Cop Without a Badge (Chapter 15) MEET BEVERLY MERRILL

Chapter 15

During the summer of 1985, Maher continued to identify dealers for the DEA. He would ride with Uribe to a dealer’s house, recording the address and phone number. The he would give the information to Slavanki and Becker. But nothing seemed to happen.

“What’s going on?” Maher asked Slavanki one day. “Nobody’s getting busted.”

Slavanki told Maher that he was opening case files and “Idling” the dealers. Busts would come as soon as the files were complete.

“All we want to do for now,” Slavanki said, “is continue to identify dealers.”

In mid-August, Slavanki gave Maher $3,000, payment for information Maher supplied on a dealer named Julio. Maher was happy to get the money, to see that something was going on, yet nothing about the bust made any sense. Julio was a low-level dealer, something Maher had made a point of telling Slavanki.

“Why’d you bust Julio?” Maher asked Slavanki.

Slavanki didn’t respond. So Maher decided to check into Julio’s bust on his own. He drove into Queens and spoke to one of Julio’s friends. The friend said “cops” armed with a search warrant had burst into Julio’s apartment and discovered cocaine and cash.

“Cops?” Maher asked, frowning.

“Yeah,” the friend said. “NYPD detectives.”

“Are you sure?” Maher pressed.

“You don’t think Julio knows what a fucking NYPD detective badge looks like?”

Maher shook his head. NYPD? Julio’s friend related how the “cops” had threatened to impound Julio’s BMW if he didn’t cooperate, a threat Maher knew well. It was a DEA ploy designed to “flip” a suspect.

The incident sounded to Maher less like an NYPD bust than it did a DEA raid. Plus Maher couldn’t help but wonder why the DEA would be paying him for an NYPD bust.

By now Maher had solid sources inside the NYPD, so he dialed a number and asked two simple questions: Did the NYPD exercise a search warrant at such-and-such an address on such-and-such a date? And did the NYPD lock up a dealer named Julio? The answer was no to both accounts.

Maher hung up the receiver. So what about the badges? Of course! Maher thought. The bogus badges were used to conceal DEA involvement and make the big dealers believe the DEA had not invaded the territory. As Slavanki had intimated, the DEA investigation was in the intelligence-gathering, not the enforcement phase.

September brought with it the hint of winter. On a cool evening, much cooler than one might expect this early in the season, Maher and Uribe were cruising along in Maher’s Porsche.

“Why don’t you come to Florida with me tomorrow?” Uribe asked. “I’ve got to pick up a few kilos.”

Early the next morning, Maher met with Slavanki.

“Just identify the dealers,” Slavanki insisted.

Maher thought about that for a moment.

“I don’t mind identifying them,” Maher said. “But I don’t get paid until you bust them.”

Slavanki knew what Maher was asking.

“We’ll pay your expenses,” Slavanki offered.

“Expenses.” It was ambiguous enough word. But least Maher would be on a paid assignment, which made him feel more like a cop than an informant. Besides, the real money would come later, when the DEA finally pulled the trigger. This Maher’s territory increased. New York. And now Florida.

Maher drove home and told Beth he was going to Miami. She didn’t offer any protests. What’s she so happy about? Maher wondered. What’s she going to be doing while I’m in Florida? Fucking Richard? The thought gnawed at him all the way to Uribe’s apartment.

Uribe climbed into the Porsche, and they were off to Miami.

“You know how much cheaper a kilo is if I buy it in Miami and bring it back to New York myself?” Uribe asked.

“No, John. How much cheaper?”

“I save eight thousand dollars a kilo,” Uribe said. “Eight thousand dollars.”

“That’s great, John,” Maher acknowledged.

Maher made Miami in an incredible sixteen hours, stopping only briefly for gas.

Although Uribe had rented a house, he held his “parties” at a hotel, either the Fontainebleau or the Mayfair. This trip, Uribe had opted for the Mayfair.

Maher and Uribe checked into a large suite, and then they headed over to the dealer’s house in Miami Beach. When the dealer opened the front door, he was not happy to see a stranger.

“He has to wait outside,” the dealer insisted.

“Uribe started to protest. Maher stopped him.

“It’s okay, John,” Maher said.

While Uribe and the dealer conducted their business, Maher strolled to a Mercedes that was parked in the driveway. Maher knew that a dealer’s car was like his second home. So, making sure no one was watching from the house, Maher slid into the passenger seat and opened the glove compartment. It was full of credit card receipts for gas and oil. Maher took one of the receipts and stuffed it in his pocket. The dumb fuck won’t miss one receipt. Then Maher jotted down the dealer’s license plate number. One more DD “identified.”

The next dealer was more trusting. Maher stood to the side as the dealer counted the money Uribe had brought and Uribe tested the cocaine he was buying. The six-figure transaction took fewer than five minutes.

“It’s time to party,” Uribe said as they climbed into Maher’s Porsche.

When Maher and Uribe arrived back at the hotel suite, there were two girls waiting for them.

“Pick one,” Uribe smiled. “Or take them both.”

The girls sashayed into the bedroom, peeling off clothes as they walked. Maher followed.

The next morning, Maher and Uribe left the suite together and stopped by Uribe’s Florida home. It was a spectacular place. Three bedrooms, with a white marble entrance, a sauna, every amenity one could want. The residence sat on a landscaped half acre. And, of course, there was a large swimming pool.

When Maher met Laura, he could understand Uribe’s insecurity about her. She was five-foot-eight, with hair the color of sunshine. Her eyes were ocean blue. But she was not the fresh-scrubbed, All-American girl in a Florida orange juice commercial. Laura exuded sex, oozed sensuality like a Vermont maple tree oozes sap in autumn. She could have been the poster girl for a porn palace.

After spending the night at the house, Maher left Uribe in Miami and drove back to New York alone.

“When are you going to start busting these guys?” Maher asked as he handed Slavanki data on four more dealers.

“Soon,” Slavanki answered. “Very soon.”

For the next several months, Maher made frequent trips to Miami. Essentially Maher had begun playing the role of Uribe’s courier, bringing large sums of cash to Florida to pay for the drugs. Another service Maher provided was that of occasional chauffeur, swinging by Miami International Airport to pick up one of Uribe’s dealers. However, this was rare, since most dealers refused to fly in and out of Miami. And with good reason.

As with any port of entry – particularly a southern one – the airport was well staffed with U.S. Customs officials. But all Customs officials did not wear uniforms and examine baggage. Many were in plainclothes and wander through “profiling.”

“Profiling” is an iffy practice. For example, a cop spots a black man in a white neighborhood. The cop decides, based solely on the man’s race, that he fits the profile of a burglar. That is a form of “profiling.” It is not only race, it is blatantly illegal and is a violation of federal civil rights laws.

In the case of Miami International Airport, however, U.S. Customs official could profile anyone arriving or departing from the airport. And anyone they felt fit the profile of a drug dealer – Colombian, expensive clothes, etc. – was stopped and questioned. The difference between a neighborhood and an airport was its access. While a neighborhood was a public place, an airport was a “secured area.” This profiling was considered a legal means of maintaining airport security.

Fortunately for Maher, being a cash courier and part-time livery driver was the extent of his duties for Uribe. Uribe never asked Maher to transport cocaine.

On each subsequent foray to Florida, Maher “identified” three or four drug dealers. When the DEA hits these fucking guys, Maher thought, I’m going to be filthy fucking rich.

Another aspect of each successive trip was Uribe’s attempt to top himself in the party category. Three women. Then four. Then five. Once, Maher had six women in bed with him at the same time.

Unlimited supply of cocaine. Willing nymphs by the half dozen. What more could Maher ask for? The answer always came crashing down on him when the cocaine wore off.

Beth.

Despite the fact that he was taking infidelity into the big leagues, a longing came through it all. There was still a part of him that ached for the feeling he had when he first had Beth in his arms. Maher wanted desperately to get back there, so desperately that he asked Beth to come with him to see his psychiatrist, Dr. Crane.

“Maybe we can work this out,” Maher said.

The look on Beth’s face wasn’t hopeful. Still, she consented to seeing Dr. Crane.

So, in addition to his required visits to Dr. Crane mandated by New Jersey Transit, Maher added another session each week for him and Beth. Week after week, they would discuss their marriage. And almost every week, the session came down to one issue.

“I don’t trust her,” Maher would say.

“Why not?” Dr. Crane would ask. “Do you have a reason not to trust her?”

Maher would then reiterate that he thought Beth was having an affair. Beth would deny it. And they were back where they started. Sadly, the marriage appeared to be over, although neither of them wanted to admit it.

On a solo visit, Maher broke down and cried.

“I love her, Dr. Crane,” Maher said sobbing. “I love her so much.”

Of course, if that were true, what about the coke whores? The answer was not simple. The operative word in the phrase “coke whores” was “coke”. Cocaine had turned these women into little more than prostitutes. And while Maher’s libido might have driven him at first, cocaine had rendered him incapable of stopping the pursuit of pleasure. It had made him the moral equivalent of a whore.

By the end of 1985, Maher had identified more than fifty Miami coke dealers and slept with at least that many “dopey bitches.” And Beth wasn’t slipping away anymore.

She was gone.

In February 1986, Maher’s anxiety attacks resumed. But rather than stop using coke – something he was physically unable to do – he underwent a heart catherization. Purple dye was shot into his veins, and he watched a television monitor along with the doctor. The dye moved through Maher’s circulatory system unimpeded. 

“I see no blockage,” the doctor told Maher. “Everything seems fine.”

New Jersey Transit was notified by Travelers Insurance that Maher was fit to report to work, and in early March Maher received a certified letter to that effect.

If Maher went back to work he wouldn’t be able to make the trips to Miami, so there was a choice to be made. But Maher found the choice an easy one: He would return to the job. Even coked up, he knew the Miami Vice life he was living was a fantasy. Besides, he had identified so many dealers, he felt like a stockbroker who had acquired a large portfolio. Eventually the DEA would get around to making busts, and when they did, the dividends Maher would receive would be enormous. So he decided he would “retire” his imaginary badge once again.

Any hope of saving his marriage, however, seemed remote. He knew his marriage was little more than a façade. He and Beth had no made love for months, the passion squelched by infidelity. A year earlier, he had begun to avoid sleeping with her. Often, when the coke wore off, he feared he might have caught a venereal disease from one of the women. So he would make an excuse and stay up long after Beth had gone upstairs. Only when Maher was certain she was asleep would he join her in bed.

The return to New Jersey Transit was less difficult than Maher thought it would be. He didn’t miss the parties at the Mayfair and the Fontainebleau; rather, he felt relieved to have a reason to break away from the insanity of it all. But his return to work was not entirely painless. Beth was now making $75,000 a year. Maher was still at the same railroad job he held when they first met. His sense of self-worth as measured against his wife suffered from the comparison.

Over the next three months, Maher worked diligently at his job, dramatically lowered his cocaine intake, and began to emerge from the fog of the previous year. He felt good again, and actually was hopeful about the future. But on July, 1 1986, something thwarted Maher’s sense of well-being. A weed killer used by New Jersey Transit on the railroad tracks splashed into his eyes.

The irritation cause by the chemicals in the weed killer led to infection in both eyes. New Jersey Transit’s response was to order Maher to wear protective goggles. Maher protested, citing all the same reasons he offered the first time the goggles became an issue. New Jersey Transit  stood firm. So Maher took a leave of absence while the dispute was turned over to union arbitrators.

Maher grew despondent during the weeks the arbitration process dragged on. It seems like every time I try to have a normal life, something happens to fuck it up. But there was another thing that always seemed to happen whenever Maher was spun out of his quest for normalcy: John Uribe would reappear with his “presents” and his promise of wild parties. August 1986 was no exception.

“Too bad about your job, man,” Uribe said showing up at Maher’s house unexpectedly one afternoon. Then, holding out a bag of cocaine: “A present for you my friend.”

“I thought you were in Miami,” Maher said as he snorted a little coke.

“Let’s go back there right now,” Uribe said, his voice hyper. “Come on, Kevin. Let’s go to Miami.”

Maher shrugged. “Why not?”

Sixteen hours later, at eight o’clock the following evening, Maher exhausted from the long drive, slowed his Porsche to a stop in front of the Mayfair. A short elevator ride, and Maher was back at one of Uribe’s parties.

Maher looked around the suite. He recognized eight dealers. And coke whores were everywhere. Black. White. Blond. Brunette. Tall. Short. Maher smiled. He’d have a few drinks and a couple snorts. As Maher made his way to the makeshift bar that was set up on a side table, he turned and looked right into a pair of incredible brown eyes.

She was brunette. Long, perfectly shaped legs poked out of her leather hot pants just as provocatively as her braless breasts strained against her low-cut blouse. She was sitting in a huge leather chair with her left leg over an arm of the chair and her right leg thrusted straight out and to the right side. Maher could see she wasn’t wearing panties. As he stood there gaping, she slowly kicked her left leg, flipping a high-heel shoe up and down on her toe.

“I’m Beverly,” she said sweetly. “Beverly Merrill.”

Maher collected himself. “I’m Kevin Maher.”

Beverly smiled. “You’re Kevin Maher?”

“Yes,” Maher said, frowning.

Beverly laughed. “John’s told me all about you. You’re the guy who had six girls at one time.”

Maher didn’t know what to say. What could he say?

Maher and Beverly looked at each other. Maher was thinking: She’s beautiful. I hope she’s not just another coke whore.

Suddenly Maher felt a hand on his elbow. It was Uribe.

“Kevin I  need to talk to you for a minute.”

“I’ll be right back,” Maher told Beverly as Uribe led him away.

“I’ll be here,” Beverly said seductively.

Maher and Uribe stopped in a corner of the suite.

“Man,” Maher said, looking over his shoulder at Beverly, “she’s hot!”

“Yeah,” Uribe said, “but I want to warn you.”

Maher’s heart dropped.

“Be  careful what you tell her,” Uribe continued. “She just got busted for extortion, kidnapping, and possession. She’s out on ten thousand dollars bail.”

Maher smiled. He had expected to hear worse.

Uribe noticed Maher’s grin. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“Yeah, John, I heard you.” Maher turned and stared at Uribe. “What happened?”

“Some rich kid from Buffalo owed a dealer twenty-five thousand. The kid kept saying he didn’t have the money. But the DD knew the father was some rich old fuck, so the DD grabbed the kid. Beat the shit out of him for three days. Didn’t feed him. Kept telling the kid that if his father didn’t send money, he was going to kill him.”

“What did Beverly have to do with it?” Maher asked, already making excuses for her.

“She was there, man,” Uribe said with a sigh. “She was there through the whole fucking thing. She was partying with the DD for a month straight.”

“How’d they get busted?”

“”They took the kid to a pay phone and made him call his father. They told the old man, send money now. So the old man wire money Western Union.”

“Real smart,” Maher said with a laugh. “The old fuck called the cops. Right?”

“Yeah. The FBI followed the DD and Beverly back to the house. Then the cops burst into the place, firing.”

Uribe paused.

“They killed three German shepherd puppies,” Uribe said with a sigh, his voice dripping with disgust. “Fucking cops shot three puppies. They didn’t have to do that.”

Maher and Uribe stood in silent vigil for a moment. Then they both stared at Beverly.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Uribe said. “Maybe she’s a good girl. But she’s out on bail, man. Facing time. That’s why I told you to be careful. The fed are going to try and turn her, I know they are.”

Maher smiled again. No, John. The feds aren’t going to turn her, I am.

“Listen,” Uribe said, “I’ve got to do a little business. Come with me.”

Maher hesitated and looked at Beverly.

“She can come, too,” Uribe said.

Maher, Beverly, and Uribe went downstairs.

“Can I drive the Porsche?” Uribe asked as the valet pulled up with the car.

“Yeah, John,” Maher replied, laughing. “You can drive the Porsche.”

Uribe got behind the wheel, and Maher got into the passenger seat. Beverly slid onto Maher’s lap.

Uribe sped through the streets of Miami, ultimately whipping the Porsche into the parking lot of a club in Coconut Grove.

“Look, baby,” Uribe said, “me and Kevin have a little business. We’ll pick you up later.”

Beverly shrugged and got out of the car. Uribe sped away.

“You like her, huh?” Uribe said.

Maher didn’t respond.

Uribe concluded a quick cocaine transaction, then stopped back at the club to pick up Beverly. Then the three of them returned to the Mayfair.

A few snorts and a couple of drinks later, Maher and Beverly were in bed. The sex was explosive. When it was over, Maher held Beverly in his arms and had the strangest thought: this is a good person. She has no morals, but she’s a good person.

Maher and Beverly emerged from the bedroom at about 2:00 A.M. Uribe was gone.

“Where’s John?” Maher asked one of the dealers.

“He went out,” was all the dealer knew.

An hour later, the phone rang. Maher let it ring several times, unsure whether he should answer it. Finally he grabbed the receiver.

“Hello?”

It was Uribe on a cellular phone.

“Kevin. Listen.”

Maher heard a whooshing sound.

“John, what is that?”

Uribe laughed. “That’s what it sounds like when you hold a cellular phone out the window of a Porsche going a hindered and ten.”

“What Porsche?” Maher demanded.

“Your Porsche,” Uribe answered.

“How did you get my fucking Porsche?” Maher screamed.

“The valet parking guy gave me the key,” Uribe answered.

Maher howled. “John. Goddamnit! You bring my Porsche back right now!”

Uribe laughed.

“John! You got one hour to get back here!”

Click. Uribe hung up.

An hour passed. Uribe did not return.

Maher and Beverly stayed up the rest of the night talking.

“I can help you,” Maher said at one point. “I work with the FBI.”

Beverly was stunned, and her body language changed. She edged away from Maher.

“I can help you,” Maher repeated. “Trust me.”

Beverly moved back near Maher and placed her arms around him. I’m in love, Maher thought as he lost himself in her embrace. I’m fucking in love.

The next morning Uribe called.

“Don’t go near my car,” Maher warned him. “Leave it parked.”

The tone in Maher’s voice shocked Uribe.

“Sure, man. I won’t touch the fucking thing.”

“Where the fuck are you?” Maher demanded.

Uribe gave Maher an address on Biscayne Boulevard. 

Maher and Beverly took a cab from the Mayfair to Beverly’s apartment, picked up Beverly’s 1979 Cadillac El Dorado, and then drove to Biscayne Boulevard to meet Uribe.

Maher walked around the Porsche, kneeling down often to look under the body.

“Brake dust on the fucking wheels,” Maher said with a sigh, disgusted. “I bet you burned out my brake rotors.”

Maher, Uribe and Beverly climbed into the Porsche and drove to a near by garage. Eleven hundred dollars later – a $600 brake job and a $500 pair of Pirelli tires – and the Porsche was as good as new.

The next day, in an effort to keep Uribe away from his Porsche, Maher took Uribe to a car rental agency that specialized in exotic cars.

“Let’s get a Lamborghini,” Uribe suggested.

“How much for the Lamborghini?” Maher asked the clerk.

“A thousand a day and a dollar a mile,” the clerk answered.

Maher smiled.  At 150 miles per hour, the dollar a mile would cost more than the rental charge.

“Okay,” Maher said, “we’ll take it.”

Because Uribe was careful never to leave a paper trail of any sort, Maher whipped out his own American Express cared and charged a $5,000 deposit. What do I care? Maher mused. The DEA is paying my “expenses.”

Later that night, coked out of his mind, Maher steered the Lamborghini into the parking lot of the club just a little too fast, hit the curb, and did a three-sixty. Maher laughed. Uribe didn’t. Something was wrong. Uribe’s head was pushed down onto his shoulder.

“John, you alright?”

“Wait a minute,” Uribe said. “You fucked something up.”

“What’s wrong with your neck?” Maher asked.

“I don’t fit too good anymore in this seat. Did I grow?”

Maher jumped out of the Lamborghini, got down on his  hands and knees, and looked under the car. The curb had hit the Lamborghini just under the passenger seat and pushed the frame up about four inches.

“Fuck! The frame is bent.”

Uribe climbed out of the car. “Maybe they won’t notice it when we take it  back.”

“I hope not,” Maher said. “Or there goes five fucking grand.”

Maher found Beverly inside the club, and they wound up spending their third consecutive night together. With each glance, each kiss, each embrace, each passionate union, he was getting more and more hooked.

The next morning, Maher and Uribe returned the Lamborghini. No one at the car rental agency bothered to check the frame. The clerk gave Maher the American Express receipt with the five-thousand-dollar deposit, and Maher tore the receipt into pieces.

“That comes to seventeen-hundred dollars,” the clerk said as he handed Maher the rental charge to sign. “A thousand for the day and seven hundred miles at a dollar a mile.”

Maher climbed into his Porsche, dropped Uribe off at his house, and headed north to New York. It was the first time he had left Miami reluctantly, the first time he had a reason to stay.

Beverly.

As he always did upon his return to New York, Maher stopped by DEA Group 43 and handed off the information he had accumulated in Florida. Slavanki mentioned matter-of-factly that the DEA had conducted raids in New York. He handed Maher a payment of $18,000 in cash.

“Who’d you hit?” Maher asked as he flipped through the money.

“You’re better off not knowing,” Slavanki responded.

“When are you going to start busting dealers in Florida?” Maher pressed.

“You’re better off not knowing,” Slavanki said again.

Maher shrugged. Then: “By the way, I need you to help me with something.”

Maher discussed Beverly’s situation with Slavanki, insisting she was merely at the wrong place at the wrong time. Maher also bent the trust a little about one of the dealers.

“Beverly Merrill was instrumental in helping me identify that dealer,” Maher fibbed, picking one at random.

“Okay,” Slavanki said with a sigh. “Let me see what I can do.”

While Maher was busy bouncing back and forth to Florida, Beth was taking “business trips” as well. With Richard. Beth also was beginning to develop a passion for golf. Richard was a golfer.

At the end of September, Maher traded his ’84 Porsche for an ’86 model. The price was $54,000. Maher got $34,000 for the trade-in on his old car and laid out $24,000 in cash. The day after buying the new car, Maher hit the road for Florida.

During the month of October, Maher made five trips to Miami. He and Beverly partied with Uribe on a grand scale, renting expensive cars. A Ferrari one trip. A Lotus Turbo Esprit the next. They rented speedboats. They rented lavish hotel suites. About the only thing Maher and Uribe bought were guns.

Maher chose two weapons for himself: a .25 caliber Berretta, which was basically a small “pocket gun” and a nickel-plated, five-shot Smith and Wesson .38 essentially a “detective gun.” Uribe opted for an Uzi, which was the weapon of choice for terrorist.

The transaction was almost as easy as buying a suit. All Maher had to do was produce a Florida driver’s license. The he gave his American Express card to the clerk.

Of course it wasn’t Maher’s money. Part of his arrangement with the DEA regarding “expenses” was that the DEA paid his AMEX bill.

After a 3 day waiting period, Maher and Uribe picked up the guns and drove to a machine shop where Uribe knew a gun expert. Uribe paid the man $500 to make the Uzi fully automatic. By nightfall, Uribe was carrying a very powerful assault weapon.

“You did what?” Slavanki screamed into the phone when Maher called him from Miami. “You bought Uribe an Uzi?!?”

There was a long beat of silence, during which it probably occurred to Slavanki that the DEA had just bought a drug dealer an assault weapon. Slavanki was furious.

“Uribe didn’t have enough cash on him,” Maher explained, “and I was standing there with my American Express.”

Maher pointed out that he made sure Uribe registered the gun in his own name.

Slavanki was not soothed. So Maher attempted to deflect Slavanki’s anger with a little humor.

“Look at it this way,” Maher said. “If anything happens, at least we have a serial number.”

It was a joke of course, but it hit the core of the DEA conundrum. Federal drug enforcement was an extraordinary nasty business and it demanded a plan that was equally nasty, even if it meant allowing dealers with assault weapons to operate freely. While the NYPD sting might last a few weeks, the DEA was forced to think in terms of years. And while the NYPD’s objective was to battle crime within the boundaries of New York City, the DEA;s mandate was to stop drug trafficking on a nationwide scale.

Over the ensuing months DEA officials knew that there would be a host of cocaine casualties, deaths that could be prevented by arresting dealers as soon as they were identified. Yet, by taking short-term action, the DEA efforts would suffer in the long term. The DEA wanted the generals, not the foot soldiers.

Even Maher was nothing more than a soldier to the DEA. Or, perhaps more accurately, a fighter pilot. He would fly his missions to Miami and return with surveillance information. Slavanki and Becker most certainly had reservations about using Maher and permitting dealers like Uribe to roam around with an Uzi, but these reservations  were offset by an overriding objective: stop drug trafficking. The objective was noble even if the methods were sometimes not so savory.

The conversation turned to Beverly. Somehow Slavanki had managed to work out a deal for her on the condition that she plead guilty to extortion, which carried a five-year sentence. When Maher protested, Slavanki explained that in federal court you cannot cop out with a stipulation of no time. Unlike state courts, where the whole deal, including the sentence, is worked out in advance, federal pleas require a bit of faith. The accused agrees to plead guilty without any guarantees. Then, after the plea,  the federal court decides whether jail is warranted.

At Maher’s urging, Beverly agreed to lead guilty to extortion. Prior to entering the plea, she met with a probation officer. She did not make a good impression. At the November trial, the probation officer stood in court and recommended “Half custodial and half noncustodial.” In other words, he felt Beverly should serve two and half years.

Beverly squirmed as the judge looked at the U.S. attorney and asked if had anything to say before the sentence was passed.

“We have nothing to say, Your Honor,” the U.S. attorney said.

This made Beverly even more nervous. But Maher understood enough about courtroom procedure to know there was an unwritten rule between U.S. attorneys and judges. Had the U.S. attorney wanted Beverly to serve time, he would have said so. By saying nothing, it was a signal to the judge that the prosecution preferred a sentence with no incarceration.

“Beverly Merrill,”  the judge proclaimed, “you are sentenced to five years probation.”

Maher and Beverly hugged tightly. She stared into Maher’s eyes in the dreamy way someone would regard a hero.

Maher and Beverly left the courtroom and went to Beverly’s apartment, where she packed. Maher had arranged for Beverly to serve her probation in New York. And he had arranged a place for her to live: with two go-go dancers in Queens. The way Maher looked at it, this got Beverly out of Miami, where she was likely fucking somebody; and in New York, Beverly didn’t know anybody, which suited Maher just fine. Even better, Maher’s dancer friends could keep an eye on her.

And so it was that Maher found himself in New York on a crisp November night in 1986, with several new acquisitions. A nasty coke habit. A sexy but morally questionable girlfriend. A mean, jealous streak. And a gun.

It was not the most stable combination of elements.

Cop Without a Badge (Chapter 14)

Chapter 14

Maher’s battle with William French ended as swiftly as a sudden knockout in a boxing match. After receiving Spinelli’s report in mid-June, Maher had instructed Spinelli to send copies of the report to both the New Jersey Transit executive offices and the New Jersey Transit Police. New Jersey Transit had ruled that French should be “taken out of service” immediately pending further hearings. IN September, French was terminated.

“That’ll teach the bastard to fuck with me,” Maher told a group of coworkers when news of French’s dismissal spread through the ranks of railroad workers. 

What Maher had done to French was the legal equivalent of what he had done to the inmate who had made a suggestive remark to him years ago at Rikers Island. At Rikers, Maher had delivered a vicious uppercut to the inmate’s chin and had administered several bites to the inmate’s face. One by one, the inmates who had witnessed Maher’s attack divereted their eyes and moved off. Now it was Maher’s coworkers who diverted their eyes. Nobody – at New Jersey Transit, at least – was ever going to fuck with Kevin Maher again.

His nemesis at New Jersey Transit disposed of, Maher settled into being a working man, husband, and father. It was such a comfortable feeling that he didn’t miss the action of undercover work and began to wonder if it was worth it to rejoin the DEA.

Another part of Maher’s life that held less appeal these days was drag racing. He sold his Corvette for $15,000 and bought a $48,000 Porsche. This left him without a vehicle capable of the quarter-mile dash at Connecting Highway. Yet the dichotomous nature of the two cars reflected the changing nature of Kevin Maher. The Porsche was engineered for the long run, the Vette for short burst of speed.

In mid-September, Beth’s job at The Economist required her to travel to London on business. Maher took the trip with her, partly because of his desire to rekindle romance in their marriage and partly because he was growing more suspicious.  The nagging feeling that his wife was having an affair with coworker Richard O’Rourke would not go away. Maher was going to make sure that at least in London, Beth remained faithful.

The London trip did nothing to bring Maher and Beth closer together as Maher’s underlying suspicion sabotaged any renewed emotion either of them felt. While Maher did not make spoken accusations during their stay in England, his eyes were more accusing than words. And, swirling amid the suspicion was the guilt Maher felt about his escapades with the “dopey bitches.” Suspicion. Guilt. Like weeds on a lawn, they choked the roots of the relationship between Maher and Beth. And so they returned to New Jersey without rejuvenating their marriage. 

While in London, Maher bought a pair of European-style halogen headlights for his Porsche. The headlights (illegal in the United States) were eight inches in circumference as opposed to the standard seven-inch U.S. seal beam, had twice the wattage, and illuminated a larger area. And since Maher often cranked the Porsche up to 150 an hour, he needed all the forward vision he could get. 

Maher missed the social aspect of the weekends at Connecting Highway. So, one Friday night in late September, he decided to check out the drag races as a spectator, not a participant. 

Maher parked his Porsche near a crowd of people who had gathered to watch the race. When he climbed out of the car he found himself face-to-face with John Uribe. 

“Look John,” Maher said, “you were my friend. I wouldn’t have locked you up.” 

After a tense moment, Uribe smiled. “I miss you, my friend. We had good times.” 

Uribe grabbed Maher and hugged him. Then he stepped back and inspected Maher’s Porsche. 

“What do you think of the Porsche compared to the Vette?” Uribe asked. 

“As far as quality, ride, handling, there’s no comparison,” Maher said. “It may not take off like a Vette, but fuck that. When you pull up with a Vette, you just pulled up. When you pull up with a Porsche, you arrive.”

Uribe took a slow walk around the Porsche. 

“Wanna go for a ride?” Maher asked. 

Maher and Uribe climbed into the Porsche. It was like old times. No mention was made of Tia. And no word was said about their last meeting at Astoria Park. It was like it never happened. 

“I’ve got some problems with my Vette,” Uribe said at one point. “Will you take a look at it?”

“Sure,” Maher said. 

Uribe reached into his pocket and withdrew a plastic bag full of coke.

“A present for you,” Uribe said.

The bond between them had been renewed and the tacit agreement once again defined. Maher would barter automotive repair for Uribe’s cocaine.

Cocaine permeated life in the eighties. What had started out as a recreational drug a decade earlier proved to be an addictive and destructive substance. Banks were corrupted by trying to finance it, corporations were brought down by its debilitating effect on employees, even governments weren’t immune to its poisonous reach. And while it was confined to big cities, it seeped into the suburbs. So it wasn’t unusual for Robert Colaneri to be battling the sale and distribution of the stuff even in the quiet little down of Carlstadt, New Jersey.

Colaneri had received his gold shield on January 1, 1985. As a detective, his objectives changed, and he set about cultivating informants. One informant – a two-time loser who was working off a burglary charge – had given Colaneri information about a dealer on Hackensack Street in Carlstadt. So Colaneri decided to set up a “controlled buy,” a transaction in which an informant purchases cocaine from a dealer with cash provided by police.  However, a controlled buy using an informant is tricky, especially when the informant is facing jail time. To ensure that the informant didn’t plant drugs in the suspect’s apartment, the informant was stripped-searched and then kept under constant surveillance until the bust went down.

Colaneri stopped off at headquarters and picked up the informant. Then Colaneri, the informant, and several police units made their way to Hackensack Street.

“I saw him wrap coke up in tinfoil and put it in jelly jars in the refrigerator,” the informant reminded Colaneri before he climbed out of the car and entered the apartment.

Ten minutes later, Colaneri and several cops burst into the dealer’s apartment. As was planned, both suspect Charles Storniolo and the informant were arrested and charged with distribution of a CDS, a controlled, dangerous substance. The cops went began digging out tinfoil packets from jelly jars and mayonnaise jars. The bust was a success. But then Colaneri notice that the informant – who was handcuffed and sitting on the couch – was making noises and point toward the hallway. For the next few minutes, Colaneri and the informant played and impromptu game of “hot and cold.” The informant would frown when Colaneri was “cold” and smile when Colaneri was “hot.” Pretty soon, Colaneri was sizing coke from the medicine chest.

In addition to the cocaine, Colaneri stumbled on what he thought was an unexpected bonus: a cache of weapons. However, it turned out that Storniolo was an artisan, refinishing gun stocks. Storniolo produced the requisite paperwork that indicated that he didn’t own the guns. The guns were not confiscated.

(Storniolo later pled out to possession, receiving a fine and two years’ probation.)

And so it was that in 1985, Maher and Colaneri were both chasing after drug dealers, albeit from two different ends of the spectrum.

By March, Maher’s anxiety attacks had resumed with alarming frequency and were increasingly severe. So he again applied for disability. Travelers Insurance, the insurance company representing New Jersey Transit, placed a condition on the disability payments: Maher was to see a psychiatrist twice a week. Dr. Peter Crane.

“These might not be anxiety attacks,” declared Crane, who, as a psychiatrist, was also an M.D. “The chest pains you experience could have something to do with your heart.”

Yet all cardiovascular tests had indicated Maher’s heart was normal.

Crane studied Maher for a long beat. “Are you using cocaine?”

“I’ve stopped,” Maher lied.

“You can die from cocaine, Kevin,” Crane noted.

Maher had never before heard a doctor issue an admonition regarding the use of coke.

He’s probably right, Maher thought. I’m doing a lot of coke. I know it’s terrible. I’ve got to stop.

When Maher left the doctor’s office, he threw a packet of cocaine he was carrying in the trash and vowed to never touch the stuff again. Then he stopped at a pharmacy to fill a prescription to Xanax, which Crane had prescribed in an effort to combat the anxiety attacks. Thus Maher traded an illegal stimulant for a legal tranquilizer.

The Xanex worked its chemical magic almost immediately, and by May 1985 it had been two months since Maher had, had an anxiety attack, the same period of time since he had snorted cocaine. Which meant he saw little of John Uribe, thus avoiding the offer of a “present.”

During the last week of May it occurred to Maher that he had not spoken to Uribe for several days, which was odd. Even though they now saw each other infrequently, Uribe usually phoned at least once a day.

Maher dialed Uribe’s home phone number. After several rings, someone answered. But instead of a greeting, he heard heavy breathing. And then the line went dead. Maher called. The same thing happened. Heavy breathing. And then a click. The third time, Maher interrupted the heavy breathing.

“John? Is that you? John? John?”

Click. And a dead line.

Maher tried calling Uribe several times each day for the next two days. Sometimes there would be no answer. At other times it was the heavy breathing. Maher decided to drive into Manhattan and stop by Uribe’s apartment. Something was definitely wrong.

Maher spoke to the doorman at the high-rise building on 22^nd Street and Broadway. The building was more than thirty floors in height, and it’s base spanned the entire block between 22^nd and 23^rd streets.

“I’m here to see John Uribe,” Maher told the doorman.

The doorman rang Uribe’s apartment. But Uribe didn’t answer the intercom.

“I haven’t seen him for several days,” the doorman said with a shrug.

“I better go upstairs and check on him,” Maher said.

The doorman nodded. Maher took the elevator to the twenty-eighth floor and banged on Uribe’s door.

“John! It’s Kevin! Open the door!”

Nothing. Maher heat harder on the door.

“John! Goddamnit! It’s Kevin! Open the fucking door!”

Maher heard the lock turn from the inside. The door opened slowly. Uribe –bags under his eyes and a week’s worth of a beard – peered out at Maher. Maher pushed into the apartment and shut the door behind him.

“John. I’ve been trying to call you for –“

Maher stopped midsentence and looked at Uribe. He was standing there in his underwear, sweating profusely and trembling. Maher looked around the apartment. The floor, the coffee table, the couch, every piece of furniture was covered with a thin dusting of white cocaine residue. Then the stench hit Maher’s nostrils. It smells like the inside of a cocaine bag. Maher looked at the windows. No wonder it smells. The windows are all shut. And it’s hot in here.

Uribe walked to the center of the living room and say cross-legged next to a bucket of sudsy water. Maher watched in astonishment as Uribe took a photograph, dipped it in the bucket of water, removed it, then rubbed it against his bare chest to remove the soap. Having done that, he placed the photograph on a stack of other photographs.

“John,” Maher said softly, “what the fuck are you doing?”

“Washing pictures,” Uribe said, as if it were normal.

Maher saw that Uribe had a stack of “dirty” photographs on one side of the bucket and a large stack of “clean” photographs on the bottom of the stack had dried and curled, indicating that Uribe had been “washing pictures” for quite awhile.

Maher walked over and crouched next to Uribe.

“How long have you been doing this, John?”

Uribe didn’t respond. He dipped another picture into the bucket of sudsy water and ground his teeth, moving his jaws from right to left. Then he began mumbling incoherently.

All Maher could do was stare. What the fuck is happening to John? And then Maher realized. It’s the cocaine. It’s gotta be.

Indeed, had a doctor examined Uribe he would have concluded that Uribe was in the midst of a cocaine-induced psychosis.

Suddenly Uribe’s eyes flashed and his head snapped toward Maher.

“You’re a fucking cop!” Uribe screamed. “Why did you come here? To arrest me?”

“John, I’m no fucking cop.”

But Uribe seemed transported back in time to his confrontation with Maher in Astoria Park.

“Then why do you have these fucking people watching me?”

“What people, John?”

Uribe jumped up and ran to the window.

“You know I told my aunt about you!” Uribe shouted. “Did you tell them about me?”

Uribe pointed to the building across the street.

“Who, John? Tell me who?”

“The people in that building!” Uribe shouted. “They’re looking in here with telescopes!”

Maher sighed.

“Come on, John. You’re losing it, man. I’m getting you out of here.”

Maher walked toward the bedroom to find something fro Uribe to wear. As he passed the bathroom, he noticed a vinyl gym bag on the floor and opened it to see if there was something for Uribe to wear. In the gym bag he discovered an Ohoas triple beam scale, a sixty-four-ounce jar of baby laxative used to cut cocaine, one sealed kilo of cocaine, and one open kilo package, which was half empty.

When Maher returned to the living room, Uribe was holding the receiver to his ear and dialing a number.

“John!” Maher shouted, “Who the fuck are you calling?”

“My mother,” Uribe said.

“In Comlombia?”

Uribe’s mother came on the line, and Uribe started chattering in Spanish. The mother began screaming so loudly Maher could hear her voice leaking out of the receiver. Although Maher didn’t know the words, whatever it was, she repeated the same phrase over and over. Uribe hung up the receiver and ran into the bathroom. Maher chased after him.

“John! Will you fucking calm down?” Maher pleaded.

Uribe dove onto the floor and, kneeled in front of the toilet, began pouring the half kilo into the bowl.

“John!” Maher howled.

Next came the flush, a $15,000 flush. The Uribe pulled a knife out of the gym bag, picked up the full kilo of coke, and started to rip it open.

Maher grabbed Uribe by the shoulders and pulled him away from the toilet.

“John! For God’s sake, stop it!”

Uribe struggled towards the toilet with the kilo. Maher ripped it out of his hands and dropped it back into the gym bag. They scuffled. Uribe, sweaty and slippery, not to mention big and strong, was difficult to hold on to. Managing to get between Uribe and the toilet, Maher tore out the float mechanism so Uribe couldn’t follow up with an up to $22,000 flush. Then Maher grappled with Uribe, both falling on the floor. For the first time, Maher was face-to-face with a cocaine casualty. He held Uribe like a fallen comrade on a bloody battlefield.

Uribe was heaving, gasping for air.

“Calm down, John,” Maher said again. “Everything’s going to be all right. Everything is going to be fine.”

Uribe’s breathing became more even, and Maher released hid hold on him. Maher stood up, then reached down and pulled Uribe to his feet. They walked into the kitchen, where Maher turned on a tap and filled a water glass.

“Drink this,” Maher said as he handed the glass to Uribe.

Uribe, clearly dehydrated, gulped down the water. His eyes were dazed, focused on some faraway image.

Maher filled the glass second time, and a third.

“Okay,” Maher said. “Let’s go find you some clothes.”

Maher turned toward the bedroom. Uribe took off like a shot and ran into the bathroom.

Before Maher could react, Uribe emerged with the gym bag and ran to a window.

“John!” Maher yelled. “No!”

Uribe pushed open the window, and leaning his upper body all the way outside, heaved the gym bag into the air. Maher watched the gym  bag disappear above the window and then dirft past again on its way down.

Maher grabbed Uribe by the hair and pulled him inside the apartment. Then Maher returned to the window and peeked over the sill. The gym bag was at the end of its twenty-eight-story free fall. An instant later, it landed with a thud –right on top of a westbound city bus, stopped at a traffic light. As Maher stared down at the $22,000 gym bag, the light changed. And the bus rumbled down 23^rd Street.

Maher stepped away from the window and started for the front door. Now I’ve got to chase down the fucking bus, Maher thought. But then Maher remembered something Slavanki had said: Don’t get caught with any coke by yourself. If you do, you’re on your own.

Maher looked at Uribe, who had crawled back to the window and was hanging halfway out again. The fuckhead is going to jump. I can’t leave him here.

Maher ran to Uribe and jerked him back into the apartment. Uribe began crawling around on his hands and knees, using his fingertips to scrape cocaine residue off the floor. Scrape. Sniff. Scrape. Sniff. It was pathetic.

Maher managed to steer Uribe into the shower. The hot water seemed to revive him. Uribe got dressed and then left the apartment with Maher. They retrieved their cars from the garage: Maher’s Porsche and Uribe’s new BMW 318.

“Follow me to New Jersey, John,” Maher said, adding: “We’re going to take it real slow, all right?”

Uribe nodded.

The Porsche pulled out onto Broadway and the BMW fell in behind it. Maher glanced in the rearview mirror often, making sure the BMW was still there. All was well for a few minutes. But then Maher raised his eyes to check the rearview mirror. The BMW was not behind him. Suddenly the BMW exploded past the Porsche. And the chase was on.

Down Broadway. Across 14^th Street. Up Third Avenue. Finally, in the East Sixties, Uribe’s BMW became mired in traffic. Mahe stopped his Porsche behind the BMW and leaned out the car window.

“John!” Maher shouted. “Pull the fuck over!”

Uribe turned the wheel of the BMW sharply and headed for the curb. But instead of pulling over, he gunned the engine and sent the BMW catapulting onto the sidewalk. The BMW traveled a few feet, then smashed into a canopy pole and stopped. Maher pulled to the curb and jumped out of the Porsche. The pole was bent around the front of the BMW, and the canvas was flapping in the wind. It might have been funny had it not been for a squad car that was inching along in traffic just opposite the destroyed canopy. Maher held his breath. The traffic light changed, and the squad car drove away.

Maher pulled Uribe out of the BMW and threw him into the Porsche.

“My car,” Uribe whined. “What about my car?”

“Leave it,” Maher said. “When we get to my house we’ll report it stolen.”

Maher locked the Porsche’s doors. The search and rescue mission had been a success. Maher had his man. And he was bringing him in.

Uribe slept for hours on Maher’s couch, waking late in the evening. Maher was sitting across from him.

“You crazy fuck,” Maher said. “How much fucking blow were you doing?”

Uribe stared off for a long moment.

“She’s a fucking whore,” Uribe said quietly.

“Who’s a fucking whore?” Maher asked.

“Laura.”

Maher frowned. “Who is Laura?”

“Tall. Long blond hair. Beautiful.”

Uribe’s mood darkened. “Then I found out she’s a whore.”

Uribe explained how, on one of his runs to Miami to pick up cocaine, he met Laura at a party.

“You know how many dopey bitches I fuck,” Uribe said. “But she was different.

Uribe went on with the story, insisting that Laura was not like the rest of the women he knew. According to Uribe, she had class, sophistication, poise, humor.

“One night,” Uribe said, “I see her in a bar with some rich guy. And she tells me he’s a client.”

Maher grimaced. Uribe continued.

“Then she tells me she’s a ‘call girl.’ A fucking whore. And when I get pissed off, she tells me she gets five thousand a night. Like that makes it right.”

For the next five days, Maher and Beth nurse Uribe back to health. Each day, Maher would search Uribe for coke.

“I’m clean man,” Uribe would protest.

For the first time in years, Uribe stayed straight for five full days. Perhaps as compensation for the lost cocaine rush, he ate. And ate. His favorite food was Rocky Road ice cream, which he consumed by the gallon.

Finally Maher drove Uribe back into the city and dropped him at his apartment. Maher was drained from the experience. So was Beth.

“I’ve never seen anybody eat like that,” Beth said with a sigh.

“That’s the way John is,” Maher observed.

Uribe did not practice anything in moderation. Sex. Drugs. Or Food.

At 7:30 A.M. on December 2, Robert Colaneri had left Carlstadt police headquarters in an unmarked car and had gone to go pick up Deputy Chief John Occhiuzzo . A call came over the radio that a vault alarm had gone off at United Jersey Bank on Gotham Parkway and Route 120. Two units- Sergeant Herb Scheidewig and Patrolman Pat Cunningham – had been dispatched. When Scheidewig and Cunningham arrived, they started into the bank but stopped when they saw a man holding a gun to the head of the assistant bank manager, Dolores Nielsen. Nielsen had two sons – Tom and Chris – on the Carlstadt police force. Seeing the cops, the suspect released Nielsen, and she ran out of the bank. She told the cops that there were two suspects, both black males, and that there were several other employees still inside.

Before additional units could get to the bank, the suspects broke a window near the drive-in booth and fled. Just as Colaneri and Occhiuzzo arrived, one of the suspects was caught. The whereabouts of the second suspect was unknown. Colaneri assumed he was still in the bank, so the building was secured and snipers were placed on rooftops. A command post was set up and telephone contact was attempted, but no one inside the bank answered the phone.

A short time later, a State Police helicopter arrived at the helipad in the Meadowlands Sports Complex. Colaneri was assigned the aerial surveillance.

Colaneri and a State Police pilot circled the marshes that make up much of the Meadowlands area of New Jersey. Then a call came over the helicopter radio that there was a report of a stolen car on Route 17 heading in the direction of Route 80. Colaneri and the pilot flew toward the reported stolen car. But they were unable to lacte the vehicle and returned to the bank.

When Colaneri got back to the bank, cops stormed into the building. They found frightened hostages – including a woman who had been hiding in the toilet stall for the past two hours – but no suspects.

Later that afternoon, Colaneri dispatched Chris Nielsen to search the area to see if he could find potential evidence. As Nielsen trudged through the weeds and mud of the Meadowlands marsh, he almost stepped on someone. It turned out to be the suspect who held a gun to his mother, Dolores. The suspect had been lying in the weeds for ten hours, apparently waiting for nightfall.

Both suspects –two-time losers Milton Rider and James Williams – were convicted and sentenced to twenty-five years to life.

While Colaneri had taken notice of Maher and his Corvette over the previous months, Maher had registered Colaneri’s face without realizing it. Maher walked into his house on the evening of December 3, 1985, plinked down beside Beth on the couch,  and picked up the New York Daily News, which was lying on the coffee table.

“Wait a minute,” Maher exclaimed when he saw the front page. “I’ve seen that guy somewhere.”

The entire front page was a photograph of Colaneri and other officers at the scene of the bank robbery.

“Is that one of the cops you work with?” Beth asked.

“No,” Maher answered, “but I’ve seen him riding around town in a Vette.”

Maher studied Colaneri’s picture.

“I know I’ve seen that guy somewhere,” Maher said. “Absolutely. I have definitely seen him somewhere.”

And so, on December 3, 1985, the convergent courses of CI Kevin Maher and Dectective Bobby Colaneri edged a little closer.

Maher spent the moth of December doing little more than getting ready for Christmas. Buying a tree. Shopping for presents. All the normal things a husband and father does as Santa Claus approaches.

Right after the first of the year, Maher sat down to watch television and happened upon a new show called Miami Vice. Maher was mesmerized. When he first saw the fast cars, he exclaimed: I drive fast cars! When he saw the leggy bimbos banging everyone in sight, he chuckled: I bang dopey bitches! When he saw the cocaine, he shook his head: I do coke! And finally, when he saw an informant character, he was hit with a sudden realization: I do that. Indeed to Maher, Miami Vice was not just a television show, it was his life. Or at least it used to be. Charged up by the action he saw on Miami Vice, Maher called Slavanki.

“Want to bang a dealer?” Maher asked.

In his travels, Maher had encountered a low-level dealer who lived on Parsons Boulevard in Queens. The dealer seemed wary of Maher, so Slavanki suggested that Maher take his time and “buy up.” Buying up involved starting with small amounts – a gram, perhaps, or an ounce – then making a series of incrementally larger purchases. But after a few weeks, Slavanki felt it was costing too much to “buy up” such an insignificant player. So they decided to take him off with half a kilo, which was where Maher was on the incremental ladder of volume.

Since the dealer didn’t entirely trust Maher, he never allowed Maher in his apartment, and the transactions always took place in Maher’s car. (By looking out the window, of course, the dealer was showing Maher and the DEA exactly which apartment was his.)

On that particular night, the dealer slipped into the passenger seat of Maher’s Mercedes with half a kilo of coke. The price had been set at $15,000. (Since a whole kilo cost $22,000, the disproportionate price of a half a kilo meant that even in the world of drug dealing, volume buying had it’s benefits.) The dealer handed Maher the half kilo, and – after administering the thumb-and-forefinger test to a sample – Maher handed the dealer $15,000 in cash. As was the routine, Maher would drive around the block while the dealer counted the money. (For some reason, the dealer felt more secure if the car was in motion.) While Maher drove the car, the dealer counted the money. Normally, he was amazingly fast.

“Two thousand, two thousand, two thousand – oh, fuck!”

Maher glanced at the dealer : “What’s wrong?”

“A fucking fifty!” the dealer squeled.

In fact, there was a fifty dollar bill mixed into the twenties.

“What do you want from me?” Maher countered. “It’s money, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” the dealer said with a sigh. “But it fucks up my math.”

The dealer jammed the fifty on the seat under his leg and resumed counting twenty-dollar bills. Off they went again around the block. A moment later…

“Another fucking fifty!”

The dealer placed that fifty-dollar bill under his leg as well and struggled to figure out where he left off in his counting. Each fifty threw the dealer into such a confused state that it required a recount and another circle around the block. And each time, Maher would pass the DEA agents who were staked out at various locations. The agents frowned and shrugged as if to say: What is going on?

Finally the dealer placed a stack of twenties on the dashboard and picked up the pile of fifties on the seat. The counting was done, and Maher stopped in front of the apartment building on Parsons Boulevard. The dealer climbed out of the car. But instead of heading into his building the dealer crossed the street and walked up to another man, who appeared to be a neighbor. After a brief, friendly exchange, the dealer walked away from the building, and the neighbor walked toward the building. DEA agents nabbed the dealer and also grabbed the neighbor. They found nothing on the neighbor except a key, which just happened to fit in the dealer’s apartment. In addition to the dealer and the neighbor, two women inside the apartment were arrested.

The case against the neighbor almost evaporated. When the neighbor’s lawyer showed up at the DEA lockup, he asked what evidence existed to prove his client had anything to do with the dealer. The answer was: a key.

“Then there must be a lock on the dealer’s door that the key will open,” the lawyer noted smugly.

DEA agents rushed back to the apartment on Parsons Boulevard and found a hole where the lock used to be. Although the lawyer entered a motion that the charges be dismissed, the testimony of the DEA agents prevailed. The neighbor was convicted of conspiracy to distribute cocaine.

Maher was paid $12,000 for the four arrests, even though the two women were not charged. (They were, however, illegal aliens and they were turned over to Immigration.)

A week later, someone told Maher about a dealer in Jackson Heights who had “some good shit.” After telephone instruction, Maher went to meet him. The dealer’s apartment was dark, illuminated only by candles that were lined up on a bookshelf. Who is this guy, Maher wonder as he squinted towards the candles, Dracula? But on closure inspection Maher realized that each candle also had a picture of a child behind it.

“I have adopted these children,” the dealer, who was Colombian, said as he rubbed the crucifix that hung from his neck on a gold chain. “I send in nine dollars a month for each of them.”

The dealer waved his hand toward the candles.

“My sixty-two children,” the dealer said softly. “They will not go to bed hungry tonight.”

The dealer explained that he watched “a thing on television” about starving children. Maher had seen the television appeals.

“I know about starving children,” the dealer remarked. “In Colombia I have seen them for myself.”

Maher became overwhelmed with emotion. He owned a Porsche and a Mercedes and a Camaro, he did thousands of dollars in cocaine in a month, and he had yet to send his first nine dollars. After making a small buy, Maher fled the apartment.

Maybe it was the flickering candlelight or the sad little eyes of the children in the pictures or the crucifix around the dealer’s neck. Whatever it was, Maher decided not to bang this dealer. He realized that action and consequences did not always fall neatly to one side or another of the moral line.

For the next month, Maher had little success finding dealers worthy of DEA attention. As much as he hated to admit, he needed Uribe. Uribe was the pipeline to major drug dealers. But right after he had sobered up at Maher’s house, Uribe had gone to Miami. And as far as Maher knew, Uribe had not returned to New York.

It was as if thinking about Uribe conjured him up. Just as Maher had begun to wonder about him, Uribe reappeared at Connecting Highway on spring night.

“Hey, John,” Maher said, “where the hell you been all this time?”

“Cooling out,” Uribe answered.

Uribe told Maher he had made up with Laura, the $5,000-a-night call girl.

“I rented a big house in Miami with a pool and everything,” Uribe said.

Uribe dug into his pocket and produced a bag of cocaine. He offered it to Maher.

“A present for you my friend,” Uribe said.

Maher hesitated. It had been months since he had done any coke.

“John,” Maher said, “I stopped.”

“A present for you,” Uribe insisted.

Maher stared at the bag of cocaine. The white crystals glinted in the beam of the car’s headlights, and the visual stimulus triggered a powerful craving in Maher’s brain. Slowly, almost involuntarily, he reached out and took Uribe’s present.