wiretaps. Neil, back on the street, back hunting again, listened to the sounds of telephones and typewriters coming through Walker Wallace’s open door and felt good.
Walker Wallace wiped his pinkie with a napkin. “Katey says your girl’s a useless spic trying to walk. Says she’s giving us a first-class stroke job.”
Neil cupped his hands and blew into them. “Katey’s pissed because his people had to give us Lydia. He’s not happy about us being able to afford informants when New York cops can’t. Let’s face it: if Lydia bombs out, it means the police gave us nothing, they lost nothing.”
Walker Wallace went on as if Neil hadn’t answered. “Zilch is what we’re gonna get, according to Katey. He says Lydia’s not heavy enough to know if Cubans and blacks are bringing in a super shipment. You know
For his first five months in Manhattan, Neil Shire sat in a cubicle shifting papers. Four times he made it to the street as backup for somebody else on a buy. But that was nothing leading to nowhere. If it hadn’t been for a Manhattan cop he’d met in Washington a few years ago at federal narcotics intelligence school, Neil would still have a numb ass from sitting. The cop, Fred Praether, had telephoned and offered him Lydia Constanza.
At the federal intelligence school attended by agents and policemen from around the country to update themselves on narcotics, Neil had given a week of lectures on the increasing thefts of amphetamines, barbiturates, and methaqualones from legitimate manufacturers and distributors.
Four lectures a day, one hour each, six days a week, and when it was over, Neil felt as though he’d been hit in the throat with an ax. All that damn talking, answering questions. Fred Praether, a stubby cop with a jaw like a pelican’s and eyes that rarely blinked, took detailed notes and asked sensible questions. Neil had invited him home for a meal, so that Praether could continue telling him about the rise of Cubans in New York City dope dealing.
During that week, Elaine had found Praether a date, and the four of them had gone to the Kennedy Arts Center to see a Beckett play, which only Elaine claimed to have enjoyed. Praether had remembered Neil’s hospitality.
Ordered to turn Lydia Constanza over to federal narcotics agents, Praether had called the bureau’s Manhattan office two weeks ago and was shuffled around until he made contact with Walker Wallace’s group. Neil Shire, assigned to telephone and radio duty that day, had been the first to talk with Praether.
Walker Wallace picked his nose with his pinkie, using his other hand to wave to an agent walking past the open door of his office. “Katey. He coming in today?”
Neil, unable to get friendly with Detective Sergeant Edward Merle Kates in three weeks of knowing the cop, loosened his tie. “Said he’ll try. He’s in court this morning. Bust he made a month ago.”
A young black agent with a bushy afro, .38 in the waistband at the small of his back, strolled slowly into Walker Wallace’s office while reading a report. Without saying a word he dropped the report on Wallace’s desk, nodded to Neil, and left. The area outside the office was coming alive. Agents sat in chest-high cubicles of yellow plywood and gray plexiglass, huddled over telephones while pecking at reports. Scotch-taped to plexiglass were color snapshots of wives, girlfriends, children, dogs, along with black-and-white snapshots of narcotics informants and suspects.
In front of the cubicles, teams of secretaries typed from tapes of court-ordered wiretaps. Neil, back on the street, back hunting again, listened to the sounds of telephones and typewriters coming through Walker Wallace’s open door and felt good.
Walker Wallace wiped his pinkie with a napkin. “Katey says your girl’s a useless spic trying to walk. Says she’s giving us a first-class stroke job.”
Neil cupped his hands and blew into them. “Katey’s pissed because his people had to give us Lydia. He’s not happy about us being able to afford informants when New York cops can’t. Let’s face it: if Lydia bombs out, it means the police gave us nothing, they lost nothing.”
Walker Wallace went on as if Neil hadn’t answered. “Zilch is what we’re gonna get, according to Katey. He says Lydia’s not heavy enough to know if Cubans and blacks are bringing in a super shipment. You know
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