At about two o’clock David spotted Vargas’s silver Mercedes coming up SW 14^th Avenue, stopping in front of his brothel. He was alone, dressed all in a white guayabera shirt and wearing a Panama hat. As he started up the steps to the house he heard a car door slam loudly and someone call out, “Vargas!”
       He turned around and saw David leaning against his rented car.
       “Ah, Señor Greco, nice car you drive. Did they upgrade you to a compact?”
       David walked across the street and noticed someone peeking through the blinds on the house windows.
       “I suspect you heard about my incident with a tarantula,” he said.
       “I did,” said Vargas, smiling. “But apparently you survived.”
       “Healthy as a horse.”
       “Well, there are many more tarantulas in Florida. You should be careful.”
       They were now face to face, about a yard apart.

       “So, what you going to do now, Greco? Try to beat me up out in the open on a street in Calle Ocho? Not a smart thing to do.”
       “No, much as I’d like to, but maybe someday I will.”
       “Ah, you’re going to hang around Miami till you see me walking down a dark alley then strangle me, eh?”
       “The thought has occurred to me. But, y’know, Vargas, I thought of a better use for a piece of shit like you. I’m going to ask for your help in exchange for your staying out of jail for trying to kill me.”
       Vargas smiled. “And how is that? You want me to give you Susannah for a week, free of charge?”
       David clenched his fists. “No, I want you to help me put Epstein in jail, for a very long time.”
       “And why would I want to do that? Señor Jeffrey is a very good client.”
       “I’ll tell you why,” said David. “The cops, the FBI and the IRS are closing in on him, and they are going to want to know where these underage girls came from. I know that Madam Sanchez didn’t pimp them.”
       Vargas stopped smiling and said, “Maybe you should ask Jeffrey’s girlfriend, Ghislaine. She arranges everything for him. Often she brings in the girls by herself. Other times she calls me.”
       “That’s exactly what I’m saying. If the authorities get what they need on Epstein, he’s probably going to try to cop a plea and tell them everything he knows about people like you. You can be sure he’s not going want to spend twenty years in a federal prison. Of course, you’d go to a state prison and you definitely don’t want to do that kind of time.”
       “And just how do I help you?”
       “First of all, think about turning state’s evidence, get ahead of Epstein. Because they’re going to get you too. It’s just a question of how cooperative you are rather than pull down twenty years for yourself. Second thing I want you to do for me—not the police or  the feds—is tell me about how the money is moved around.”
       “Why should I know that?”
       “Because Epstein and Ghislaine pay you directly, the party-goers don’t. And I have a real suspicion that you help Epstein launder other money for him down here through various local businesses and through JP Morgan.”
       “I think you think I’m a bigger fish than I really am, Señor.”
       “No, I think you’re a little shit, but you do very nicely on Epstein’s money. You’re not getting rich on pimping three or four call girls, who might turn a couple of tricks a night. And I also suspect that many of the rich guys who meet one of your girls at Epstein’s parties want to see them again, over here at your place. If you co-operate with me and with the authorities on that wrinkle, it’s only going to be to your advantage. They’ll force you to shut down the house but they won’t go after your real money that you get from Epstein. As a matter of fact, Vargas, I think that in its own sleazy way, your whorehouse is just a front nobody much cares about, including the local police. You probably pay them off anyway. Oh, and needless to say, stop trying to murder me. If you do I’ll go back Plan A, which was to rip you to pieces in some dark alley.”
       Vargas shrugged and said, “This proposition of yours. Why should I cooperate with you rather than the local police I know very well?”
       “Because you might buy off some cops but you’re not going to buy off Terry Rush or the D.A. You haven’t got that kind of money or clout. All I want out of your thick skull is the name of a banker you deal with at JP Morgan.”
       Vargas laughed. “They never going to talk to you. Why should they? But I tell you what, Greco. I give you the name of a guy who used to work at Morgan. He got fired; I have no idea why. Maybe because he’s Puerto Rican, not Cuban. But he was one of the guys who handled Epstein’s account, so he might talk to you or that sexy reporter you hang around with. I give you that, you get off my ass.”
       “And leave you to the police and the feds. I tell you, if this guy works out and speaks to me, I’ll leave you alone. I don’t have any reason to stick around this damn town. I don’t know you can stand this goddamn heat and humidity.”
        “Just livin’ la vida loca.”
        Vargas then went silent, looking up and down the street and back at his house, then said, “Okay, I give you the name. But if he don’t want to talk to you, ¡No me mires, tu maletín!
        David understood: “Don’t look at me, that’s your problem.”
        “Okay, so what’s this guy’s name?”
        “Jorge Ortega.”“And where do I find him?”
        “Banco Nuevo, on Biscayne Boulevard.”
        David wasn’t going to thank Vargas, saying only, “I hope this works out in your favor. Every time I see a spider from now on I’m going to think of you.”
        Vargas just smiled and turned to go up the steps.
        “Say hello to Susannah,” said David.
        Vargas just shook his head. “Crazy bitch.”

      
    David walked back to his car, which was roasting hot, and turned the a/c up high, then looked up the address of the Banco Nuevo, in downtown Miami. He entered and asked a security guard if Jorge Ortega was there. The man pointed to a cubicle across from the tellers’ counter.
           “Mr. Ortega?”
           “Yes, how can I help you?” He was short, dark, with a pencil mustache, wearing a light blue short-sleeve shirt and black slacks.
              David explained who he was and who sent him over and why he was there.
           “Yes, our friend Señor Vargas told me you were coming.”
       “He’s no friend of mine,” said David, “but he said you might be willing to help with some information about Jeffrey Epstein and his relationship with your former employer, JP Morgan.”
       “Ah, Señor Epstein seems to be in  a lot of hot water these days. Local, federal. And the IRS. And why should I talk with you?”
       “Because Vargas said you were probably pretty sour after Morgan fired you. You mind telling me the reason?”
       Ortega eyed David carefully and said, “Let’s just say I questioned some of their banking practices with regard to Señor Epstein.”
       “And do you think Epstein had a hand in getting you fired?”
       Ortega laughed. “Of course he did. Epstein is in tight with the CMO, Jes Staley (right). Whatever Jeremy wants, Staley delivers.”
       “Why would Staley risk  so much for Epstein?”
       “First of all, Staley made a lot of money from working with Jeffrey. Just as important, though, was that he was tied into Jeffrey’ s sexual fantasy world as much as anyone. Jeffrey would send him photos of naked young girls, and Staley would show them to some of us at the bank.”
       “Including transfers of illegal funds?”
       “Legal, illegal,  they amount to the same thing. If they were only Jeffrey’s funds, the problem of detection would be easily contained. But Jeffrey was taking other people’s money—many very powerful people. . .”
       “I’ve heard the names” said David.
       “Okay, and these people would give their money to funnel into secret accounts around the world, especially the Caribbean.”   
        “And how did that work with Vargas?”
        “Vargas is a nobody,” said Ortega “but he’s in with the Miami mob that can launder the money. The mob takes a cut, Vargas gets a few pennies and Jeffrey’s name is never attached to any of it.”
        “But he knows about the mob?”
        “Absolutely. This is not money that’s going to be spent building parking lots in Wynwood. It’s cash to be stored away so that if there are any investigations of these individuals they can say they don’t even have any accounts, no numbers the feds or IRS can trace. If they do try to find out about accounts in the Caymans or the Bahamas they will face a hostile response from their banks. And even if those banks gave out the account info, the mob has them hidden under layers of names impossible to trace.”
        “So, how did JP Morgan figure in all this?”   
        “Jeffrey would call up his contacts at Morgan—I was one of them—and after we got an okay from Staley, we would temporarily hold the money, take a little cut. The people wanting the money hidden would get it to Jeffrey and he would turn it over to Morgan. Then Vargas or someone else withdrew that money and got it to the mob and they got it laundered.”
        “By what methods?” asked David, who had broad knowledge of mob laundering.
        “They’d break up the money amount into smaller amounts and put it in different banks. Banks are required to report large deposits that exceed $10,000 or those they deem suspicious. That’s small change for these guys. So the amounts are always less than ten grand and get bundled. Then they get mules to carry out the laundering. Vargas was also a mule.”
        Mules, David knew, were individuals hired  by the launderers literally to carry the money to where they want it deposited. Often mules have no knowledge of what they are doing illegally.  David figured Ortega’s story was the truth  because the New York mobs did much the same thing, never meeting the powerful figures trying to hide the money.
        “So why did you raise flags?” he asked.
       “Because the amounts were getting so large and were being brought in so frequently, I thought the bank might get in real trouble. First time I said anything, they told me to shut up. Second time, I was fired. I was stupid.”
       “What about Banco Nuevo?”
       “Here I deal mostly with Puerto Rican depositors, investors, try to help them out. The Cubans have no interest in that. I sleep better now.”
       David was not surprised by the laundering techniques but now had a source who said how deeply entwined Epstein, the investors, the bank and the mob were, and without any one component the whole process couldn’t work.
       “Do you mind if my associate, a very good reporter from McClure’s Magazine calls you about what you told me?”
       “Off the record, sure. I’ll tell this story in court but not for attribution.”
       “I have to ask: Why did you agree to talk to me?”
       “I thought it best after Vargas called me. I like to stay on his good side. He’s dangerous.”
       “Did you ever hear anything about him being a henchman for Epstein? Ever strong-arm someone for him?”
       “Like I said, Señor Greco, I want to stay on Vargas’s good side. And now please let me get back to work.”