Apache Casino

By G. N. Buffington

Luke Martinez is a young lawyer of Apache and Hispanic descent working in Washington, D.C. His current assignment involves an investment program proposed by the United States and supported by the Colombian Government to redirect cartel drug profits and dry up the flow of drugs into the U.S. However, Luke finds it odd that the first investment selected is a gambling casino in New Mexico. His suspicions build as he sees signs of more nefarious motives.

In this Government-orchestrated scheme, a web of C.I.A. agents, military, and lawyers work undercover-some with hidden agendas-conspiring with cartel drug lords to use Native American casinos as their foil. The deeper Luke is immersed in the project, the more he is convinced that his Apache people are being ill-used. Trying to protect them from yet another form of exploitation, Luke learns too much and becomes a fugitive in his own country and the prey of vindictive drug dealers.

Caught in the lethal crossfire, Luke seeks the guidance of an Apache elder and resorts to the ancient warfare methods of Geronimo, hoping to survive long enough to expose the deception.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 28, 2006
• ISBN: 9780595813858

G. N. Buffington

G.N. Buffington, a graduate of Harvard College and Law School, practiced law in New York and Washington. He now lives with his wife in Santa Fe. His first novel, Virgin Spring, was published in 2001.

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Contents

In Appreciation

P A R T I

-1

-2

-3

-4

-5

-6

P A R T II

-1

-2

-3

-4

-5

-6

P A R T III

-1

-2

-3

-4

EPILOGUE

In Appreciation

Much credit goes to my wife Pamela who has been a tireless and critical editor and always an encouraging supporter of my writing, past and present.

P A R T I

-1

The sky was slate gray and there was the feel of snow in the air. Charlie Chatto shivered a little as he walked to his truck. He had wanted to leave earlier. The first big winter storm was coming in sooner than forecast. That’s what the Farming-ton TV had said on the evening news. Charlie had put up one of those new dish antennas to get satellite reception. It had cost him $300. It was a lot of money. It wasn’t that he watched TV much. He’d bought it only so he could watch the gambling hearings down in Santa Fe. But he didn’t have to see TV to know that it would snow pretty soon. He just had to see the Pedernal shrouded in an icy haze to know the air was heavy with the promise of snow. He looked at his watch—a little after 3—less than a couple of hours of daylight left. If he took the longer mountain route over the Jemez, he would have to hurry. It had been a dry winter so far and the mountain road, which Charlie liked to take, was still open. But it crossed some high country, ascending to more than 10,000 feet in places. It was often impassable after the first winter snowfall.

Charlie started his truck and rolled slowly out the rutted dirt road of the Reservation to the highway. He drove the short distance from Dulce to Cuba and decided to stop at the Chamisa Diner for a quick coffee. There were only two cars pulled into the dirt lot next door. He recognized the red pickup belonging to Ed Nighthawk, the Jemez police chief. The other car belonged to Maria Chavez, the owner of the diner. Charlie had gotten to know Ed pretty well when they both worked on the Castelone case. Ed had been an investigator for the town and Charlie had been chief of the Apache Reservation police. Many communities of Northern New Mexico were involved in the investigation. The F.B.I. had been called in and so had the D.E.A. It was one of the largest drug busts in New Mexico history. After the Jemez Pueblo had built their own big casino, Charlie had gone over to visit it. This was after he had been elected President of the Council for the Reservation. He hadn’t liked the feel of the noisy place. It was not the kind of thing Indians should be doing. Despite his misgivings and over his strong objections, the Reservation had also opened a small casino. However, it failed after two years. The location was simply too remote to attract enough customers. Now there was talk of starting a new one—a bigger casino on a newly acquired piece of Indian land much closer to Santa Fe. But Charlie was troubled about where the money was coming from. He had heard bad things about the investors. After two trying years as President and some family problems, Charlie had chosen not to run for a second term. His son had been murdered in Los Angeles. The boy had gotten himself involved with drug dealing—big-time—and had paid with his life. Charlie had gone out to L.A. to find out what went wrong. After two weeks with the F.B.I. and the D.E.A., he had learned more about the drug business than he’d wanted to. Because he was a popular elder, he was called upon to chair a committee to study the effects of gambling on the Reservation. Under his influence, the committee had come out with a strong recommendation against the new casino. There had been a lot of opposition to the committee’s position. Charlie’s life had even been threatened. To shore up his confidence, he had discussed the whole thing with Kaywaykla, the most powerful Apache elder. The old man agreed to support Charlie.

Charlie had stayed in close touch with Ed Nighthawk and had often counseled with him during his committee’s deliberations. With several years of casino experience, Ed was a good source of information on the developing saga of crime.

Charlie got out of his truck into a cloud of his own dust. There wasn’t much wind, and the grit just hung in the air. Charlie coughed as he took a breath of it. He noticed another car parked on the street. The engine was running. Charlie assumed it was occupied and waved. There was no response. The windows were blackened against sunlight so he couldn’t see the driver. He didn’t recognize the car. These dark, sightless windows always gave Charlie an uncomfortable feeling. Probably a couple of kids necking, he thought.

A strip of bells hanging on the inside of the door jingled as he entered the diner. Maria still had her Christmas tree up, with its lights blinking cheerfully, even though it was three weeks after the holiday. Ed was sitting at the counter talking to Maria.

Well, look what the coyotes drug in, Maria shouted as Charlie shed his coat at the entrance.

You look pretty good, too, hon, fer yer age, Charlie said, seating himself beside Ed. Good to see you, Ed. What brings you to town?

Some routine stuff, he replied tersely. How you been, Charlie? Hear you were ailing again over Christmas? Ed put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder solicitously. Been meanin’ to give you a call.

Yeah, Maria chimed in. He don’t know when to quit. Here he is pushin’ into his 70s an’ he tries to act like he was still 40. She shook her head and toweled the counter in front of Charlie. Coffee? she asked.

That’d be real nice, Maria.

He was so sick, they had to put the old bastard in the hospital, just to keep him down. Maria wouldn’t let go of Charlie’s health problems. He thinks the Apaches can’t live without him. He don’t even know he’s retired. She set a coffee down in front of him, banging it just a little to emphasize her disapproval.

Charlie carefully wiped up the spilled coffee. Now, Maria, you’re just makin’ a Federal case outta nothin’. He turned to Ed. How’s the casino goin’?

Terrible. Wish we’d never done it.

That so, Charlie said, feigning surprise. It wasn’t the first time Ed had made this pronouncement.

Yeah, it’s a mess. Everybody tryin’ to make money off the Pueblo, with their damn concessions, and the people fightin’ with each other ’bout how the take should be divvied up. Nobody seems to know how to run it good. Shoulda thought about all that shit before they got involved. Ed took a sip of his coffee and made a face. Honey, it’s gettin’ cold. Could you heat it a bit? He pushed his cup toward the edge of the counter with one finger and continued. Now they’re talkin’ about gettin’ somebody in—you know, one of them fancy consultants.

The consultants, where they from? Charlie asked absently, fingering his steaming cup while the coffee cooled. He watched Maria disappear into the kitchen. She didn’t even like to hear about the subject. She was an outspoken opponent.

Somewhere in the East, I think. Ed cocked a curious eye at Charlie. Why?

Oh, nothin’. Just curious. The Jemez had been one of the few pueblos to insist upon running their own show. Charlie knew they had made a mess out of it.

Ed continued to study Charlie. You gonna testify?

Yep. Matter a fact, that’s where I’m headed now.

Oh yeah, that’s right. Hearings start tomorrow. Ed hitched his stool around so he could face Charlie. Goin’ down tonight, huh?

Yeah. I’m on first thing. Charlie didn’t want to say much more. Charlie had warned the pueblos against going into these gambling compacts with the State, but no one had listened. There was a lot of hostility toward him for speaking out, even on his own Reservation. In fact, Charlie had received some very unpleasant threatening letters. They started coming when he first opposed the constitutional amendment to authorize video gambling in the State. That had been three years ago. He had lost. The constitution had been changed and gambling was coming to New Mexico big-time. Even his Mescalero brothers down in Ruidoso had succumbed.

What’re you gonna tell ’em? Ed was brazen with curiosity.

Sumpthin’ they don’t know, Charlie replied, smiling slyly.

Like what?

Now Ed, if I told you, it wouldn’t be new anymore. Charlie knew Ed was a talker.

I hear your own people want a big casino, Ed said, changing the subject.

Charlie could never figure out where Ed really stood on the issue. He seemed to talk out of both sides of his mouth. They’re talkin’ about it. He reached into his hip pocket and pulled out his wallet. Gotta get movin’. Nice to see you, Ed. He tossed a dollar on the counter. Thanks, Maria, he called.

Maria bustled back from the kitchen. You drive careful now, Charlie. I heard you say you’re goin’ down to the Capital. She dried her hands on a dish towel. All them drunks on the road.

Charlie laughed. Well, I’m going over the mountain. Won’t be no drunks up there. He zipped up his jacket.

I’ll be watchin’ on the tube, she called after him.

Don’t waste yer time, hon. Ed—good to see you. Charlie escaped before Ed could get his next question out. He smiled to himself as he climbed into his truck. He knew that Ed was busting with curiosity.

In the half-light of late afternoon, the lowering gray sky looked more threatening. The car with the black windows had gone. Charlie put on his lights and headed out of Cuba on Route 126. As he expected, the Forest Service gate was closed where the hardtop changed to dirt. The warning read: CLOSED FOR THE WINTER. Charlie knew that the road would be fine. There had been no snow recently. He loved the twisting climb into the Jemez Mountains. Charlie downshifted as the road steepened. Second gear was about right for the steepest grades. He carefully negotiated the first switchbacks, and once or twice caught groups of white-tailed deer in the headlights. As he approached the top, he spotted a coyote disappearing into the trees, a gray, lurking shadow. It was a good omen, he hoped. But you couldn’t always tell about Coyote. Sometimes he meant trouble. Another Forest Service sign loomed out of the darkness as he made his last turn before the top: ELEVATION 9500 FEET. At the sign, Charlie pulled over to the side and turned off the engine so he could listen to the silence. From this vantage point, the Rio Grande valley was spread out in the distance. The snowcapped Sangre de Cristos rose up to form a protective wall from the outside world to the East. It was Charlie’s favorite spot. He liked it particularly because the lights of Los Alamos and White Rock were hidden from view by the terrain. The impression was just like the old days, like the time of his ancestors. Gazing down on the valley, he could communicate with his Fathers, his gods. He could ask for signs, for guidance.

He glanced at his watch and decided that he could not stop for long. It would be slow going down the steep grade. There would be unrepaired washouts from the late summer storms. He would have to watch for them. He closed his eyes and listened. As always, he felt the mystery washing over him like a river current. He could feel his heart slow its pace as he began to meditate, pulled into the past by images of his forebears. The face of his father slowly materialized behind his closed eyes. The old man looked sad, but said nothing. Then the face faded. Charlie sat up, knowing the vision was over. He was too preoccupied by the present world to concentrate on the past.

He started up the truck and headed across the saddle which formed the pass. The first switchback down the mountain was very steep. He knew that he had started it a little too fast, so he kicked the brake and slid into first gear. The pedal went to the floor without engaging the brake. Charlie desperately pumped the pedal, trying to coax some brake out of it, but there was none. Out of control, the truck could not complete the hairpin turn and went over the embankment. The drop was almost sheer. Airborne in the truck as it plunged down into the canyon, Charlie had time for one thought. Someone had wanted him dead. With a full tank of gas, the truck exploded as it crashed to the rocky floor below.

-2

Luke Martinez tipped back his leather upholstered desk chair and gazed out the window. Dark clouds scudded across the urban landscape spread out in the big window. The new construction next door had left him a good view down Pennsylvania Avenue. The long ribbon of black macadam connecting his office to the Hill was just beginning to shine with light rain. The view always impressed clients. In an odd way, it gave Luke confidence. It made him feel that he could drop names with more authority. Luke smiled at the thought.

The town had changed after the Defederalization Land Act. It was one of the first acts passed by the new Republican Congress after the second terrorist attack on the Capital. Under the Act, most of the residential areas had been transferred to Maryland and Virginia. All that remained of the District of Columbia was a Federal enclave surrounding the Government executive offices and the Congress. Under heavy lobbying pressure, land had also been included to cover existing office buildings, hotels and apartments. A grandfather clause permitted the continued private ownership of these properties. All future expansion had to be located across the river in Virginia. Of course, Federal enclave office space rented for huge premiums and the hotels were always completely booked. Apartments and the few houses in the enclave were fought over, some disputes being resolved only by the threat of Federal takeover. The September 11, 2001, terrorist attack on the Pentagon provided the initial impetus for this complex legislation. But the reorganization was also a clever cover for reordering the politics of Maryland by diluting the solid D.C. Democratic voting bloc. It worked both ways. The District was now an armed camp with helicopters orbiting overhead all day and all night, ruled exclusively by the Federal Government.

What was left of the District seemed to be more like a Disney theme park for government. Luke had overheard foreign diplomats poking fun at the new Disneyland East. Tourists were bussed into town, and areas for fast food and souvenirs had been set up. Only the lowest profile advertising was allowed. The new Republican Administration looked upon the Defederalization Land Act as a symbolic first step in the reduction of Federal power. Instead, Government continued to grow and the town had become a sterile wasteland for the civil service and lobbyists. Luke’s greatest pleasure was getting away on weekends.

The huffing and puffing of Luke’s Republican friends bordered on the absurd. Luke was fond of reminding them that the only other accomplishment of the new Administration during its first term had been to get out of the mess in Iraq. He liked calling it the cut and run solution. The result was an uneasy and ugly partition of the area into hostile ethnic countries. For this, the popular Administration had been awarded a second term by the voters who still were hoping for the promised big tax cut. As a sideshow to the rest of the circus, drug policy had been largely turned over to the Central Intelligence Agency. Someone had sold the President on the idea that all we had to do was stop foreign production of the stuff. As for the old District, now mostly part of Maryland, drugs and crime continued unabated. The thought depressed Luke. There was no domestic drug policy.

The diminished flow of rush-hour traffic reminded Luke that it had been a long day. Only the appearance of an occasional cleaning woman broke the solitude. His afternoon meeting with the Colombians bothered him. The new C.I.A. policy was going nowhere. The Colombians would not approach the issue head-on. There were always diversions, beginning with a luncheon, replete with specially ordered Chilean wines—he had already forgotten the unfamiliar vintner names. Several of Luke’s partners had joined him. It was a command performance. The small talk, and then the bullshit about tough measures taken, or about to be taken, against the Cali cartel. No more compromises, the Assistant Minister had assured him. Luke had heard this a hundred times. He knew that it meant nothing, that the Government was still trying to do business with the cartel, allowing farmers to grow the dreaded crop, and closing official eyes on the refining and export of the end product—cocaine. As far as Luke was concerned, the Colombian Government had crawled right into bed with the cartel. But they would never admit it. If the conversation turned to the evils of the drug, the concern always shifted to the U.S. responsibility to reduce the market. Interdiction at the source was described as impractical and unfair to the poor Indians who had no other way of life. Luke had heard almost identical guff from the Peruvian Government. Today, however, the subject of drugs was given short shrift. Instead, the Colombians focused on their new investment proposal. They were looking for an investment in North America. The economy had improved, and their President had decided that some of the surplus should be invested abroad.

U.S. real estate had been selected as the first venture. Their initial commitment was to be about 30 million in dollars. For Luke, it was a surprising turn of events.

The purpose of the afternoon meeting, as outlined in an agenda Luke had prepared, was to discuss the firm’s continuing representation, to collect preliminary information about U.S. taxes and regulations, and to solicit ideas and names of people with whom they might talk about investment opportunities. Luke was surprised when Harry Driscall, the senior partner of the firm, dropped in to observe and add his prestige. Luke had not been briefed, but it was easy to see this was going to be a big deal. It was not the routine stuff he usually dealt with. Needless to say, the afternoon was not long enough, so a second meeting was scheduled for the next day.

As Luke continued to watch the lights of evening traffic, he puzzled over something he couldn’t put his finger on. Several times during the afternoon, junior staff members of the Colombian delegation, chiming in on details of the investment plan, had talked as if the investment had already been selected—internally, that is. There was a lot of when and very little if. The Ministry of Justice representative seemed inordinately interested in gaming laws and casino licensing. When this subject appeared to become too intense, the conversation was gently guided to more general areas. It was as if the exploratory meeting was merely a charade to cover a decision already made.

Luke’s law firm had a specialty of representing foreign governments. Luke was the partner assigned to Colombia. To a lesser extent, he was also involved with Peru, and more recently Bolivia, where a new native-dominated Government had won an election. Although he had been a partner for more than six years, he was still the most junior lawyer in the firm. There were no associates, only paralegals. Outsiders regarded the firm as a maverick in the profession. While trade matters were a major part of his practice, concern about drugs—cocaine primarily—was taking an increasing amount of Luke’s time. He was constantly playing the role of peacemaker between Colombian authorities and the U.S. Government agencies responsible for drug interdiction. He had been doing the same for Peru since that country had become a significant player in the cocaine trade.

Luke had started out in international trade practice, a respectable area he could talk about at dinner parties. In Washington, how you spent your day was always a target for endless discussion and bragging. What you did—particularly if you were a lawyer—was what you were. It defined you. It was the only image that mattered. On these social occasions, Luke found himself increasingly uncomfortable. Drug lawyers were at the bottom of the heap in town. The city itself was inundated with cocaine and the gangs who pedaled it. The Federal Government had taken over the enclave, but the drug trade in the area was still rampant.

Luke was not a drug lawyer. He didn’t even do trial work. But increasingly his international practice was putting him in the drug world. Colombia and Peru were regarded as backwater countries, riddled with drug corruption. So, Luke settled for vagueness. He told the curious he was an AFTA lawyer. Washington loved acronyms, and Latin American trade was a hot topic in town. Opponents of the new act called it LAFTA.

Watching the traffic thin out on the avenue below, Luke studied his image reflected in the window, and the nagging feeling of alienation returned. He didn’t look like a Washington lawyer. He looked like an Indian—like the Apache that he was. His jet-black hair was straight and thick and his skin was dark. The high cheekbones and dark, wide-set eyes revealed his genes. When he met new friends, he could usually feel their eyes prying, studying him. The more brazen would ask, Hey, are you part Indian? Actually, Luke was half Apache and half Hispanic—a mestizo, but he felt more Indian in his heart. How’d you know? he would usually reply, with a bite in his tone. Then there would be a slight cooling off, and after an awkward silence the questioner would change the subject. Many people had become very hostile toward Native Americans and their aggressive expansion into the world of casino gambling. It seemed that every tribe in the country wanted to replicate the billion-dollar casino in Connecticut. Garish new casinos had opened in many other states with much fanfare as Millennium celebrations of Indian liberation. After the year 2000 festivities subsided, Indian tribes quietly—some said illegally—began to expand their gambling. A number of tribes in the Southwest, newly flush with casino profits of their own, had bought land nearer big population centers, hoping to expand their Reservation operations. Testing the waters, these pueblo groups had petitioned the Bureau of Indian Affairs to have new land acquisitions near large cities added to Indian land so the casinos would qualify under the Indian Gaming Regulatory Act. A few had obtained approval. While Luke was sympathetic to these ventures as a way of lifting the Native American people out of poverty, he worried that much of the wealth was ending up in the hands of a few rich operators and equipment suppliers. Although the Republican Administration generally supported these developments, there was growing opposition within both parties. However, economic conditions in the states were suffering from the Bush legacy of huge deficits, which had left them strapped for cash. Reservation Indian casinos had grown from a $500-million business in 1988 to a $30-billion bonanza 20 years later. The fact of the matter was that the casinos were reducing welfare costs for an increasing Indian population and raising lots of new revenue for the nation. But Luke could feel the hostility toward him among his friends, particularly his liberal friends. It was not generally known that his firm was also active in the casino industry.

The subject of Reservation casinos made Luke uncomfortable. He had left Santa Fe, his home, almost 16 years ago, to the day. It had not been a happy departure—far from it. He had lost his homeland, his family, and his Apache roots. It was only in recent years that he had reached out and contacted an old school friend, who was keeping him up-to-date on the local news. He was generally pretty well informed on what was going on with casinos in New Mexico, although he didn’t talk about it much at the firm, or among his friends. In a peculiar way, he was ashamed of this development in his State.

Luke’s thoughts drifted back to his uneasy feeling about the recent meetings. Why hadn’t he been briefed on the Colombians? He was often left out of top management decisions, but this was his area. John Carver was the managing partner. He was very close to Driscall. Carver did all the dirty work and Driscall stayed aloof, a cool distant figure of some mystery to Luke. The phone shuddered to signal a late caller.

Martinez? It was Carver’s high-pitched voice. Oh, good. You’re still here. Can you come up? The senior partners were officed on the floor above—six of them in big cavern-like rooms lit only by decorous lamps. On the top floor, the space was surrounded by a generous balcony overlooking the Capitol. There was an intimate living-room feeling about the offices. A big conference room covered nearly half the floor. A long oval table filled the room. Voluptuous armchairs circled the glistening mahogany. An assembly of video aids was installed at one end of the room. Dramatic films of the Andes were a favorite entertainment for Driscall. The place smelled of opulence and influence.

Sure, Luke said. Give me just a minute. After checking his watch, he took a moment to review his notes from the day. There might be questions about the meeting. However, he decided against taking the yellow pad with him. It would look too, well, too subservient. You had to watch these guys. They took advantage of you if they could. Luke had long ago decided that the firm was a dead end for him. But at his age, lateral transfers were not easy. After you reached 40, another firm wasn’t interested unless you brought a bunch of clients with you. Luke had none of his own. His time was fully occupied with firm clients. So, for the time being, Luke was stuck with Ledyard & Driscall.

It was not an old-line Washington firm. Ledyard had founded the group five years before Luke had joined. He was both the rainmaker, as they say, and the money. People thought Driscall was the brains of the firm. Ledyard had died suddenly during Luke’s first year with the firm, reportedly from a heart attack. But speculation and gossip among the paralegals was that he had died under unusual circumstances—perhaps suicide. In any event, he had died unexpectedly. Led-yard had been a shadowy figure. When he died, the gossip was that the firm would fold. But it didn’t. Worried about his job, Luke had asked around town about Ledyard, but had learned little. It was Ledyard who was close to the South Americans. He had lived in Bogota for a number of years. No one seemed to know what he had done there.

Luke climbed the staircase quickly, hoping that the meeting would not last too long. He had made a date with Susan to meet at the Willard at 8 o’clock.

Ah, Martinez, come in, Carver crooned from behind his desk. Have a seat. Carver was sipping a drink that was probably scotch and soda. The light over the bar was lit and the cabinet door was open. Want a drink? Carver moved to the couch and settled in, as if the drink didn’t fit the scene at his desk. The dimmed lights and dark wood gave the room a slightly sinister cast.

Uh, no thanks. Luke took a seat in one of the chairs opposite the couch.

This investment deal is going to be a major project for the firm. Carver began without any more pleasantries. His eyes fixed on Luke as he tented his hands under his chin. We’re going to count on you to carry the ball. His eyes were owlishly magnified through thick glasses as he continued to study Luke.

Certainly sounds interesting, John, Luke said, filling a silence. He didn’t like Carver much. He thought he was a lightweight, mainly following orders and ideas from Driscall. Luke enjoyed using Carver’s first name. Things were much more formal with Driscall, who, like Ledyard, was a distant aloof figure. It was always Mr. Driscall—for both Luke and Carver. Only one of the partners seemed to be on familiar terms with Driscall. Manuel Ortega, a dark-skinned gnome-like man, was Peruvian. He was rarely in the office, but when he was, he spent nearly all his time with Driscall. Their offices were connecting, and when Ortega was in town, there were long closed-door sessions, frequently including other foreign visitors. Ortega somehow had acquired dual citizenship in the U.S.

He was licensed to practice in both countries. Just before the meeting with the Colombians, Ortega had been in town closeted with Driscall.

I want you to prepare the papers for a new Corporation—Delaware, I think, Carver said slowly, interrupting Luke’s thoughts. His thin, prematurely snow-white hair glowed like a halo in the lamplight. The incorporators initially will be Driscall and Ortega. He smiled as though he took some perverse pleasure in the casual use of their last names.

Does the company have a name yet? Luke asked.

Yes. He paused coyly, gazing at Luke. Global Park.

The name was not a new one. That was Ledyard’s old company, wasn’t it? The one he had on the shelf for his Las Vegas casino, Luke observed.

Yes, but that is, as you suggest, just on the shelf. You will prepare liquidation papers for that one. Get one of the paralegals on that as soon as possible. We want a brand-new entity. But Harry is, well, sentimental about the name Global Park.

I see, said Luke. He remembered that the casino venture had run into difficulties in Nevada. Questions had been raised about Ledyard’s activities in Colombia. The story was that he had become involved in Colombian politics to an extent that had bothered the Nevada Gaming Commission—enough to withhold a license to his company. The problem had killed the whole deal. Luke must have looked puzzled because Carver immediately was reassuring.

There will be different incorporators, and a new corporation. He had read Luke’s concern.

Sounds like another casino? Luke persisted.

Yes, Carver replied primly. Good guess. He was obviously caught off guard by Luke’s quick perception. The tented fingers pressed against his chin. Most of the funds are now in Panama, in bank deposits. He smiled. Driscall set it up this way to shelter the funds of some of the participating Latin countries from taxes until they are actually needed to fund the project, he continued, smiling above his long fingers, and then paused. Luke, this time some of your people are involved. Apaches, I believe. He dropped his hands and glanced at the papers spread before him. It seems that your people want to get into the act. The smug smile returned. They have struck a deal with one of the Pueblo casinos in your State. With the help of the Pueblo, the Apaches are buying a parcel of real estate adjacent to the Indian land and will have it incorporated into the Reservation. You are aware of this technique, I assume?

Yeah, I’ve heard about it. Luke’s head was spinning. Carver was talking about his people, and the realization was painful. It’s something the remote tribes are doing to get access to good land closer to the market.

Carver raised his arms off the desk. Ah, you have accurately parsed our little scheme. Now they need the money to build their dream casino along with a luxury hotel to bed down and feed the high rollers.

Luke didn’t care for the condescending tone. So where’s the money coming from? He already knew the answer. Colombia, I suppose, he ventured.

Yes, of course, Carver replied rather curtly. He flashed a quick smile. Some of your efforts in Bogota are bearing fruit, Luke.

Who will own the U.S. company—I mean ultimately?

Luke, we don’t have to decide that now, Carver answered, with a hint of edge in his voice. But it will probably be one of the Panamanian investment companies used by the Colombian Government. They have several.

You mean the companies they use for hedging transactions? Luke knew that Colombia was awash with cash, but he was suspicious that some of it was coming from deals made with the drug cartels. There were rumors circulating in Bogota that the Government was trying to buy its way out of the drug business.

Possibly. Carver suddenly stood up and walked around his desk, signaling that the meeting was over. For now all you need to worry about is getting rid of the old Global and getting us a brand-new one in Delaware. He patted Luke’s shoulder as he passed his chair. Luke got up and followed him to the door.

I should have it done in a couple of days, Luke said, suppressing the other questions that had bubbled up in his mind. He glanced at his watch. He had 10 minutes to meet Susan. He didn’t want her to leave. Not tonight, anyway. But he had one more question. Where is this land located?

Carver turned to his desk and carefully lifted a stack of papers, leafing through it until he had found what he was looking for. Let’s see, he said, scanning several pages. "It’s on Route 285 just north