The Racketeer

in bed, unburdened by outstanding warrants or ongoing criminal investigations, oblivious to what was happening to his dear brother Quinn, carefree, and sleeping soundly. He was taken into custody without resistance but with an enormous amount of bitching. The squad of agents who snatched him offered little explanation. At the FBI building on Pennsylvania Avenue, he was hustled into a room where he was placed in a chair and surrounded by agents, all wearing navy parkas with “FBI” in bright yellow. The scene was photographed from several angles. After an hour of sitting handcuffed and being told nothing, he was removed from the room, walked back to the van, and driven home. He was deposited at the curb without another word.
    His girlfriend fetched him some pills and he eventually settled down. He would call his lawyer in the morning and raise hell, but the entire episode would soon be forgotten.
    In the drug trade, you don’t expect happy endings.

    When Delocke returned from the restroom, he held the door open for a moment. A slender, attractive secretary of some variety entered with a tray of drinks and cookies, which she set on the edge of the table. She smiled at Quinn, who was still standing in the corner, too confused to acknowledge her. After she left, Pankovits popped a can of Red Bull and poured it over ice. “You need a Red Bull, Quinn?”
    “No.” He served them all night at the bar, Red Bull and vodka, but had never cared for the taste. The break in the action gave him a moment to catch his breath and try to organize his thoughts. Should he continue, or should he remain silent and insist on a lawyer? His instincts were for the latter, but he was extremely curious about how much the FBI knew. He was reeling from what they had already discovered, but how far could they go?
    Delocke fixed himself a Red Bull too, over ice, and munched on a cookie. “Have a seat, Quinn,” he said, waving him back to the table. Quinn took a few steps and sat down. Pankovits was already taking notes. “Your older brother, I believe they call him Tall Man, is he still in the D.C. area?”
    “What’s he got to do with anything?”
    “Just filling in some gaps here, Quinn. That’s all. I like to have all the facts, or as many as possible. Have you seen much of Tall Man in the past three months?”
    “No comment.”
    “Okay. Your younger brother, Dee Ray, is he still in the D.C. area?”
    “I don’t know where Dee Ray is.”
    “Have you seen much of Dee Ray in the past three months?”
    “No comment.”
    “Did Dee Ray go to Roanoke with you when you got arrested?”
    “No comment.”
    “Was anyone with you when you got arrested in Roanoke?”
    “I was alone.”
    Delocke exhaled in frustration. Pankovits sighed as if this were just another lie and they knew it.
    “I swear I was alone,” Quinn said.
    “What were you doing in Roanoke?” Delocke asked.
    “Business.”
    “Trafficking?”
    “That’s our business. Roanoke is part of our territory. We had a situation there and I had to take care of it.”
    “What kind of situation?”
    “No comment.”
    Pankovits took a long pull of his Red Bull and said, “You know, Quinn, the problem we have right now is that we can’t believe a word you’re saying. You lie. We know you lie. You even admit you lie. We ask a question, you give us a lie.”
    “We’re getting nowhere, Quinn,” Delocke chimed in. “What were you doing in Roanoke?”
    Quinn reached forward and took an Oreo. He pulled off the top, licked the creme, stared at Delocke, and finally said, “We had a mule down there who we suspected of being an informant. We lost two shipments under strange circumstances, and we figured things out. I went to see the mule.”
    “To kill him?”
    “No, we don’t operate that way. I couldn’t find him. He apparently got word and took off. I went to a bar, drank too much, got in a fight, had a bad night. The next day, a friend told me about a good deal on a Hummer, so I went to see it.”
    “Who was the friend?”
    “No comment.”
    “You’re lying,” Delocke said. “You’re lying and we know you’re lying. You’re not even a good liar, Quinn, you know that?”
    “Whatever.”
    “Why did you title the Hummer in North Carolina?” Pankovits asked.
    “Because I was on the run, remember? I was an escapee, trying not to leave a trail. Get it, fellas? Fake ID. Fake address. Fake everything.”
    “Who is Jakeel Staley?” Delocke asked.
    Quinn