I nodded. “We’ll work on that. Anything else?”
“Yeah. Make sure the world knows what happens here.”
My attempts for him to elaborate were met with stony silence as our time ticked away.
$ $ $
That afternoon I drove my friend Tony Martin across the muddy Mississippi on Highway 67 to Fast Eddie’s BonAir in Alton, Illinois, to meet one of his banking contacts. Fast Eddie’s is one of the busiest adults-only, restaurant/bars in the metropolitan area, selling massive quantities of cold beer and cheap food. The busy walls are filled floor-to-ceiling with off-beat, double-entendre street signs and glowing neon lights. It’s a good place to people watch—the time I took Kris here we watched a raucous group of leather biker dudes and chicks yuk it up with a table of nuns. Tony had arranged the meeting before the rush hour crowd so we’d have a booth and relative quiet.
Tony spotted Milton Peebles hunkered down alone in a corner booth swigging from a frosty mug of beer with a half-empty pitcher sitting in the center of the table. “Beware, a little of this old coot goes a long way. He may have gone off the deep end after his wife died last year, but he knows banking and finance shit inside and out.”
We sat down and Tony introduced us.
“You’re late,” he said, staring hard at me. “I had to order this one. On you.”
The old man pointed a bony, gnarled finger at me. “You’re here for that boy on the news, the Schwartze counterfeiter, aren’t you? Rules don’t apply to those people,” Peebles said, shaking his head and glaring at me like I’d just run over his dog.
“Behave,” Tony cautioned.
Peebles ignored Tony’s warning.
I met his steely gaze and said, “Tony tells me you’re the man to see when it comes to the economy and banking.”
Peebles leaned back and puffed out his sunken chest in our secluded corner booth. He was a tall, slender man whose stooped shoulders were noticeable while seated.
“There are twelve regional Federal Reserve Banks in the country. I served a term on the board of directors at the St. Louis branch. Sixty years in the banking business, my wife dies, and they force me out. Yeah, your friend’s right—I’m the man.”
I leaned forward and said, “Forget about the boy in custody. I know Nixon did away with the gold standard in 1971, so what’s the negative impact on our economy, or anyone for that matter, if someone were to circulate perfect, undetectable counterfeit US hundred-dollar bills?”
Peebles looked like I’d just forced him to suck a lemon. “That’s never been done before. These clowns just think they created perfect fakes, but they can’t replicate the paper. Didn’t you see the news? Their fakes were spotted and the police imprisoned one of them right away. Seventy-five percent of all counterfeit bills are confiscated long before they hit the street. Fake money is like a hot potato; whoever has it last gets burned because they’re shit out of luck for the money. It’s also the world’s worst kept secret; somebody always runs their mouth and word gets out. The cops are called in, the Feds canvas the area with all their manpower, and the crooks are caught, just like your boy. Even with the most advanced, high tech copier—”
“Humor me,” I interrupted. “Perfect duplicates. Let’s say someone with extraordinary talent, patience, and the will to create exact duplicate metal plates of the 1996 US hundred-dollar bill also obtained access to the patented government rag paper and authentic color-shifting ink used by the Treasury Department. And let’s say the same person worked for a printing company that owned a large printing press. Hypothetically speaking, what’s the effect on our economy if this happens?”
Peebles refilled and then took a long pull on his frosty mug. The amber foam clung to his white handlebar mustache while he thought. His blotchy red nose twitched and he blinked so much he reminded me of a myopic, six-foot rabbit. After some thought he said, “I recall there was a robbery at the DC branch last year.” A trace of wonder registered in his voice as he added, “If your boy got hold of that paper and ink and if he created perfect forgeries, it would be the most perfect crime in the history of man. In fact, I’m not even sure it would be a crime.”
“Why?”
“Counterfeiting is a crime only if the bills can be identified as non-legal tender. Only the counterfeiter would know a crime’s been committed. In your hypothetical fantasy world, if the forger is not caught and he spreads his duplicate bills, the market is flooded with excess cash that the banking community has deemed authentic. In a primitive, all-cash economy, this would dramatically dilute the value of money, but modern economies operate mainly on bank-issued credit, not cash. In essence the forger becomes his own operating branch of the Treasury Department. He prints money when he needs it.”
“Does the government take a hit on the bogus money?” I said.
Peebles laughed so loud it triggered a vicious coughing jag and he doubled over. Tony and I waited for him to stop wheezing and regain control.
“You naïve, young man. Of course not, Uncle Sam doesn’t need to seek a profit on its own currency. The Fed is the source of the currency. Treasury simply recycles what the Fed has previously issued. The Treasury recaptures the money it spends through taxes and the sale of its securities.”
“So there’s no effect at all from the funny money?” Tony asked.
Peebles motioned for our shapely, brunette waitress to bring another pitcher of his sour ale and glared at Tony. “Did I say that? No, I didn’t. Interest owed the public by the Treasury from the fake bills must ultimately be covered by increased taxes. That’s a wash for the public as a whole, but not for those who pay more in taxes than they receive in interest payments. Bottom line: the public takes a slight hit on fake notes in approximate proportion to the taxes they pay.”
“So the net effect is a marginal private redistribution of wealth,” I said. “Like Robin Hood stealing from the rich—”
Peebles clucked his tongue. “If you romanticize this boy, you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”
What I remembered of the Robin Hood legend is that he embodied the societal standards of the time, being generous and courteous, especially to women and caregivers, while opposing the stingy rich.
I thought of Coretta’s story and said, “Depends on what he did with the money.”
“Spin it any way you want, he’s still a thief,” Peebles sniffed. “He couldn’t have created perfect fakes. The odds are astronomical.” The way his voice trailed off lent the impression he may be re-evaluating that.
Peebles waved his bony hand in the air as if he were dismissing me, then leered at our nubile, green-eyed waitress when she asked if we wanted another round. She rolled her eyes as she left.
“Forget about eight hundred-year-old tales; back to your boy. You put it crudely, but from an economic perspective you’re essentially correct. Some redistribution of wealth would occur, based on the amount.” He raised his mug, gulping as if the drink were air. “How much counterfeit money did he print?” his voice rising, reminding me of the conspirators I’d overheard in the bathroom.
“Twenty-five, maybe thirty million, tops,” I said.
Peebles emitted a low guffaw and I thought he might start choking again. “Chickenfeed. There’s at least 1.6 trillion in real currency circulating in the states at any given time. That’s not enough to cause a blip on their radar screen.” He suddenly flashed a crooked smile of delight and added, “Even so, your porch monkey will never again see the light of day as a free man.”
Tony started to react but I stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“Why do you say that? I read that counterfeiting in Missouri carries a maximum sentence of twenty-five years and a hundred thousand dollar fine,” I said.
“The very idea of counterfeiting undermines the basis of our economy and threatens government authority. Have you seen the downtown Federal Reserve Bank on Locust Street? It was designed to connote a solid foundation, stability, and strength. It’s a huge, impenetrable concrete ar
mored tank with thick steel bars that secure the windows on the first two floors and tight armed security inside its bomb-proof walls. The fountains and flowers in the plaza don’t even begin to soften the intended architectural mood. Your boy will face twenty-five years average jail time, plus fifteen years for circulation, and the judge has free rein to dispense more time unless he cooperates—by handing over his accomplices.”
Peebles drained the dark fluid from his sweaty mug and smacked his thin, chapped lips. He’d finished off the first pitcher and was into the second by now. “Even if he created perfect duplicates, he’s been apprehended with the goods and tools of his trade. The Secret Service will grill him, use any psychological tool they can, promise him the best deal if he gives up his friends and the shooter, tell him he’s not the one they really want, and convince him the others are the big fish. This ploy works because there is no honor among thieves. They will get inside his head; they will constantly remind him of the coldest truth—that he will lose his freedom and his family—unless he gives them exactly what they want. If he doesn’t, the government will prove to the masses this boy is dangerous and should remain behind bars. Those in power trample any upstart anarchist. They will make an example of him in order to restore order from chaos and keep the lower classes in their place. His kind does not get money for nothing—”
“Unlike the wealthy,” I interrupted. “For the masses, it’s strictly bread and circuses.”
He squinted, making a sour face. “—especially a Schwartze counterfeiter.” He stared at me for some time and said, “Bread and Circuses. Been awhile since I heard that. It’s fast food and football now. For St. Louis, maybe baseball. It worked for the emperor then and works for the rich today.”
“That’s one way to look at it. Another is that it was a harbinger for the fall of the Roman Empire.” I thought of the Occupy Wall Street movement and whether it’s a precursor of future upheaval. Have citizens of our aging democracy conceded the protest, or will there be one cataclysmic rebalancing? Time will tell, but I certainly didn’t want to talk politics with Peebles.
“Mr. Peebles, I can’t thank you enough for your insights and expert opinion on complex issues that we know so little about. I am sorry to hear of your wife’s death.”
Peebles poured the last dregs from the pitcher into his mug as the bitterness wafted over from across the table. “The bastards said I’d become an embarrassment and if I didn’t resign, they’d fire me. I hired a good Jew shyster and took them for all I could.”
Tony shook his head while I said, “More power to you, sir. Is there anything else you can tell us about what this boy is up against?”
“Even if this Schwartze made perfect copies—and I don’t believe it for a minute—but if he did, the government will find experts willing to testify that they can tell the difference between his bills and the real McCoy.”
“Why?”
“He's the goose that lays the golden eggs. Every major organized criminal on the planet would kill to enslave him and force him to churn out money. If by some miracle he created perfect copies, I feel sorry for the poor bastard. It would be better for him if he was simply a run-of-the-mill crook and mediocre counterfeiter.”
I recalled the fable and how it ended for the goose. “Why?”
“He’s gotta have the worst luck of all time. He must be quite the artist. To create perfection and have it taken away, along with the rest of your freedom, must be the worst feeling in the world. You better pray the reason his eyes are brown is that he’s full of shit.”
“Why?”
“Why, why, why? Use your head. What do the rich and powerful want? More money and power, of course. One fortune is never enough if you can obtain a second by subterfuge or force. Breaking the Ten Commandments is all part of a day’s work to them—especially when it comes to ‘thou shalt not steal’ or ‘thou shalt not covet’ thy neighbor’s wife or possessions. If the right amount of money can lead to enough power, then ‘thou shalt not kill’ isn’t so taboo anymore. It’s all about love of money, and money begets power.” Peebles smiled. “That’s why I feel sorry for the poor bastard.”
Tony slid out of the booth and walked to the door.
I was ready for some fresh air myself. The stale beer smell now cloying, I motioned the server over, paid for the pitchers and ordered him ten jumbo twenty-nine cent shrimp, a Big Elwood on a Stick and a side of cole slaw. I left him my business card. “Call me if you think of anything else, Mr. Peebles. There are better ways to deal with your wife’s death than by crawling inside a beer keg. You and my client have something in common—you’re in prisons of your own making. Here’s your receipt for the food when they call your number. Eat up, it looks like you could use the nutrition.”
“You’re helping a dead man,” he said, peering over his mug.
Peebles’ echo of Lonnie’s earlier remark raised a shiver along my spine.
“I know, but eat the food anyway.”
He waved a gnarled hand at me in exasperation as I headed for the door.
I left the old curmudgeon alone in the dark corner booth to chew on shrimp, a grilled beef kabob, and my words. Free beer and the secondary gain of speaking his peculiar brand of schadenfreude at the downward spiral of another man’s life wasn’t enough for him to talk smack about the establishment with a total stranger if his wife was still alive. But she wasn’t, and I knew how alone and angry he feels. There was more to his story.
What concerned me most were his comments about murder. When I agreed to take this case, I worried that I might end up holding a lightning rod in a thunderstorm, but now the storm had escalated into a war between a boy king and alleged evil villains, replete with prophets, a voodoo priestess, and consequences of Biblical proportions that may include the killing of four people to help elevate the Golden Boy onto the throne.
I told Baker I’d walk away whenever I felt everything going to hell. Was now the time?
On the drive back to Missouri, I told Tony about the discrepancy between Lonnie’s story of his arrest and the official version Maynard reported on air. I mentioned that in Lonnie’s account, Dan Quinn was the cop at the scene. I didn’t mention anything about Baker.
“I know the cop,” Tony said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Is it standard procedure for the arresting officer not to be mentioned at the scene?”
“How do you know he wasn’t?”
I had to back pedal fast. “Maynard announced it was a coordinated, sophisticated police effort. Lonnie swears Quinn made the collar alone. No other cops at the scene.”
“You believe everything this counterfeiter says? You've always been the skeptic, the empirical evidence guy. Besides, when Maynard spins it that way he can claim more of the credit,” Tony answered, but a slight frown formed on his brow. He grew pensive.
I’d planted the seed.
I thought about Lonnie and Peebles and self-made prisons. I thought of the couch that no longer offered solace.
A smart man would walk away, but I had a formal benefit to attend, a trust to betray, and a prospective senator to meet.
chapter eleven
life of Riley
At seven sharp, my Solstice idled in front of Debbie’s building while Maurice the burly doorman buzzed her apartment. Thirty minutes later, she made her entrance wearing a white floor-length silk evening dress with a halter neckline, secured in front by an O-shaped circle of rhinestones gathered at the bodice with shirring down the front. At the center of the O was bare skin. As she turned toward Maurice to escort her to my car, the back of the dress revealed thick criss-crossed straps across her bare back, with a V-shape plunge just above her buttocks.
The pirouette appeared to be for my benefit. The dress flattered her thin body, and I smiled in admiration.
I tipped Maurice as he closed the passenger door.
“You approve?” she asked, her dangly crystal earrings sparkling in the light.
“Brava. Kudos to the silkworms
who gave their all.”
She appeared briefly confused. “You look very handsome. You look like you were made for that tux. Is that a rental?”
She’d forgotten my comment from the other day. “Nope, I actually own two. This classic black and one with a white jacket that makes me look like a waiter.”
“A very handsome waiter,” she said and rested her hand on my arm.
The Haller estate encompassed pristine rolling hills in Chesterfield, an affluent West County suburb of St. Louis. It included two lakes, numerous arched bridges that traversed a meandering creek, a stable, and a steeplechase course. Old man Haller, a multimillionaire from his days in the railroad industry, had hosted lavish political fundraisers for over forty years, including events for John Maynard, Sr., until one spring day last year when, in his nineties and in failing health, he sat under a weeping willow tree near one of his lakes and put a bullet through his brain. His family vowed to continue the fundraising tradition; were they setting their sights on Maynard Junior?
Debbie flashed her press pass and invitation for two and we gained admittance after a brief security search. Most of the affluent guests mingled under the gilded archways of a beautiful loggia, the high-domed ceilings painted with sunny blue Mediterranean landscapes or bustling European-inspired market scenes. I grabbed a glass of remarkably good champagne from a passing server (in a white tux) while Debbie opted for spring water with lemon. We toured the living space that included a three-story great room complete with works of Picasso and Rodin while a string ensemble played a light and airy version of Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons.
Beyond the great room was an elevator that no doubt used to transport old man Haller to and from his master bedroom suite. I noticed an empty podium at the far end of the loggia and thought of past men on the senatorial and presidential trail who’d stood at that spot making tough statements and bold promises and of all the whispered backroom conversations that must have happened in those shadowy alcoves. Debbie and I were two of the youngest people in attendance, save for the servants. White and gray hair, no hair, diamonds and rubies, furs and facelifts met us every way we turned. I caught a glimpse of the mayor of St. Louis chatting up a former Missouri senator when Debbie poked me in the ribs.
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