Ocean Prey (A Prey Novel #31) - John Sandford Page 0,45

cash to tuck in their pockets, tax-free. I mean one good-sized condo project, you’re talking millions of dollars in lighting. And guano in kickbacks.”

“Guano is bat shit,” Bob said.

“Local idiom,” Elliot said. “You know, guano-this, guano-that. It usually means ‘a lot.’” He considered for a moment, then said, “Of course, it can also mean ‘not a lot.’ It depends.”

“Who told you all this?” Lucas asked.

“A Mexican friend who’s dealt with him. Romano used to buy his dope from the Mexicans and ship it north, but now he’s gone outside, I guess to some Colombian newcomers. The Mexicans are fairly pissed about that,” Elliot said.

“And your Mexican friend thinks Romano was on the boat, or he knows who was?” Lucas asked.

“Well, the dope ain’t coming from them, the Mexicans. The Mexicans say that a big load of dope hit Staten Island right after that shooting this summer,” Elliot said. “My friend said that their New York marketing guys say their whole sales strategy took a hit.”

Bob: “The Mexicans have a sales strategy? They got marketing guys?”

“Well . . . yeah. How’d you think all this got done? It’s a business, like Facebook. Just a different addiction.”

“Did you know all this when we talked, or did you get it from your Mexican friend this afternoon?” Lucas asked.

“I knew some of it . . . and I made a call and got the rest. Romano’s name.”

“What else?” Lucas asked.

“Nothing else, except that attorney lady is a bitch on wheels. I wanted to smack her.”

“Not a good idea,” Lucas said.

“Yeah, I got that,” Elliot said. “This better pan out, man. I’m taking a major chance here.”

* * *

They got off the phone and Lucas called Weaver: “We’re at dinner, down the street. We need to talk to you.”

“I’m sitting here watching classic football from 2003 on YouTube, I’d hate to stop doing that for some horseshit law enforcement issue,” Weaver said.

“See you in a half hour,” Lucas said.

* * *

Weaver got serious in a hurry, when Lucas gave him the name.

The online FBI files identified Donald Romano as an old-line organized crime stalwart about a decade past his use-by date.

“He’s been hanging around forever, never important enough to get shot. He did a couple of short pieces in New Jersey for loan sharking and related assaults. Pretty amazing, when you think about it,” Weaver said, dragging his finger down the computer screen as he read the files; his finger left a trail like a garden slug’s. “They don’t allow payday loan shops in Jersey, so if they didn’t have loan sharks, you probably couldn’t get a loan . . . and he had a couple of small garbage- and trash-hauling companies that supposedly were connected to one of the New York Mafia families, but that was years ago. Decades, actually.”

“Nothing about drugs?”

“No, but loan sharks aren’t usually fussy about where their money comes from,” Weaver said. “Maybe he saw an opening—or maybe he’s the South Florida manager for one of the New York distribution systems. He’s got to have a significant distribution system if there’s as much heroin coming in as we think.”

“Why didn’t your Mafia guys know about him?” Lucas asked.

Weaver shook his head. “Don’t know. I’ve never heard of him myself, and I thought I’d at least heard about most Mafia groups. Listen, I need to think about this overnight and I need to talk to the OC guy down at the Angelus. He’ll know stuff about Romano that’s not in the files. I’m going to call all my people tonight and at the morning meeting, we won’t say anything—we’ll just send the non-FBI people on their way and then have another meet here in my room.”

“Worried about a leak?”

“No . . . but I want to talk about this only with people I’ve got a solid grip on. No Coast Guard, no local cops. FBI only. And you marshals.”

* * *

The general meeting went as usual the next morning. There’d been no finds with the few dive boats out on the Atlantic and the agent at the Angelus Hotel was still compiling faces. His girlfriend, Weaver said, had picked up a jewelry shoot for Town & Country magazine and was pleased with the FBI.

“We’ve got two more dive-boat volunteers, but one will probably drop out,” Taylor, the Coast Guard cop, reported.

All but two of the hairdressers had been tracked down and interviewed, and three had agreed to look at photo boards. One of the agents said, “They won’t see anything. That