Cop Without a Badge (Chapter 16)

Chapter 16

Maher introduced Beverly to go-go dancers Carmen and Sara. Not only did the girls seem to take an instant liking to their new roommate, they also were happy to fill the third bedroom of a large apartment, this lowering their monthly share of the rent.  Of course, to pay her share of the rent, Beverly would have to get a job.

“I was a dancer in Miami,” Beverly said.

“We can get you into Gallagher’s,” Carmen assured her. “They’re looking for dancers.”

Gallagher’s was a strip joint on Queens Boulevard in Woodside, a favorite hangout for coke dealers. At first Maher thought it was a good idea. He could identify dealers while he watched Beverly dance. But then, a week later, he saw her onstage. And suddenly it wasn’t such a good idea at all.

For he debut at Gallagher’s, Beverly emerged in a bra and G-string, her beautiful body exposed for all to see. With each seductive pose, Maher could feel blood rushing to his head. And each time she cast her gaze into the audience and stared at a man, Maher felt a rush of anger. He hung around all night – through all three of her performances – and then ushered her out of the club.

Thanksgiving and Christmas at the Maher house were unhappy occasions. Neither Maher nor Beth could walk away, yet both wanted to be somewhere else. For Beth, it was a romantic allure that tugged at her. But for Maher, every minute away from Beverly drove him crazy. What is she doing right now? Is she fucking somebody? And so, on most nights, he would rush to  Gallagher’s where the anguish increased. When Beverly seemed overly friendly to the club owner, Maher imagined that she was granting him sexual favors. And when Beverly became the featured dancer after the first of the year, Maher saw that as proof of his suspicions.  You don’t become the featured dancer at Gallagher’s making six hundred a night unless you are fucking somebody. Additional “confirmation” came when the club owner arranged for Beverly to move into an apartment of her own on Cross Bay Boulevard.

“The owner’s friend owns the video store in the building,” Beverly said. “He gave me a good deal. Four hundred a month.”

Over the next two months Maher shuttled back and forth to Florida five times. Each trip, he found that Uribe’s mind had deteriorated a little more and his psychosis appeared to have returned, as was demonstrated on bizarre night in early March.

Maher and a rich kid from the Hamptons named Herman – who was one of Uribe’s regular customers, especially during the summer season, when he needed party favors – were staying at Uribe’s stash house. Uribe had rented the apartment under a false name expressly for the purpose of storing cocaine. Maher had claimed the bedroom. And Herman was sacked out on the couch. In the middle of the night, Uribe burst into the apartment, brandishing his Uzi.

“The fucking bitch!” he roared. “The fucking bitch!”

Herman cowered under a blanket. Maher jolted out of a sound sleep and ran out of the bedroom.

“What’s the matter, John?” Maher asked.

Uribe, wild-eyed and perspiring, ranted and raved about a fight he had just had with Laura. The he ran into the bedroom and called her. The argument continued via phone for fifteen minutes. No word was vile enough for the way Uribe felt about Laura. Finally Uribe stomped into the living room, holding a cordless phone.

“She hung up on me!” Uribe howled, the squeezed the trigger on the Uzi and fired a round into the floor.

Herman began to quiver and grabbed a couch pillow, holding it front of him like a shield. Maher looked at Uribe, stared at the gun, and decided he had to do something before Uribe accidentally killed himself or Herman.

“Hey, John,” Maher said with a laugh, “you’re scaring Herman.”

Uribe frowned as her peered at the diminutive Herman, who was shaking violently.

“You think a couch pillow will stop a nine-millimeter Uzi?” Maher asked.

Herman whimpered. Uribe couldn’t help it. He started laughing. And Maher took advantage of the opportunity. He snatched the Uzi away from the larger, stronger Uribe.

“All right, John,” Maher said. “Calm the fuck down!”

Herman locked himself in the bedroom while Maher talked to Uribe. An hour later, Uribe left.

“He’s gone, Herman,” Maher yelled through the bedroom door. “You can come out now.”

Herman emerged and went back to the couch. Maher crawled back into the bedroom.

That’s what women can do to you, Maher concluded as he stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep. They can het you crazy. They can get you killed.

But it hadn’t been Laura’s fault. Uribe was full of coke. And he was holding a gun. It didn’t occur to Maher that he was doing a lot of coke, owned tow guns, and Beverly was making him crazy.

While most Irishmen stay up all night on St. Patrick’s Day, Maher got a jump on the celebration. At eleven in the morning on March 17, 1987, he had already been up more than twenty-four hours. He was on a cocaine binge, and as he watched Beverly get dressed to head to Gallagher’s, his mood grew dark. I know she’s fucking the owner. Maher patted his jacket. He was carrying his .25 caliber Berretta.

“You’re not going to Gallagher’s,” Maher said with a growl. “You’re not working there anymore”

“Yes, I am,” Beverly said defiantly as she stuffed the last of her work clothes into a gym bag.

“No, you’re not.”

“Watch me,” Beverly said and then strutted out the door.

Beverly climbed into her 1979 Oldsmobile Cutlass, and Maher got into his Porsche. He followed closely behind her. When they arrived at Gallagher’s, Beverly ran inside. Maher walked in a moment later and caught a glimpse of Beverly hurrying down the stairs and started after her. But there was a large obstacle in his way: Eddie, the 350-pound bouncer. Maher tried to push Eddie aside. It was like trying to move the QE II.

“Get the fuck out of here, you little punk,” Eddie said as he shoved Maher back out of the stairwell, pinning him against a wall.

Maher maneuvered his hand to his waistband and pulled out the Berretta. He pointed the gun at Eddie’s temple and tried to get his left arm around Eddie’s huge girth so he could reach the slide mechanism that would load the chamber with a bullet. But because of Eddie’s waist size, Maher’s right hand, which was holding the Berretta, could not make contact with his left hand.

“Get the fuck off me!” Maher screamed.

“Fuck you,” Eddie responded, unaware there was a gun to the side of his head.

Someone yelled, “Eddie, he’s got a gun!”

Eddie turned slowly and found himself starring down the barrel of the Berretta. He slowly backed off.

“Everybody get down!”

Eddie, the waiters, the busboys, everybody got on the floor.

“First one to get up buys it!” Maher shouted.

Haring the commotion, Beverly came upstairs.

“You’re crazy!” Beverly screamed, then looked at the people on the floor. “He’s crazy.”

Maher sneered at Beverly. “Whore!”  Then Maher stormed out the door.

“I’m calling the cops,” Eddie said as he heaved himself to a standing position. He headed for the phone.

“Don’t do it, Eddie,” Beverly yelled. “You don’t want to fuck with him.”

“I’ll fuck with him,” Eddie huffed. “The little punk.”

Eddie picked up the receiver.

“Eddie,” Beverly continued, “you don’t understand. He works with the fucking FBI and the DEA. It won’t do any good to call the cops.”

Eddie slowly placed the receiver back on the cradle.

Later that night, Maher showed up at Beverly’s apartment. Incredibly, she let him in. Even more incredibly, she wasn’t angry.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Kevin,” she said with a smile.

Beverly laughed. Maher laughed. Then they tore each other’s clothes off.

Maher continued his trips to Miami. By now it had become a routine. But in mid-April something unusual happened. There was a DEA raid on one of the dealers Maher had identified. In May, there were two more. When Maher asked about the raids, Slavanki and Becker were tight-lipped. They paid him his bounty and told him to continue making the trips. But Maher sensed that D-day was coming, and it frightened him. When he returned home from a Florida run at the end of May, he studied his doorstep. There in large black numbers was 30. Maher thought about removing the numbers, but instead he went to the hardware store and bought a number 4. The house number became 34. He reasoned that if one of the dealers managed to get his address, they wouldn’t be able to find the house.

The sporadic DEA raids in Miami continued through May, June, and July. Since they were all dealers who in some way were associated with Uribe, Uribe earned the nickname “Black Cloud.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Uribe wondered aloud as he and Maher sped along the Inland Waterway.

“I don’t know, John,” Maher said with a shrug.

The only reason the drug community didn’t suspect Uribe of being an informant was because it was his coke that was being seized. And while it would seem that he would naturally suspect that Maher – an admitted FBI informant – had something to do with all the busts, Uribe never showed any suspicion. In Maher’s mind, there were two reasons why Uribe was so trusting: (1) He had told Uribe he was an FBI informant only because he was testifying against a “baby-killer.”  (2) Uribe had not been busted. Thus Uribe’s logic told him that Maher was honest for leveling with him at Astoria Park that night and that Maher couldn’t be a DEA informant; other wise, Maher would have already locked him up.

By now, Uribe had accumulated two Uzis, the one Maher bought for him and a stolen 9mm with a thirty-two-round clip.

“Will you take this gun back to New York for me?” Uribe asked. “There’s too much heat down here to be carrying a hot piece.”

“Sure, John,” Maher assented, then thought: I bet the ATF never got a weapon away from a dealer this easy. Maher had added another weapon to his arsenal.

In late August, simultaneous raids from New York to Miami netted carloads of cocaine, suitcases of cash, and dozens of dealers. One dealer had not been arrested: John Uribe. The DEA had kept its word to Maher, and made him feel even more like part of the law enforcement community. Honor among cops.

Maher, who was in New York when the raids went down, spoke with Slavanki and was told that the DEA owed him $126,000, an amount that far exceeded any single payment the Justice Department had ever made to an informant.

The first thing Maher did with the money was got a new 1987 Porsche, for $61,000/ He added special $4,000 seats, a $5,000 cellular phone system, and $8,000 stereo, $4,000 BBS wheels and tires, and a $3,000 high-performance exhaust, among other enhancements. By the time he was finished, he had spent more than $80,000.

As autumn moved in, Maher was ready to retire his imaginary badge once again. He had proved himself, and for Maher that was the most important thing. I could’ve been a cop. I could’ve been a federal agent. I could’ve been anything I wanted to he if I hadn’t stolen that Roadrunner.

But what now? Maher believed he still loved Beth. Then there was Beverly. He loved her too , didn’t he? Or was he just obsessed? And what about children? Maher longed to have a child of his own, but Beth was staunch in her refusal to get pregnant. Yet when he daydreamed about starting a family with Beverly, he realized that Beverly wasn’t mother material. Was she? Maher became confused by it all that he did the only thing he thought would help him reach a conclusion: He bought an ounce of coke. Which is how he wound up at Gallagher’s. High. And carrying an Uzi. Only this time, the police were called. When Maher chose to challenge the cops, a scuffle ensued.  He was arrested and charged with assaulting a police officer.

Maher realized he was in real trouble when he asked a lieutenant from the 108^th Precinct to call Slavanki.

“The DEA will straighten this shit out,” Maher insisted.

But when the lieutenant got Slavanki on the phone. It wasn’t much of a conversation.

“The DEA has no jurisdiction here,” the lieutenant told Slavanki. “And I’ll tell you this: Nobody hits one of my cops.”

A hour after Maher was brought to the precinct, Beth showed up. She looked weary, sick of all the trouble, tired of the struggle. Here she was, a top executive at a respected publication, and she was visiting her husband in jail.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Maher,” the lieutenant said, “I think you should know what brought all this about. Your husband has a girlfriend. A stripper named Beverly.”

“You motherfucker!” Maher screamed.

Maher drew in his breath and was about to hurl a flurry of insults at the lieutenant. But then Maher looked at Beth. She was hurt. Devastated. Maher slumped in the cell. The charade of marriage was over.

Beth walked to the bars of the holding cell.

“Look Beth,” Maher began. “I –“

“You’re hurt,” Beth said, not wanting to hear some lame excuse.

“We’re transferring him to a hospital,” an officer remarked.

After the briefest conversations with Beth, Maher was taken to a hospital and placed under police guard. For the next day and half, he was treated for the injuries he sustained during the melee.

An officer named Bell, officially the arresting officer, enter the hospital room. The first thing Maher did was apologize.

“I’m sorry officer,” Maher sighed. “The woman got me crazy.”

Bell was not impressed. He went over the charges with Maher – three assaults on a police officer – and proceeded to take down Maher’s version of events. When the statement was completed, Bell commented on a Marine tattoo that was on Maher’s arm.

“I was in the Marines too,” Bell said.

Maher then launched into one of his DEA stories. From the look on Bell’s face, Maher could see he didn’t believe it. So Maher called Slavanki and handed the receiver to Bell. After a five-minute conversation with Slavanki, Bell handed the receiver back to Maher and left the room.

“Okay, Agent Slavanki,” Maher said, “how do I get out of this?”

Slavanki explained that there was nothing the DEA could do. Maher was charged with a serious offense, and it was up to the NYPD how the case was resolved.

Maher panicked. Then he remembered the Vincent Caldera from 1983. The players were major league. A U.S. Congressman. A high-ranking law enforcement official. He had promised caldera he wouldn’t do anything, but that was because Caldera was an NYPD cop at the time and Caldera merely wanted his job back. Caldera had since left the force and was working for Metro Dade County Police in Florida. Maher felt he had no choice. The was a big case, big enough to get the attention of the Internal Affairs Division of the NYPD. Handing IAD the Caldera case was the only hope. Still, it bothered Maher that he was bartering a deal. Maher hadn’t traded information for help in mitigating a charge since the rug guy he gave Doherty more than a decade before. But then, Maher had never been in this much trouble before either.

Then next day Maher was shuttled off to court, where bail was set.

“Bail is four thousand,” the judge said. “Cash.”

Beth was there with the money.

When Maher returned home, he and Beth talked honestly. Maher was contrite about his indiscretion with Beverly.

“I’m glad it’s out in the open. I’m glad it’s over. All I can say is –“

Beth cut him off.

“That’s the past, Kevin,” Beth said sternly. “We have to talk about the future.”

After hours of apologies, tears, and even a little laughter, Maher and Beth agreed to try one last time to make their marriage work.

“But you have to be a good boy,” Beth insisted. “No more coke, no more guns, and no more women.”

“I’ll be a good boy,” Maher said. “I swear.”

However, even as they tried to tell themselves this was a second chance, they both knew it was an ending, not a beginning, a temporary truce until terms of surrender could be hammered out.

A couple days later there was another ending in Maher’s life. The arbiters at New Jersey Transit had reached a decision. On September 21, 1987, Maher was officially terminated. To Maher, it was a bitter conclusion to a dispute he felt certain would be settled in his favor. After all, the weed killer had caused his conjunctivitis, and he couldn’t help the fact that wearing goggles rendered him virtually blind. Maher retained a lawyer. He wasn’t going down without a fight.

The last week of September, at four o’clock in the morning, Maher was awaked by the ringing of the phone. He grabbed the receiver.

“hello?”

Instead of a response, Maher heard a grinding sound. An unmistakeable gnashing of teeth. Uribe. And Uribe only ground his teeth when he was coked up.

“John?”

“You fuck,” Uribe said with a growl. “You’re history, and so is everybody in that house.”

Click.

Maher bolted upright. Beth stirred.

“Who was that?” Beth asked.

“Uribe,” Maher said, offering no further explanation.

Maher remained awake the balance of the night. Where was Uribe calling from? Miami? New Jersey?

At nine sharp, Maher called the DEA. Becker answered the phone. Maher told Becker about the phone call from Uribe and speculated that Uribe probably put two and two together after the raids and had come up with Maher.

“Don’t mention Dakota,” Maher said. “North or South I’m going after him.”

Maher didn’t want to lock up Uribe, but he figured he didn’t have much choice. Uribe’s coke habit made him dangerous.

Becker contacted an agent in Florida to verify Uribe’s address. Uribe had been arrested on a domestic violence charge for a fight he had with Laura. According to the arrest report, Uribe was now living in Coconut Grove.

Maher called Beth at The Economist and told her he had to go to Miami. She wasn’t pleased.

“This is the last trip,” Maher said, “I swear.”

Within an hour, Maher was speeding toward Florida, arriving the following afternoon in Coconut Grove. Maher found Uribe’s house. Located down a dead-end street, it was even bigger than the previous one. As Maher peered toward the house, Uribe appeared at the huge picture window that overlooked the front lawn. Before Maher could get the car turned around, Uribe was out of the house. Maher jumped from the car and looked Uribe over. He didn’t appear to armed.

“How’d you find me?” Uribe demanded.

“It’s on your arrest record,” Maher said. “From when you beat the shit out of Laura.”

Maher and Uribe studied each other for a long beat. Maher could hear Uribe thinking: The fuck is a cop.

Maher smiled. “You fuck! You called me up and threatened me? What the fuck is up with that?”

“That wasn’t me,” Uribe countered.

Maher’s smile broadened. Of course it was you. No one else grinds his teeth like that.

“John,” Maher said, “you think I set up the DDs? You think it was me? Then what are you doing standing there? Why aren’t you locked up?”

Uribe fought back a smile.

“Come in,” Uribe said. “I have a present for you my friend.”

As they walked toward the house, Uribe asked: “What are you doing in Florida?”

“I’m down here to meet a DD I know and buy a kilo,” Maher answered.

Uribe reacted. Maher smiled.

“What?” Maher said. “You think you’re the only DD in town?”

Uribe seemed convinced that Maher was planning a buy. Now Maher would offer to make the buy from Uribe. Would Uribe take the bait?

“Hey,” Maher said, “I don’t care where I get the kilo. Why don’t you sell it to me?”

Uribe hesitated for a moment.

“Okay,” Uribe finally said. “Maybe tomorrow.”

The following day, Becker flew into Miami. Maher and Becker met with the DEA Florida Region group supervisor and outlined a plan.

“I’ll get him to sell me a kilo,” Maher said.

But the group supervisor was not so keen to the idea.

“Busting him for a key is a throwout case,” the group supervisor said.

The difficulty was that there already was an active warrant on Uribe for dozens of charges.

“Any defense lawyer will use that,” the group supervisor noted. “The lawyer’s bound to say to a judge: why didn’t they arrest him all these years?” Why did they accumulate all these charges?”

The answer, of course, was Maher’s deal: Don’t lock up Uribe.

It was decided that the obvious solution was to exercise the active warrant and forget about he one-kilo buy. Maher’s job was to make sure Uribe was in the house when the DEA arrived.

The next afternoon, Maher met Becker near Uribe’s house. There were DEA agents, detectives from the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, and cops from the Coconut Grove Police Department. Twenty in all, each wearing bulletproof vests and hooded masks. They look like terrorists, Maher thought. The cops and agents were armed with Mac 10 automatic rifles equipped with a ten-inch silencer. It was the most fearsome display of law enforcement Maher had ever seen.

Maher drove the short distance to Uribe’s house and knocked on the door. A few seconds later, Uribe appeared.

“Hey, Kevin. What’s up?”

“Just checking to see if you’re going to be home. I’ve got to make a run. But I’ll be back in an hour.”

“I’ll be here,” Uribe said.

Maher walked to his Porsche, climbed behind the wheel, and drove slowly down the street. Two vans and three radio cars sped past him. Maher stopped the car and rolled down the window. Seconds later he heard the raid begin.

“Police!”

“DEA!”

“Don’t Move!”

“FBI!”

Maher laughed to himself. FBI. There were no FBI agents in the group. But the DEA often shouted “FBI!” because it had a harder sound. If someone didn’t know the acronym DEA, the certainly understood FBI.

Maher slammed the Porsche into first gear and headed back to New York.

With the trial on his assault charges approaching, Maher contacted the IAD and told the Vincent Caldera story. Skeptical at first, the IAD became convinced after checking Maher’s references: Doherty, DeBellis, Slavanki. The only obstacle now was Officer Bell, the arresting officer in the case against Maher. If Bell would withdraw the complaint, the charges would be dropped. Bell agreed, and the case was dismissed. Maher went undercover for the IAD.

But Caldera refused to cooperate. So, despite an overwhelming amount of evidence gathered by Maher, there were no arrests. It appeared the incident was being “swept,” a term used by cops as a shorthand for “sweeping under the rug.” And at a level this high, no one could stop the broom from doing it’s work.

Still, for Maher the Caldera case had served his purpose. He avoided a jail sentence. And gained another opportunity to get his life straightened out. To that end, Maher kept his promise to Beth. He stopped using coke. Cold turkey. Actually it was Wild Turkey, which is how Maher got passed the withdrawal symptoms. He drank heavily. And once again, he merely switched drugs.

In January 1988 there was hopeful signs that New Jersey Transit might settle the dispute. But the signs were misleading. So on January 27, Maher’s attorney, Randi Doner – from the law firm of Sanford/Oxfeld – filed a $2 million lawsuit charging New Jersey Transit with wrongful dismissal, handicap discrimination, and violation of the whistle blower statute. A flurry of motions followed. By March it was clear that the railroad would contest. Doner’s assessment was that the dispute could take years before it even got to the courts.

Maher grew more anxious. His safety net, the railroad job, was a thing of the past.

“Guess what,” Detective Frank DelPrete had told Maher one day when the two of them ran into each other on the street. “Your buddy is dead.”

“Who?” Maher said.

“Brian Molese,” DelPrete had answered. “I just heard he died in prison of AIDS.”

The death of Brian Molese provided a punctuation mark to Maher’s career as an informant. Much had begun at 24 Sanford Road. So now Maher’s cop persona no longer existed, it seemed fitting that Molese no longer existed as well.

Seventeen years ago, when he stole the Roadrunner and took the cops on a chase to the Catskills, it was evident that Maher was an excitement junkie. And his sources of excitement took many forms. Uribe and Beverly were two. Each, in his or her own way, had always given Maher that needed fix of risk and adventure. But following Maher’s outburst at Gallagher’s, Beverly had quit her job and left her apartment. No one knew where to find her. And Uribe was locked up.

No undercover work. No Beverly. No Uribe. No excitement. So Maher looked to his wife to ease the craving. At least I still have Beth, Maher told himself. But on a hot and humid night in June 1988, he destroyed that, too.

Maher and Beth had just finished dinner when Beth mentioned something she had to do at the office.

“Like I was telling Richard –“ Beth began.

But before she finished her sentence, Maher jumped up from the table. He couldn’t bear the way she said the name “Richard.”

“I’m going out for awhile,” Maher said, and then walked out the door.

For the next six hours, Maher stopped at bar after bar.  By the time he staggered home at 3:00 A.M., he was mean drunk.

Maher entered the bedroom and turned on the light. Beth wake. She gave Maher a dirty look, then rolled over, facing away from him. Infuriated, Maher reached under the bed and emerged with his Smith & Wesson.

“Hey, bitch!” Maher screamed.

Beth turned around. Her eyes widened when she saw the gun.

“When I catch you and that motherfucker O’Rourke,” Maher said with a sneer, pulling the slide back to eject a bullet, “I’m going to blow his fucking brains out.”

Maher took the bullet and, using the tip, wrote in large letters across the wall: Richard O’Rourke.

Maher staggered over to the side of the bed and looked down at Beth, who was lying on her back. He held the bullet a couple of feet above her face.

“The next time you see one of these coming at you…”

Maher dropped the bullet on Beth’s forehead.

“…it’ll be coming at you a lot faster.”

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.