Sergio De La Pava - A Naked Singularity

“Or we’ll drown.”

Next was the fried calamari. I could tell the guy had fried the rings the exactly proper amount of time. What I mean is that, prior to dumping in the squid, he must have heated the oil to the correct temperature of about 350º so that the calamari would fry quickly enough to avoid excessively absorbing oil and fat. The result was beautiful, golden-brown rings of calamari that were neither overcooked nor overly chewy and which were covered with thin breading that clung to the rings even as I dunked them into the moderately spicy cup of marinara sauce provided on the side. Superb.

“Let’s let today be the last day of inaction,” said Dane. “Take the thing home, read it, and tomorrow we can start to plan in earnest. I think any major objections you might have will be addressed in there.”

“Tell me what you think is going to happen.”

“Okay, next Wednesday—”

“A week from this Wednesday?”

“Yes, Wednesday morning.”

“You mean like Tuesday night slash Wednesday morning?”

“Right. At exactly three in the morning a woman will drive an old Chevy Nova into the garage of 410 East 123rd Street between 1st and 2nd Avenue. In the trunk of the car will be cocaine with a street value of nearly one hundred million dollars.”

“Where’d you get that address from?”

“From DeLeon.”

“When?”

“Last week, when I spoke to him at the twelfth floor bridge.”

“How many times total did you speak with him?”

“Just that once.”

“For how long?”

“Slightly over two hours.”

“What reason did you give him for that level of interest?”

“He loves to talk and I told him I needed the information because I would be working on his case, which was extraordinary.”

“Other lawyers and clients were there?”

“Sure. They came and went. None of them was there for the entire conversation. No one we know either.”

“It’s not exactly soundproof there. Who’s to say some guy who’s in didn’t hear the whole thing?”

“No way. C’mon we were careful. Remember he’s a CI, no different than others. We made sure nobody heard.”

“Did you take notes?”

“No.”

“Two hours plus and no notes?”

“No need. I recorded the entire conversation. A transcript of the complete audio recording is in there and is largely responsible for the packet’s bulk.”

“How?”

“Simple. I snuck a little tape recorder in there without anyone knowing. Don’t worry the only tape was destroyed along with the typewriter used to transcribe its contents.”

“What makes you think he was telling you the truth about the date and location?”

“I went to the location and I also have the blueprint and 410 is exactly as he described it.”

“What about the location he gave the cops at our meeting?”

“Similar but clear across town on the West Side.”

“Did he tell you if he ever gave the cops a specific date?”

“Yes. He said he met with them the Tuesday morning before we talked and told them it would be this Saturday at four a.m. A complete lie.”

“How complete? What kind of place is that?”

“The place has no connection to anything.”

“It must have some connection, DeLeon didn’t just create a place similar to the actual location out of thin air.”

“Fine, you want the whole story. The actual place, 410 East 123rd, belongs to Escalera’s second cousin. The guy’s totally legit, a union electrician and everything, and in no way connected to selling. Anyway Escalera loves the guy’s place and thinks it’s ideal for this kind of thing so about a year ago he starts shopping with help from DeLeon for a similar place to buy. One of the places Escalera looks at is 368 Riverside. It’s a lot like 410 with precisely the kind of garage Escalera likes and everything. Well it never goes much further than that and Escalera ends up buying nothing. So when DeLeon is sitting there and decides to give the cops a fake address he remembers 368 Riverside, which of course has the benefit of being both architecturally plausible yet pretty far from the true location.”

“And that’s where the cops will be this Saturday at four a.m.?”

“Exactly.”

“And when they find nothing they’ll create some excuse to arrest everyone in there then squeeze them for info.”

“Fine, they’ll get nothing. I checked, the people living there are all squeaky clean. No records, which is rare for that area.”

“And if the cops say to them do you know someone named Escalera will they say hey isn’t that the guy who almost bought our house ?”

“Very good but no. The house was sold but not to Escalera. It was sold to these clean people who had no contact with Escalera whatsoever.”

“So what will the cops think on Saturday?”

“I hope they’ll think that DeLeon pulled a fast one on them and invented the whole scenario to get out.”

“Doubtful. But what about 410? What’s the deal with that joint?”

“Clean. I ran the address in all the appropriate databases and as far as I can tell the place has never been the subject of any law enforcement activity at all. The owner is Escalera’s cousin and his wife, both fully clean. Obviously all of that is part of the location’s appeal from Escalera’s standpoint.”

“Why would this upstanding electrician suddenly agree to transform his home into a stash house?”

“He doesn’t know. You see, as I said, Escalera loves the place and thinks it would be perfect for this but he knows his cousin would never go for it. Well as luck would have it, the couple has a tenth wedding anniversary coming up. So here comes Escalera with their anniversary present, an all-expenses-paid trip to Paradise. Paradise Island in the Bahamas for, you guessed it, the week of the exchange.”

“Sure about all that? Because DeLeon made it sound like a neutral third party would be there and would be counting the money before giving Escalera the keys to the car with the drugs in it.”

“All bullshit designed to draw attention away from the real location.”

“Have you verified any of this?”

“It depends what you mean by verified.”

“Ah.”

“No listen. In addition to verifying that 410 is precisely the kind of place described by DeLeon, I have verified that it is indeed owned by a union electrician and his wife and that the electrician is in fact Escalera’s cousin although he does not share his last name. I have also established that, aside from these two childless individuals, no one else calls that address home. Most importantly, I have verified that these two individuals have booked a flight to sunny Paradise Island for next week. And guess who paid for the tickets? The plastic of one Antonio Escalera. All strong evidence that Mr. DeLeon was telling me the truth don’t you think?”

“I do. How did you do all that?”

“Not hard. Deeds, tax returns, Escalera was so proud of the deal he got that he made DeLeon drunk talking about the airline. So I trust you see the unlikelihood that DeLeon invented all of this or even that he referred to this factual backdrop in a fictional way. Correct or should I go into it?”

“No.”

“No you don’t see or no don’t go into it because you do see?”

“Fine, he told you what he thought was the truth.”

“No he knows the truth. The airplane tickets, for example, are not a product of DeLeon’s mind.”

“So he told you what was true at the time but that was two weeks before the exchange and we have no source for further information. DeLeon’s gone with the wind. The info he gave you was very specific. Next Wednesday at precisely three in the morning. If that changes, for any one of a million possible reasons, we have no way of knowing.”