The Racketeer

Diana calls with the news that she has in her possession my new Florida driver's license and my new passport. We meet for coffee at a waffle house and she hands them over. I give her an itinerary with a lot of gaps in it.

"Taking a trip, huh?" she says, gazing at it.

"Yep, I can't wait to try out the new passport. The first three nights are in Miami, South Beach, beginning tonight. I'm leaving and driving down as soon as my coffee cup is empty. From there, I'll fly to Jamaica for a week or so, then to Antigua, and maybe Trinidad. I'll call you at each stop. I'll leave my car at the Miami airport so you can tell the FBI exactly where it is. And while you're at it, ask them to please leave me alone while I bounce around the Caribbean."

"Leave you alone?" she asks, feigning ignorance.

"You heard me. Let's not play games here, Diana. I may not be the most heavily protected witness in the country, but I'm probably in the top three. Somebody's always watching. There's one guy, I call him Crew Cut, who I've seen five times in the past two weeks. He's not very good, so please pass this along to the Fibbies when you make your report. Six feet even, 180 pounds, Ray-Bans, blond goatee, drives a Cooper and sports a crew cut. Really, really sloppy. I'm surprised."

So is she. She keeps her eyes on my itinerary and can think of nothing to say. Busted.

I pay for the coffee and hit the road, Interstate 95 straight south for 350 miles. The weather is hot and muggy, the traffic heavy and slow, and I love every mile of the trip. I stop frequently to refuel, to stretch my legs, and to watch for movements behind me. I expect none. Since the FBI knows where I'm going, they won't bother with a tail. Besides, I assume there is a GPS tracking monitor brilliantly hidden somewhere in my car. Seven hours later, I stop in front of the Blue Moon Hotel, one of the many small, renovated boutique hotels in the heart of the Art Deco District at South Beach. I get my briefcase and small bag from the trunk, hand the keys to the valet, and walk into a scene from Miami Vice. Ceiling fans turn slowly as guests in white-wicker chairs gossip and drink.

"Checking in, sir?" the pretty girl asks.

"Yes. Max Baldwin," I reply, and for some reason it is a proud moment. I, Mighty Max, am drowning in more freedom than I can absorb at the moment. Plenty of cash, fresh papers that are legit, a convertible that will take me anywhere - it's almost overwhelming. But I am jolted back to life when a tall, tanned brunette strolls through the lobby. Her top is what's left of a string bikini and covers almost nothing. Her bottom is a sheer skirt that covers even less.

I hand over a Visa card for the charges. I could also use either cash or a prepaid credit card, but since the Fibbies know where I'm staying, there's no need to be deceptive. I'm sure the Miami office has been notified, and there's probably a set of eyes not too far away. If I were really paranoid, I could believe that the FBI has already been in my room and perhaps hidden a bug or two. I get to my room, see no bugs or spooks, take a quick shower, and change into shorts and sandals. I go to the bar to check out the talent. I eat alone in the hotel cafe and catch the eye of a fortyish woman who is dining with what appears to be a female friend. Later, back in the bar, I see her again and we introduce ourselves. Eva, from Puerto Rico. We're having a drink when the band starts. Eva wants to dance, and though it's been years, I hit the floor with all the energy I have.

Around midnight, Eva and I make it to my room, where we immediately undress and hop into bed. I almost pray the FBI has the room wired for even the meekest of sounds. If so, Eva and I give them an earful.

I hustle out of the cab at a curb on 8th Avenue, in downtown Miami. It's 9:30 a.m., already hot, and after a few minutes of brisk walking, my shirt is sticking to my back. I don't think I'm being followed, but I duck and dart just the same. The building is a squat five-story box, so ugly you can't believe someone paid an architect to design it. But then I doubt if most of the tenants are cutting-edge companies. One happens to be called Corporate Registry Services, or CRS, a name so bland and innocuous that no one would ever know the company's business. And most people would not want to.

CRS may be perfectly legitimate, but it attracts a lot of clients who are not. It's an address, a drop-off, a front, a phone-answering service that a corporation can hire to buy some measure of authenticity. Since I have not called ahead, I kill an hour waiting for an account representative. Loyd is his name, and he eventually leads me back to a small, stuffy office and offers me a chair across from his landfill of a desk. We chat for a few minutes as he scans the questionnaire I've filled out.

"What is Skelter Films?" he finally asks.

"A documentary film production company."

"Who owns it?"

"Me. Incorporated in Delaware."

"How many films have you made?"

"None. Just getting started."

"What are the chances of Skelter Films being around two years from now?"

"Slim."

He hears this shadiness all the time and it doesn't faze him. "Sounds like a front."

"That's pretty accurate."

"We require an affidavit in which you swear under oath that your company will not be engaged in criminal activities."

"I swear it will not."

He's heard this before too. "Okay, here's how we operate. We provide Skelter with a physical address, here in this building. When we get mail, we forward it to wherever you say. We provide a phone number, and all incoming calls will be handled by a live voice who'll chirp whatever you want. 'Good morning, Skelter Films, how can I direct your call?' Or something else. You got partners?"

"No."

"Any employees, fictional or otherwise?"

"I'll have a few names, all fictional."

"No problem. If the caller asks for one of these ghosts, our girl will say whatever you want. 'Sorry, he's filming on location,' or whatever. You write the fiction, and we'll deliver it. As soon as we get a call, we notify you. What about a Web site?"

I'm not sure about this, so I say, "Not yet. What are the pros?"

Loyd shifts weight and leans on his elbows. "Okay, let's say Skelter is a legitimate company that will make lots of documentaries. If so, it will need a Web site for all the usual reasons - marketing, information, ego. On the other hand, let's pretend Skelter is a real corporation but not a real film company. Maybe it's trying to just give that impression, for whatever reason. A Web site is a great way to bolster the image, to sort of fudge on reality. Nothing illegal, mind you. But we can establish a Web site with stock photos and biographies of your staff, your films, awards, ongoing projects, you name it."

"How much?"

"Ten grand."

I'm not sure I want or need to spend the money, not at this point anyway. "Let me ponder it," I say, and Loyd shrugs. "How much for your basic registry services?"

"Address, phone, fax, and everything related is $500 a month, payable six months in advance."

"You accept cash?"

Loyd smiles and says, "Oh yes. We prefer cash." No surprise there. I pay the money, sign a contract, sign the affidavit form promising to keep my activities legal, and leave his office. CRS boasts of nine hundred satisfied clients, and as I walk through the lobby, I can't help but feel as though I've joined some manner of underworld filled with shell companies, faceless crooks, and foreign tax evaders. What the hell.

After two more nights with Eva, she wants me to go home to Puerto Rico with her. I promise to think about it, then slip away from the Blue Moon and drive to the Miami International Airport, where I park in long-term and shuttle to the terminals. I pull out a credit card and my new passport and buy a one-way ticket to Montego Bay on Air Jamaica. The plane is packed: half dark-skinned native Jamaicans and half pale-white tourists headed for the sun. Before we take off, the lovely attendants are serving rum punch. The flight takes forty-five minutes. On the ground, the Customs agent takes far too long studying my passport, and I'm starting to panic when he finally waves me through. I find the bus to Rum Bay Resort, an all-inclusive, singles-only, fairly notorious stretch of topless beaches. For three days, I sit in the shade by the pool and ponder the meaning of life.

From Jamaica, I fly to Antigua, in the Leeward Islands of the eastern Caribbean. It's a lovely island, a hundred square miles, with mountains and white beaches and dozens of resorts. It's also known as one of the world's friendlier tax havens these days, and this is one reason for my visit. If I wanted nothing more than a good party, I would have stayed in Jamaica. The capital is St. John's, a bustling town of thirty thousand situated on a deep harbor that attracts cruise ships. I check into my room in a small inn on the edge of St. John's, with a beautiful view of the water, boats, and yachts. It's June, the off-season, and for $300 a night I will eat like a king, sleep until noon, and relish the fact that no one knows who I am, where I came from, or anything about my past.