SO I WENT back to prison, but only for possession of explosives. Possession of thirty-two kilos of sugar and quinine isn't against the law. And even Blumberg the lawyer was able to make something out of the fact that I was drugged and unconscious at the time of my arrest, so they didn't hit me with too stiff a jolt.
I wasn't in population more than a week before one of Julio's gorillas asked me where I'd stashed the heroin. I told him I didn't know what he was talking about-as far as I knew, the cops had the stuff. And, anyway, I told him, it hadn't been me who roughed off the stuff in the first place. Some guy had contacted me-offered fifty grand for me to handle the exchange.
Another man came to see me in the prison about the dope, but this guy came through the front gate. When the hack told me my attorney was there to see me, I knew something was wrong-Blumberg wouldn't make the trip to Auburn even if I had paid him for representing me at the trial. This guy was all pinstripes and old school tie, with a pretty leather briefcase and a gold wedding band to match his Rolex. The new breed of mob lawyer, although I didn't know it then. He didn't even pretend he was representing me-he came there to be judge and jury, and I was on trial for my life.
Okay-I was ready for him. We went over the thing a dozen times. He had me tell my story out of sequence, did his best to trip me up-it always played the same. But slowly he got a few more details out of me.
"Tell me again about this guy who approached you.
"I already told you," I said. "About thirty years old, long hair, almost like a hippie, dirty army jacket. He was carrying a piece in a shoulder holster-didn't care if I saw it or not. Said his name was Smith."
"And he told you?"
"He told me he had this stuff, right? And it belonged to your people, okay? And I should make arrangements to sell it back to him for two hundred grand. And all I had to give him was one fifty-the rest was for me."
"You thought he stole it?"
"I didn't know how he got it, right? What did I care? I figured the old man would be happy to get his stuff back-I'd make some heavy coin-it'd be a wash, right?"
"You ever see this 'Smith' character again?"
"He didn't show up at my trial, that's for fucking sure."
"Mr. Burke, think back now. Is there anything about this guy that would help us find him?"
"You got pictures I could look through? Maybe he's one of your own.
"He's not," snapped the lawyer.
"Yeah, I guess you're right," I acknowledged. "He was like one of those buffs, you know? A real whacko."
"A 'buff'?"
"Yeah, like those guys who carry around PBA cards and pretend they're fucking off-duty cops and shit. You know what I mean."
His eyes flickered, just for a second, but I'd been watching for it. "Why do you think this individual was in that category?"
"Well," I said slowly, "two things, really. Besides the shoulder holster, he had another gun strapped to his ankle. And when he reached in his wallet to come up with the front money I wanted…for the supplies…I saw a gold shield. I guess it was one of those complimentary badges the cops give you if you make some contribution."
The lawyer screwed around for another hour or so, but his heart wasn't in it. I read in the Daily News three weeks later how an undercover narcotics officer was killed in East Harlem. Shot four times in the face, but they left his money alone. Only his gold shield was missing.