Furthermore, he managed to keep up with his classes at school, run cross-country track, and for all appearances, was the “All-American boy.” Little did anyone suspect that in the basement of the Hewlett house in a secret cabinet behind the water heater was often over a thousand dollars worth of cocaine. The sole key to the cabinet was taped to the underside of his bed frame.
As time passed, he got away from dealing. Instead, he would supply other dealers and take a percentage of what they doled out to their clients. He and Townsend would spend hours going through the bona fides of prospective dealers. Though Townsend was more likely to give a prospective dealer a chance at the trade, Hewlett was inherently more cautious. At least half the time, Hewlett would rule out a prospective dealer that Townsend proposed. To Hewlett, they were too talkative or too sloppy, too careless or too credulous.
Hewlett gave it all up when he went to Dartmouth. He was too busy with academics or active in running on the cross-country racing team. Still, he missed the thrill of dealing cocaine. Only once during his four years at Dartmouth, did he snort a line. But as usual, it merely gave him a buzz, leaving him feeling like he was at a red light revving the engine just because it made his foot feel good. Graduating in economics, he had little trouble passing the certifying exam for his stockbroker’s license. Once certified, he had less of a problem finding a good job. It wasn’t long before his cousin recruited him to start dealing again. As before, he only dealt to other dealers, who in turn sold the drug to the person actually using the drug. During the day, he was a stockbroker, but at night, he was available to those who wanted some “blow.”
Initially, he worked at another brokerage firm than that of his cousin. While Townsend was a desk jockey at Hauser, Longo and Fauci, a job that he secured through connections, Hewlett toiled away at Rubenstein and Mercer, a brokerage across town. After four years of selling and buying stock bonds there, though, he talked his cousin into starting their own brokerage firm. Townsend proceeded to obtain the services of three other stockbrokers at Houser, Longo and Fauci to come with him, while Hewlett obtained two from his firm to go with him. For as flashy as he was with his money, Townsend was reticent about his secret dealings with his cousin. Hewlett, ever the fastidious one, ever the loner, never even once broached the subject with any of his partners. To others who worked at West Beach Investment, Townsend and Hewlett were no different than rest of the stockbrokers at the firm. The most that any of the partners could say about either one of them was that they shared nothing stronger than a beer while watching some football game in a sports bar.
Hewlett looked at his watch. He had a stockbroker client he needed to make a call to before lunch. “Look, according to Davis, this is his last hurrah. He wants to go out in style. He wants to go out with enough to tidy him over. He just needs one other good haul after this. Whatever the falling out you had with Davis, I don’t want to know. As far as I’m concerned, that’s all past history. I think Davis is right when he said we could make up the difference by just hauling more product this outing. He told me he goosed the engine up somehow so that it would add forty more horsepower to the Ariel’s payload. That’s just ten bags. His last hurrah.”
Townsend just shook his head.
“Don’t pull that wounded soldier shit with me,” said Hewlett. “This isn’t the first time you’ve pissed someone off. Someday, it’s going to get you in trouble. And when it comes, I might not be there to help you. I plan to make it my last hurrah, too.” Hewlett had grown weary of the drug trade that he’d been involved in since they started the brokerage firm almost a decade ago. All he wanted was to go on being a stockbroker.
“You’re shitting me.”
“No. It’s just that you haven’t been listening to me.”
“I never thought you were serious about getting out while there’s been that much money coming in.”
“No it’s time to get out.”
“Do you think they’ll let you?”
“They sure as hell haven’t yet!”
Chapter Four
With the eidetic memory of a prodigy, Hewlett could well remember the day it all changed for the both of them. It was a misty November morning more than a year ago. Drizzle that had begun falling the day before and hadn’t stopped obscuring the tops of the Miami. Hewlett and his associates had an office on the top of one of Miami’s skyscrapers. His office had an inside out view. If he looked the other way he could see pretty well everything going on in the office. The center piece was the trading floor: the illusionary life force of their business. At about ten o’clock, he was watching overseas markets waver on the neon ticker tape his secretary rang him. “A Mr. Roland Rosario to see you.”
“Did I have an appointment with this Mr. Rosario?”
“No. Mr. Hewlett. You have the eleven o’clock with Mr. Stevens, but that’s it for this morning.” It was not unusual for Hewlett to have a fairly open appointment book. Most of his clients were too busy businessmen finding it hard to get away from their office, so they called him at his, his acute mind recalling the broad sweep of his client’s portfolios with little difficulty. Rosario...Rosario...No, Rosario, never had he seen him in the past. He looked out and saw a man he wouldn’t have forgotten.
“Did he say what this was in regards to?”
“He said it was a private matter.”
“Give me about thirty seconds, and then I’ll be out.” There was a small bathroom off his office. He adjusted the part in his hair and rinsed his mouth out with Listerine. Entering the waiting area, he found a swarthy man sitting very erectly, his briefcase on his lap and his elbows resting on it. For the briefest second, Hewlett hesitated. Walking over to where the man was sitting, he said, “Mr. Rosario? I don’t believe I have the pleasure of knowing you? My name is Paul Hewlett.”
When he offered the man his hand, Rosario just stood, ignoring it. He was a short man of Mediterranean extraction, who looked as dour as the weather. “How can I help you?”
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather discuss the matter in your office.”
“Most of my clients see me by appointment. I have another appointment coming in in about half an hour.” Hewlett noticed he had a lazy eye, the left eye tracking him while the right one didn’t.
“I think, Mr. Hewlett, you should cancel his appointment. There is some urgency in the matter of which I have come to discuss with you.” Given the man’s inclination for privacy, his stern demeanor, his hint of menace, Hewlett began to wonder if the firm was about to be audited by the SEC.
As CEO of the investment firm, it was not unusual for anyone in an official capacity to ask to see him rather than Townsend or one of the other partners. Hewlett looked at Sandra Burke, who caught his look, just shrugged her shoulders and looked away. “Please try to cancel my appointment, will you, Sandra. Call Mr. Clark and tell him it was a matter of a small family emergency. Make it sometime later in the week. And please convey my apologies.”
Once they were in his office, Hewlett ushered him to the seat in front of his desk. The man sat down, his toes, but not the heels of his shoes, touching the floor. He sat very still, like a devout soul listening to a sermon. Hewlett walked around and settled in the swivelling leather chair behind his desk. “Can I get something for you to drink? A cup of coffee?” Rosario took the leather chair on the opposite