At long last, no longer the sole custodian of PanStar.
My new routine was easily established once Pierre had taken over residence on Nostrand Ave. I’d wake up every morning at seven a.m., go out and grab the New York Times off my porch, eat some breakfast and spend half an hour reading the paper. Then I’d shower, dress and drive over to Crown Heights, unlock PanStar and start my workday.
Weekdays had settled down for me, now that the kids had sorted out what to do with themselves. Olmando and his employee drove around in Mundo’s deluxe Volvo, running money up and down the Tri-State. Cabrón spent his time out and about, handling business at Port Newark and taking care of any one-off issues that required diplomacy.
The way things were organized, I didn’t need to spend much time with Mundo and Biz. They’d stop by to pick up or drop off payments. I’d reprimand them if they were running late. They’d ask if I could pay them out a day or two early. I’d say no, then remind Biz he was not on my payroll. That was the extent of our interaction, and I preferred it that way.
My dealings with Pierre were more involved. I tried to touch base with him once a day. If he got back to PanStar before I’d left for the evening, we’d have a quick status meeting. If we missed each other and there was nothing pressing, Pierre would make sure to check in with me the following morning. If there was something that required immediate attention, he knew how to reach me.
Stabilizing PanStar allowed me to spend more time on things I actively enjoyed- collaborating with Prentiss on our newly formed business venture and playing cricket on weekends.
It all seemed to be running fairly smoothly.
My life seemed to have new meaning.
But there were several petty, little annoyances that threatened to chip away at my newly achieved equanimity. And each of them could be traced back to either Bolo or his heir.
In the year that had passed since the PanStar summit, Rafael Montilla had gotten back into the habit of keeping in touch with me. It seemed as if my open claim on Brooklyn had gotten through to him.
Bolo’s calls were as full of micromanaging mandates as always, but I now turned it all back on him. My main pressure point revolved around the steadily weakening pipeline from Colombia to Panama to Port Newark, and growing hostility from our restless customers.
“You told me until 1999,” I’d remind Bolo. “And that’s right around the corner. I know what the next move needs to be. Do you?”
“What can I say?” Bolo would deflect. “We’re in a volatile business with demanding customers. You just need to ride it out. They need you more than you need them.”
And other such grey area platitudes.
But the truth of the matter was, by that point Bolo was starting to need me more than I needed him. I wasn’t quite ready to give up on PanStar, but the time was drawing near.
Mundo was the other side of my irritation. Every pay day, he would slide into the back room, complaining about “Why do I need to be let in here, like some random worker? Cabrón has the code. How come I can’t have the code?”
If he was in a particularly difficult mood Olmando would remind me that his name was on the deed to the building, so I was actually his tenant.
Biz would just stand there quietly, a bland look on his face. He knew Mundo was childish and lacked impulse control. But I suppose that at that time in his life, the perks were worth the discomfort.
Pierre would tell Mundo to shut the fuck up. And Mundo would shut the fuck up.
I categorically ignored Mundo’s petty outbursts. Never engaged.
I knew this was something that would eventually work itself out, though the waiting would be unenjoyable.
But eventually Mundo became fixated on something that took his focus away from petty power plays.
