Within days of my sit-down with Téo, I was back on a plane heading to Panama City. Not my favorite city in the world, but what could I do?
“So soon?” Bolo asked, when I called to let him know I was in town.
“I just can’t stay away,” I said flatly. “I have to meet with you as soon as you’re free. I need Mundo to be there, but he shouldn’t sit in on our discussion. He just has to be nearby, so you can follow up with him once we’re done.”
We made plans to meet the next day in Costa del Este.
“I’ll see you at 9:30 tomorrow,” I said right before I hung up. “And please stress to Olmando that he needs to be on time and standing by.”
When I arrived at Bolo’s place of business, I saw Mundo in his office, typing away at something on his computer. It was obvious that Téo had already read him the riot act. He must have been worried that my appearance would be the final nail in his coffin- and he was not wrong.
My debrief of the Brownsville guns garage was not pleasant, but it was oddly satisfying- the culmination of years of trying to get Bolo to understand he was digging a grave for PanStar and, in the process, leaving us all exposed.
There was no prepping Bolo for the story that was to follow- I just jumped right in.
“Your de facto heir and his little buddy were running a full-bore arms depot out of the garage his mother bought him in Brownsville.”
“What are you talking about?” Bolo asked me. He looked like he thought I might be lying.
“You mean Olmando hasn’t mentioned what’s been going on in New York?” I asked. “I’m sure Téo’s called him by now, to let him know he knows the whole story. Mundo owns a garage in Brownsville. He stocked it to the rafters with ammunition, bullet proof vests and Sig Sauers.”
Bolo looked horrified.
“Oh, and fireworks,” I added.
“Fireworks?” Bolo asked, thoroughly confused.
“Yes, fireworks,” I confirmed. “They’re illegal in New York and a hot commodity in the summer. Anyway, the garage got broken into- they chopped a hole into the roof and got inside. They took everything except for a handful of guns that were locked up in a safe. I talked to Téo and told him to offload that property. And I've already had Pierre move the guns. But I'm telling you right now, if those kids can get all of those guns into that shitty little garage in Brownsville, you certainly should be more than able to find a steady source of supply through Panama.”
“Are you telling me you want me to supply Pierre with guns in New York?” Bolo asked, mystified.
“No, Rafael,” I said, patiently. “That is not what I’m saying. I am telling you- if you insist on moving forward with PanStar we need to dead drugs and pivot to weapons.”
“Why would I not move forward with PanStar?” Bolo asked.
“Because you’re letting it die. You’re going to paint yourself into a corner if you don’t adapt,” I explained. “These kids can see what needs to be done. Why can’t you?”
I thought Bolo might make me go another ten or fifteen rounds over this, but he gave in quickly.
“Okay, Hopeton- you win,” he said softly. I could hear the tiredness behind his words. Rafael Montilla was not used to letting anyone wear him down. That was his job.
“It’s not about winning, Rafael. It’s about adapting.”
Rafael hated when I got philosophical on him, so I didn’t pursue that line of reasoning any further.
“So now what?” Bolo asked. “Am I expected to magically start supplying weapons to half of the United States? I’ve already told you that it would take some time to figure out how to make this work. I’m not even sure if it can.”
“Of course, it can,” I said. “Your nephew proved it can. You and I are just going to do it on a larger scale, and a safer one.”
“Safer,” Bolo laughed bitterly.
“Now is not the time to grow a conscience, Rafael,” I pointed out.
“And are you up for the switch?” Bolo asked. “I’m no expert in arms dealing, but I imagine it would be a very different enterprise than what we’ve built up over the past years.”
“I am,” I told him. “There’s a reason I’ve been concentrating on security at PanStar all these years. We have a small footprint and a relatively low profile. Things will only get tighter from here on in.”
Bolo nodded. He was finally catching up to my bigger picture aspirations.
“And one more thing, now that we’re finally on the same page,” I continued. “I'm letting you know that Mundo has no part of anything going on in America. He's with you on the construction thing, the legal stuff in Panama City but he’s not to step foot in any NY business.”
Bolo remained silent, but I knew he’d accepted my terms.
“Pierre and I will handle Brooklyn,” I said. “And Téo knows Olmando is not coming back.”
I stopped by Mundo on my way out.
“Your uncle’s waiting for you in his office,” I told him. “You need to go talk to him right away.”
Shortly after I returned to Brooklyn, I met up with Cabrón. While I was gone, we’d exchanged a series of terse, coded text messages- I needed the full story.
“You deal with the little girl?” I asked him.
“Yep,” was all he said.
“Alright, good,” I replied. All I needed was for Pierre to make sure those last little guns were disposed of quickly and cleanly, then I could work on getting Olmando’s cast-off removed from any future PanStar-affiliated operations. But that was a problem for another day.
“And now I’m going to brief you on the future of PanStar,” I said, a bit dramatically.
I then gave Pierre his marching orders, resulting from all of the decisions I’d nailed Téo and Bolo to over the past several weeks.
· Sell the guns garage off market for a twenty-five percent commission- “coming directly out of Mundo’s pocket,” I lied.
· Hold tight while PanStar was converted from a drugs clearinghouse to an arms depot.
· Prepare for a client-facing role. Pierre would not have to touch inventory or money- his only job was to make the initial connection and facilitate hand-off.
· Stop talking about going to grad school and start actually taking steps to enroll in a program.
Pierre laughed at that last directive.
“But seriously- all jokes aside,” he said. “You’re basically handing me a face man role. Like some old school Mundo shit.”
“To a degree, I can see why you might say that,” I replied. “But Mundo’s role was always more as a driver. Along the lines of Eula, but with a tricked-out Volvo instead of a Trek.”
“Please don’t try to placate me, Hopeton,” Pierre said. “If I’m doing Mundo-level work, then I should be making Mundo-level money. Maybe we should talk money.”
I was shocked that this kid really had no idea he’d always been paid more than his brother. But I was going to let it ride and watch him try to negotiate with me. I needed Pierre to set his own worth.
