Money Men cc-1

by Gerald Petievich

  The Treasury field office was located in the stodgy-looking Federal Courthouse on Spring Street, just a few blocks up from L.A.'s skid row. Jack Kelly waited in the technical shop. He gazed out the window.

  The view from the field office was clear, up to a point. Things over a half-mile or so away were blurry. Boyle Heights was in haze the color of oatmeal.

  Below, on Spring Street, the "Blue Goose," a large police van, headed toward the tenderloin. Years ago, when Kelly had been on the force, the old-timers used to make the recruits drive the Goose, to avoid the body lice.

  He looked at his watch and sipped coffee. For some reason he thought of the Timmy Fontaine incident.

  He remembered being on the duty desk the night a young ponytailed hitchhiker marched into the field office and told him about how she was picked up by a "Timmy," who drove her to his Malibu bachelor pad, which had giant stereo speakers.

  After she posed for photos in the bedroom, Timmy masturbated while standing over her (Kelly remembered her describing this as being "far out") and then showed her a suitcase full of phony ten-dollar bills. Probably to show off.

  Later, the brass said that before Kelly went to a federal judge and obtained a search warrant, he should have determined who Timmy was. The second-guessers figured that if Kelly had known that young Timmy was the son of the Honorable Augustus Fontaine (D., Calif) he might have handled it differently.

  That's where they were wrong. Jack Kelly wouldn't have cared if it had been Prince Charles with the suitcase full of green. He would have done exactly the same thing. Filed the search warrant, knocked on Timmy's door, announced his purpose, kicked Timmy's door down, found the suitcase, and arrested Timmy for possession of funny money, just as though he were any other street punk.

  Just that alone would have started a major flap, but it burst into epic proportions when Timmy made the mistake of punching Kelly on the side of his head, during the arrest, breaking a manicured thumb. Kelly counterpunched the unfortunate Timmy on the point of the chin, breaking the attached jaw in two places and causing Timmy's mouth to be wired shut during the trial.

  The pressure from above hadn't worked on the judge, and Timmy was sentenced to a year in Lompoc, which Kelly attributed to the fact that the judge had been appointed by a Republican administration.

  The honorable congressman got back at them by having one of his old law partners sue Kelly and Uncle Sam in a trumped-up civil-rights and personal-injury case. They even alleged that Kelly broke Timmy's thumb in order to make him talk.

  The suit failed, but Kelly ended up in cold storage indexing counterfeit notes and answering calls from bank tellers about what to do if "In God We Trust" was missing from the reverse of a twenty-dollar bill.

  After a year he was offered a chance to return to field duties, but he told the agent-in-charge thanks anyway, but that he got the same pay for pushing a pencil as for cracking heads, and that he preferred to remain behind the desk.

  It was Carr who had kept Kelly's interest piqued. He eventually enticed Kelly away from the desk and back into the street by little things, such as making sure that copies of interesting reports crossed his desk. Kelly knew what he was up to. Carr was his only real friend.

  When Carr walked in now, he removed a cassette tape and a plastic envelope containing a counterfeit ten-dollar bill from a file folder marked "Evidence."

  Kelly pushed aside a radio chassis and other odds and ends on the workbench and plugged in the tape recorder. He had heard the motel recording many times during the past three days, but realized that when other leads don't pan out a man has to start all over again.

  The hours he and Carr had spent looking through mug books of known strong-arm men and rip-off artists had been useless.

  They had read the reports of interviews with the residents of the street facing the rear of the motel. No one had seen anything out of the ordinary.

  At the Police Crime Lab Kelly had been told there was no physical evidence. No footprints, no fingerprints, no hair. The man in the black leather jacket had walked in the door of the motel room, killed Rico, stolen the buy money, and departed like an actor in the final scene of some bizarre stage play.

  Sure, Kelly knew he and Carr had seen the killer, but unfortunately a face is of no use without a name, except perhaps to Kojak or Dick Tracy.

  The words floated from the tape machine like the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard.

  "Well, here I am. I've got the funny money right here in the case. Let's see the real stuff."

  Kelly had already decided there was no detectable accent. No use calling in dialect experts.

  "Take it easy," he heard Rico say as the tape continued. "I've got the ten grand…Look." Rico's voice was reassuring. He had learned the lesson well: always show confidence before the buy, to take the crook's mind off protecting himself. Makes him slower to react when the door goes down, gives the arrest team an edge.

  Kelly heard the crinkling of the paper bag containing the buy money, then a "ping, ping" sound. Attaché case latches. He figured the case was probably opened on the bed, with the cover facing Rico so he couldn't see the sawed-off shotgun.

  With the sound of the shotgun, Kelly crushed the empty plastic cup he was holding and slung it into a wastebasket.

  "Turn it off for a second," Carr said with a wave of his hand. Kelly slapped at the plastic buttons, and the tape stopped.

  "There was no sound of a round being chambered or a safety being clicked off from the shotgun. That means it was ready to fire when he walked in the door. He didn't come to bluff He intended to kill somebody."

  Kelly nodded and turned on the machine again. By turning up the volume, they could hear the killer slam the case shut, run across the room, scramble out the window. Mixed with the sounds of the door being kicked in, they heard the killer's feet making crunching sounds as he ran down the gravel-covered driveway; then the sound of a car door, squealing tires.

  "He must have cased the motel and seen the open window of room seven; otherwise he would have parked in the lot. It would have been easier," Kelly said.

  "Wait a second," Carr interrupted. "Play it again. I think I've got something."

  Kelly frowned as he snapped the cassette back in the machine. Listening to the tape made him sick to his stomach.

  As the tape ran, Kelly noticed Carr looking at his watch. Finally, the tape ran out.

  "He didn't start the engine," Carr said. "The sound of footsteps ended and the car zoomed off. The car door hadn't even closed."

  "You're right," Kelly said. "He had to have had a getaway driver." Kelly wondered why he hadn't thought of that himself.

  The wall phone rang, and Carr picked it up.

  "Freddie Roth-are you sure? Okay, thanks."

  Carr hung up the phone, walked to the workbench, and picked up the counterfeit ten-dollar bill.

  "That was Delgado. A Teletype just came in. The D.C. lab says these tens are from an old Freddie Roth printing. It's the first time these particular notes have shown up in over five years."

  "Now we have a lead," said Kelly.

  FOUR

  Red Diamond sat on a barstool and sipped straight soda because it was easy on his stomach. The cocktail napkin under the soda read "The Paradise Isle-Hollywood's Friendliest Tavern," though to Red neither the five-foot-tall slimy-haired bartender nor the two puffy-eyed bookies at the other end of the bar looked particularly friendly.

  The place smelled like beer-soaked wood and wet ashes.

  A wilted cartoon drawing of a giant-headed jockey (the bartender) astride a horse covered part of the spotty bar mirror. It was next to a chalkboard with scribbled messages. "The Commander-call Jimmy J." "Gloria-call your P.O." "Flaco-call the answering service in Vegas."

  Red removed a half-dollar-size gambling chip from his pocket and tried to make it finger-walk on the back of his hand. The chip had inlaid red, white, and blue spots and bore a Sahara Club Casino camel trademark. He had discovered the chip in a satchel of
personal belongings handed to him by a guard a half hour before he was released from Terminal Island. It had been nine days ago.

  Obviously, he had overlooked the chip when he reported to the prison five years earlier to begin serving his sentence. Of course, in those days he considered a ten-spot as nothing more than toke money for the bellman, waiters, bartenders, and cocktail waitresses who had their mitts out when they saw him coming. That's the way it had been before everything went sour.

  No period in his life had been more rewarding. For a while it seemed like the suckers had literally been throwing their money at him…For once he had been accepted and protected by the big boys, and at home the Cherokee-blooded Mona had wrapped her velvety tippy-toe legs around him every night.

  The prison stretch had certainly not been the first, but it had hurt more-Red attributed this to the age factor. After all, what in the world wasn't easier at twenty-five than at fifty-plus?

  Red's sensitive colon gurgled. He restrained an urge to run for the men's room because he knew it was just nerves. Ronnie was an hour late. How long could it take to ditch a goddamn car?

  The feeling in his bowels reminded him of the time he had posed as a bank courier and convinced a bank branch manager to give him three gold bars for delivery to Canada. As he stood in the bank's churchlike vault filling out the phony paperwork, he felt like he was going to mess his pants right then and there. It had been mind over matter.

  And mind over matter was why, at fifty-four years old, after serving five years flat for extortion, he was still able to come out fighting. He had slipped back five steps, but with a little luck, combined with good planning, he would soon be back in the running.

  First he had to pay off Tony Dio, the loan shark.

  During his first years in Terminal Island he had made himself believe that by the time he got out Dio would have died or something, and he would no longer owe the twenty-five grand. When he had borrowed it, he had had no problem paying the ten percent per week. Cash flow with the phony desert-land caper had been adequate to cover the nut. Then the rug was pulled out, and silk-tie Tony came to see him in the lockup and told him not to "worry" about paying it back until he got out of prison. Red had been out for nine days and he was worried. Maybe Ronnie's ten-grand score would keep Dio off his back for a while.

  Right now, paying Dio back depended a lot on how well Ronnie performed. Ronnie had been useful in the federal pen. Anybody who's over fifty in the pen needed a bodyguard, and Ronnie had benefited by learning about something other than lowbrow, chickenshit bank jobs.

  Red looked at his watch again, and scratched his balding pate fiercely. Much of the hair on top had fallen out during the last stretch, though the sides were still red and frizzy. He ordered another straight soda.

  The bartender washed glasses. "I've seen you before," he said. His facial features were small, rodentlike, except for a set of oversized, improperly spaced teeth. He wore a long-sleeved polka-dot shirt with underarm stains.

  "Think so?"

  "Yep. You used to be with Tony Dio a few years back. I was tending bar at the Crossroads in Beverly Hills. You and him used to come in all the time. You guys were always buying rounds."

  So big fucking deal, thought Red. "Small world," he said, looking at his watch. Ronnie, where are you? he said to himself.

  The little man filled a glass with ice, poured soda, and placed it gently next to Red's half-full drink. His fingernails were dirty. "I remembered because of the soda. You always ordered straight soda. I never forget a drink…Name's Gabe." He hesitated a moment before sticking out his hand. "You probably remember me."

  They shook hands. As Red had feared, the handshake suddenly made things chummy. Gabe rested his elbows on the bar and leaned close to Red's face.

  He whispered, "I figure you must have just got out. I remember the case in the papers. Five years ago. It took the bank months to figure out what had happened. What was it? Phony bank loans to get stocks?"

  Red shook his head. "Phony stocks to get bank loans."

  "Yeah." The bartender beamed. "How did it work?"

  "Too complicated to explain." Red looked at his watch again.

  "I'm glad to see classy dudes like yourself in here. You ain't got no worries in here. I know most everybody that comes in. What goes down in here stays here. No turkeys in this crowd." He wiped his hands on the front of his pants.

  Gabe shuffled to the end of the bar and served drinks to some bookmakers who had been alternately using the phone in the men's room. He hurried back to his old buddy.

  Red cringed.

  "Tony Dio's big now. Real big," Gabe said. "He can get anything done."

  "That's what I hear," Red said.

  Ronnie Boyce walked in the door in a blast of acrid L.A. heat, and Red's entire stomach felt better immediately. He motioned to Ronnie with both hands.

  "What took so damn long? I thought you got popped or something. Jesus!"

  Ronnie sat down on a barstool. "Couldn't find a bus back. I parked it down on Central Avenue. When the cops find it, they'll figure some nigger stole it." He motioned to the bartender.

  "Very good. Very good," said Red. He removed a ball-point pen from his pocket and wrote on a cocktail napkin "Recovery operation."

  "I'm proud of you, little brother. Stage one is complete," he said. "We're ahead of the game by ten grand. I want you to keep two grand for yourself right off the top. Buy yourself some clothes or something." He spoke is earnestly as possible, not sure if even dumb-as-a-rabbit Ronnie would buy what he said.

  "I'll need the rest to start setting up the 'front.' Just like we talked about in the joint. These things take money. For a successful project we'll need a dummy office in Century City or on Wilshire Boulevard-and that takes money. You know that. Put the bucks in to get the bucks out. The suckers are out there just waiting. Right, partner?" Red put his arm around Ronnie's shoulder, waiting for a reaction. Ronnie nodded.

  Red continued, speaking briskly. "With the getaway and everything, I still haven't got the exact details. I want you to relax and tell me just what happened in the room. After a caper it always pays to check for loose ends."

  Ronnie's voice was youthful, soft. "I knocked on the door; he let me in. He was alone. Everything went pretty much just like you told me it would. He shows me the buy money, then I set my case on the bed between me and him. I whip out the sawed-off and let loose. You should have seen it. He flew back all the way across the room. And you know something? When he went down, I saw that he had an ankle gun on. If I wouldn't have done him, he might have done me, right?" Ronnie tapped his chest with his thumb.

  Red swallowed hard. "You did exactly the right thing. You just made the big time. I'm proud of you, little brother. Your old Red buddy is proud."

  Ronnie smiled broadly. "It really worked, just like you said it would."

  Red patted his arm. "And the best part is that there isn't going to be any heat from the cops. When the cops find a stiff in a motel room, the first thing they do is run fingerprints. When they do that, they see that the dude has an arrest sheet. The first thing the cops figure is that it was nothing but a thieves' argument and they close the case. That's as far as they go. See, I know how the pigs think. I used to have a lot of 'em drinking in my place in Long Beach in the old days. I used to hear 'em talk when they didn't think nobody was listening. You see, they actually like to find a dead thief. They get off on that kind of shit. And that's no lie. That's how they are. To them a dead thief is just less work."

  Ronnie nodded his head without speaking, an athlete listening to the coach after competition.

  Red continued. "I want you to take the sawed-off and stash it like I explained, and then enjoy yourself for a couple of days. Go see your old girlfriend like you been talking about. Why don't you meet me here day after tomorrow and I'll fill you in on stage two. As soon as we have enough capital, we'll be able to pull one big con and we'll be set for life, partner." The words flowed easily for Red. It was t
he same thing he had been telling Ronnie in stir for years, though Red knew that the last thing he would ever do would be to get involved in a confidence caper again. He was well known by the Feds and bunco cops from Hollywood to Fort Lauderdale. Christ, how many confidence men had red hair?

  Red was too old to get his own hands dirty and end up doing another stretch.

  FIVE

  On the way to the hotel Red Diamond drove past the glass-and-steel high-rise buildings in L.A.'s Century City: twenty-story condominium structures and plushly carpeted office suites for rent or lease. This is where I belong, thought Red. My milieu. He knew that with a few bucks he could rent an office in one of the high-rises again. He could start putting people on "hold" by pushing the lighted buttons on the phone. "Hold, please, for Mr. Diamond," the secretary had said. The high-rise world was a mystery to the pussy-headed group counselors at Terminal Island. "Inflated self-image," one had called it. "Don't you think your schemes could relate to your childhood conflicts?" the counselor had asked him.

  Red remembered how he had slowly, carefully, over the period of a full year of tedious prison-counseling sessions, faked coming around to the counselor's point of view. It had been sort of a challenge, not to mention that there was nothing else to do. The pussy-headed dollar-an-hour dumb bastard finally bought his rehabilitation act and at the end of the year gave him a progress rating high enough for parole consideration. The counselor had taken the hook and swallowed it because he was like every other sucker in the world-prone to accept his own fantasy and susceptible to flattery. Red's credo proved true again.

  Imagine, Red thought, a two-bit Department of Prisons civil servant with two semesters of psychology writing a report on the behavior of Mr. Rudolph Diamond, former president of Gold Futures Unlimited, Sun King Recreational Properties Corporation, and the International Investment Bank of Nassau, in the Bahamas, whose buxom young secretary used to blow him as he leaned back on the Danish modern sofa in his office at the Century Building.