Chapter 6
Paradise
May 1981
Jason had friends, acquaintances and business dealings everywhere they traveled. He liked to boast that he'd been to every port in the world 10 times.
By the time the pair reached Panama City for the much anticipated big score, the conmen had amassed a sizable bankroll, and they were going to need it because the accommodations were luxurious. The implementation of Jason's scheme had a big price tag, but that's why they had saved all these years.
"You said we were goin' to Monte Carlo." The two were shopping in the midday heat, picking out sunglasses for Willie and a straw hat for Jason.
"Yes, well, we've had a change of venue. I've been in contact with a very dear friend of mine—no, not those." Scanning the kiosk, he took the green plastic shades from Willie's face and replaced it with silver-rimmed aviators. "You have to look rich."
"Jason, everybody we meet is a very dear friend a' yours." Willie admired himself in the vendor's mirror. "Oh, yeah. I'm cool." Panamanian balboas were coins and not easily palmed, so he shrugged and actually paid for the goods.
They procured a two-bedroom suite at the Hilton, rented a red Ferrari, and Willie got a new wardrobe: silk shirts and designer jeans, a red leather jacket, boots, sandals and a gold necklace. Jason considered having the boy's hair trimmed, but in the end decided his little ponytail suited the scenario.
That first evening, Willie was lying on the floor of their sitting room flipping channels, dressed in a faded Grateful Dead tee shirt and cut offs. "I could get used to this real easy." He studied the link design of his chain necklace. "How long's our money gonna last?"
"Ah, we'll be livin' large from now on, son. This is the one I told you about—the big score." The Irishman called back from the bathroom.
Willie smiled at the excitement in his partner's voice.
"Hey, Jason, why're ya shavin' at night?"
"We're expectin' company, m'lad, and I want to present m'finest. It wouldn't hurt for you to put on some proper pants."
"What for?"
There was a knock at the door. Willie opened it, and his jaw dropped. Poised in the doorway was a statuesque Mediterranean bombshell with auburn hair, smoky eyes and a figure that could stop traffic.
She smiled as Jason pushed the boy out of the doorway and extended his hand. The woman kissed her host on both cheeks and he escorted her into the sitting room, instructing Willie over his shoulder: "Close your mouth, and close the door."
He watched wide eyed as Jason poured her a drink. Was she a hooker? Damn, she's gonna cost more than the Ferrari.
"Willie, this is Raquel. Say hello to my very dear friend and our new business partner."
The young man's jaw dropped again. Partner? Why does he always pull this shit on me? He managed to say, "Hi," but it sounded like a rusty squeak.
Raquel approached the young accomplice and took his face in her hands. She glanced skeptically at Jason.
"No, no, it'll be fine. He's an old pro; you'll see," McGuire assured her.
The beauty looked hard into Willie's eyes, then smiled seductively and kissed him on the lips. "Of course," she said with an exotic accent.
Raquel and Jason sat in intimate conversation on the couch while Willie sulked in a corner, nursing a beer. The woman pulled a notepad from her handbag and discussed details of the operation, bringing Jason up to date with her dealings so far. Then the discussion returned to the subject of Willie as he strained to overhear snippets of their candid conversation.
"The poor language and manners, they can all be chalked up to the lad's defiant personality," Jason whispered. "I'll see that he shaves every day and with the new wardrobe—"
"Perhaps he will not look so much like a stray mutt," Raquel finished, with a slight edge.
It was as if he wasn't even in the room. Willie scowled, waiting impatiently to be included in the dialogue. Was he a player in this game or not? Why were they treating him like some loser idiot? Finally, Jason addressed the scruffy young man sitting on the floor.
"Goodnight, Willie. We'll see you in the mornin'."
With that, he and the gorgeous babe sauntered into his bedroom and closed the door. The boy's face turned red with anger as he scrambled to his feet. He looked down at his half empty beer bottle and hurled it forcefully across the room where it smashed against a wall. The bedroom door crashed open and Jason rushed in.
"What happened!"
"Sorry. Accident." Willie glared at him.
Jason stomped over to his partner as they both raised their fists, but then retracted the threat and flung the bar towel at him instead.
"There'll be no more of that," he said in a quiet, controlled tone. "Now, clean it up. We'll talk in the mornin'." He retreated once more to the bedroom.
The punk scanned the room as he considered breaking something else; maybe that would make more of an impression. But he knew why Jason had pulled his punch. He was being professional. Shit. Willie slammed his fist into the wall until the plaster started to crack and his knuckles were bleeding.
He threw the towel back on the bar, noting that Jason had bought a bottle of scotch—for her—but no rum. The young man poured himself a tall tumbler and chugged most of it, and it hit him almost immediately. Willie weaved toward his bedroom, knocking over the drink, an ashtray and maybe a chair—something had crashed. He looked at Jason's door, but this time there was no reaction.
Willie collapsed on the bed. With the drapes drawn and the door closed, the room was pitch black and virtually sound proof. He could spread his arms and legs out in any direction and not feel the edge of the mattress. Were his eyes opened or closed? The room was spinning, or maybe Willie was. He passed out and dreamed he was a pod floating in space to classical music.
Willie woke to find the mysterious woman was gone, coffee had arrived, and Jason was combing that oily crap into his hair. The kid stumbled into the bathroom and puked in the toilet bowl.
"Thank you for not missin'." The Irishman was in a good mood and made no mention of the previous evening's unpleasantness.
Willie sat on the bathroom floor, leaning against the toilet as his partner handed him a glass of water. "Aspirin," he managed to say. His tongue felt like sandpaper and tasted putrid.
"Sure, an' allow me to fetch it for you." Jason retrieved his toiletries bag. "You know, you don't need to be playin' your character quite yet."
Willie downed half of the water and splashed the rest onto his face. "I don't even know what my character is."
"There's no sense in botherin' you with details till it's finalized."
"Ya talk like I'm retarded."
"No, laddy, you talk like you're retarded. Now clean yourself up, we have a busy day."
More or less recovered and suitably dressed, Willie and his mentor met up with their new partner for late lunch at a poolside table, and she was somewhat more impressed with the protégé's possibilities. Afterwards, they returned to the hotel room where Jason and Raquel sat on either side of the young con artist as he was briefed.
Willie had to admit, it was the best scam ever, and his was the best character. It had been all Jason's idea but Raquel had been the front man—or woman. She had found the mark and made initial contact. Actually, there had been much more than initial contact. As it turned out, she was essential to the operation.
The mark's name was Albert Zorin, an American criminal bankrolled by the Russian Mafia. Raquel set up a meeting that evening with Zorin to discuss the proposition. Jason would join them, and Willie would be observed elsewhere in the bar.
"You must be loud and obnoxious," the woman instructed him. "Buy drinks, create a scene. Use this and make sure he sees you do it." She handed him a vial of cocaine.
Raquel renamed herself Anjelica and Jason was now Ernest. They were to play Willie's uncle and stepmother. Willie's role was the rebel son of a recently deceased owner of oil refineries. His new name was William Hollingshead IV.
