Flood Abatement

by James Norton

  “And, I can keep my movie?”

  “That will be your business. At that point, we will be out of it.”

  “And, you’ve someone to help me?”

  “Yes, we can make arrangements. Where does this auction take place?”

  “In the hotel next to O’Hare Airport terminal. Who do I deliver the coin to?”

  “Me, I’ll be at the airport. Call me with the date and time.”

  “Sure.”

  “Nick.”

  “What?”

  “Remember who cleans the rooms at the hotel.”

  “Yeah.” Nick put the phone in the cradle. “Fuck you, you Colombian faggot. There’s more that one clan of spics in this country.”

  Chapter 88

  Nana was not happy about the plan. “Why bother? Just sell both coins.”

  Rhonda took an umbrella from the back hall closet. “Too many partners. We can get more for one on our own. Besides, with one of the coins in the feds hands ours becomes more valuable.” She stepped out the side door as lightning flashed overhead.

  She closed the white Javelin’s door as Nana yelled, “What about Bernie?”

  Rhonda rolled the driver’s window down a crack. “I’ll protect him.” She did before and she’d do it this time. Big drops pelted the car.

  The rain slowed as Rhonda parked two blocks east of the Federal Building. The air smelled fresh washed as she walked south on Van Buren and cut through the YWCA to cross to the side entrance of the gray stone courthouse. She asked three people for agent Allen Durone before she located his office on the inner ring of the fourth floor. The door was unlocked, but the office was empty. A lit cigarette balanced uneasily on a green glass ashtray. She took a seat in a heavy wooden armchair cross from the desk. He must be around.

  When Durone walked in he was still brushing water from the front of his pants and did not immediately notice Rhonda.

  “Can I help you with that?” she asked. Christ, it’s the same brown suit. Doesn’t the government pay these guys enough to have more than one set of clothes?

  The federal agent jerked upright, frowned, then grinned. “If you’d like.”

  Rhonda smiled. The fuzz was bent. Good to know. “Not just now. We have more important things to talk about.”

  He took a seat across from her, then reached for the dying cigarette, took a final drag and crushed it out. “Like what?”

  Rhonda crossed her legs to show him a hint of thigh. “A gold bird, Agent Durone. A forty-one year old gold bird.”

  Chapter 89

  The flight from hell, the trip other people bragged about when they played “top this.” Now, Bernie had his own story. An early spring snowstorm made things crazy in Denver both coming and going. The only reason he could move after the thumping in San Francisco was because of the airline’s generosity with free booze. The cab from the airport dropped him off at his house just before three in the morning. He didn’t feel the cold as he climbed the porch to the front door. He heard a car door close, but gave it no mind. He fumbled with his keys, unable to locate the one required.

  “Need some help?” Rhonda asked.

  He twisted around to get a better look at his questioner. The pain shot up his right leg where Dallas Fanning applied the cattle prod and he fell. “Hi, how ya doin’?”

  “Are you drunk?”

  He considered Rhonda’s face. “God, I hope so.”

  She took the keys from his hand and opened the door. “Okay let’s get you inside.” She pulled on his right arm and helped him to his feet.

  He stumbled through the door and found a seat on the stairs to the second floor. “Thanks, sweetie,” he slurred.

  She pulled on his left arm to get him up again. “Come on, Bernie. Let’s get you upstairs and in bed.”

  With his right hand he steadied himself against the wall and made it to the midway landing where he sat down. “Say, is that little shit Smith with you? I hope so. I’d really like to pound the crap out of him.”

  “Would you now?” she asked.

  “Yup, beat that little cock sucker into a bloody pulp. And then, then … I’d piss on him.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup, is he around?”

  “No he’s not. It’s just me.”

  “Nuts.”

  “Well, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She tugged on his arm again. “Come on, just a few more steps and you’re in bed.”

  He staggered to his feet. “My bed, that sounds good.” At the top of the stairs he worked hard to focus on her face. “Hi Rhonda.”

  “Hello Bernie.”

  “Are you gonna put me to bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “I gotta tell you about my trip.”

  “Tomorrow will be fine.”

  He made it to the bed where he sat down hard. “Little bastard set me up.”

  She stripped off his shirt and shoes, then knelt to loosen his belt and pull off his pants.

  He looked down at her. “Are we gonna screw, Rhonda?”

  “No, Bernie, you’re just going to bed.”

  “Oh good, cause every time we screw you leave me. I don’t want you to leave me. Besides, it makes sex seem like a consolation prize. Messes up … libido.”

  She pulled off his pants and he fell back on the bed. When she took his ankles to turn him around she saw the burns on his leg and the bruises on his stomach. She touched them gently and in his stupor he struggled against his pain. It was then she saw the bruises on his chest. “Oh Bernie, what happened to you?”

  “Just a little payback for Smith’s blackmail.”

  He passed out.

  On the drive home Rhonda knew she would have to work hard to keep this deal on track. Bernie wouldn’t be worth talking with until the afternoon.

  Chapter 90

  Bernie held a quart can of tomato juice. Dressed in a tan flannel bathrobe, he answered the door. Rhonda walked right past him into the house. He shut the door and shuffled after her.

  She took off her coat and tossed it on the couch. “You look pretty bad. How do you feel?”

  “I need a nap.”

  “Do you feel like talking about the trip?”

  “If we’re going to do that, I’ll need a couple hours sleep or a couple of stiff drinks.” He burped.

  She took his left hand and led him toward the stairs. “Go take a shower, and we’ll talk.”

  He followed without complaint. Half an hour later and wet from a shower, he came down in jeans and an old University of Wisconsin sweatshirt. Rhonda sat in the darkening house reading his Penthouse magazines under a single lamp in the living room.

  “Hot stuff,” she said without looking up. ”How you feelin’?”

  “Better.” He touched the copy in her hands. “But, if we’re going in that direction give me a little more time.”

  She closed the magazine and dropped it on the maple floor. “Okay, tell me about your trip.”

  He sat down next to her. “That’s a whole different road.”

  She nudged him and he spilled out all his venom and misgivings about the coin auction. Rhonda let him talk and rant until he was out of gas.

  “All good stuff, but we have to do it,” she said.

  “Why? These are dangerous assholes.”

  “Because they wouldn’t take kindly to us backing out.” She took his hand and looked him in the eye. “And, I want the money.”

  “What about Smith?”

  “We’ll handle him after the deal is done. Stick with me on this. We’ll be okay.”

  They walked the three blocks down to a little Italian place on Brady Street and ate spaghetti. She ordered a glass of wine. He drank several ginger ales. Just after they got their spumoni she said, “Those girls in Penthouse looked like they were having a good time. Could you help a girl out?”

  Chapter 91

  When the big day came around, Bern
ie’s bruises were not a problem for him. The smell of burnt jet fuel however, irritated him while he stood in the dank lobby of the O’Hare Airport Hotel. Across the red carpeted expanse, the elevator doors opened. Rhonda and Henry Koppelstein, the coin shop owner, stepped out.

  “Hi, Bernie. You remember Henry?” she asked.

  “Sure.” They shook hands.

  She turned to the shop owner. “You got your stuff?”

  He tapped the wide brown briefcase in his left hand. “Everything I need.”

  “You bring your certificate?”

  He nodded.

  “Bernie, would you take Henry to the room? It’s 619. Nick won’t let him in,” Rhonda said. “I’ll be right along.”

  Henry went over to the elevator while Bernie stayed behind to have a word with Rhonda. “Did you tell him?”

  “Tell who what?”

  “Henry, did you tell him about the coin?”

  “Sure.” She brushed the lapel of Bernie’s gray pin-stripped suit and adjusted his maroon tie. “You do clean up nice.”

  He followed her gaze while she watched an Asian woman and a Hispanic man dodge the heavy traffic as they crossed to the hotel from the terminal. Two of our customers? Maybe not.

  “You better go,” she said

  When he and Henry stepped into the elevator and faced forward, Bernie saw the ethnic couple walk up to Rhonda.

  Chapter 92

  Nick opened the door to 619 as Bernie reached for the knob.

  “How’s it goin’, shit for brains?” Nick asked.

  Bernie gave a stiff smile. “Good. How about you, dwarf?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “You’re not my type, short round.”

  Henry cleared his throat. Nick eyeballed the bearded man.

  “You the coin expert?”

  “Certified numismatist.” Henry said.

  “Fine, come in.” Nick pointed to a table by the windows in the front of a group of chairs. “Set up over there.”

  While Henry unpacked, Bernie looked around the room. It was some sort of gay ’90’s décor with flocked red wallpaper - a smaller version of the lobby. Six people sat silently on institutional meeting chairs. One group appeared to be made up of a middle aged man in a well-tailored suit, a kid in a sport coat that was too big for him, and someone who looked like a dressed gorilla. The other three appeared to be by themselves: a heavy man in a suit with cowboy boots, the Klansman from Atlanta - a tan guy in chinos and deck shoes, the senator’s kinky son, and an elderly woman in a nice dress and pearls, probably one of Rhonda’s contacts. The kid pointed at Henry and whispered to the well-dressed man, who nodded.

  Just as he finished, Rhonda walked in with the couple from the lobby. She pointed at Nick, who made a phone call.

  “Welcome, everyone,” she said. “The coin will be here in a minute.”

  There was a knock at the door and two security guards entered. One was an older man with a limp. The other was the immense Samoan. Bernie almost soiled himself, but Rudolph never looked in his direction.

  The older guy handed a manila envelope to Rhonda. When they left the room she said, “Lady and gentlemen, here is the coin you’ve been waiting for.” Everyone crowded around the table as she tore the envelope open. She poured the naked coin out into a glass dish on the table and stepped back. It rattled expensively for a moment then lay still.

  “If you want to handle it, put on the cotton gloves you were given,” Nick said.

  Everyone dug for their gloves and passed the gold piece around for five minutes. No one said a word.

  The chubby kid took out a jeweler’s glass, screwed it into his eye socket and gave the coin a lengthy inspection. He nudged the man in the expensive suit and nodded. “Okay, now who’s gonna do the specific gravity and the acid test?” the kid asked.

  “That would be him.” Rhonda pointed at Henry. “He’s certified.”

  The kid nodded and placed the coin back into the glass dish with a slight scraping sound. “I’ve done this before. Mind if I help?”

  “No problem, just be careful.” Henry explained what the kid was going to do with the aqua regia, and what the specific gravity test would mean. First, he smoked a ten penny nail with the acid then he dripped it on the coin. Everybody held their breath.

  It was the first time Henry got a good look at the coin and the color in his face faded. He looked at Bernie with sort of a blank stare, then mouthed something like “Mother fucker.” He could have been referring to any number of things, but Rhonda probably misrepresented the situation to Henry in some significant way, like maybe the date on the coin. It was certainly the first time he knew he was dealing with a 1933 Double Eagle.

  Bernie smiled and nodded. Without a doubt, that was his girl.

  “What’s going on?” the young guy in the deck shoes asked.

  “N … Nothing,” Henry said as he licked his lips.

  “That’s the way it’s supposed to be, if it’s gold,” the kid said.

  “What’s next?” Cowboy Boots asked.

  “Now we’re going to prove it’s gold all the way through,” the kid said.

  With a slightly shaky hand Henry gave a graduated cylinder to the kid. “Get 50 milliliters of water.”

  When Henry was done with the specific gravity test the kid made the calculations and announced “If this isn’t a genuine 1933 Double Eagle, nobody will be able to tell the difference anyway.”

  Bernie could hear everyone start breathing again. There were smiles all around. The little woman in the print dress asked, “Do you have any paperwork to back-up your claims on this coin?”

  Rhonda took out the letters sealed in document protectors and passed them around.

  Bernie leaned into her. “Who’s the old gal?”

  “Nick’s acquaintance from Omaha.”

  He nodded.

  Nick handed out sodas. No booze. The senator’s kid was getting antsy, but the other participants were calm. There were only five bidders. But, who knew, maybe the old lady harbored a real jones for illicit treasure.

  After a few minutes the man in the expensive suit spoke. “The letter mentions several coins, but we’re only talking about one here. Where are the rest?”

  “I don’t know,” Rhonda said. “This is all we have.”

  The Mexican asked, “Can we get going now?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Who’d like to open the bidding for half a million?”

  Bernie held his breath. The room was dead silent. Shit!

  “Okay then, quarter of a million?”

  Still nothing. Aw damn.

  “One-hundred thousand?”

  “Sure,” said the senator’s child molesting son.

  Whew.

  “How about, one-fifty?”

  The kid nudged his uncle. The mobster raised his left hand.

  Okay, not great, but Rhonda got them rolling. Bernie looked at Nick in the corner casually watching the room.

  “Do I have two-hundred?”

  Nobody spoke.

  Damn!

  “One-seventy-five?”

  “One-seventy-five,” said the old woman.

  Bernie didn’t expect that, and from the expressions on the faces of the other people in the room, neither did they. That was nice.

  “Two-hundred?”

  “One-eighty,” the Mexican said.

  Oh, oh the pace was dropping. Don’t let it drop Rhonda.

  “One-eighty five,” the Klansman from Atlanta said.

  Good, another bidder.

  “One-ninety,” the senator’s kid added.

  The mobster consulted with his nephew. “Two hundred-fifty.”

  Not bad for starters. Bernie watched everyone else look at the man and his nephew. Okay Rhonda, keep it going.

  “Lady and gentlemen I have two hundred and fifty-thousand dollars. Do I have a bid for two seventy-five?”

  Silence and more silence. Don’t let it slip. Keep up the pace.

  “Come on folks,�
�� Rhonda said. “A quarter of a million is a fraction of what this coin is worth. I’m not going to let it go for that kind of money.”

  The mobster said, “You didn’t put any reserve on the piece. You need to sell it for the highest bid, without regard to the amount.”

  No!

  “Forget about it,” she said.

  That a girl!

  “He’s right,” said the Mexican. “Stick to your word. On top of that this thing is hot as hell.”

  “Screw you.”

  “Two-fifty-five,” said Henry Koppelstein from his chair at the table in the front of the room.

  “What?” said the Senator’s kid.

  “Two-fifty-five. I’ve got that and more. Is my money good?”

  Way to go Henry! Bernie almost got up and kissed him.

  Rhonda smiled. “Sure, I’ve got two … “

  “Three hundred,” the man from Atlanta said.

  Better, better. Rhonda looked at Henry, who shook his head. Well, at least they got a couple more bucks.

  The bidding took off, then stopped at four-hundred and thirty-five thousand. Damn, less than a quarter of its worth. Come on, Rhonda, pump it up. She remained cool.

  The old woman stood, said, “I’m out,” and left the room.

  Well, that wasn’t unexpected. Still, Bernie hated to see the competition drop. He watched her leave and thought that she looked slightly familiar. When the door closed, he turned his attention back to the auction.

  The men began to move the bidding again, but it stalled out at four ninety to the Klansman from Atlanta. Still too low! The Mexican went to four ninety-five followed by five hundred grand by the senator’s son.

  The mobster looked at the kid who nodded, but he said, “No, I’m through.”

  Rhonda! Say something. Where was all this brass about ringing money from the idiots at the rail? Come on, honey! Don’t let it go for this!

  The three remaining men looked at each other. The Mexican shrugged. The man from Atlanta said, “It’s yours.”

  “No, it’s mine,” Nick said. The metallic sound of a revolver being cocked filled the silence.

  The dressed ape with the capo reached into his coat. The Mexican produced a large pistol from the Asian girl’s handbag and stuck the barrel into the guy’s neck. “Just relax you big guinea.”