Operation Underworld

by Paddy Kelly

  Doc did the talking. “We’re here to see the Coroner.” He flashed his Treasury Department ID, thumb partially obscuring the photo.

  “Is it about the Birnbaum case?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “His personal possessions are still at the DA’s. They didn’t bring them over here,” the officer explained. Harry was quiet, but Louie did his best to look like a mean treasury agent.

  “Why would we want his personal possessions?”

  “Ain’t you guys here to see if his money was phoney?” This is where Doc pulled ahead of the pack in the PI business. When he was pitched a curve ball, he could swing low and inside.

  “No, we work with him, down at Third Naval District. His boss, Admiral Mancino, asked us ta look in on how it’s going.” The officers looked at each other. “The Admiral’s flying out to DC tomorrow. He wants ta know the score before he leaves.”

  The cops looked at each other a second time in a challenge to see if either one was willing to assume responsibility. Doc picked up on their reluctance. “The Admiral has to report whether or not your people are doing all you can. If not, the FBI’ll be brought in.”

  They slowly stepped aside to let the trio pass.

  As they went through the door, both cops noticed Louie’s bowling shoes.

  “Talk about dedicated. You’d never get me in off the alleys to go back to work,” the older policeman commented.

  As soon as they got inside, Louie and Harry realised right away that Coroner’s ’Office’was a misnomer. Through the dim light of the large, open room, they saw what was in fact a large medical lab. Glassware covered black, marble-topped tables, a large beaker boiling, discharging some sort of distillate into a stainless steel receptacle and the whole place appeared abandoned.

  “Igor, send up the kites!” Louie commented in a bad accent. Harry shook his head.

  Doc disappeared off to the right and Louie went poking around like a kid in a toy store. Harry heard Doc and some young guy talking in the back. Although the voices were subdued, they were clearly audible.

  “Look, I appreciate your orders from the DA, but they dragged this guy out of retirement and flew him all the way up here,” Doc explained.

  Harry saw the kid poke his head around the corner to look at him. He waved and Doc continued. “Now, I know it’s highly unlikely, but if you guys miss somethin’, especially on the forensics of the money, it’s gonna look pretty bad for the department.” Harry heard Doc pause to let it sink in. “Now, you may not get fired, but you’ll sure as hell be buyin’ your own coffee and donuts till you retire.”

  A moment later Doc and the kid emerged from the back

  “Doctor Kravitz, this is Special Agent Harry… Patton.”

  “No relation,” Harry quickly added.

  “And that… that’s agent Johnson.” Doc pointed over to where Louie was trying to see how fast he could get the centrifuge to spin without his pen falling off. “Doctor Kravitz, Harry is one of the world’s leading experts on currency forensics.” They shook hands and Doctor Kravitz displayed a guarded admiration for Harry.

  “Harry, the good Doctor has agreed to let us examine a sample of a twenty they have from the money which was found on the deceased.” Kravitz showed Harry to a table and helped him get situated.

  While Harry looked through the microscope, Doc quizzed Kravitz.

  “Was the victim killed in Brooklyn?”

  “No, somewhere else. Probably across the river.”

  “How’d they do it?”

  “Strangulation. Yesterday, between eleven and one, rough guess.”

  “It’s phoney,” Harry announced.

  “We haven’t determined that yet,” Kravitz explained.

  “Why not?” Harry asked in genuine disbelief.

  “We‘ve been concentrating on the body. We haven’t gotten around to the sample and the experts from Albany haven’t arrived.”

  “Have you done a simple smug test or a litmus?”

  “Well…no.” Kravitz was puzzled. Harry sat back from the scope and went into action.

  “I need two strips of litmus paper, five drams of hydrochloric acid, two drams of sulphuric acid, some bicarbonate of soda, sucrose, two droppers, and three pipettes. Oh, and some phenophathelene, if you have it.” Harry looked at Kravitz, who was motionless.

  “And a partridge in a pear tree,” Louie chimed in.

  “You guys are the strangest treasury agents I’ve ever seen,” Kravitz commented, looking around the room at his guests. He turned to Harry. “You want that SO4 concentrated or diluted?”

  Harry worked for about ten minutes, Kravitz asked questions and finally a page of notes was handed to Doc, which he read aloud.

  “Hand engraved, soft metal plates. Three to six months old. Manufactured south-eastern US. All same batch.”

  “What does that mean, all same batch?” Kravitz inquired.

  “We had a similar case last year,” Doc countered as he continued to read. “That mean anything to you, Harry? Soft plates?”

  “Yeah. Limits your run ’cause the plates wear down. If you’re runnin’ twenties, best you can do is twenty, twenty-five grand. Upside is you can carve your plates faster.”

  “Then whatta you do?” Kravitz asked.

  “You melt the plates down so they can’t be traced. Whoever did this wasn’t in it for the long run. Sounds like they just needed spendin’money.”

  “What about this south-eastern US. How can you tell that?”

  Doc knew Harry was good, but he had never seen him shine like this. The only time Doc remembered Harry discussing money was when he used to complain about the government reneging on the Expeditionary Force Bonus promised to the First War veterans. That and the fact that he would clam up if anyone asked where he got the dough to open the news stand.

  “There’s a distinct style. I recognise the workmanship.”

  Kravitz and Doc looked at each other in amazement. Harry made it clearer.

  “I think I know who made these notes.”

  “Who?” Kravitz was astonished.

  “I’m sorry, but that’s classified by the Department of the Treasury,” he answered authoritatively. Doc was proud of Harry.

  “Doctor Kravitz, have you done the autopsy yet?” he asked, to divert attention from Harry.

  “Isn’t gonna be one. Not unless we get an exhumation order.”

  “It’s a homicide, why wasn’t there an autopsy?”

  “Two reasons. His religion, which says he has to be in the ground, intact, before sundown the next day. And the fight.”

  “What fight?”

  “The one that’s going on between the Mayor’s office and the DA right now about spendin’ two to three million on the court battle, along with the ensuing press war.”

  “What court battle?”

  “The one it’s gonna take to get him outta the ground and on the table. You know how many lawyers that guy had? Plus, we just found out he’s got a five and a half million dollar estate bequeathed to orphaned Jewish children, providin’ the money doesn’t get used for legal battles. You wanna be the shit who forces a bunch of Jewish orphans to miss out on five million so it can go to lawyers?”

  “Can’t fight City Hall, huh?” Doc smiled as he remembered

  Ira’s passive demeanor.

  “Guess you won’t need those guys from Albany after all, eh, Perfesser?” Louie added, tapping Kravitz on the back as they left.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The taxi ride from Brooklyn back to the Village was a frenzied debate of murder theories and potential motives and enroute there were three stopovers. Two for drinks and one for Chinese takeout. By the second drink stop, the cab driver turned off the meter, and joined the trio for a beer. Intrigued and drawn into the deliberations, Murray, the taxi driver, reasoned that it was okay to turn off the meter because he was helping to solve a crime. Besides, he was due to go off duty in a mere four and a half hours anyway.

  After
dropping Louie home, Doc, Harry and Murray proceeded to Christopher Street. Murray was naturally invited up to continue the debate, but explained he had to get home to his wife and seven kids, so Doc tipped him a twenty.

  “Harry, do you really know who made these bills or were you just yankin’ his leash?” Doc asked the next morning, lying on his desk where he had spent the night. He held one of the fifties up and was examining it.

  “Scheinfeld. Ernie Scheinfeld.” Harry was in the cot.

  “How do you know him?” Doc prepared himself for a captivating story which never materialised.

  “Reputation. Never really met him. But anybody who can say the word ‘counterfeit’ knows about him.” Harry could see that Doc was wondering if he was being strung along. “Honest ta God, Doc! Never met him, he was way outtta my league. Never did business with anyone he didn’t know. So they say.”

  “That’s how you knew the southeast?” Doc had walked across the room to man the hot plate.

  “Yeah. He used to operate outta Hot Springs a lot. Mob jobs, mostly.”

  “Is he still around?”

  “Depends on what ya mean.”

  “I mean like, you know where he is? Can we talk to him?”

  Doc’s excitement was building, but Harry maintained an even keel. “Sure. Everybody knows where he is. And I guess anybody can talk to him. Long as you’re there during visitin’ hours.”

  “You’re enjoyin’ this, ain’t ya? Ya old bastard!”

  “Louisiana State pen, ten to twenty.”

  “What happen? He spell ‘In God We Trust’ wrong?”

  “Back alimony. Said he’d rather go ta jail then give her a penny.”

  “Man of principle, huh?”

  “Hey Doc, was all them bills crumpled up the same?” Harry propped himself up on one elbow and assumed a quizzical look.

  “Jeez, Harry, no idea. What does it mean if they were?”

  “When you do a run, ya want the new bills ta look old before ya pass ’em, like they was used. So there’s a variety a ways to do it. Basically, they should look crumpled. Like they been handled.”

  “So whatta we do?”

  “Get a few of ’em out.” Doc and Harry began to compare the real notes with the home-made brand. Soon, the desk, table and any other available flat surface was occupied with money, neatly laid out in rows, by denomination.

  “Harry, this ain’t workin’ too good. Let’s move the furniture away and use the floor.”

  After ten minutes of crawling around the floor, Harry found something.

  “Well, whatta ya know!!” Doc looked up at Harry as he made his exclamation. Then the inevitable happened. Laying the bills out on the floor had seemed like a good idea at the time, until Hurricane Louie barged through the door.

  “Hey guys! What’d I miss?”

  The bills flew in every direction.

  “God-damn it, Louie!!” Doc jumped up but Harry stayed down on the floor staring at two of the twenties he had pinned to the floor with his fingers.

  “Louie, sit at the table,” Harry instructed while his eyes continued to scan the rows of notes.

  “What for, Harry?”

  “I want ya to do somethin’ for me. Sit at the table.”

  Louie complied while Doc started laying out the bills again. Harry went over to Louie’s table and handed him a single twenty, and then a separate stack of twenties. “Look through all these notes and put them in numerical order. But keep this one separate.”

  Harry walked over to Doc, who was trying to arrange the bills.

  “Ferget that, Doc, look at this.” He handed Doc the two twenties. Doc saw it right away.

  “Son-of-a-bitch! Why would they do that?”

  “Come on, Doc, that’s the easy part! They switched the fake dough for the real stuff. Even Louie could figure that out!”

  “Hey, guys some a these numbers are the same!”

  “Keep lookin’, you’ll see a lot of em’s the same. Each real bill will have an identical serial number on a counterfeit bill,” Harry explained. “Doc, run downstairs, get me a couple of bags. We’ll weed out all the Monopoly money, and see what we have left.”

  Doc returned with the cash bags a few minutes later and, as he came back in something else occurred to him.

  “Harry, when did Sheinfeld go up the river?”

  “Before the war started. Thirty-five or six, I think.”

  “And you said last night you thought these bills were how old?”

  “Six months to a year, max.”

  Doc and Harry looked at each other.

  “If Scheinfeld made these, he did it while he was still on the inside.”

  Harry nodded in agreement.

  “I found one!” Louie yelled excitedly.

  Knowing that Harry was secretive about having done time, Doc was hesitant about posing his next question. But he couldn‘t let it go.

  “Harry, is it possible? I mean, are there art studios or something in the joint?”

  “I only done two years, Doc.”

  Louie looked up from the table and then glanced at Doc, but remained silent.

  “But it was in a federal pen. And there ain’t no possibility that I know of ta have the time and materials you need ta carve plates on the inside.” Harry was emphatic.

  “Couldn’t they have been made before he went in?”

  “No way! They’re soft metal. They wouldn’t have kept for five or six years. Heat, humidity, general abuse. They would’a been ruined. Any little defect, a bump, a chip, would’a rendered ’em useless. Easy to trace. Besides, who the hell would you trust with a pair of plates of that quality?”

  Doc sat at his desk. “They were definitely made on the inside?”

  “He had backin’. I’d stake my leg on it! Someone with a helluva lotta pull. Like in the Mob, or in the government.”

  Doc involuntarily turned towards the window as his thoughts raced ahead of him. “Or in the department of the Treasury?” he half whispered.

  Silence shrouded the room. Doc continued in a subdued voice.

  “Those pricks murdered an old man because he found out they switched the money.”

  “Doris is right. All the rats aren’t ‘over there’.” added Louie.

  Doc continued to stare out of the window, thinking about his wife leaving him for money, his business partner’s tactics for money and the motivation of the DA to stop his father at all costs as they collided in a blinding light in his mind. There it was again. That feeling in the pit of his stomach like falling off a tall building and waiting for the impact, only it never comes. But the feeling stays.

  “Doc. Hey Doc!” It was Louie. “DOC! The phone!”

  The ringing of the phone suddenly snapped him out of his trance. He reached down and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?” He spoke in a mechanical voice as the residue of the disturbing thoughts lingered in his mind.

  “Doc, it’s me.” The soothing sound of Nikki’s voice cleared the air.

  “Doc… I just called to see… if we’re still on for the parade.” Doc was instantly alerted by the forced composure he detected in Nikki’s voice. “Kate’s here and she asked me to call.” That was her signal to Doc that she was upset about something, but didn’t want Kate to know.

  “Put her on.” Doc had to know if someone was in the house with them. Kate’s voice would tell for sure.

  “Hi, Doc! This is Katie! I’m really excited for you to take us to the parade! Mommy says there’s music, clowns. All kinds a neat stuff!”

  Doc sat down, relieved. “You count on it, sweetheart! I’m excited too! Put your mommy back on, okay?”

  “Doc?”

  “Are you alright?” he asked.

  “Remember those men you mentioned? I think they were here.”

  “Why? Why do you think they were there?”

  “I found something they might have left.”

  “Bring it in the morning. I’ll have a look at it.”

&nb
sp; “But Doc! It’s a book. A strange book, with – ”

  “Nikki! Bring it tomorrow! I’m sure it’s nothing. See you at noon. At Woolworth’s.” He hung up.

  Nikki had no idea what the hell the comment about Woolworth’s was or why Doc down-played the importance of the black book. Not knowing about the developments of the last twenty-four hours, she also couldn’t understand that Doc was just being cautious. It was a good thing, too.

  Huddled in the cramped space of Redbone’s makeshift basement office, were three of the very men Doc and Nikki sought to avoid. Mistakenly believing that Doc probably had the book, they listened in on the phone call. At least one in their company was shocked to hear that Nikki actually possessed the secret document.

  “Just outta curiosity, where did you morons stash that book?” Johnson pushed away from Redbone’s desk and addressed the two men who stood before him, heads bent to one side to avoid the steam pipes criss crossing the ceiling.

  “We thought it’d be a good idea ta have someone ta blame it on… case they start a investigation.”

  “Case they start a investigation.” Johonson mocked the agent’s reply. “Your mother have any kids that lived? Case they start an investigation! So you picked A GOD-DAMNED SECRETARY! What the HELL would her MOTIVATION be for stealing a top secret CODE BOOK? Keep people from copyin’ her JELLO RECIPES?”

  “We were just try’n ta cover our asses!” The agent who had been doing all the talking sought unsuccessfully to extinguish the fuse he ignited. “Besides, how the hell did she get it?” he asked, seeking to change the subject.

  “WHO GIVES A FUCK! SHE GOT IT!”

  Redbone arrived in the basement to check the pressure in the number two boiler. He had no idea he had visitors until Johnson’s little temper tantrum attracted his attention, and drew him back towards his office.

  “If we don’t get that book back and she goes to anybody with this, there’ll be a hundred investigations. Every agency, newspaper and freakin’ aspiring politician in the country will want a piece of this! There won’t be a hole deep enough to hide in! Worse yet, we got two more outsiders dragged into this thing that we gotta contend with.” Johnson’s voice was tainted with desperation as he tried to make his cohorts understand the ramifications of their mistake.