Cashed Out

by Michael Rubin

  I looked inside the briefcase; it was filled with neatly wrapped stacks of money with some loose change on top. Micelli handed me a document on which was written: “Received, the sum of Five Hundred Thousand One Hundred Thirteen and 17/100 ($513,113.17) Dollars.” A place for a date and a signature.

  “Do you want to count it?” he asked.

  “No.” I knew that either it was exactly that amount, in which case counting would be superfluous, or it was something less, in which case I was not in any position to complain.

  I signed and dated the receipt. Micelli carefully folded it into an envelope that he stuck in the inside pocket of his sports coat.

  “See. Accountable. Traceable. I’m in the clear. The question is, what are you going to do? Did you get the message Hubbard enclosed in the card he sent? “I’ll give it due consideration.”

  “A lawyer’s answer. I like that. Not a rejection. Not an acceptance. It leaves the door open and therefore creates possibilities. You want to ask me anything? Anything at all before I go?

  “I do have a couple of questions,” I admitted. “But you know, since I’m not your lawyer at this time . . .”

  “I know. No privilege. That’s OK. Let’s see where your questions lead. I owe you that much, if not more.”

  “All right. Frankie and Ribeye?”

  “I figured you’d ask about them. I found out that they were also working for my cousin, Paolo. In fact, I got a message to them right after they left you off at Herrington’s. Good thing I did, wasn’t it? Let’s just say that Paolo and I have an understanding about our spheres of influence. Anything else you want to know?

  He wasn’t going to tell me more about Frankie and Ribeye. The fact that he told me he called them after they left me at Herrington’s meant that he was responsible for Frankie pulling me off the ledge. Tony’s telling me that he and Paolo had an “understanding” meant that I was safe from Frankie, Ribeye, and Paolo’s retribution. It also probably meant that Frankie and Ribeye were working somewhere else for Paolo, no doubt far out of state.

  There was only one more thing I had to know. “What about the boy? What was all that about? What was the truth about ‘the boy’ that Herrington was so afraid of?”

  “What a fascinating question! You ask about the ‘truth,’ as if we can discern ‘truth,’ as if we can we can independently evaluate, quantify, and then freeze it as an omniscient fact. Sometimes, however, it is the choice that counts, not the truth.”

  “Which means what?”

  “Which means that if you ever become my lawyer, you’ll get my version of the truth. Until such time as that, however, let me take you on a literary excursion. Let me ask you to imagine an organization. A hypothetical one, of course.” “Of course,” I agreed. There was no rushing Micelli.

  “An organization that, like all entities, existed even though you couldn’t find it on paper, couldn’t locate it in a building, couldn’t penetrate its invisible skin. This hypothetical organization was linked by honor and kinship. That was what held it together and nothing more. And when honor was lost, well, kinship was nothing. Are you following?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “This hypothetical organization was, for the purposes of this story, an ancient guild. A guild of wizards. There was a chief wizard, whose magic and power were beyond reach of all others. And there were subwizards and their assistants, as well as the assistants’ apprentices. And even below that, there was a boy, an apprentice to an apprentice.

  “This guild had a number of rituals, and it sometimes put honor to the test. If that test was not passed, those who failed could not continue in the organization. The chief wizard could not only transform base metals into gold, he also could transform those who displeased him back into base materials. This transformation back was always witnessed by other apprentices, who needed to understand the meaning of honor.

  “So, imagine a lowly boy – an apprentice’s apprentice – trying to escape before the transformation was complete, frantically wandering in the dark of night, only to emerge into the path of outsiders.

  “The guild members could not afford to be seen by outsiders. But they watched.

  “Now, the apprentice’s apprentice believed he had escaped transformation, but he was wrong. Imagine the impact – and I stress the word impact here – the impact the sudden appearance of such a boy on outsiders. Imagine if, at that very moment, those outsiders transformed the boy and furthered the guild’s plan, all without the knowledge of the outsiders. These outsiders – call them a pair of young outsiders, one rather sophomoric – who had emerged from their own citadel on a hazy errand. They were the ones who had made such an impact. They might be of use to the guild without even knowing it. And if the two outsiders later had a falling out among themselves over this impact, that itself could accrue to the guild’s benefit.”

  I nodded for him to go on, but Micelli’s story was over.

  “That’s it. Think seriously, very seriously, about the initial request you made at the end of our visit in New Orleans and the counter-offer contained in Hubbard’s card.”

  Chapter 82

  After Micelli left, I put his briefcase under my desk, went back to the kitchen, and grabbed a beer. I popped it open and strolled out to the front porch.

  I sat on the mildewed wooden swing and thought about what he had said.

  The gist was clear enough. I was on to Micelli’s metaphors and elliptical references.

  The boy, the apprentice’s apprentice, was someone in Micelli’s father’s organization. He had done something wrong, even if was just a “test of honor” as Micelli had said. He was to be scared, or bullied, or killed. They were in some rural area where outsiders would seldom stray. But the boy had run. Had run through the swamps or maybe the cane fields. Had run as if he were being chased by demons, which, considering the reputation of Micelli’s father, Carmine “The Snake,” was undoubtedly true.

  The young outsiders were Herrington and Guidry. They were outside their citadel – Micelli was referring, perhaps facetiously, to LSU. Micelli, the former English major and current loan shark, was talking about a citadel of learning.

  Herrington and Guidry were on a “hazy” errand. Guidry was undergoing fraternity hazing imposed by Herrington, the sophomore. A hazing where the brothers, in the middle of the night, would roust a pledge out of bed. One of them would drive the pledge south on the River Road and leave him, in his underwear, to make his way back to campus. Herrington must have been driving his pledge – Guidry – to the rural drop-off point when the “apprentice’s apprentice” ran out into the road.

  Herrington must have hit and killed the boy with the car. That was the “transformation” upon “impact.” Now Herrington and Guidry had to get rid of the body. Somehow they did it. And all the time they were being watched by The Snake and his men.

  So, The Snake had something on both of them, and Guidry had something on Herrington.

  Tony Micelli knew all about this, but he apparently had never asked Herrington for anything.

  Did Paolo know this and have ties to Herrington? No doubt. That must have been why Frankie and Ribeye delivered me to Herrington. Which meant that Herrington had either done Paolo a big favor previously or was about to grant him an even bigger favor when Herrington got to be governor.

  Whatever the ultimate facts were, Tony Micelli had trusted me enough to tell me a metaphorical story, giving me sufficient information so that I could figure out what really happened.

  But how has that helped me?

  Chapter 83

  I now have what I believe to be the truth about G.G. and Herrington.

  I also have the $513,113.17 from Micelli, but how can I explain it? How can I use it safely?

  The police don’t know about it. Taylor thinks it disappeared with Frankie and Ribeye.

  Sure, I could spend it, a bit at a time. Given how I’ve lived the last few years, and assuming I wanted to live in the same degree of squalor and anonymity,
I could make it last a decade or more. But it’s hard to live the way you used to when you’ve suddenly come into a lot of cash.

  Maybe I could leave town and start a new life. Maybe I could join

  EarthResponsible. It might be good to have a cause I could learn to believe in.

  Perhaps I could complete the negotiations with Hubbard and move to New Orleans and work for Tony Micelli. Within his own limits, Micelli’s a man of his word, even if he sticks to just this edge of legitimacy.

  I have some tough choices. And I want to be sure that, legally, my use of the funds I now have cannot be questioned in any way.

  That’s why I’m sitting in your office today, counselor. That’s why I’m paying you, in cash, the $9,750 non-refundable retainer you have demanded.

  I need your advice.

  Remember, we have an attorney-client privilege.

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  About the Author

  A nationally-known speaker and humorist as well as a full-time attorney, Michael H.

  Rubin has had a varied career. He has also been a professional jazz pianist in the New Orleans French Quarter, a radio and television announcer, and an adjunct law professor. Cashed Out is the winner of the Jack Eadon Award for the Best Contemporary Drama, which is given for the book of the year that offers “vividly portrayed characters dealing with issues of today in dramatic fashion in a setting that must be excruciatingly real.” It was also shortlisted for the Silver Falchion Award as Best Mystery/Thriller

  His debut novel, The Cottoncrest Curse, received the Book-of-the-Year Gold Award at the annual meeting of the American Library Association in 2015 and was named the top thriller/suspense novel published by a university or independent press.

  Rubin is the winner of the Burton Award, given at the Library of Congress, for outstanding writing, and is a member of the Author’s Guild, the International Thriller Writers, the International Association of Crime Writers, and Mystery Writers of America.