The Informant Read Online Free PDF

Santería priest, who then reads the future and predicts success or failure, often with incredible accuracy.
    The babalawo , this priest of Santería, is trusted by all who ask his advice and never reveals a confidence. A babalawo is unknown to anyone outside of the Latin community or the cult of Santería, which only adds to his ability to keep a confidence.
    Mas Betancourt had come to the babalawo to learn if this last deal would be successful, to find out if he should proceed with it. When the babalawo had said that Pilar’s life depended on her leaving New York in less than two years, Mas’s last deal became a matter of urgency. Now it had to be successful.
    Mas loved Pilar terribly, because her devotion and love had saved him from being a useless cripple. He would do anything to keep her alive. Her cancerous breast had been removed six months ago, but it would be a long time, the doctors said, until it was certain that the cancer was entirely gone from her body.
    Mas’s determination to pull off his last heroin deal and leave New York now became fanatical. Nothing would stop him. He had killed before; to kill for Pilar was almost a religious duty.
    Mas told the babalawo of his plan to bring in five hundred kilos of white heroin, a load of over one thousand pounds, almost twice what anyone had ever attempted to smuggle into America.
    The babalawo said, “When?”
    “I plan now, work now, I do it in one year. It takes that long to arrange men, money, smuggling routes. I cannot do it alone. The expense is too great.”
    “Much money,” said the babalawo. He was small, black, a burned match of a man who wore a green-and-yellow robe. Those were the colors of Orunla, the Santería patron saint who revealed the future.
    “Yes, mi padre .” Mas was buying pure white from Jacquard in Marseilles. Fifteen thousand dollars per kilo, five hundred kilos, a total of seven and a half million dollars. All of the money had to be paid in advance, but Jacquard had promised to deliver the heroin to Barcelona. After that, Mas would take over.
    “You will work with strangers,” said the babalawo.
    Mas frowned, nodded. How did he know? “ Sí, mi padre. For the first time, I must work closely with blacks.” Mas waited. The babalawo said nothing.
    Mas tried desperately to read the little old man’s face, but he saw nothing in the dark, wrinkled skin except in the eyes, which reflected tiny points of candlelight. The babalawo was sick and spoke in a whisper. Both he and Mas sat on the floor, legs apart, Mas’s short, curved aluminum crutches to his right. Located in an all-Cuban neighborhood in Jackson Heights, the babalawo ’s apartment was dark, humid, lit by yellow and green candles. It smelled of burning wax and sweet incense.
    “Trouble with the blacks.” The babalawo ’s whisper was as soft as tissue paper being torn in half.
    “ Sí, mi padre. Two of them are disobeying their leader. This could be a problem for all of us.”
    Mas Betancourt had sold dope to blacks in the past, but never had he used them for importing. For this most crucial deal of his life, Mas had teamed with Kelly Lorenzo, because Kelly had certain foreign contacts that were essential.
    Kelly, in hiding, had ordered his lieutenants and distributors in New York to cooperate with Mas Betancourt until this super deal went down. All of the blacks involved had done as ordered, except for two: the Rucker brothers, Connie and Carl, tough, young distributors anxious to break away from Kelly Lorenzo and go out on their own.
    The babalawo said, “The trouble will pass. Soon.”
    Mas Betancourt sighed, rubbing his withered thighs. He was a stocky man, once athletic and muscular, but now fleshy, since he could only drag himself around on crutches. Sixteen years ago he had been crippled in Cuba when an informant had betrayed him. Now his square-shaped face relaxed and his green eyes blinked behind brown-tinted glasses. The babalawo always spoke the truth. No need