tagNovels and NovellasWhy I Hated The Guy From The FBI Ch. 06

Why I Hated The Guy From The FBI Ch. 06

byProlonged_Debut10©

Note: This story has no basis in fact. It is a fiction. A fantasy totally from the recesses of a mind that is sometimes called into question, whether it is rational, or not. Please read it from a slightly askew point of view, because that is the way it is written. Enjoy.

The writer retains all rights to the work.


*

Chapter 16. Our ship comes in.

(FBI listening post, South Brooklyn) Good evening Don Alberto, how are you.

Wonderful Anthony, wonderful; how are you tonight.

"We have had a wonderful day, and we have wonderful news. All of our nieces and nephews are doing well, and they should arrive tomorrow on schedule in Newark. All their travel documents are taken care of, and their arrival at home should be no more than six hours afterwards. After everyone has rested overnight, we will have brunch, so everyone can be introduced properly. Afterwards the marriages can begin. I know it is a bit hasty, but these marriages have been arranged since their birth, and there is no sense putting it off any longer. The judges will be there, along with the notary publics to make the paperwork official, and each couple will file it themselves at City Hall. Do you agree Don Alberto?"

"Yes, Anthony, but how are you going to get sixty couples to the site. I do not want them squeezed into buses."

"After their long voyage, neither would I. They will be going in limousines, two couples in each. The limousines will be fully stocked with soft drinks and food. We do not want anyone to be inebriated, before the ceremony."

"That was very thoughtful of you Anthony, very thoughtful."

For the next two hours, the FBI continued to listen to this tape run, thinking that Anthony Caruso and Alberto DiAngiolla were actually in the room talking about some nieces and nephews getting married in the United States. Actually, they were in a sub-basement of a building across the street from them, and the subject was oil, "Olive Oil." One gallon of olive oil equaled one kilo of cocaine. The oil was so pungent the dogs could not smell the drug through it. The Italian government was happy because oil exports were up and so were the fees they collected. The shipping lines were happy because they had more freight to carry. The dockworkers were happy at both the loading and unloading ends. The only problem Anthony had was figuring out what to do with the olive oil. He could not dump it, he could not burn it, and he could not give it away. If Italian restaurants stopped buying olive oil, someone was going to ask why. He did not want that to happen. There had to be another use for olive oil, other than for salads and for cooking. Then, Willie Nelson answered his prayers. "Bio-diesel." It was perfect. He could truck the oil to the Midwest and sell it to the processors for the best price available. It did not matter if he took a loss, broke even, or made a profit on the oil; he just wanted to get rid of it. His plan was now perfect. He had the drugs, he had the medium to ship it in safely, and they had away to dispose the evidence. Best of all, it would all be taken care of 'in house.' They did not have to go to anyone on the outside, and asked to use any of their assets. It was a perfect set-up, and it was Anthony Caruso's baby.

As they made their way, back through the secret passage Alberto and Anthony were very happy with one another. The combination of the two families was working out extremely well. There had been no friction, with the other families. Both men had lain down the law to their own people. Show proper respect for their neighbors, and if necessary back away, rather than cause an incident.

As they entered the room, talking with one another, the person in charge of the tape recorder pushed a button to stop it. The machine made a loud click that no one paid attention to, except the nerd on the third floor of the building across the street, who had been listening for three hours, drinking bad coffee and reading a newspaper.

He yelled to his partner, "Steve, play that back, now."

"Why Ron, what happened?"

"I think we have been had."

Steve rewound the tape thirty seconds and played it back slowly. Both men heard the click, and looked at each other. Steve said, "Those bastards were not even there. It was a waste of our time."

"No. Steve it was not a waste of time. They know that we know where they hang out. They do not know that we know they have another hiding place. Now we have to find the hiding place and get a bug in there."

"Oh, fuck; another warrant. If I have to look that judge in the face one more time, I am going to throw up."

"I know the judge, and I know you. If I have a choice of looking at either of you all day, I would pick him. He's prettier."

"You better run you son of bitch, if I catch you, I will take your head off."

"Catch me? You need me to tie your shoes for you. You cannot see your toes anymore."

"Remember who signs your fitness reports."

"Remember who has the keys to the car."

"Okay, wise ass, let's pack up, and get the hell out here, before I hand you your grape nuts."

"Yes, your chubbiness. Am I buying the donuts tomorrow or are you?

"It is my turn. Dunkin Donut's or Krispy Crème?"

"You are management, you decide."

"Okay."

(FBI Field Office Brooklyn)

Okay boys and girls settle down. We have two things on the docket today. First: Intel says there is amajor drug load supposed to come in to the Newark docks tonight. Work everyone; do not leave any stone unturned. Try to find out what containers the drugs are hidden in. Get us a lead. The source says there could be up to ten tons of cocaine coming in. I do not want that shit hitting the streets. Everyone is on alert. Manhattan, NYPD, New Jersey, DEA, and Coast Guard, everyone will be out in force. You will not be going home until every container, pallet, bulkhead, and room has been searched. I will buy breakfast for the team that finds it."

The room burst out into a good natured laugh, when they heard their chief say that to them.

"Second: Thanks to some good fieldwork, we now know where Alberto DiAngiolla has his secret hideaway. We will be bugging it sometime within the next few days and hopefully get some good Intel from it. I want that bastard in jail before he dies of old age. If we take him down, we may also be able to get Caruso. I do not think the kids are involved, yet, especially not the girl. However, Vincent bears watching. We are going to have one of our younger agents become friendly with her, and keep track of both of them. We will see if anything happens during this coming semester. Okay, hit the streets, see your people, come up with some leads, and let's find those drugs."

As darkness fell, the S.S. Nothengrabsus moored at Newark docks, and started to unload the truck beds that were stacked twenty high. When each bed was attached to atruck, the seals were checked, the dogs were all over them, and they were scanned by imaging machines. It was a ballet performed by husky men, who used crude language to move the world's commerce from point to point. Tonight it was just a little different. For every stevedore, there was a cop. Nothing moved unless it had been checked and rechecked by a member of the police.

It did not matter if it had been checked once, and tagged. It could be checked asecond, third and fourth time, before it left the port. The Intel was good, and they were certain the drugs were on this ship.

When the cargo started to come out of the holds of the ship, the authorities were even more careful. The pallets, although sealed in plastic and checked at their ports of departure, they were checked and rechecked here. This was easier for the dogs. The men checked for signs of tampering and the machines could see more clearly. Everything was clean.

The stevedores did not mind working longer hours. By morning, they were working double double-overtime, and visions of their next paycheck had them smiling. The longer they stayed on the job, the more money they made. It was the same for the truckers and other dockworkers.

When the last room was searched, the dogs were exhausted, and so their handlers. They had come up with nothing. The ship was clean, except for some personal use marijuana. It was a useless night. Everyone from the top brass, down to the lowest rookie was pissed. The ship had been tracked by satellite and nothing had been thrown overboard, as it approached land. The Intel had come from an inside source, whose record had been near 90 percent in the past. How could he have been so wrong on a shipment this large?

When they contacted him in Italy, he assured them that the shipment was on board that vessel. He could not understand how they could have missed it.

Two weeks later, the price of cocaine in the New York metropolitan area had fallen by fifteen percent. It was a sign that a major shipment had arrived in the area.

At an Italian restaurant, in the Little Italy area of Brooklyn, a chef opened a can of olive oil and it did not pour out properly. He used a large knife to pry open the top of the can and looked inside to see what the problem was. He closed the can and made a phone call.

Twenty minutes later, two men who worked for Anthony Caruso walked in the back door of the restaurant and met with the chef. The chef handed them the can, and showed them the contents. The men asked him to open another can and the results were the same. They continued until they ran out of olive oil. They told the chef he would be handsomely rewarded, and to buy some olive oil locally.

When Tony Caruso was informed, he was livid. How could this have happened? Every palate had a control number on it. They were supposed to be checked in by computer. Whoever had screwed up would be fish food in the morning.

He never went near the Yonkers warehouses himself, not even in situations like this. He had people that did this. He made a phone call to his lawyer. "Tim, get your ass up to Yonkers and find out who misplaced a pallet of olive oil. One of our customers is outraged that is shipment is missing."

"Yes sir." Tim knew the tone of voice, and niceties were not necessary. He grabbed an accountant from the outer office and got into his Jag and started the trip up I-95 and the cross the George Washington Bridge, up to Yonkers.

The warehouse was huge. It contained everything from cornflakes, and toilet paper, to cleaning products and olive oil. Olive oil was nearly inaccessible, in the back of the warehouse, because it moved very slowly. However, it was stacked so each pallet had its identification number, facing outward. It was not guarded because that would have brought suspicion to it. At night, legitimate looking supermarket trucks, would backup to the loading docks, fill up with the olive oil, and drive away to a destination, so secret, only five drivers were used. Each driver made two runs per night and earned one thousand dollars per run.

When they arrived at the metal shops, the oil was siphoned off into the tanker, the drugs removed and taken off-site. The cans chopped into scrap and melted. In the early morning hours, the oil tanker made its way to Kansas City.

Each barcode from each pallet was saved for identification purposes. When Tim got to the warehouse, the accountant got to work using his scanner. Four hours later he told Tim the bad news, one full pallet was missing, and gave him the code number. Four hundred cans, four hundred kilos of cocaine were missing. Tony would go ballistic. Not so much at the loss of the cocaine, but his plan would be blown, if someone turned in a can of the oil to the police. They had to find those cans. The good news was the first cans were found in Brooklyn. That meant the pallet was in Brooklyn. They had manpower available and they had a network available to help them. They had to watch out for snitches, because they worked both ways. If one of them got in trouble, they could tell the cops what we were looking for, and why. This had to be done quickly, not necessarily quietly, but quickly. He called Tony.

"What!"

"Tony calm down."

"Don't you dare tell me to calm down?"

"This is what we have to do. We know the oil is in Brooklyn. We have the manpower and the goodwill in Brooklyn to take care of this quickly. We put out the word that the oil is no good. Do not use it. We will collect it and exchange it at no charge. We will give out an eight hundred number and have them call us. We will have our guys go to every Italian restaurant in Brooklyn to see if they received oil in the last two weeks. They will part with it, one way, or the other." The oil does not go to supermarkets. It goes to specialty Italian stores. It will be easy enough for us to get there. We have to do this now. Let me take care of it. It will be on the news tomorrow morning get our guys going today."

"Now I know why I pay you so much money. Good boy, Tim, get going."

The hunt was on. Nearly 900 men from the Caruso and DiAngiolla families hit the streets of Brooklyn from one end to the other. The other families were advised, of the problem. They added their manpower to the search. A small army, in search of four hundred, one gallon, cans of olive oil. Three hundred and ninety-nine would not do.

Estelle Beauchamp did her Saturday morning shopping, at the large grocery store like everyone else. However, for her veal cutlets, sausage links, pancetta and other Italian specialties, she went to Fusco's Italian market. The lines were often fourteen deep and everyone took anumber, sat down at the tables and drank a free cup of coffee or espresso. Today, with her order, she also took agallon of Mama's Olive Oil. It would be her last day on Earth.

She got home, put the groceries away, and decided to make the veal cutlets for dinner. She did not listen to the radio, nor watch television to hear about the recall of the oil, because she liked to listen to the recordings of Andrea Bocelli, and Luciano Pavarotti.

At Fusco's market, the check-out girl remembered selling agallon of Mama's Olive Oil to Mrs. Beauchamp and using the telephone number on the back of her check, called her to advise her not to use it. She was told that two gentlemen from the Olive Oil Company would be there to exchange it personally for two free gallons, within a half-hour.

The men asked for the check, Mrs. Beauchamp had used to pay for her groceries, and paid cash for them instead. As they reached their car, they called an associate and gave them a description of the checkout girl, and told him to get rid of her fast. She was the only link between the oil and the Beauchamp woman.

When Mrs. Beauchamp opened the door, two well-dressed men introduce themselves to her as representatives of Mama's oil. They apologized for any inconvenience this situation may have put her through, and would like to give her the two gallons of oil they had brought with them. She invited them in for a cup of coffee, which they accepted. She handed them the bad is gallon of oil and they immediately noticed that it had been opened.

They asked her if she had used any of the products.

"No," she replied, "however, when I stuck the opener into the can, it came out with acurious white powder on it. I could not imagine what it was. I was going to call the store and complain, when they called me."

"We are so glad that you did that Mrs. Beauchamp. It is the powder from a mushroom that grows in our olive orchards, and when accidentally mixed in, when we press the olives for their oil, it can be deadly."

"Oh my goodness," she said, "you must be exceedingly careful when you press your olives."

"Estelle, I am home."

Estelle said to the two men, "That will be my husband, Richard, getting home from work."

When Richard turned the corner, he said, "Holy shit," as he reached for his gun.

"Estelle, get down."

The two men at the table did not recognize Richard Beauchamp, but they recognized a cop, when they saw a cop.

The bullets started flying, both ways. Richard was out in the open, as was Estelle. The two men hid behind the table. It did not help them, as they both fell dead, behind it. Unfortunately, so did Estelle Beauchamp, not from a bullet, but from a flying piece of glass from the shattered table. Richard was hit by four bullets. Two were serious wounds; and if his neighbor had not been an EMT, they would have ended his life. The other two bullets hit his left arm, shattering the radius bone. It put him behind a desk, at the FBI, for several years. As he lay bleeding on the floor, he could not help but wonder what those two gangsters were doing at his home, having coffee, with his wife.

When the names of the two hoods hit the airways, Tony Caruso knew what had happened. His foolproof plan had been found out, after its first successful run. He still did not know who had screwed up and lost the pallet. It paled in significance to the loss of money and influence he would have gained with the other families, had he been able to continue this venture for years. After Albert passed away, he would be the Don over sixty percent of Brooklyn, and nobody would mess with him, ever again.

Word started trickling back through several sources that the police had searched the home. Two days later, pictures of the crime scene were allowed out, as was standard police procedure. There, on the counter, was an unopened can of Mama's olive oil. In the same frame, sitting on the table were two unopened cans of Olive Oil. The entire room was still surrounded by yellow crime scene tape and every feeler he sent out had come back negative, about drugs being found at the scene.

Tony was still not convinced. He smelled a rat and he did not like it, not one bit. It was too easy to stage. He needed to get the code number from the side of the can of oil. The picture was not good enough for computer enhancement, so he was back to square one. Then he smiled and said, "Not if your tenants have a roach problem." He picked up his cell phone and made a call.

Three days later, a well-respected pest-control company, 'Nuzzle Nollen', received a call, from a Tenant's Association, advising them that they had a roach problem, and apparently, their last spraying was ineffective.

The office manager said that he would be out to inspect it, immediately. If the problem were as bad as the tenants said, the company would need access to every apartment, so it could do a complete spraying of the building, the next day. As per the terms of the contract, there would be no charge for this service.

One of Tony's captains gave the manager ten grand and left.

The following morning, 12 men, dressed in 'Nuzzle Nollen' uniforms, arrived at 8 a.m. ready to take on the twenty-two story building. They covered their heads and ears, with white caps put their re-breather's on, and went to the roof. They were told there was a good chance they would be videotaped, while they were working, and not to take off their rebreathers. Spray everything, the baseboards, the ceiling vents, the closets, the kitchen appliances, the garbage receptacles. Do not miss anything. Do an especially good job in the kitchen. Get up onto the counter, and do the top of the cupboards. Make sure one guy blocks the air vent in the kitchen, while the other switches the oil. Do it quick, do it clean, and do not be nervous. You are all the same relative height and weight. You are all wearing gloves. They cannot arrest all of you. They cannot prove which one you removed it, unless you tell them. Throw it into the incinerator shaft quickly. Our guys will be there to get it, and get it out of the building quickly.

It worked like acharm, except for one thing. The FBI put a tracking device in the seal around the base of the can. It would activate in two hours.

Unfortunately for the FBI, in two hours, the drugs were removed, the oil was on its way to Kansas City, and the can was chipped and in a smelter. The Feds had no idea what went wrong. "The bigger the beast, the slower it moved, or so they thought."

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