John Dobbyn - Neon Dragon

Nothing. He was still looking. He was still not talking. I had to get a confirmation in my own mind about Anthony’s connection.

“The question, Abdul, is are you up to it? Behind all that bopping jive, is there a businessman who can handle a serious operation? Needless to say, the position carries a higher cut.”

The furrows grew deeper, but no words came out.

“Or do we look elsewhere? I’ll tell you right now, you’re not my choice, but my client insists on giving you a chance. Either way, I have to know immediately, because steps have to be taken.”

He just looked from me to the table. I had to jar him loose.

“OK, Abdul. That answers it. The job interview is terminated. You’ll be hearing from the new man.”

I started to move out of the booth when he caught my sleeve.

“Hold on, man. Sit down. I don’t know anything about you.”

I settled back in.

“Well, I’ll tell you, Abdul. You know the one I represent. You know I know about the Chinatown connection. You know I know about the operation here. You’re smart enough to notice that I’m talking to you instead of to the U.S. Attorney. Maybe that tells you something. If it doesn’t, so be it. You’re out. I meet with a new contact, and you go on being a flunky. I’m happy either way. The only option I don’t have is to waste time. There’s a kettle of wonton soup waiting to be delivered.”

The look on his face said the wall was cracking. One last thrust.

“Last chance, Abdul, I’m no dentist. I’m through pulling teeth here. We talk, or I walk. Call it. I have to get word to my client.”

I gave a little move-out body language, and he grabbed my elbow again.

“All right. I’m in. Tell Anth… your client. I’m the man. I just gotta be careful.”

That locked it shut. Now I knew. Whether or not Anthony pulled the trigger on Mr. Chen, he was no choirboy. While I was at it, I decided to work the mine a bit further.

“Careful is good. Careful is what keeps the operation going.” I checked my watch. “Let’s get this done, and I’m out of here.”

I leaned in for the kill.

“How well do you know the operation?”

“I know it. I been around since right after… your client got in it.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything. Our friend wants me to be sure you can handle it. Who are the contacts on campus?”

He pulled back and looked around.

“I’m not gonna’ say it out loud.”

“There’s no one here but us chickens, Abdul. In case you missed the point, this is a quiz. Before I put you in touch with Chinatown, you’ve got to convince me that you’ve got control of the operation. Point one, I want to hear the contacts. Not to make you nervous, but I’m here to grade your paper. You miss one of them, and this interviewer finds another applicant.”

He looked up at me and started slowly.

“Over at the gym, there’s Matt Toner.”

He paused. It could have been to see if it was what I wanted to hear. But there was something in the way he was looking in my eyes for a reaction that set off an alarm. I swung out of the booth.

“You’re wasting my time, Abdul. You’ll be hearing from whoever I pick. Have a nice life.”

He jumped, “Whoa, man. I had to test you. I had to find out if you really knew them. Sit down. Gimme a chance.”

I sat. Abdul was like a well that gives nothing until it’s adequately primed, and then it gushes forth sweet water. He laid out the names and locations of every drug-dealing contact in the operation. As a check, I was glad to hear the two names Barry gave me. I was relieved to hear among the missing the names of Gail Warden and Rasheed Maslin, the two students I had first met in the office of The Point.

He even laid out the flow of the narcotics from the Chinatown connection through his organization’s distribution to impress me with his grasp of the business. I was impressed.

I listened without emotion. When he finished, I nodded.

“You’ve got it, kid. Can you handle a shipment next week?”

“Yeah. Things’re getting low.”

“I’ll be in touch. I’ll leave a message at The Point when I want you to contact me. You better get out of here. I’ll wait for a few minutes after you leave.”

I let him out. He seemed to walk with less bop and more stature. Being an executive had apparently gone to his head.

When he cleared the door, I checked the recorder in my pocket to see that it was still running. I ran a rewind to check the quality of the recording. It sounded better than a Blue Note CD to me. I also noted that neither Anthony’s nor my name was mentioned from the point where I had set it in motion in my pocket.

I popped out the cassette and put it in the envelope I brought in my pocket. I addressed the envelope to the president of Harvard University.

Before I sealed it and dropped it into a Harvard Square mailbox, I slipped a note into the envelope that just said,

Dear Mr. President:

Consider this my annual contribution to the Harvard alumni fund.

I used my cell phone to call my number at Bilson, Dawes, which Julie picked up on the third ring. She was sweet as could be until she heard my voice. Then the whispered torrent started.

“What did you do to that poor girl? She was frightened out of her mind…”

“Julie…”

“She could barely eat. I don’t know what you put her through, but if…”

There was no stopping her. I hung up and redialed. Before she could rev up again, I slipped in a couple of sentences.

“I didn’t touch her. I saved her. I haven’t got time to explain the whole thing. Someday I’ll tell you. In the meantime, you’re an angel to help her.”

That got her back on earth.

“Julie, did Tom Burns call?”

“Yes. About ten minutes ago.”

“And said what?”

“It was weird. He just said, ‘Bingo. Walpole.’ What does that mean?”

“It means I love you, Julie. I’ll reimburse you for anything you spend on Mei-Li.”

“Oh, no you won’t.”

“We’ll talk later. Keep Mei-Li out of sight. Nobody sees her but me. I don’t know if she told you, but there are those whose day would be made by her demise. They’d arrange it if they could find her. Do you understand, Julie?”

“As much as I understand anything you do lately.”

“That’s good for the moment. Someday I’ll take a week and fill in the details. Right now understand this: you’re on the side of the good guys. Bye, Julie.”

I hung up and caught the T to Boston to pick up my car.

The ride gave me a chance to organize some thoughts into what could only loosely be called a plan. With one exception, which I planned to handle that evening, things seemed to be in place for Mr. Devlin’s game plan for Anthony’s trial. I could have reported back to the firm for some scut work under Whitney Caster or I could take my best shot at something that seemed far more important. It was an easy choice.

I half walked, half ran from Park Street Station to the federal building. My acquaintances with the staff from my old days in the U.S. Attorney’s office helped breeze me by the assistants to the ears of the man himself.

Peter Styles had been U.S. Attorney since before I worked in the office. He was straight as a line, and had precious little patience with those who weren’t-particularly those in public office. He was truly the stuff of which prosecutors should be made.

When I arrived, he was on the fly out of his office to Judge Wyman’s courtroom. I grabbed the arm that was not laden with files and walked him back into his office and closed the door. He looked as if he didn’t know whether to smack me or have me committed.

Before word one escaped his practically foaming lips, I whispered the words that trumped even the fear of Judge Wyman-“Political corruption that could go as far as the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court.”