Kalatis waved his cigar languidly. “The thing is, despite all that happens there, the place still works and it works well. There is a reason. ‘Los hombres de siempre.’
“Now that the narcotics trade has proved its stability over several decades, now that it is easily into the tens of billions of dollars per annum without fluctuating or being appreciably affected by law enforcement or the vagaries of the world economy, these cautious men have gradually inserted themselves into the picture. Escobar, Ochoa, Gacha, men of that kind were the roughnecks, the pioneers, the cowboys. They were neither educated nor sophisticated. They were unpredictable. They had the mentality of street fighters even though they were dealing in billions. They were necessary, of course, every frontier must have its pioneers, but the ‘drug culture’ is no longer a new phenomenon, no longer a frontier. It is an established way of life now, all over the world, and as always happens when something new becomes an established part of society, the torch is passed from the pioneers to the settlers, to the men of commerce and politics. Change is inevitable, and the time for a more mature perspective in this business is long overdue… and now it’s here.”
He sipped the rum. He pulled a couple of times on the Cohiba. He let the fragrance and the taste of each meld together.
“I have been working with these people for four years. Never a single problem. They are businessmen, and they know that chaos costs money. Order and efficiency make money. And they know that publicity is for movie stars and fools, not businessmen. Before long-they are deliberate men, almost Oriental in their perspective on time-they will be all there is of the cartels. Anyone who wants the southern spice… will have to buy it from the men of always.”
“Then it’s agreed,” Kalatis said softly. There were only the two of them on the veranda, and they had finished their last Cuba Libre. Each was leaning his elbows on the wicker table between them, and they were talking softly, casually, almost in a tone of indifference. “Five million.”
“Cash.”
“Oh, yes. Of course.” He nodded meditatively. “You have this maturing from…”
“Everything, T-bills, triple A bonds, CD’s… stock. That’s flexible, the amount from the stocks, I mean.”
“But you’ll have five million? I’ll need to know the exact amount.”
“Yes. Five even.”
“From four or five different banks at least. In several different states. That’s important.”
“It’s been arranged.”
“Two days from now.”
The man nodded, and swallowed. Kalatis knew how he felt. He knew these guys. Men too much in a hurry, too much in love with the way it worked in the eighties to wait for the nineties to pay off. He was making a fortune off the impatience of men like this. Even so, even the real pirates among them got cottonmouth from giving away five million in cash. No collateral, no contracts, no handshakes. But Kalatis had never failed one of them, and that was why they kept coming, this one for the first time.
“And this is part of a ‘mutual fund,’ “the guest said, wanting Kalatis to reassure him one more time.
“Oh yes.” Kalatis nodded readily. “This is one package-all Houston investors. Thirty-two million dollars. Your friend who recommended me to you is in for eight million. But you know that There are two others. Yours is the smallest portion. All of the others have invested with me before. You understand I cannot provide their names. Many of our investors know each other because they have recommended one another. But some wish to remain unknown. You are the only newcomer in this particular program.”
The guest nodded.
“Good. Okay,” Kalatis said. “Now, for my part: I guarantee you a three hundred percent return. In sixty days you will receive a telephone message telling you where and when to meet my representative in Luxembourg. You will open an account there in your name for fifteen million American dollars. My representative will provide the documentation that will satisfy the bankers about the deposit. They want that now. Things have gotten a little more difficult in that regard, but it is only a matter of paperwork. Formalities.”
Kalatis’s cold cigar lay in the ashtray between them, and the ice cubes-all that was left of their Cuba Libres- had turned to less than half an inch of warm water in the bottom of each glass.
“Any questions?”
“You’ll pick me up again?”
“One of my people, yes.”
“At the same place?”
Kalatis nodded.
“Okay. I’m satisfied.”
Kalatis stood. “So am I.”
The other man stood too, and suddenly one of Kalatis’s guards appeared at the edge of the veranda.
“He’ll take you back to the States,” Kalatis said “It will be a pleasure doing business with you.”
“Sir,” the guard said, stepping up and touching the businessman’s arm. The businessman started to shake Kalatis’s hand, but the Greek turned away to light another Cohiba.
“Good-bye,” Kalatis said through a haze of blue smoke, “and bonne chance.”
The businessman stood still while he was once again blindfolded. Then he was led down the steps and across the lawn to the seaplane moored at the dock below.
WEDNESDAY
Chapter 37
The Fourth Day
Anticipating he would have a difficult time getting to sleep, Graver set his alarm late, allowing himself just enough time to shower and shave and drive to Arnette’s. No time for breakfast. Within half an hour of waking, he was walking out the front door of the house. Avoiding the expressways, he negotiated the slower city streets and tried not to acknowledge his growling stomach. He would have given five dollars for a cup of coffee, but did not stop to get one. He already was cutting it close. When he pulled up in front of Arnette’s house he was five minutes late.
He got out of the car, pushed the door closed softly and walked up to the front gate. The morning sun broke through the high overstory of water oaks and loblolly pines only intermittently, falling here and there on the leaves of the plantains and the palmetto fronds in brassy, molten splashes. Already the birds were clamoring high overhead.
Mona met Graver at the front door, smiling and barefoot and holding a mug of steaming coffee.
“Good God, Mona, I love you,” Graver said, gratefully taking the mug from her and following her into the perpetual twilight of Arnette’s living room.
“I love you too, bah-bee.” Mona laughed. “The Lady is waiting for you next door,” she said, and then hopefully, “Have you had something to eat?”
“Oh, I’m doing all right,” he lied, wishing he had the time to sit down and indulge himself with one of Mona’s incomparable breakfasts.
“Okay.” She shrugged philosophically, as if it was Graver’s loss.
He left her in the kitchen and continued out the side door to the grape arbor and over to the next house, entering through the screened patio.
The big room was empty except for a hard-looking woman with a mat of roan hair sitting at the big library table beside the radio. She was wearing the same headset the blond girl had worn the night before and was taking notes from one of the fat ring binders with which the table was still piled.
She looked up at him. “Graver?”
He nodded.
She pushed a button and returned to her writing, occasionally, like the blonde, reaching out to fine-tune the dials without looking at them.
Graver looked around. The computers were all quiet, each of them in a hectic limbo with different patterned
