“Not this year, for sure,” Mark said.
“Not any year.”
“What?”
“I haven’t had a birthday party since before I can remember.”
“That’s wrong.”
“Sure is,” said Mrs. Ragone, walking up behind us. “I’m going to have to do something about that.”
“No, Mrs. Ragone, you’ve done plenty. Please.”
“You sit tight, now.”
“This means we’re getting extra dessert,” I said. “I’m glad we brought Nate along after all. Happy Birthday.” We all clinked our bottles together.
“Thanks, guys. You may also find yourself surprised at the birth year.”
“Huh?” Mark looked at his I.D., then tilted his head up toward the light, calculating in his brain. “If this is right, it makes you . . . eighteen?”
“One would think so, right? I was surprised when I saw it the first time, too. I don’t know if he did it on purpose or not, but when my dad opened up these accounts, he got the year off by one. He probably has no idea what year I was born. Par for the course, right?”
“Uh oh,” Mark said. “I don’t know if I can pass for eighteen.”
Lance piped in. “I can.”
“Lance, you could pass for thirty,” I said, “you have a beard, for Pete’s sake. Just be glad Hop’s not doing it. He barely looks old enough to be driving.”
“Hey, y’all talking about me?” The screen door popped open, and Hop stepped out. “Again? Well, I must be important, then.”
We all shouted his name, and he pulled up a chair. I was glad he came out after all. He had been laying low. I was even happier to see Mrs. Ragone trailing right behind him carrying a pound cake that had previously been designated for the Thanksgiving table. She jammed a handful of candles into it and lit them in one pass using a long wooden match from a box she pulled out of her apron.
As we sang Happy Birthday, Nate grinned like a cheetah and blew all the candles out on the first try, which just made us cheer louder.
“Did you make a wish?” Mark asked.
“I sure did,” Nate said, giving us a wink. I could tell Nate was pleased. And we were, too. Every kid should have a birthday party.
When it got down to just a few crumbs left on the plate, we turned back to business, starting with logistics. Nate had assigned us by region. I was covering the two banks in Hattiesburg, Mark had a bank in Saucier and a bank in Wiggins, and Lance had the Coast run – one bank each in Gulfport, Biloxi and Ocean Springs. I was kind of hoping I would cover the Coast, but since Lance lived up in the county, it made sense for him to be the one going to banks where we had the greatest risk of running into anyone we knew.
“There is a method to my scheduling, Matt. I think this works best.”
“I see what you’re doing, and I don’t disagree, it’s just that the Milk Wagon has been acting real squirrelly lately. I’d hate to drive an hour or so up to Hattiesburg and not be able to get back. The last thing I want to be is stuck on the side of the road with thirty thousand in cash riding shotgun.”
“That’s a good point,” Nate said. “I’ll tell you what, you take Ferris and leave the Milk Wagon here. I’m manning dispatch at home base all day, anyway.”
“Lucky,” Mark said. “What if my car breaks down?”
Nate turned to Hop. “Does your presence here tonight mean you are back in the game?”
“Depends on what you mean by ‘in the game.’ I still don’t plan on going into any banks, if that’s what you’re asking. But y’all know I can’t let you do this alone. I figured you may need some brains to pull this off. It’s not a stretch to say this isn’t exactly a Mensa meeting.”
“What?”
“Shut up, Mark.”
“You in, then?”
“Somewhat. I guess.”
Nate grinned. “Well . . .”
Mark put his arm around Hop and gave him that old shit-eating grin of his. “You feel like being a driver?”
Hop looked like he was going to be sick.
“I’ll take Hop’s silence as a ‘yes’, so problem solved.”
“Where do we go once we have the money?” Lance asked.
“That’s the next item on my list. Bring everything back here, and I’ll start putting things together for that reporter. If we get through soon enough, I may get him to come over Friday afternoon.
“What if you can’t give it to him then? That’s a lot of dough to carry around over the weekend.”
“True, but if I have to wait until Monday, I know where to keep it. I found a spot outdoors in that old potting shed out front that hasn’t seen the light of the day since before all of us were born. None of the staff is working this weekend with the holiday, so no one will touch it. Meet at my house just before noon.” Nate said. “We can go from there.”
And that was it. Everyone was on board. Seeing all of us there together made me feel like Jake and Elwood after they persuaded Blue Lou and Matt Guitar Murphy to join the band.
Probably not the best analogy, in retrospect.
They all ended up in prison.
Chapter 62
Rick Papania tried to reassure Kat that her decision to bring everyone in to discuss Doc Mayes’s son was the right move. While she appreciated his efforts, she was not totally convinced. What if she dropped the ball on this one, too? What if the press got wind she had been sitting on it all along? What if whoever remained out there got to Nate before she did? Kat didn’t think she could handle another call informing her that one of her witnesses had died. Especially one involving a minor.
Of course, Rick’s methods of persuasion were not limited to talking. He drew her a bath, and afterwards, she unleashed a week’s worth of frustration on him in the bedroom. She was glad he didn’t live in the typical cop apartment, because the neighbors certainly would have gotten an earful. When they were done, she rolled off and passed out cold – exhausted in the best way possible – and slept solid throughout the night.
She and Rick celebrated Thanksgiving lunch together, and the event was, at best, bittersweet. She was happy they were spending the holiday together, but it was the first time since her father’s death that she hadn’t done Thanksgiving with her mom. She had moved to Nashville over the summer to be near some of her girlfriends, and between Kathryn’s work meeting Wednesday night, and her gallery obligation on Friday, she just couldn’t make the sixteen-hour round trip. She missed her mom’s cornbread dressing, done-buttered biscuits and fudge pie. Not one to beat herself up too much, Kat countered her melancholy by devouring Rick’s smoked turkey breast, sweet potato casserole, and bacon-wrapped green beans – not a bad meal itself – before sprawling out on the couch to watch NFL. It wasn’t too long before the tryptophan kicked in and pulled them both into a deep slumber. When she woke up, Rick had already slipped out to go to Baton Rouge to have dinner with his mother, who also lived alone. Kathryn hoped he would ask her to go with him, but he said the timing was not yet right. He promised Kat she would meet his mom over Christmas, which was fine. What difference would a few weeks make in the big picture, anyway? He would be back by Friday lunch, and he promised he’d come that afternoon to help with any heavy lifting she might need for Marty Deen’s show.
Kat drove back to her place and curled up on the couch with a plate of leftovers and her cat, an old gray tabby named Patty that showed up on her doorstep the day after she moved in. She popped in a rented copy of Splash just as the sun disappeared below the horizon. She liked the movie a lot more than she thought she would, but she wouldn’t go so far as to say she had an enjoyable evening. She used to watch videos by herself all the time, but on this particular night, she felt the pang of not having Rick by her side. It kind of surprised her. Just a few months ago, she existed, quite contently, in her own world – work, the gallery, and the cat, pretty much.
Now she couldn’t imagine her life without him.
Chapter 63
Kathryn fully intended to wake up early Friday morning to get a head start on some of the early bird Christmas sales, but when her alarm went off at seven she bypassed the snooze and shut it off completely. A few hours later, she still wasn’t dressed, and she really didn’t care. She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat on her front porch, wrapped in a robe and a blanket, stroking Patty’s back and thinking about what she should buy Rick for Christmas. She really wanted to get him something special, but she had no idea what a man like him needed, and shopping for something so personal in the company of a thousand other people was not something that appealed to her. She went inside and pulled out the Mayes file, making some more notes in the margins in preparation for her talk with Nate. When she came up for air, it was eleven-thirty, so she called Rick to see if he was home. When he didn’t pick up, she left a message, pulled on a sweatshirt, and went on a run to work out the kink in her thigh from sitting cross-legged on the floor. When she got back in, her answering machine was blinking, so she rewound the tape and played it back.
“Hi, Ms. Cooper, this is Grant Deen – Marty’s dad. I was wondering if you could give him a ride to his meeting at the gallery today? His mother and I have to leave for a few hours this afternoon. I’m sorry this is so last minute, but Marty would be so upset if he couldn’t attend, and I’m in a pickle. We should be back no later than five-thirty or six and can pick him up then. Thanks; please call if this works.”
Kathryn called and let them know that, yes, someone would get Marty to the gallery. They told her that on any other day, they would have let him ride his bike, but they usually didn’t allow him to be on the road if at least one of them wasn’t home. She was glad to do it, but it kind of put her in a spot. She needed to get there early before everyone showed up so she could get everything arranged. She picked up the phone, dialed, and once again, the call rolled over to an answering machine. It was one of those days.
“Hey, it’s me. Can you pick up Marty Deen on your way in to the gallery this afternoon? He needs a ride. His address is 3860 Hawthorn Drive; over in Green Oaks. Thanks. See you then.”
Kat jumped into the shower, and as she was rinsing her hair, the perfect gift idea came to her. She was surprised she hadn’t thought of it before. She was so excited, she decided to brave the crowds after all, and as she left the house, she laughed to herself.
It was not the type of Christmas present she would want him opening in front of his mother.
Chapter 64
Marty had a wonderful Thanksgiving. It was his second favorite holiday, due in no small part to the fact that it meant that his most favorite holiday, Christmas, was just around the corner. He had spent the morning helping his mom get the house ready for company. He was in charge of setting the table and putting the ice in the glasses, and his Nana, who had come down to eat with them and spend the night, told him he did a splendid job. After they ate, everyone loaded up in the car – even Nana – and went to the Village Cinema to watch Rocky IV. When they got home, they popped popcorn on the stove, then drank Cokes and played spades until bedtime.
It was a perfect day. So perfect that Marty could not imagine how the day after Thanksgiving could equal it, much less be any better, but boy, was he wrong. After breakfast on Friday his parents loaded him up and took him to Wilson’s to look at toys and remote-control cars. They had a display set up, and Marty tested out a red and yellow one. Then they all had a fancy lunch at Vrazel’s right on the beach where Marty had to put his napkin in his lap and keep his elbows off the table. He ate one whole loaf of hot bread before they even brought out the food. His parents had trout and spinach soufflé. He had a cheeseburger, then a chocolate chip cookie and ice cream for dessert. The cherry on top, however, was when Marty’s daddy told him after lunch that Ms. Kathryn or one of her friends would be picking Marty up to take him to the gallery, because they had to take Nana back home early. He could barely sit still in the car. He was so excited that when they pulled up, he went straight to his apartment to pack up his supplies, even though it was still several hours before his new partner would show up.
Who would it be? Was it Ms. Kathryn? What if it was someone else? Probably was, if she was a secret agent. He packed two walkie-talkies, several pens and magic markers, as well as a Kodak disk camera in case they let him take pictures in the car. He sat down in front of his TV set and pushed in the Spy Hunter cartridge on his Atari, then looked at his calculator watch. Only two more hours. When the “Peter Gunn Theme” began to play, he scooted up closer to the TV and started driving his Aston Martin, shooting at the bad guys as he passed them. When he made it through the first level with no deaths and a personal high score, he thought to himself that the day could turn out to be the most exciting day of his life.
He couldn’t have been more on target.
Chapter 65
Nate’s plan sounded reasonable when we were talking about it back in Gulfport, but when I pulled into the parking lot of the Magnolia Federal Bank in Hattiesburg shortly after noon on Friday, my hands were sweating so badly, the steering wheel looked like it had been wiped down with Armor All. I stayed in the truck for a few more minutes, cut the radio off so I could be in total silence to concentrate, and ran Nate’s personal information in my head again. Full name, date of birth, address and social security number. Repeat. I must have done it at least eighty times on the way up.
I eventually got out, checked my wallet to make sure I had switched out my regular driver’s license for the fake, then made my way to the door. When I walked in, I felt like I was in a Stanley Kubrick movie, and things did not appear to be what they seemed.
Was everyone in the bank staring at me?
Did they know what I was up to?
What was that lady over there whispering to the other lady?
What is that kid looking at?
Is that a manager standing right behind the teller?
How many here are undercover cops?
I grabbed a checking withdrawal slip from one of the cubbies out of the big waist-high table in the middle of the lobby. My mind had not yet stopped racing, and I started to get second thoughts. To get my focus back, I did what I always did when the stress becomes too much to bear.
I slowed down. I breathed – in and out – five times.
In a matter of seconds, my perception changed, and instead of just looking at everyone, I started to see them. Yes, there were a lot of people in the bank, and there was some whispering and pointing going on, but the more I took it in, the more I realized no one had noticed me. There was a manager behind the rail, but he was leaning up against a counter, talking to one of the older ladies. Most of the office doors off to the left were closed, and the open ones were vacant.
Things were going to be okay.
I filled out the withdrawal form just as Nate had said and signed his name like a champ. The one cheat we allowed was the account number, and I had it written on a sheet in my wallet. Made sense since no dude my age would have known his own bank account number anyway.
Now I had to choose the right teller. There was one elderly lady with her hair pulled back tight. She had probably been there since back in the days when a free toaster came standard with a new savings account. Translation: she was an old-fashioned rule follower. A pass for sure.
The next prospect was a complete opposite. College student, but not at USM. Probably William Carey. Remarkable in just how odd she was. It looked like she got her fashion guidance from the clothing section in a JC Penney catalog, but altogether skipped the pages offering grooming or hygiene implements. Add to the mix side-parted oily bangs and runaway teeth, and I knew she was a pass as well. I don’t do well with bad smells from girls, and she looked to be potentially off the charts.
The next two were housewife types, one a divorcee who was looking, and one stil
l in the happy throes of a young marriage. I almost went to the more seasoned one, but they were so chatty, I was concerned the two would want to consult on the merits of my case. A teenager seeking to withdraw an amount that probably eclipsed their collective annual salaries was certainly fodder for discussion. No good either.
Then I found what I was looking for. The last lady in the line was a slightly overweight middle-aged black lady with a Tina Turner wig on. For some reason, I have always gotten along with black women, especially older ones. I’ve always been drawn to their kindness and the fact that they laugh at anything – really laugh. Most love to hug, and as a kid, I can recall being happily enveloped in many an ample bosom when I visited my mom during her shift at the hospital. She saw me and waved me over.
“Hey baby, what you got?”
“I, uh, need to make a withdrawal.”
“You got your slip all filled out I see.”
“Yes, yes I do, uh, . . . Yvette?” Her blouse was partially blocking her nametag.
“That’s me, honey. Give it over here, now.” She motioned at my hand and I slid the slip across the marble counter and watched her eyes. They flickered, but not for long. Her hands flew across the keyboard, unencumbered by her long fingernails.
“Dang, boy, you kind of young to be swinging this much gold, huh?”
“Old enough,” I said, watching her look at the account history. “My dad made some investments that turned out in my favor.”
“I would say so,” she said, “good for you.” She chuckled. “I wish I had a daddy like that.”
Oh the irony.
“Planning on buying a big gift today, huh?”
“Yes ma’am. Buying a car.”
“For real?”
“Yep. For my birthday.” She was starting to get a bit too comfortable with the situation, and I was ready to move on. “It was just a few days ago.”
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