Hit on the House

by Jon A. Jackson

  “Well, sure, there's a lot of money,” Mulheisen said, “but how could you rip off that much without getting caught?”

  “You better ask Sid,” Lande said, “speakin’ of gettin’ caught. Him ‘n’ Frosty, they figured out that the territories was worth somethin’ to the South Americans, sorta like franchises. Only they didn’ realize how much at first, . . . which I guess is how come it took Carmine so long to tumble to what they was doin’. You sell a franchise—well, lease is more like it—to the Latinos for a neighborhood for say fifty thousand dollars a month, an’ you skim maybe ten percent. But then a rival group comes along and offers you a hundred thousand dollars. An’ you take it, but you don't tell Carmine. That's the way Sid tol’ it to me, anyways.

  “So here's all this money. It just comes pilin’ in; you can't turn off the faucet, or somebody'll tumble to the deal, but you gotta get rid of the cash. Cash smells. It attracks rats. So you got Billy, he's layin’ the take out in loans . . . phony loans, so Carmine wouldn't wise up, . . . but even that ain't enough. Which is why they come to me.”

  “Ah, yes,” Mulheisen said, relieved to have diverted Lande's attention, no matter how briefly, from the problem of his own disposal. “They would come to you, the computer genius. I'm sure you concocted something suitably brilliant.”

  Any irony intended was lost on Lande. “Yeah,” he admitted. “It took me a little while, but I figured it out. At first I had some notion of gettin’ into the banks, you know, crackin’ their systems. But then I figured—what the hell, that's not the problem. We already had a bank- some guy who was into Billy for a lot . . . Billy was running loan money through him. An’ we already got the money, too much money . . . The problem is how to get rid of it, lay it off. So I just decided to deposit it.”

  “Deposit it? You can't deposit that kind of money in a bank. The feds would be all over you. What is it, any deposit of more than ten thousand dollars has to be reported to the IRS?”

  “That's why I deposited it in thousands of accounts . . . a little more than seven thousand, at about ninety-five hundred dollars per.” He cocked his head as if calculating, then nodded. “Yanh, that's about it, in round numbers. Course, I hada make up a lotta names, lotta payments to innavidjuls. The computer did that. I just plugged in about two dozen last names, middle names, and first names—got ‘em oudda the phone book. The computer scrambled up all the possibilities—you can get eight thousand different names oudda twenny names from the phone book if you use a middle name and the last name doesn't sound too weird as a first name. You know—Jackson Lewis Arthur or Henry David John or Allen Martin James.” He grinned with the pleasure of his genius.

  “I had the golf course, a legal corporation, and we had the development company. We could make payments to all these people, and they could make payments to us. The computer does it all. I tried to get them to buy a bank, a savings and loan really, and put Billy's tame banker in there. But Sid thought that was too complicated. So we used the one we had. I just tapped into their mainframe. But you gotta go to the bank once in a while with a bag of money—Billy had the tame banker, so he carried the bag—but it was all paid right back out, wasn't hardly there. The other bank people would never even see it. They never even knew we existed. The computer takes care of it, makes the transfer, then sweeps the tracks behind it. Trouble is there was always this money, this hard cash, comin’ in,” Lande complained. “An’ we couldn't turn it off ‘cause it'd blow the plan. Which I guess it must've, once Sid went down.”

  Mulheisen tried to take all this in, but he couldn't quite get it. It would be something for Jimmy, or the Business Bureau to unravel. What he wanted to know was “Where is the money now?”

  “Some of it's in the little accounts,” Lande said, “most of it . . . over forty mil. Some of it's already gone to the Cayman bank for the resort account. An’ then I got about fifteen mil in cash. It just kept pilin’ up . . . What a pain in the ass hard cash is. I can't wait till we go to straight ‘lectronic money.”

  “Where?”

  “Hunh? The cash?” Lande nodded toward the rear of the building.

  “You have fifteen million dollars here? In cash?”

  “Not izzackly. Fifteen mil is an awful lotta cash, even if it's all in fifties and hunnerds, which it was, ‘cause you can't be screwin’ aroun’ with twennies and that little crap. Lessee. If it's all hunnerds, that'd be a hunnerd fifty thousand bills, but ack'shly, with fifties included, you end up with about two-hunnerd thousand bills, or somethin’ like that. Now, if they was all new bills—you know, in little tight bun'les like the mint issues—you could prolly cram that much cash inna half-dozen cardboard boxes, say like they put whiskey bottles in. But what I had was a couple dozen boxes, ‘cause the money was used . . . It's thicker.”

  “Had?” Mulheisen asked.

  “Yanh. It's in boxes, in the shed.”

  “In the shipment,” Mulheisen said.

  “What shipment?” Lande said.

  “To the Cayman Islands. The computers.”

  “Computers? Oh, no. I mean, yahn, the computers are in the shed, but they're just computers . . . Course, they do have the program on the disk drives, that runs the show. You mean try to stuff the money into the computers, into the consoles or the drive cases? How you gonna do that? There ain't enough room. I mean, that's stupid. Nanh, I just put the extra cash in some old whiskey cartons. I was thinkin’ about gettin’ rid of it—dump it in the river, burn it, maybe—but then I got a idea.”

  “A bright idea,” Mulheisen prompted.

  “Sure. Whataya think? I'm ‘onna git a dumb idea? No, I packed it all up—well, all but about five mil, which I figgered I could use for expenses—an’ I give it to charity . . . orphanages, neighborhood projecks, drug clinics, that sorta thing.”

  “You gave ten million dollars to charity? How?”

  “Mostly I drove aroun’ at night,” Lande said. “I remembered seein’ on TV how these orphanages are allus gettin’ babies dropped off at their doorstep in the night, in a cardboard box. An’ I didn’ have nothin’ to do—waitin’ fer you—so I packed the stuff up and trucked it aroun’ town. Jus’ leave the box on the doorstep like other boxes. I wrapped the shit in old newspapers and old clothes—so it's not too obvious, see. People leave boxes at these places with all kinds a junk, y'know.”

  “I haven't heard anything about orphanages finding boxes of money on their doorsteps,” Mulheisen said skeptically.

  “You will. An’ if not . . . then, not. Somma the places I dropped it didn't look too cool . . . I prack'ly threw the box oudda the window and split. I got ridda maybe five, six mil that way. Anyways, who cares? It was drivin’ me crazy, all that damn cash, but I ain't worryin’ about it no more. Yer here.”

  Mulheisen didn't like the way this sounded, especially with the gun waving around as he said it. He felt he had to say something, anything, to keep this wired-up little maniac from going off half-cocked. “You know,” he said, “I promised Bonny I'd look after you.”

  Lande's jaw dropped open. “You what? When?”

  “In the hospital one day, when you were out. She said, ‘Promise me you'll look out for Gene.’ Didn't you hear her last words? ‘Look out for him?’ She was just reminding me.”

  “She said that?” Gene's eyes filled with tears. “An’ you promised?”

  Mulheisen shrugged. “I felt I had to.”

  Lande sobbed, a ragged noise that he broke off. “Oh, God . . . this gets harder ‘n’ harder.” He fought for control, his face swept by tortured emotions. He grimaced and twisted his neck. His face seemed to grow larger, distorted, then subsided and shrank. For a moment Mulheisen was reminded of the distortions of Bonny's poor face in the terminal stages.

  Lande sagged against the workbench, the .45 wavering toward Mulheisen, then away. “Just a coupla months ago,” he said, his voice surging, then waning, then surging again, “everythin’ was lookin’ great. Fin'ly. I hada great deal goin’ with Sid, me ‘n’ Bon
was great . . .” He fought down a deep, welling sob. “ ‘N’ then they hada go ‘n’ hit Sid. ‘N’ everythin’ turned to shit. Not right off . . . It still looked like it could fly. But Frosty started buggin’ me, an’ Billy . . . Carmine gets on my case, . . . an’ then I met you. Bonny wanted us to be frien's. I thought we could be frien's . . . We was frien's in the hospital, weren't we?” He was pleading. “I tol’ you shit in the hospital I never tol’ nobody, not even-Bon. I wanted to do something for you.”

  “Do me a favor? You mean Tupman and Conover? That was a favor to me?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Lande nodded his head repeatedly, as if to convince himself.

  “That wasn't a favor to me,” Mulheisen said, his face cruel. “You had to take them down. They knew you had the money. They were under pressure from Carmine. If you didn't get them, they'd get you now that you didn't have Sid to protect you. Why, for all I know, Sid was planning to get rid of all of you, clean house . . . Wasn't Hal his friend, his good buddy? He sure hung around a lot, for a hired killer.”

  “Hal?” Lande was puzzled momentarily, then his eyes grew wide. “You mean the guy at the gate? The one who popped Sid ‘n’ Mickey?” Lande stared, then shook his head. “No, no. He wasn't a friend of Sid's. I was Sid's pal. I seen the guy pop Sid . . . I seen him in the lockup, later! I hada get the hell oudda there. Those guys, they got secret ways a doin’ ya. I wasn't sure if he seen me.”

  Mulheisen sensed he had stumbled onto something. He had to go with it. “Sure, Hal took Sid down. He was probably supposed to take you down, too, but you hid, and he didn't see you. Then you ran, only the Big Four swept you up. So Sid never told you about Hal? Didn't he tell you he was putting a contract out on Tupman and Conover? No. He wouldn't, even though you were his bosom buddy—because he'd also put a contract on you. You must have known it—maybe not consciously, maybe it was too hard to take—but you knew you had to take down Frosty and Billy. Without Sid to keep them off, they'd want the money, all of it. That's the way it went, isn't it? You were betrayed by your pal, Sid, as usual. Everything was going to hell in a hand basket—Sid gone, Bonny gone. You're left with all the work, left with all the money, too, of course, and left with Tupman and Conover and Carmine breathing down your neck.”

  “Carmine,” Lande said bitterly, “I should of blasted him and that fuckin’ Fat Man. You know what they did? Lissena this, this is how they jerk ya ‘roun’. Carmine calls me in . . . ack'shly, the Fat Man comes to get me one day with a coupla goons. ‘Carmine wants to talk to ya.; We go down there, to the potato chip fact'ry, an’ we wait. After a while the door opens to Carmine's office, and Bonny comes out with Carmine, only he steers her out the side door, so she don't see me waitin’ with the Fat Man. Her hair is mussed up an’ her lipstick's smeared. I don't know what Carmine thinks I'll think . . . Maybe I'm s'posed ta think Bonny's puttin’ out for him. Maybe he just wants to show me that he can get to me through Bonny . . . I don't know. But I know Bonny. She wouldn't put out for Carmine.

  “Anyways, he gets me in the office. He don't say nothin’ about Bon, like she was never there, but we both know, y'know. All he talks about is Sid ‘n’ Frosty ‘n’ Billy. He says I should wise up. He knows all about Sid ‘n’ Frosty ‘n’ Billy ‘n’ me. He wants his money back. He's talkin’ about ten mil. I hada laugh, but not out loud. He didn’ know nothin’. I knew he didn’, but I wasn't sure about Frosty ‘n’ Billy. They might spill it. An’ I hada perteck Bon.”

  “So what did you tell Carmine?”

  “I tol’ him I didn’ know nothin’ about Sid's deal with Frosty ‘n’ Billy. I didn’ even know them. Which I don't, hardly—I didn’ do any business with them, Sid hanneled that. I tol’ Carmine what he already must've knew—I hada deal with Sid to build this golf resort in the islands. Ever'body knew about that. An’ I bitched about now I was stuck with it, what with Sid gone, an’ I was gonna haveta either bail out or get some new backers. Hell, I ast him to come in with me!” Lande laughed. “He said he'd think about it.”

  “Why didn't you go after Carmine?” Mulheisen asked.

  “Go after Carmine? Are you nuts? Well, maybe I shoulda . . . but how? You can't get close to them big shots. An’ if you did, you'd have the whole mob after ya. Frosty ‘n’ Billy, they don't give a shit. You even said so in the rest'raunt that night. It'd be better for ever'body, you said. I could do you a favor, an’ then we'd be frien's. Bonny liked you. I didn’ even mind. Anybody else, even Carmine, I'd a popped him. But I could tell you really liked Bon . . . not just after her ass. It was better for ever'body, Mul.”

  The maelstrom of this mind was too much for Mulheisen. He didn't think there was any way of combing out this snarl of lies and hatreds, of fears and rages and self-deceit. Lande had provided himself with plenty of justifications for killing; if one didn't fly, he'd just put up another. Mulheisen supposed that simple rage and fear at the collapse of his wonderful plans, especially in terms of Bonny's illness and subsequent death, had been enough. He sighed and looked into his cup, then drained it. He poured himself another and held out the bottle to Lande. Lande came forward and took it, still holding the .45 at the ready.

  “You see, Mul,” he said, putting the bottle down after a long draft, “I'm yer pal. It's funny, eh? You lookin’ out fer me an’ me lookin’ out fer you! That's what frien's are!”

  Mulheisen sat back and stared, then he began to laugh—not a great, mirthful laugh but more of a quiet, rueful laugh. “What a life,” he said.

  Lande laughed, too, but it got out of control and ended in a sob. “You got that right, Mul. What a fuckin’ life. An’ without Bon it ain't worth shit. Am I right? Hunh? Am I? Who needs it? C'mon Mul, one last drink, right?” He held up the bottle, toasting them.

  Mulheisen lifted the cup. Why not, he thought. Could be the last one. He started to put it down but decided to drain it. He was reminded of something his father used to say, a kind of poem, or was it a song?—“When it seems life's joy is up, drain the sweetness from the cup.” Or something like that. He wasn't sure he'd got it right. He set the cup down.

  Lande drank and set the bottle on the table. His eyes glittered. “I never knew no one like her, Mul. D'jou? She was beautiful, wan't she? I mean, she was really a fine wooman. Right? She wan't no hooer, not really. An’ she loved me.” He gestured with the gun, soliciting a response. “Right? Am I right?”

  “She was fine, Gene,” Mulheisen said. “She was beautiful. She was a good woman. The best. And she loved you.”

  Lande nodded furiously. “Right, right, right. Damn right! You know what, Mul? She was the on'y one who ever loved Eugene Lande. You know that?”

  Mulheisen nodded, watching.

  Eyes blazing, Lande raised the gun and said, “Good-bye, Mul. You were a good man.” Then he stuck the gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger. His face seemed to explode, and the back of his head flew, spattering brains and blood against the wall behind him.

  Mulheisen leapt to his feet, his mouth open in shock. Lande's body sprawled against the wall. For a moment he couldn't register what had happened. He rubbed his forehead, dazed. Then he picked up the bottle and walked outside. In the light from the doorway he leaned against a tree with an outstretched hand and gulped the fresh air. He staggered off a ways and found he had a tremendous urge to piss. He unzipped and pissed into the dark grass. Then he drank from the bottle. He zipped up and drank again. The bottle was empty. He reared back and hurled it up into the night, at the tiny, blurry stars. It rattled off some tree limbs, then fell to the soft earth with a thump. The bird he'd heard earlier was making the same weird beenp. Mulheisen noticed his .38 lying on the ground. He picked it up and holstered it, then went into the shed. The boxes of computers were there, stacked neatly. There were also a half-dozen boxes bearing well-known liquor labels and closed up in the familiar flap-over-flap tuck that people use when packing, say, books for moving. Mulheisen opened one. It was full of old newspapers. He opened the rest. They were all full of newspa
pers. He was tired. He sat down on the open tailgate of the little pickup truck and waited for Jimmy.

  Time In

  “Getting in is not the problem,” Joe said. “It's getting out. The Greeks got into Troy, but they knew they were going to fight their way out. You don't want to fight your way out. Now I could dress up like some crazy sculptor . . . You know—beard, long hair, dark glasses, maybe wear a long army-surplus coat, . . . spray-paint you nude with, say, bronze paint-Helen of Troy-and wheel you into the office on a dolly . . .”

  They both erupted in laughter. They were, as it happened, quite nude, and they did, in fact, resemble Greek statuary—of a particularly flexible, plastic kind.

  A few hours later Joe sat up in Helen's bed and snapped his fingers. “Got it,” he said.

  He explained the whole thing at length to Helen, and she accepted the plan enthusiastically. He warned, “It's dangerous, but you can do it. The thing is—they'll be angry and upset, not thinking rationally. You'll be in a situation that you know, that you've prepared for. You stay calm and go with it. Otherwise . . .”—he smiled sadly—“if I see it isn't going right, I'll have to leave. It's your show.”

  “Joe, I can do it. Don't worry about me.” She kissed him eagerly, clinging like a child and laughing wildly.

  They were at Helen's apartment in Bloomfield Hills. Over the following days they rehearsed the show, as Joe called it, until Helen was perfect. During the day, while Helen was at work—putting together a deal to sell her share of Cadillac Communications Consultants to her partner—Joe set about making the necessary preparations. This included renting a small van and shopping in a secondhand clothing store.

  One afternoon, as an idle gesture to his irrepressible curiosity, Joe drove out to Lande's golf course. Lande was not in, so naturally he took a look around. There was nothing to see in the clubhouse. On his way back to town, however, almost by accident he noticed the little road to the maintenance building. Someone had left the gate open—in a hurry, he supposed. He drove in. There was nobody in the maintenance building, but there were some interesting boxes stacked up, as if someone were moving. He couldn't resist a peek. The goods were just sitting there, already packed in boxes.