Tangier Bank Heist

by Sean McLachlan

  So I didn’t hate them like I used to. Instead I felt kind of sorry for them, and even more convinced that their kind should never be in charge. Those boogeymen I conjured up in my early activism had cunning intelligence and limitless reach. Real rich people were simpletons. They could wreck everything without even knowing they were doing it.

  Of course I’m only talking about the idle rich, which Tangier had in spades. The new money, the capitalists, I never got to know. They sometimes passed through here to see Barbara or some of the others with big money, docking with their immense yachts next to the battered old fishing boats.

  They’re the real danger. The money men who will starve a whole region of wheat because it sold higher elsewhere. The big landlords who own whole boroughs in New York and will kick aged tenants into the street in the middle of winter so they can demolish the building and build a swank office tower in its place. The gun merchants who start wars to drive up sales. The oil barons who have the sheiks in their pocket. The coffee barons who have the peasant-crushing Latin American dictatorships in theirs.

  I’d like to meet some of these men. I’d like to look them in the eye and see if there’s more soul in those eyes, or less, than in Bill’s.

  I had half hoped to find my Egyptians in Bar la Mar Chica, even though it was the kind of place you didn’t find if you’re just passing through. I figured they would have been shown the town by their colleagues. Of course at this hour they could be holed up in a brothel. If that was the case, it would be nearly impossible to find them.

  Wearily I headed on back to my place, a small apartment with a nice sea view just off the Boulevard Pasteur. I lived alone and liked it that way. Melanie did too. We saw each other most every night but there had never been any talk about moving in together. We both valued our freedom.

  As soon as I opened the door, Hairball shot out from under the couch and attached himself to my pants leg. Hairball was a kitten I’d found on the street a couple of months back. Half starved and ragged, it was obvious his mother had died and left him alone. So I had picked him up, endured several scratches, and brought him home. Now all my furniture was as scratched as my leg was getting, and he left his namesakes all over the carpet, but hey, Hairball made better company than a lot of the mugs I had to spend time with.

  I emptied a tin of tuna onto a plate and put it on the floor, looked at the coffee tin with a covetous eye, then stripped off and got into bed. I owed Gerald a conversation first thing the next morning, and hopefully he’d have some information to give me as well as the information he’d get from me. His office opened in four hours. That gave me three hours of sleep.

  I’ve gotten less on cases, and I’ve learned to take what I can get.

  Gerald was in his office bright and early as always. I was less bright, but at least I got there before his workload made him too busy. We had a lot of things to discuss.

  He waved as I appeared at his open door.

  “Kent, come on in. I’m just having my morning tea, but feel free to indulge.” He reached for the drawer.

  “No thanks.” After all I’d been through, a snort would feel pretty good right about now, but I had too much to talk with him about and I needed a clear head. The way Gerald poured Scotch I’d be snoring in my chair in no time.

  “I’ve been quite busy with the bank case,” he said, leaning back in his chair and taking a sip of tea. “We got a warrant to search the wire service’s records and found that the South Continental Bank received a money wire from Egypt of 300,000 pounds sterling just five days before the bank shut down. The confirmation wire that the transfer was approved came from the same Egyptian bank just two days before the Pieter went on the lam.”

  I nodded. I figured it would be something along those lines. “I’ve found evidence that both Pieter and Ronnie were interested in Egyptian affairs. Did you know he met with three Egyptians who called themselves businessmen about a week ago?”

  “I’d heard that. We’re in the process of checking ship manifests. Actually I was about to go down to the port now and speak with the clerk. Care to join me?”

  I smiled. “Sure, why not?”

  The port in early morning was all hustle and bustle. The ferries from Tarifa and Gibraltar weren’t in yet but a couple of freighters were being unloaded. The tourist hucksters sat by the sea wall, watching idly as their more hardworking countrymen offloaded crates, barrels, and packages. A crane carefully lowered a beautiful Arabian stallion in a sling. The horse, no doubt drugged, lay limp in the sling, barely looking around until its hooves hit the pavement. Then it gave a little neigh as the waiting owner, who looked like a Lebanese businessman fresh from Beirut, talked to it in a soothing voice and stroked its sides.

  As we headed for the low building next to the pier that served as the customs office, I spotted one of García’s men and called out to him in Spanish, a language Gerald did not speak.

  “Get the right label on my crate. I’m taking it out now.”

  “Now?” the man said, eying the chief of police.

  “That’s right. See you in a few minutes.”

  A minute later I found myself back in the shipping office, this time facing a different clerk, one I’d never bribed. It didn’t matter. This was Gerald’s show.

  “We searched the shipping manifests, monsieur, and found the Egyptians you mention,” the clerk said, flipping through a thick ledger. “They must be the ones you are looking for because they are the only three Egyptians of the correct age who stated they were traveling together. They came on the Mohammad Bey from Alexandria ten days ago. The names they gave were Ahmad Zaky, Hussein Naguib, and Muhammad Sarhan. I have thoroughly checked all departures and can confirm that none of them have left Tangier by ship.”

  “If they haven’t left by ship, they haven’t left. There’s no other way to get to Alexandria,” I said.

  “No easy way, in any case,” Gerald said. “What profession did these men give?”

  “Businessmen,” the clerk said.

  “That can cover a multitude of sins,” Gerald said, lighting a cigarette.

  “You’re telling me,” I snorted.

  “Steady. Any news of our dear departed Pieter Vlamin?” he asked the clerk.

  “None, monsieur. We have men checking every ship. If he dares depart from this port, we will catch him.”

  “But he won’t dare,” Gerald said. “He’s too clever for that.”

  I sighed, already feeling tired, and turned to Gerald. “I guess that’s all we’re going to get here. I need to go to the warehouse and pick up a crate. I ordered a bed frame from Gibraltar.”

  “All right.”

  We got up and left. To my irritation, Gerald walked with me.

  “I’ll have my men search the hotels. I’d be grateful if you could search the more, um, festive places,” he said.

  “I can do that. The Egyptians love to live it up when they get out of their country. I’ve heard Nasser has clamped down on the belly dancing joints.”

  “And many more things besides. I suspect our three businessmen moved that sum out of their country because they feared Nasser was going to take it. I have more than one friend who has lost their property to his greedy clutches. He’s taking over entire apartment buildings and landholdings and sharing them out among his generals.”

  I thought for a moment. “You know, it’s interesting that these guys come all the way to Tangier, presumably to check on the bank before having the money transferred, and then don’t immediately come to you when the bank disappears. I’m thinking that perhaps they didn’t really own the money they transferred here.”

  “Quite possible. That’s an Egyptian matter, however, and with the state that country is in I doubt if it will ever get untangled.”

  We came to the warehouse. A couple of García’s men, all smiles, ushered us in. I hoped Chason hadn’t spoken to his boss about my lurking around here last night. Probably not. He knew Gerald and I were friends and wouldn’t stick his neck
out unless he had a good, solid hook to hang me on.

  And once again I found myself standing next to the crate of Marx. This time it had my name on it, changed in record time by those helpful Spanish comrades. Who says socialism makes people lazy?

  One of García’s crew handed me a form, which I filled our correctly for a change, and I took command of my crate.

  “Here, I’ll help you,” Gerald said.

  “Oh, that’s all right.”

  “Not at all. I could use the exercise. Oof, this is more exercise than I bargained for. What is this, a king sized?”

  “It will sure bring me comfort.”

  We waddled out of the warehouse. A passing cab, seeing our plight, pulled up in front. Gerald helped me load it into the trunk.

  Gerald pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. It was already growing warm.

  “Glad that’s over,” he said.

  “You and me both.”

  I slammed the trunk shut, hopped in the car, and ordered the cabbie to take me to Electric Eddie’s. I couldn’t believe my luck.

  I had some more good luck later that same day, at least it seemed like it at the time.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Eddie was so overjoyed at finally getting his hands on those copies of the Communist Manifesto that he immediately started doing lines. I took that as my cue to leave. We could always start distributing the books tomorrow.

  The rest of the day I went to every low bar, strip joint, and whorehouse I could think of and came up with zero. No Egyptians. It was like they had fallen off the face of the earth.

  I hoped they hadn’t been killed like Ronnie the Pusher. Then we’d have nobody to tell us what was going on.

  In the evening I went back home, fed Hairball, and made a strong pot of coffee for myself. My bed beckoned but I resisted its siren’s call. I hadn’t seen Melanie for a while and she’s not the kind of gal you want to leave on her own. Not that she’d stray, it’s just that a first-class dame like that deserves some appreciation.

  After freshening up, I headed over to Melanie’s, bringing her a copy of Marx as a present. It was a well-made copy with faux leather binding and as small as the palm of your hand. Easy to conceal.

  “You’re really going to distribute these among the Moors?” she asked, looking over the book as we lay in sweaty afterglow on her bed. Come on, did you really think I was going to talk Marxist dialectic before making love with her? Afterwards, sure, but not before.

  “Of course we’re giving them to the Moors. The Moroccan Communist Party isn’t in a position to do it themselves. It’s all they can do to stay out of jail, and a bunch of them haven’t even managed that.”

  “Where are you going to send them?” she asked, snuggling up to me. I put my arm around her.

  “Electric Eddie has connections in all three zones. He can get them to people who can distribute them locally. It’s all planned out. If there’s some left over, he’ll even send some down to Mauritania.”

  She looked up at me.

  “Wouldn’t Tunis and Algiers be more fertile ground?” she asked. She was getting downright businesslike about this. Could I pull her back into the cause?

  “Tunis and Algiers are already covered, but I’m not supposed to talk about that. By the way, I know you know some of the upper class Moorish ladies. Would you be able to pass a few copies around?”

  “Kent, you know I’m out.”

  “None of us are ever out. As long as the bosses crush the working man with—”

  She cut me off with a kiss.

  “You’re a fool but I love you,” she said, and kissed me again. “Now can you perhaps find my money?”

  “Sure, babe. We’re hitting nothing but dead ends, though. Gerald isn’t any closer than I am. Ronnie is dead, Pieter has disappeared, and the three Egyptians have disappeared too.”

  She gave me another kiss and ran a finger down my bare chest. Marx fell off the bed.

  “I can help you with the Egyptians.”

  “You got a line on them? Why didn’t you say so before?”

  She gave me one of those sultry smiles that would have turned my knees to water if I had been standing.

  “Because we had some things to do first, and because if they are where I think they are, we won’t be able to get in until later.”

  I pulled back a little. “We? What do you mean we?”

  “Because I’m going with you.”

  “Like hell you are!”

  She got a hard look on her face. I’d only seen it a few times before. I think a few Krauts saw it during the war. I’m sure they didn’t survive that look. I did. I have special dispensation.

  “It’s my money and my future. Besides, this takes a woman’s touch.”

  “Where are we going?” I knew her well enough not to argue.

  “Mama Tammany’s.”

  “What? That place exists?”

  Melanie laughed. “Of course it exists. If people can dream it up, then it exists. That’s the magic of Tangier.”

  “How come I thought it was just a stag night rumor?”

  She squeezed my cheek like I was a little boy. “Because you are a good man and you are loyal to your lover. You don’t go looking for these things. If you had ever had to track down someone like these Egyptians, then I am sure you would have made Mama Tammany’s acquaintance.”

  “So what are the Egyptians doing there?”

  Her gaze passed over our naked bodies. Her expression told me it was a stupid question.

  “I mean why did they go there instead of a regular brothel?”

  “Really, Kent, don’t be so innocent. They went there because it is the best and the wildest. Ronnie the Pusher must have told them about it.”

  “And who told you about it?” I could hear the suspicion in my voice.

  “I am friends with Mama Tammany.”

  “What! You’re friends with a madam?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be pedestrian. You sound like the small town Pennsylvania boy you pretend you never were.”

  “I was a union organizer punching scabs and cops.”

  “In a small town with a small town mentality. It shows sometimes.”

  I turned away to grab a cigarette. Once I’d lit it and took a drag, I faced her.

  “People from big cities don’t like their girlfriends getting chummy with madams either.”

  “She and I came to Tangier on the same boat. I was a lost little Resistance fighter, and she was a lost little American fleeing from something she never told me about. Almost certainly a marriage. She had that wearied look so many married women have. We became friends. I started my cafe and she started her own business.”

  “The most exclusive bawdy house in all of North Africa. Did she tell you she was going to do this when you were palling around on the boat?”

  “Yes. Why should I judge her for that?”

  “Did she try to hire you?”

  Melanie laughed so hard I thought she was going to drop her cigarette and set fire to the bed.

  “Well, did she?”

  She leaped on top of me and gave me a playful bite on the neck.

  “Yes, and I accepted. How do you think I got the money for the cafe? They called me the Frisky Frenchwoman. The Raunchy, Randy Resistance.”

  “Don’t joke about that stuff.”

  She bit me again. It hurt, but in a good way.

  “Aw, my poor small town boy is feeling all overwhelmed in the big city.”

  “I’m anything but small town.”

  “You won’t be after tonight,” she said. Giving me a final bite and leaping off of me. Those long legs, and all that came above them, walked away from me toward the dresser. “We should get going.”

  “I’ll go anywhere you’re going, baby.”

  To protect her. Not that I was going to say that out loud.

  We got dressed and headed out. I checked that my pistol was loose and ready in my shoulder holster. I didn’t like going to
some place I’d never been with Melanie in tow.

  “You bring your handbag surprise?” I asked as we passed through the Grand Socco. She had a lovely little pearl-handled .25 automatic she kept in her handbag for special occasions.

  “You worry too much. Mama Tammany is a friend.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Melanie sighed. “Yes, I have my pistol. Don’t be overprotective. I don’t like it when men are overprotective. There was a man who liked me in the Resistance. Pierre. He was overprotective.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He was so worried about my safety he didn’t look out for his own. The Nazis captured him and tortured him to death.”

  I didn’t have a witty comeback to that so I kept my mouth shut.

  As always, the Grand Socco was alive at night. Torches blazed and the stalls made as brisk a business as during the day. By the mosque, a group of Berbers from the mountain villages stood in a big circle, chanting and pounding drums. The smell of kif and cooking meat hung heavy in the air.

  She took me through the arched gate of the Bab al-Fahs and down Silversmith’s Street, the jewelry shops all shut tight against the night.

  “Let’s avoid the Petit Socco,” she said.

  She cut right down an alley and into the Jewish Quarter, the only quiet quarter of Tangier at night. All the doors were closed, and we passed three different synagogues that looked no different than the blank doorways of the houses. I wouldn’t have known they were there if I hadn’t lived here so long. The Jews didn’t mingle. They ran their shops, kept to their neighborhood, minded their own business, and demanded that everyone leave them alone. After what Hitler did, I couldn’t blame them.

  This neighborhood was shrinking now that Israel had been established. Lots of the young people, eager to be part of creating a new nation, and left for the Holy Land. Jews were also leaving for fear of what might happen to them in an independent Morocco, if that ever came about. In another twenty years the neighborhood would be nothing but old people and memories.