The Big Scam

by Paul Lindsay

  Her handshake was surprisingly firm. “What squad are you coming from?” It was a question subtly designed to test whether she was an agent, but he immediately regretted it.

  She opened her credentials. “I assume this is what you’re really asking.” She smiled and suddenly he saw her confidence. Although vulnerable to the pressures of the moment, it was part of a thick vein that ran deep, ingrained by the kind of successes that came from hard work.

  He glanced at her photo and saw a different person. The issuing date was three years earlier and she looked noticeably more robust, but still unquestionably plain. “Oh no, that’s all right.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed, I’ve had to show them more than once lately.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “Come on in.”

  Instead of sitting behind his desk, he took a chair next to her. “What squad are you being transferred from?”

  “You really didn’t know I was coming.”

  “It’s been kind of crazy with the inspection and all.”

  “You don’t have to make excuses to spare my feelings. You’ll find I’m pretty impervious to criticism.”

  He smiled. “That would explain how you got here.”

  “I like that. Most supervisors wouldn’t admit that their squad was the office dumping ground.”

  “Most agents wouldn’t admit they had been dumped.”

  “If that’s your way of asking what I did to be sent here, it’s pretty clever.”

  “I’d rather hear it from you than the front office. I have a feeling your version will contain a lot less topspin.”

  “Fair enough. In a word, they think I’m crazy.”

  “Are you?”

  “Probably. A little, anyway.”

  “Then I’m afraid you’re underqualified to be around here.”

  She laughed. “I smell coffee. Can I get a cup before I burden you with your newest problem’s autobiography? I’ve only had thirteen or fourteen so far today.”

  Vanko stood up. “Sure. How do you like it?”

  Sheila stood up. “No, I’ll get it.” Vanko directed her to the coffee machine. “Can I get you some?” she asked.

  “No thanks. Ten’s pretty much my limit.”

  Holding the paper cup between both hands, she sat back down and took small scalding sips between sentences. “I was working on a violent crimes task force. Mostly NYPD, a little bit of ATF, a couple of DEA, state police, blah, blah, blah. But the work was first-rate. Mostly serial offenders, rapists, a bank stickup crew, a couple of home-invasion gangs. Then a year ago, some fucking animal up in Harlem raped and strangled a twelve-year-old girl.” Vanko was stunned, not by her expletive, but by the hatred with which she spit it out, as scorching as any man he had ever heard. “It is my opinion that he has killed other girls since then.” The last sentence was slower and more formal, as if it had been delivered too many times before as a defense.

  “I don’t think I’ve read anything about it.”

  “Clever and tactful. I’ve only been here five minutes and you’ve figured out why I was sent packing from the task force.” She waited for him to say something, then continued. “I was the only woman on the task force, and because Suzie Castillo—that’s the twelve-year-old victim—was a female, they made me lead investigator. Which makes sense. So I start working it, knowing nothing about homicide investigations. But I do know a little about serial offenders because of the cases we were working. No matter what the profilers tell you, each one is different. You have to learn as you go, not only about how to, but you’ve got to learn about the individual you’re looking for. So I start working it like a maniac, and before I know it, this thing’s got ahold of me. I’m working sixteen hours a day, sometimes straight around the clock. I don’t notice it, but everyone is starting to pull back from me. I guess they could see that it was taking me over. But I couldn’t.” She sipped her coffee.

  “And that’s why you’re here?”

  “More or less.”

  “ ‘More or less’ usually means more.”

  “Hey, I’m sure you want me to leave a little mystery, something for you and the people downtown to gossip about. Or are you trying to tell me that you’re not going to call the office to find out if what the wacko has told you is really true.”

  “The minute you leave.”

  She took another sip and looked at him. “What happened to your face?”

  Vanko felt himself flush, but he sensed that she was asking the question more to find out about him than about his face, and his reaction would reveal a lot. “People don’t usually ask that,” he said without the slightest trace of anger.

  “Look at this face. The only thing it’s ever earned me is the right to ask that question.”

  He did look. There were small indications of her dissatisfaction with its effects on the world. In unguarded moments, fatigue turned down the corners of her mouth and her eyebrows knitted themselves together sadly.

  “There’s nothing wrong with your—”

  She held up her hand. “Bup, bup, bup, I’ve only known you fifteen minutes, but you seem like an unusually honest guy. Don’t ruin it.”

  “Fair enough. Nine years ago, I was working surveillance and we had a multi-kilo deal on some Colombians. The guy I’m on gets hinky and takes off. I’m a relatively new agent, but fortunately off probation. I take off after him. He gets it up over a hundred on the expressway, and I’m on him. But, as I was about to find out, I was out of my league. Intentionally, he cuts into this woman and forces her into me. And…” He pointed at his own face. Momentarily, the life disappeared from his eyes.

  “And her?”

  In a strained voice, he said, “She died.”

  “Jesus!”

  They both lapsed into silence.

  Finally she said, “Maybe you’re right, maybe I’m not crazy enough to fit into this squad.” When he failed to smile, she asked, “So tell me about the worst day I’m going to have around here.”

  Vanko pinched the end of his nose with his thumb and index finger. “If the inspector we’ve drawn has his way, they’ll all be the worst.”

  “I’d offer to sleep with him, but that usually makes things worse.” Vanko finally laughed. “In case he asks, what am I supposed to be doing around here?”

  “Well, we do a lot of photography. Have you had any experience?”

  She stood up and moved over to the row of his immigrant photos. “Actually, I’m pretty good.” She examined each of the photographs. “Some people try to become accomplished photographers so they’ll always be asked to take the photos.” She turned back to him. “That way they never have to be in them.”

  Just before Tommy Ida returned from the library, Baldovino maneuvered Parisi into the back room. Manny took out half of the silver certificates and handed them to his boss.

  “What’s this?”

  “I told you we’d split whatever I made in Atlantic City.”

  “You didn’t go to Atlantic City. Besides, this is a gift from your father.” Parisi tried to hand them back.

  “My father was an honorable man. This gives me the chance to be what he taught me. Please.”

  Parisi could see that Manny needed to do this, to offset the problems he had brought to the crew by the only means at his disposal. To Parisi, the gesture represented more than money. For the first time he understood that loyalty had a downward arc. Not only was he responsible for protecting the don, but, just as important, for protecting the men who had sworn their allegiance to him. “You know, Manny, sometimes you knock me out.”

  Ida walked in, carrying a thin roll of papers. The others filed in without a word.

  He laid the pages on the table. “There’s quite a bit of stuff on the Internet about the Dutchman’s treasure. There’s chat rooms, maps of Phoenicia, there was even a television documentary done on it. They all say the same thing: a map does exist. Schultz, whose real name was Arthur Flegenheimer, was about to go on trial and thought he had a better-than-
even chance of doing some time. So he and Lulu Rosenkranz drove up to Phoenicia one night with this iron box. Like I said, the Dutchman was a real miser, so it was loaded with most of what he had accumulated—gold, jewels, and cash. It was supposed to total seven million.”

  “What’s that in today’s money?” Dellaporta asked impatiently.

  “There are some variables, like how much of it was gold or diamonds, which have increased at different rates, but the general figures that are thrown out are”—Ida hesitated for effect—“thirty to fifty million.” Everyone groaned. “So after they bury it, Rosenkranz, who’s not the smartest guy in the world, decides he’d better draw a map so he can find it again. But he’s got a big mouth, and eventually Dutch hears that he’s been talking about it. He tells Lulu to give the map to his next in command. And who’s third in command? Marty Krompier.” Remembering the name from Joseph Baldovino’s ledger, the room began buzzing again. “Now on”—Ida checked one of the pages—“October tenth, nineteen thirty-five, the Dutchman, Lulu, a guy they call Abba Dabba Berman, and Abe Landau are sitting in the back room of the Palace Chop House in Newark tallying up the weekly receipts. In walk two guys, one named Bug Workman, and they wind up shooting all four of them. At the same time Marty Krompier, who was Schultz’s chief enforcer for the Harlem numbers, and some of his people, are ambushed in a barbershop in Manhattan.”

  “Just like in The Godfather,” Tatorrio said. “Taking care of all the family’s enemies at once.”

  “Just like in The Godfather, but thirty years before the book was written,” Ida said.

  “There’s a book?” Dellaporta asked.

  “Now Krompier is hit bad, and his brothers Jules and Milton had to give him blood transfusions. But he still doesn’t know if he’s going to make it, so he tells Milton about the map and that he should hold on to it for Dutch. See, at the time he didn’t know Schultz had been shot.”

  “What happened to it then?” Parisi asked.

  “That’s where the story ends. There was one rumor that some unnamed gangsters got it after killing some of the Dutchman’s men. That’s the last anyone ever heard of the map.”

  “So the last thing we know for sure is that Milton Krompier had it.”

  Ida smiled as if about to pull one last rabbit out of the hat. “Did you know that you can trace your family tree on the Internet, for generations and generations?” Everyone just looked at him with a blank stare. “Yeah, the librarian showed me how to do it. Something the Mormons started.”

  “Probably so they could keep track of all their wives,” Tatorrio offered.

  “So I plugged in the name Anthony Luitu. And guess who his parents were—Ruth and Milton…”

  “Krompier,” Parisi answered. Dellaporta slapped Manny on the back.

  “That’s right.”

  Tatorrio asked, “How come Luitu had a different last name?”

  “I was wondering the same thing,” Ida said. “Turns out he was adopted by the Krompiers, but he was older, so he just kept his name.”

  “That’s great, Tommy, but we’ve only got half the map. And unfortunately, the Feds have the other half.” The mood of the room darkened instantly. For Parisi, the most surprising part of becoming a captain was the emotional volatility of his crew. They were incapable of stepping back from an obstacle and looking for a way around it, preferring to judge the situation by its ability to provide, or prevent, immediate gratification. If denied, an alternative solution was never sought, and a brief lapse into dejection ensued until that, too, required too much effort. Then it was on to the next elusive scheme. The only exception was Tommy Ida. Had it been up to anyone else to research the possibility of the treasure’s existence, the entire mini-drama would have likely been forgotten. More than ever, Parisi now understood why someone had to be in charge. For a few seconds, he watched Ida, who was carefully rereading one of the pages he had brought back from the library, making notes in the margin. “Let me take another look at the map, Manny. Gus, do you still have that jeweler’s loupe?”

  “It’s out in the car. I’ll get it.”

  Ida looked up. “Like I was saying, when Schultz and his crew got shot, they were adding up the weekly take from the numbers. After the shooting, the cops got the figures and made them public. Get this—the gross for seven weeks was recorded as $827,253 and the net was $148,369. And that was just on the numbers. So he obviously was making the kind of money that could have accumulated to $7 million.”

  Parisi had written the figures down. “Man, that’s a lot of overhead. If I turned over that low a percentage, the don would have me shot for skimming.”

  Dellaporta returned and handed the jeweler’s loupe to Parisi.

  Manny said, “See that X there, Mike, that must be where it is.”

  Parisi looked at it through the lens. It was drawn right next to the torn edge. “There’s a small line that starts on the left side of the X and disappears off the edge. It must be something to help show exactly where the box is buried.” Everyone became silent with disappointment.

  Finally Dellaporta said what everyone was thinking. “And the FBI has the other half, and they don’t have a clue.”

  “Hey, who knows, we might get lucky. Let’s go out there and give it a shot,” Manny said. “What do you say, Mike?”

  Parisi looked around at the defeated faces. “What the hell, why not? Tommy, how long to drive up there?”

  Ida closed his eyes while he calculated. “Two, two and a half hours.”

  “So, Manny, what do you think? Think this is for real?” Parisi asked.

  “You know I ain’t the smartest guy in the world, but my father was no dummy. He didn’t die of natural causes because he misread people and situations. If he bought Luitu’s story, I’d say it’s worth checking out.”

  “Then let’s ride.”

  “Now?” Dellaporta asked. “There won’t be much daylight left.”

  “We’ll stay over.”

  “Where?”

  “It’s the Catskills, right? Aren’t they famous for their hotels? The Dutchman must have had some reason for going up there other than digging a hole.”

  14

  “YOU KNOW I DON’T LIKE TO GO INTO THE OFFICE, especially with the inspectors in town. Have you forgotten the squad battle cry: ‘Way out of sight, way out of mind’?” Howard Snow asked. “Can’t you go up there by yourself?”

  “I need you to stand guard,” Jack Straker answered.

  “Stand guard…stand guard,” he said again, changing the accent to the second word, tipping his head in the opposite direction. “You know, Jack, it just doesn’t have that keep-your-job ring to it.”

  With the mock impatience of an adult trying to teach a lesson by repetition, Straker looked up at the Bureau garage ceiling. “Tell me how much money you have left until payday.”

  “I already told you.”

  “Tell me again because evidently you weren’t listening to your half of the conversation.”

  “Eighteen dollars.”

  “Eighteen dollars. Now, do you want to wait to payday to get laid, or do you want to get laid tonight?”

  Snow looked away, his left hand tracing the square of his belt buckle. “Tonight.”

  “Hey, Howard, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. We all want to get laid tonight. Did you ever hear a guy say, You know, I think I’ll wait until the fifteenth or, if not then, maybe the twenty-eighth? There’s only one answer to the question, and it’s ‘Right now, sweetheart.’ ”

  “This Megan, she’s cute?”

  “Now the serial virgin is being picky,” Straker said. “Have you ever met a Megan who wasn’t cute? And by closing time I guarantee she’ll be gorgeous. In the meantime, we have to show them we can commit, at least to dinner and drinks, and eighteen dollars won’t even get us drive-through privileges. Now have we had this conversation for the last time?”

  “Sometimes I think you’re in love with chaos.”

  “I’m in love with the possib
ility of chaos, that things could go wrong, but I don’t like it any better than you when they actually do.”

  “How in love are you with this scam?”

  “As long as I have a trusted lookout, this can’t go wrong.”

  “…said Nixon to the Watergate burglars.”

  “I hope you’re this funny with Megan.”

  As they rode the elevator up to the FBI office, Straker could see that the lure of flesh, which would have overpowered most men’s fear, still hadn’t captivated Snow. “Do you know why it is absolutely imperative that you get laid tonight?”

  “This should be interesting.”

  “I’m serious. Do you know why that inspector’s attempt to flip you is bothering you so much?” Snow looked at him with exaggerated apathy, as if there was only one chance in a million that he would find the evidence Straker was about to offer convincing. “The longer a man goes without getting laid, the more likely he is to be swallowed by his own fear. You probably don’t remember this, but when you’re freshly laid, you don’t give a good goddamn about anything. That’s because it’s the one thing that truly validates us as men. That’s why we think about it constantly. I guarantee you that by tomorrow morning you’ll be ready to go in there and kick that inspector’s nuts up into his sinus cavities.”

  “And I was worried about keeping my job.”

  The elevator doors opened. “Is your radio on?” Straker asked. Snow reached under his jacket and turned on the small radio attached to his belt and twisted the tiny receiver into his ear. Straker stepped out of the elevator and said, “I think the evidence room is this way.”

  “How did you know this stuff was even here?”

  “I know a guy on the squad that seized all of it last month.”

  “How does someone who gets paid to enforce the law come up with an idea like this?”

  “See, Howie, that question proves how badly you need some leg. Trying to divide the world into lawbreakers and law enforcers is, to me, a fairly obvious symptom of being, shall we say, seminally overloaded. You’re trying to control the world around you by neatly arranging everyone into categories. To think that by joining the FBI you’ve surrounded yourself with only good guys is more than naïve, it’s grand-theft denial. I hate to break this to you, but there is no moral backpack issued with your credentials. The only thing that separates us from them is a roll of the dice. Don’t kid yourself. The whole thing is nothing more than a game of shirts and skins.”