The Racketeer

hand the keys to the valet, and walk into a scene from
Miami Vice
. Ceiling fans turn slowly as guests in white-wicker chairs gossip and drink.
    “Checking in, sir?” the pretty girl asks.
    “Yes. Max Baldwin,” I reply, and for some reason it is a proud moment. I, Mighty Max, am drowning in more freedom than I can absorb at the moment. Plenty of cash, fresh papers that are legit, a convertible that will take me anywhere—it’s almost overwhelming. But I am jolted back to life when a tall, tanned brunette strolls through the lobby. Her top is what’s left of a string bikini and covers almost nothing. Her bottom is a sheer skirt that covers even less.
    I hand over a Visa card for the charges. I could also use either cash or a prepaid credit card, but since the Fibbies know where I’m staying, there’s no need to be deceptive. I’m sure the Miami office has been notified, and there’s probably a set of eyes not too far away. If I were really paranoid, I could believe that the FBI has already been in my room and perhaps hidden a bug or two. I get to my room, see no bugs or spooks, take a quick shower, and change into shorts and sandals. I go to the bar to check out the talent. I eat alone in the hotel café and catch the eye of a fortyish woman who is dining with what appears to be a female friend. Later, back in the bar, I see her again and we introduce ourselves.Eva, from Puerto Rico. We’re having a drink when the band starts. Eva wants to dance, and though it’s been years, I hit the floor with all the energy I have.
    Around midnight, Eva and I make it to my room, where we immediately undress and hop into bed. I almost pray the FBI has the room wired for even the meekest of sounds. If so, Eva and I give them an earful.

    I hustle out of the cab at a curb on 8th Avenue, in downtown Miami. It’s 9:30 a.m., already hot, and after a few minutes of brisk walking, my shirt is sticking to my back. I don’t think I’m being followed, but I duck and dart just the same. The building is a squat five-story box, so ugly you can’t believe someone paid an architect to design it. But then I doubt if most of the tenants are cutting-edge companies. One happens to be called Corporate Registry Services, or CRS, a name so bland and innocuous that no one would ever know the company’s business. And most people would not want to.
    CRS may be perfectly legitimate, but it attracts a lot of clients who are not. It’s an address, a drop-off, a front, a phone-answering service that a corporation can hire to buy some measure of authenticity. Since I have not called ahead, I kill an hour waiting for an account representative. Loyd is his name, and he eventually leads me back to a small, stuffy office and offers me a chair across from his landfill of a desk. We chat for a few minutes as he scans the questionnaire I’ve filled out.
    “What is Skelter Films?” he finally asks.
    “A documentary film production company.”
    “Who owns it?”
    “Me. Incorporated in Delaware.”
    “How many films have you made?”
    “None. Just getting started.”
    “What are the chances of Skelter Films being around two years from now?”
    “Slim.”
    He hears this shadiness all the time and it doesn’t faze him. “Sounds like a front.”
    “That’s pretty accurate.”
    “We require an affidavit in which you swear under oath that your company will not be engaged in criminal activities.”
    “I swear it will not.”
    He’s heard this before too. “Okay, here’s how we operate. We provide Skelter with a physical address, here in this building. When we get mail, we forward it to wherever you say. We provide a phone number, and all incoming calls will be handled by a live voice who’ll chirp whatever you want. ‘Good morning, Skelter Films, how can I direct your call?’ Or something else. You got partners?”
    “No.”
    “Any employees, fictional or otherwise?”
    “I’ll have a few names, all fictional.”
    “No problem. If the caller asks for one of these ghosts, our girl will say whatever you want. ‘Sorry, he’s filming on location,’ or whatever. You write the fiction, and we’ll deliver it. As soon as we get a call, we notify you. What about a Web site?”
    I’m not sure about this, so I say, “Not yet. What are the pros?”
    Loyd shifts weight and leans on his elbows. “Okay, let’s say Skelter is a legitimate company that will make lots of documentaries. If so, it will need a Web site for all the usual