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Breakfast at the Diner — #11
There's no Kirstin, so again it's a restaurant without a waitress. Harvey the cook nods at me, and before he can ask I say, "Yeah, coffee, with cream please." I saddle up, leaving three stools between me and any other customers. To my left is Maurice, an old, bald, speckle-skinned white man who today has an oxygen tube in his nose. To my right is a black guy in his 40s, whose name I don't know but to me he's Sudden Urge To Pee, for a wisecrack he made a few weeks ago.
Harvey pours my coffee and cream, takes my order. I remove my mask and sip coffee, and open my magazine but can't read it. Damn, my glasses are in the car. "Back in a moment," I announce, and walk out, rump-bumping the door to keep my hands as infection-free as possible.
On my second entrance, now wearing sadly-needed glasses, I hold the door for an ancient and grumpy white guy who's coming in, a man I think of as Damn Good Coffee, since that's always his opening line.
'Ancient', I typed, which means he's about my age. 'Grumpy', which means he and me ought to be friends.
I return to my seat, and Maurice says, "Are the students coming back to the university?" I'm not sure who he's asking and hope it's not me.
An answer comes from a white lady, 30-something I'd guess, who's sitting several stools to Maurice's left. "The plan is, small classes will be held in person, with masks and as much social distancing as possible. Larger classes will be held on-line."
"You think that's a good idea?" asks Pee, to my right. Great — it's a panel discussion, and I'm in the crossfire but it's too late to find another seat. The talking goes on for several minutes, but nobody says anything terribly stupid so it's bearable, long as I don't have to say anything.
Six customers and Harvey all offer their opinions on whether the university should have flesh-and-blood students, but mostly the conversation is between Maurice, Pee, and that lady, who says she teaches biology at the university. "It's probably not wise and I'm not sure I agree," she says, "but if we stay closed there are those who would reduce the university's funding and mandate to almost nothing." There are always 'those', I think.
Pee points out, "If the university is closed, 50,000 students don't need to live here in the city. That'll kill the local economy deader than it already is."
Maurice says, "College kids will be partying every weekend, and hooking up after the parties, and nothing can stop them. They'll be spreading the virus like roaches at the dump."
Bunch of ordinary schmoes at the diner analyze the issue more clearly than any of CNN's talking heads, and the most insightful comment comes in the middle of all this, from Damn Good Coffee.
He pours some sugar, stirs it, and lifts his cup, takes his first sip. He puts the cup down, licks his lips. Wait for it, wait for it… "Damn good coffee," he finally says, "as always." He always says that, and you know what? The diner's coffee is damned good.
♦ ♦ ♦
A 50-something white man, husky but not quite fat, comes in carrying an empty plastic bottle in one hand, and holding a single flower in the other. The flower is big, reddish-purple, with a round 'head' (not sure that's the right word) about the size of a cabbage.
The man doesn't sit down, but instead walks to the end of the counter and turns left, entering what I'd call the employees' area, or the "front of the house" in restaurant-lingo. He's not an employee, though. Never seen him before.
He walks to the sink, fills his bottle with water, and puts the flower inside. No-one says anything as he walks past the pie-display, past the coffee pots, and puts the bottle and flower on a shelf behind the cash register. He adjusts it, just-so, and admires it. I'm thinking, That's a large and pretty flower and also Who the heck is this guy?
Harvey is nowhere to be seen, but Slim, the cook who's cooking today, emerges from the kitchen to the front-of-house to get something, and he says, "Hey, Jerry."
Well, all right, then. It's Jerry. The diner doesn't usually have flowers, and the customers generally stay on my side of the counter, but this is Jerry so that explains everything? Slim stands still for a few seconds looking at the flower but says nothing more, and then walks back to the kitchen.
Here comes Harvey, and he also says, "Hey, Jerry."
"Hey, Harv," is the answer. "Is Kirstin working this morning?"
"She doesn't start until 8," says Harvey. He looks at the flower for a fraction of a second, then shrugs and starts pouring coffee refills. Jerry walks to the end of the counter, turns right to re-enter the dining area, and takes a seat at the counter. Harvey asks him, "You want coffee?"
Jerry's seat is six or seven stools from me and Mr Pee is between us, and nobody else is asking so I'll have to. "What's with the flower, dude?"
"Isn't it pretty?" He answers, as if that's an answer.
"Sure, but … why did you bring … a flower … to the diner?" I say it slow, spreading out the words so the question takes five seconds or so.
"They're blooming so big and colorful, my neighbor wouldn't miss just one. I brought it for Kirstin."
I nod yup, and say nothing more, because who among us hasn't stolen a flower from someone's garden, and gone behind the counter at a diner, to leave it as a gift for the waitress, who's not there?
"Azalea," he says with a smile. I hadn't asked.
♦ ♦ ♦
I worked in restaurants when I was young, but now I'm old so the memories aren't as fresh as Jerry's azalea — or is it Kirstin's azalea now? She doesn't get here until 8:00, Harvey said, and that's an hour and a half from now, so until then maybe it's still owned by the neighbor whose garden it was stolen from. Point being, men are always hitting on the waitress at any restaurant, and for the waitress it's almost never pleasant. Let the lady do her job, jackass, is what I think.
Kirstin is ten or maybe twenty years younger than me, but she's not fat and ugly like me so men sometimes try to flirt with her. She's all work, walks away, but once I saw her tell someone to "Bite the wall, mister."
Jerry imagines his gesture is sweet, and hell, what do I know? Maybe it is sweet. Maybe a gray-haired old dude can steal a flower and give it to the waitress, as purely a platonic present. Still, I apologize on behalf of my entire gender.
♦ ♦ ♦
Here's my omelet, hash browns, and toast, but there's no jam on the counter. Having every customer all day pawing through the single-serve jam containers would spread the virus, so now you need to ask for jam, and for salt and pepper and everything else. Welcome to 2020, pandemic rules. I'd forgotten to ask for jam, though, and now neither Harvey nor Slim are anywhere to be seen.
If I knew where the jam packets are kept, maybe I'd pull a Jerry and go behind the counter and fetch a couple. Nah, that's the "employees only" area and we ought to respect that boundary, even if there's not a sign. Well, I'm too lazy to holler Harvey's name, so this morning it's toast without jam — a reduced-calorie breakfast.
♦ ♦ ♦
Nothing on the plate cools quicker, so I eat the toast first, and immediately after swallowing my last jam-less bite, Harvey is back. He's making coffee and wiping off menus and loading the dishwasher — nowhere when you need him, everywhere when you don't.
Between chores, he has an on-and-off conversation with someone whose name I don't know; just another one of us regulars. They're talking about Black Lives Matter, and specifically about someone named Gloria. I couldn't overhear enough to ascertain who or where Gloria is, but I'm going to write about her anyway.
Harvey says Gloria is "organizing an event" for Black Lives Matter, not here but in whatever city where she lives. Check my calculation, but someone who's "organizing an event" for BLM is probably black, right? Harvey is a middle-aged white man, and so's the person he's talking to, and so am I. I'm an old-school bleeding-heart liberal, though, so it brightens my morning to know that someone important in Harvey's life (his sister? his ex? his daughter?) is black.
♦ ♦ ♦
After Maurice leaves, Harvey wipes the area of the counter where he'd eaten, and a youngish, chubby white guy enters the building and sits on the same stool. It's probably still warm from Maurice's butt. The new customer is wearing glasses and orders pancakes and brought a book, which he reads all through his breakfast. I respect the reading, and especially the desire not to converse.
A nearby customer notices the book's title and says, "A Brief History of Time — what's that about?" The guy ignores him and continues reading.
Wise strategy, I'm thinking. I read the same book years ago, or tried to. The diner has some smart customers, but nobody's going to learn general relativity and quantum mechanics over breakfast. Well, except the guy reading the book, maybe, if he understands the book better than I did.
I'm a grumpy old man who lives alone and has few friends — basically a hermit. Once a week I have breakfast at my favorite diner. Most weeks it's my only in-person interaction with other humans, which is not my strong suit.
Yeah, I'm aware of the coronavirus, so I go to the diner at dawn, before it gets busy. I wash my hands before and after, cough into my elbow, spray Lysol on my food, pay at my plate, tell the waitress to keep the change, and hold my breath while leaving until I'm outside. It's a little more dangerous than staying at home, but life would suck without breakfast at the diner, so get off my lawn.
And remember, decent people leave a generous tip.
More breakfasts at the diner
The Kid Who Masterminded El Chapo’s Secret Phone Network Alan Feuer
The Kid Who Masterminded El Chapo’s Secret Phone NetworkAlan Feuer r📷The Kid Who Masterminded El Chapo’s Secret Phone Network📷
It came in off the street one day—a tip, a lead, a rumor—whatever you cared to call it, it was one of the strangest things they had heard in their careers. Chapo Guzmán, the world-famous drug lord, had hired a young IT guy and the kid had built him a sophisticated system of high-end cell phones and secret servers, all of it ingeniously encrypted.
📷© Provided by The Daily Beast Daniel Cardenas/Anadolu Agency/Getty Images
The unconfirmed report—perhaps that was the best way to describe it—had arrived that Friday in June 2009 when a tipster walked into the lobby of the FBI’s field division office in New York. After his story had been vetted downstairs, it made its way up seven flights of stairs and landed with a curious thud among the crowded cubicles of C-23, the Latin American drug squad.
For more than thirty years, the elite team of agents and their bosses had hunted some of the drug trade’s biggest criminals, and while tall tales of their antics circulated constantly through its squad room near the courts in Lower Manhattan, no one in the unit knew what to make of this one. The tipster’s account seemed credible enough, but it was sorely lacking details: The only facts he had offered on the young technician were a first name—Christian—and that he was from Medellín, Colombia. All sorts of kooks spouting all sorts of nonsense showed up all the time at FBI facilities, claiming they had inside information on the Kennedy killing or knew someone who knew someone who knew where Jimmy Hoffa was. In what were still the early days of internet telephony, it seemed a bit far-fetched that a twentysomething hacker had reached a deal with the world’s most wanted fugitive and furnished him in hiding with a private form of Skype. As alluring as it sounded, it was just the sort of thing that would probably turn out to be a myth.
In the middle of a drug war, chasing myths was not enough to send C-23 into the field: reality was keeping the unit busy on its own. Three years after Mexico had launched a crusade against its brutal cartel kingpins, the country had erupted into incomparable violence, and much of the chaos had rolled downhill into American investigative files. Just that winter, a psychopath who called himself the Stewmaker had been caught near Tijuana after having boiled three hundred bodies down to renderings in caustic vats of acid. Two weeks later, a retired Mexican general was murdered in Cancún, his kneecaps shattered, and his corpse propped up behind the steering wheel of a pickup truck abandoned on a highway. Since late 2006, the country’s seven drug clans had all been at war with one another or the government—or sometimes both at once—and ten thousand people had already lost their lives.
C-23 and other U.S .law enforcement agencies pitched in when they could, opening cases and offering intelligence to their counterparts in Mexico. But in the past several months, conditions at the border had only gotten worse and had metastasized from an ordinary security emergency into something that resembled a full-scale insurrection. From the American point of view, the Sisyphean struggle to end the bloodshed—and to stem the flow of drugs heading north—seemed increasingly impossible despite the constant seizures, the federal indictments and the helicopter gunships sent as foreign aid.
In this target-rich environment, Chapo Guzmán was an interest- ing case. While he was neither the wealthiest nor the most sadistic trafficker in Mexico, he was by a matter of degree the most illustrious. His famous alias, “El Chapo”—often rendered “Shorty” but more accurately a reference to his squat, stocky frame—was globally familiar, with a recognition level that rivaled that of movie stars and presidents. Not since Pablo Escobar had ruled over Colombia had la pista secreta—the secret path of the narcotics business—seen a figure who was both a major criminal and a mass celebrity.
For nearly twenty years, Guzmán had been at the center of the drug trade, involved in some of its best-known capers and disasters. In 1993, in his earliest brush with fame, he was sent to jail in Mexico for the murder of a Roman Catholic cardinal, Juan Jesús Posadas Ocampo*, whose daylight killing at the Guadalajara airport introduced the world to the threat presented by Mexican cartels. Eight years later, in a move that earned him full folkloric status, Guzmán had escaped from prison, slipping out in a laundry cart after paying off his jailers.
Ever since, he had been on the run, moving back and forth among a half-dozen hideouts deep in the Sierra Madre mountains, in the Mexi- can state of Sinaloa. Though he lived like an outlaw, he was treated like a king—loved by some, feared by many and inarguably one of the most powerful men in Mexico. A single word from him from one of his mountain dens could set in motion tractor-trailers in Nogales, planes in Cartagena, and merchant freighters in Colón. At fifty-two—an improbable age in an industry that did not promote longevity—Guzmán had reached the height of his career, running his business freely and warring against his rivals, all while playing cat and mouse with those among the Mexican authorities who weren’t on his payroll.
While the American government was after him as well, a contrarian consensus had emerged in parts of Washington that at least he was contained in the Sierras, where he was spending exorbitant sums on his security and could not engage in the same bloody havoc that emergent mafias, like the Zetas or La Familia Michoacán, had recently been wreaking in the lowlands. It was also the case that no one—not the FBI, the DEA, nor their cousins in the intelligence community—had ever mounted a successful capture operation in the rugged region he had fled to. In the past two years alone, a panoply of American agencies had helped arrest Otto Herrera, Guzmán’s connection to Colombia’s cartels; Juan Carlos Ramírez, one of his top suppliers; and Jesus “El Rey” Zambada, the brother of “El Mayo” Zambada, his most important partner. The heir to Guzmán’s throne—Mayo’s son, Vicente—was in jail in Mexico City, and Pedro and Margarito Flores, the twin brothers who had handled much of his American distribution, were about to start recording him for U.S. drug officials. By mid-2009, Guzmán himself was already under indictment in San Diego and Tucson and would soon face further charges in Brooklyn and Chicago. But after all of this—countless hours of investigative and prosecutorial effort—he had never spent a single day in an American court of law.
That was why C-23’s new lead couldn’t be discounted, as crazy as it sounded. The possibilities it promised were simply too enticing. It stood to reason that a man in Guzmán’s position—on the lam, with far-flung operatives around the globe—would at least want a means of sending and receiving secret messages. Imagine the windfall if the drug squad in New York could hack into the system.
That is, if it actually existed.
While many of his coworkers shrugged at the story of the mythic cell-phone system, treating it like a piece of science fiction, Special Agent Robert Potash raised his hand and volunteered to run the rumor down. As the rookie in the unit, he had little else to do. Potash had joined C-23 only the year before and while he was as eager as anyone to succeed, he was still finding his feet among his older, more seasoned peers.
One of those anomalies who came to law enforcement late in life, Potash had attended the FBI’s academy in Quantico just before his thirty-seventh birthday, the outside age for new recruits. For a federal agent, his background was unusual. Trained as a mechanical engineer, Potash had spent fifteen years of well-paid boredom in the private sector, designing robots and lasers before he realized that what he really wanted to do was put together criminal cases, not expensive widgets. The son of a toolmaker from Connecticut, he had always been something of a tinkerer. Even approaching forty, he often still thought about himself as the handy little kid who built the neighborhood treehouse every summer and spent all winter working on a soapbox car in his garage.
Potash had never handled a cartel case before, but knowing of his technical bent, his bosses at C-23 had invited him to sit in on the interview with the tantalizing tipster. He left the conversation convinced there was something there and did not get much resistance from the squad when he stepped forward to investigate it further. Many of the unit’s top agents didn’t want the job, which, by the looks of it, was going to require studying encryption and reading up on arcane subjects like Voice over Internet Protocol. It was, to say the least, not the typical drug cop stuff of busting bad guys or grabbing kilos off the street. When you got down to it, it was more or less nerd work. But that was Potash’s lane.
Joining him in his new assignment was his partner, Stephen Marston. Marston was eight times as experienced as Potash and nearly twice as tall. An agent cut from the classic mold—big, broad- shouldered, stolid, methodical—Marston, a New Yorker, had been at C-23 for much of the decade. In his own time in the unit, he had mostly focused on Colombians, among them the remnants of the cocaine cowboys from Medellín and Cali who had since the 1980s supplied cocaine to Mexican smugglers like Guzmán who worked along the border. While Marston didn’t know much about technology—his computer degree from 1993 was obsolete—he did know quite a bit about investigating drug cartels. And something in the tipster’s report had caught his eye.
Under questioning, the tipster had explained that shortly before the young technician Christian had gone to work for Guzmán, he had built a beta version of his system for another trafficking group, the Cifuentes family, one of Colombia’s stealthiest and most successful smuggling organizations. Known as the “invisible clan” for their ability to work beneath the radar, the Cifuenteses were, like Christian, based in Medellín. The family had a long and tangled history with Guzmán and had for years been shipping him their product in everything from King Commander turboprops to long-range shark and tuna boats. Marston knew that the tipster’s story might have had a few implausible details, but he recognized its basic inner logic. If some of the Cifuenteses had acquired a new technology, it would certainly be reasonable to think that they had passed it on, through the man who had developed it, to their longtime friend and ally.
Meticulous as always, Marston was not about to raise an alarm—or his boss’s expectations—without first thoroughly confirming the account. In the FBI, if you were smart, you always promised less than you delivered. As he and Potash started on the case, Marston decided that he needed proof of concept: some hard evidence that the secret system was more than just a pipe dream.
What he really needed, when he thought about it further, was one of the damned phones.
They started with their colleagues in Colombia.
After squeezing the tipster for all that he was worth, Marston and Potash decided to run his story past the experts on the ground: the FBI’s legal attaché team and their DEA equivalents in Bogotá. They arranged a call with the embassy and to their surprise, when they mentioned Christian’s name, everyone seemed to know who they were talking about. A young technician—Christian Rodriguez, they were told—ran a small business in Medellín repairing computers and setting up communications networks. Rodriguez was also known to dabble from time to time in the city’s black-hat hacking scene. Though there wasn’t much in the way of solid proof, the agents in Bogotá were confident it had to be their man.
Signing off, Marston and Potash dwelled on their discovery: The young kid that Chapo Guzmán had brought in as his infotech consultant appeared to have a day job as Medellín’s Geek Squad guy.
*The murder of Cardinal Ocampo, on May 24, 1993, was a seminal moment in Mexico, awakening the public to the rising power and violence of the country’s drug mafias. It was also a seminal moment for Guzmán. He has always denied involvement in the killing; indeed, the evidence suggests that he may have been its target, not its perpetrator. Ocampo was likely killed in accidental crossfire when hit men from the Tijuana cartel tried to murder Guzmán. Guzmán never forgot that the cartel’s leaders, the Arellano-Félix brothers, attempted to assassinate him or that they let him take the blame for Ocampo’s death. The rancor spawned a bloody war between Guzmán and the brothers that raged intermittently from the early 1990s well into the first decade of the 2000s.
EXCERPTED FROM EL JEFE: THE STALKING OF CHAPO GUZMÁN. COPYRIGHT © 2020 BY ALAN FEUER.