by Steve Levi
Chapter 8
For John Swensen, every day was a blessing. He almost had it all. True, he did not have a wife, but then, again, he did not have the problems a wife could bring. But he did have family.
He and his sister had been foster children, courtesy of a drunk driver back in the days when drunk drivers were grist for stand-up comics. They had been adopted by the same couple, so, at the very least, they had grown up together. She was sterile, so she and her husband had adopted a foster child, kind of a payback thank-you to the system that had saved her life.
Swensen himself had done well over the years. He had started out as a guard at the armored-car company he now owned. The company had doubled in size since then but was not in the league of the bigger companies in Virginia Beach, Richmond, or Wilmington. But he had a stable client base, mostly in the tourist-infested coastline and inland as deep as Vanceboro and Plymouth with a few irregular deliveries as far inland as Goldsboro and Tarboro. While he was not making much in net, he had a substantial nest egg in real estate. He owned the company, its warehouse, vault, and garage free and clear. He was wealthy in land and building, not cash. He didn’t make much, but he didn’t need much.
The one dark cloud in his existence was a prostate tumor. It was sleeping now, courtesy of a regime of chemo, and he was recovering his strength and stamina. He knew each day was a blessing and treated every day that way.
He had scheduled a meeting with his sister’s adopted foster child for Monday morning. Then the armored car went missing on Sunday, and it had wiped his calendar clean. Now his day was clogged with troopers, insurance agents, and two distraught wives who wanted to know why their husbands had not come home from what was basically a cakewalk day in the armored-car business. Really, Sunday’s run had been to collect money, not deliver it. And the armored had not collected a dime. So why was the armored missing?
Right after the troopers and insurance agent left his office, his foster nephew, John, came in with Ramon Delgado. They had been the two security bikers for the missing armored car, but it was not the reason Swensen had called them into his office.
“Come on in and shut the door,” John Swensen said to the two men.
Ramon shut the door, and the two men sat down across the desk from John.
“Things are crazy around here today,” John said, looking at the two. “But what I have to tell you might not be able to wait.”
The two young men looked at each other and then back at John.
“I’m not going to pull any punches,” John said. “It’s not my style. You two know it. The two of you are gay, or whatever it’s called these days, and I could care less. What I do care about is this company.” He drummed his fingers on his desk. “I’ve just been through a regime of chemotherapy for prostate cancer and so far,” he knocked on the desk, “it’s in remission. As soon as this missing armored-car matter is finished, I’m going to be stepping back from managing the business. My sister, your mother,” John said, indicating the young Swensen, “is going to be taking over ownership of the business. What that means is you,” again he pointed to the young Swensen, “are going to be expected to expand your responsibilities here. I’m putting your name on the vault log-in, John. It’s more responsibility, but I’m sure you can handle it.”
Then John looked directly at Delgado. “You are as close to family as John is.” John tilted his head at the young Swensen. “Depending on how the law will change regarding gays, the two of you may very well end up owning this business.” John raised his hands and eyes and half-turned.
The young Swensen and Delgado started to say something, but John waved them off.
“There are going to be a lot of changes with this business. The delivery of money was not what it used to be. There is still going to be the need for some kind of an armored-car service but not like it was in the old days. But that’s not going to be my problem. It will eventually be your problem.” He pointed at them with both index fingers. “It’s time for your generation to take an increasing responsibility here.”
The two young men sat in stunned silence.
“I didn’t know you had cancer,” the young Swensen finally said.
“I don’t,” replied John. “Not anymore. But the beast is still alive inside. It’s just slumbering. I’m going to be taking time off, immediately. That means the two of you are going to be moving up the corporate ladder here quickly. I’ve seen the two of you work. I’m not worried about the company. But I worry the details are going to overwhelm your mother.” He pointed at the young Swensen.
There was embarrassed silence for a moment. Then John said, “That’s all I have to say. Now I get to spend the rest of the day dealing with the troopers and insurance agents. The two of you had better be thinking about your future in a whole new manner. Now, I’ve had my say. Go out and plan your future; I’m working on mine.”
The two young men rose to leave, but John waved them back into their chairs.
Smiling, he said, “You might as well start your corporate adventure with a mystery as well as a trial of fire.” He picked up his phone and said, “Send Richiamo in.”
Chapter 9
Lenny Rusnak was sitting in his lawyer’s office with a spread of documents over the Oakwood desk.
“George.” Rusnak was scratching his head. “I’m not a push-the-envelope kind of guy when it comes to the law.”
“You should have thought about that before you got into the marijuana business,” his lawyer told him with a sardonic smile. “It’s one of those legal-illegal kinds of businesses.” George looked like a lawyer. He talked like a lawyer. As far as Rusnak was concerned, everything was all good. He was being up and up. Rusnak did not need trouble with anyone. Particularly not the IRS. Even though he was selling a federally illegal but state-legal product, he did not dodge the tax man. Look what it got Al Capone.
“It’s a legal-illegal business now,” said Rusnak. “It won’t be in five years. I look at myself as more of a frontiersman.”
“Frontiersmen get killed by Indians.”
“What a pleasant thought.” Rusnak extended his hand over the paperwork spread on the lawyer’s desk. “What do you think?”
“Honestly, it’s workable.” George gave a sniffle.
“Is it legal?”
“Yes. But you must understand this is what we legal beagles call an ‘arm’s length transaction.’ In dollars-and-cents terms, you cannot put the money you make in a bank.”
“The money I make legally by selling marijuana—we, actually. I do have partners.”
“Yes. The money you and your partners make legally by selling marijuana is only legal in your stores. In the states where marijuana can legally be sold. If you try to put it in a bank, any bank in any city in any state of the United States—or territory, let me quickly add—it is illegal money.”
“That’s crazy.”
“No, that’s the law. Money from marijuana is drug money. The banks can’t take drug money, and they cannot let you use banking instruments like checks, debit cards, or credit cards to buy marijuana.”
“I know that. What I want to know is if this,” he pointed to the legal documents on the desk, “is legal.”
“I’ll tell you the same thing I told you when you brought me these documents six months ago. This,” he waved his hand over the desktop, “is legal. The paperwork is fine. Your money is fine. But the problem is finding a way to fund this investment with marijuana money. If you show up and just give these people cash, any bank they use is going to seize the money, the cash. Then you won’t have the money, and you won’t have the asset.”
“So what you are saying is, we have to come up with a legal check for ten million dollars, which a bank will accept.”
“Correct. And remember,” the lawyer cut Lenny off, “don’t buy off on this Bahamian bank noise. If you put the money in a Bahamian bank and then use a check from the Bahamian bank to pay for this asset,” he waved his hand over the documents again, “it
’s called laundering. What you have to do is come up with a legal financial instrument you got with an arm’s length transaction in the United States from an American bank.”
“How do I go about doing that?”
“Don’t ask me! I’m a lawyer, not a magician.”
Chapter 10
Joseph Richiamo was his usual cheery self when he met with President Swensen in the office of the Swensen Armored Car Company. John Swensen waved him into an open chair and introduced him to young Swensen and Delgado.
John Swensen and Richiamo were a mutual admiration society with the two of them welded at the hip. For Swensen, his benefit was a substantial sum per month for the transportation, no questions asked, of a briefcase-size delivery of a pass-through item from somewhere in Colorado to a lawyer’s office in Ocracoke. About once every three weeks, the Swensen Armored Car Company would pick up said package from another armored-car company loading facility in Tarboro and deliver it to the Sandersonville armored-car facility where, the next morning or soon thereafter, it would be transshipped to a law office in Ocracoke. It was always a transshipment. All President Swensen knew was his company was being paid very well to make sure the shipment passed through his territory with all due haste and no delay. Every few months a similar package would come from the other direction, and, in reverse, the Swensen Armored Car Company would transport it north and connect with another armored-car company that would take the cargo to a destination unknown, probably back to Colorado where the chain of deliveries began.
Richiamo also stored cash with the armored-car company under unusual terms and not similar to other banks and business. He used the armored-car facility as a holding vault but kept his cash separate from other Swensen clients. But it was the briefcase-sized shipments that made Swensen the money. Richiamo’s cash-storage charges did not even cover the pro-rata electric bill of the Swensen Armored Car Company.
There was no reason for President Swensen to know what was in the Richiamo briefcases. He was not paid to care. The Richiamo deliveries were like other deliveries. Swensen’s simply operated as a high-priced trucking operation. It did not own the shipments it carried. It did not open the shipments it carried. His armored cars just delivered property from one location to another in a steel vehicle watched over by men with weapons. Everything in the trucks was insured, so there was no risk of loss.
Everything, that is, except those regular shipments of a briefcase-sized delivery of a pass-through item. This cargo was insured for a dollar. The single-dollar figure was necessary because federal licensing law required all shipments be insured. The one-dollar figure kept the ICC happy and the Swensen Armored Car Company in compliance with the law.
Richiamo was basically a paper shipper. His company dealt in paper that had no intrinsic value. A land title, for instance, was just a sheet of paper asserting someone owned property. The actual title with all its signatures and stamps was necessary to complete a transaction. He was a paper mill. He moved paper to be signed and sealed. Then the actual documents would end up in some lawyer’s office. Copies were fine but not definitive. Richiamo had the Swensen Armored Car Company transport originals, not copies.
Richiamo’s arrival was not unexpected. But how the news of the missing armored car could have reached him so quickly was unknown.
“Joe,” Swensen greeted Richiamo casually, “I see bad news travels fast.”
Richiamo smiled pleasantly at John Swensen and then at the two young men in the office. “Well, you know how little birds are.”
“You got here at the right time,” Swensen said and introduced Richiamo to the two young men sitting in the president’s office. “These are two of the men who were guarding the armored car when it went missing.”
“Missing?” Richiamo was sarcastic. “Missing?”
“There is no evidence anything has been stolen,” snapped Delgado. “Misplaced, yes. There is no evidence a crime has taken place.”
“And who the blazes are you?” snapped Richiamo to the young man, a touch of irony in his voice.
Delgado gave as good as he got. “I am one of the men who was guarding the misplaced armored car. I and my partner,” he indicated the second young man in the room, “were guarding the exit to the Pamlico Tunnel, the Pamlico City side. The armored car did not come out of the tunnel. We searched every vehicle leaving the tunnel”—he paused just long enough to cut off a snide statement everyone knew was coming out of Richiamo’s mouth—“and we had the backing of the troopers and some local police. Every single vehicle that came out of the tunnel was searched and cleared by the police.”
Richiamo softened a bit. “Well, then what happened to the armored car?”
“We don’t know,” the young Swensen cut in. “We,” he indicated himself, Delgado, and his uncle, “were just talking about it.”
President Swensen cut in. “Joe, this is a nephew of mine, John. He’s learning the business from the bottom up. He was one of escorts of the missing, and I mean missing, not stolen, armored car. And this is Ramon Delgado. He was another of the escorts. These two were on the exit side of the tunnel.” President Swensen shook his head sadly. “Everything they say has been backed up by the troopers.” Swensen picked up a sheet of paper on his desk and handed it to Richiamo.
As Richiamo was reading the trooper’s report, he said, “Well, whatever did happen, it was quite a hiccup in your delivery schedule.”
“Correct. But this hiccup, as you call it, will not affect your shipment or your deposits, if that’s what you are worried about.”
“Worried?” Richiamo gave a perfect impression of Alfred E. Newman. He pointed at his face with the index finger of his right hand. “What, me worry? Concerned? Not really. Just cautious.” Then he looked pointedly at the two young men.
“Cautious is our way of doing business,” President Swensen assured him. “As to your most recent delivery, it is still in the lock-up here.”
Swensen had no opinion when it came to anyone’s shipments. Richiamo’s were unusual, but then, again, the Swensen Armored Car Company took a lot of deliveries. Some were as small as a pack of cards, others the size of a steamer trunk. He never looked inside any of those deliveries. If a customer wanted a bank bag of valuables picked up at Point A on Monday and delivered to Point B on Thursday, the Swensen Armored Car Company obliged. No one looked inside any of the deliveries. No one could, either legally or physically. In most cases the keys and/or codes unlocking the deliveries were not in the possession of the Swensen Armored Car Company. There was no reason for the keys and/or codes to be in the possession of Swensen. Like a trucking company, the Swensen Armored Car Company just delivered goods; they did not own the goods they carried.
If Richiamo was a wise guy, as Swensen had mused when they first met, he was the strangest mafioso he had ever seen—in real life or on film. He looked more prey than predator. He stood all of five feet two and could have made a living as a Wally Cox impersonator. He never gave the impression of being well-rested and appeared as nothing more than a haggard, low-level accountant in some giant bank rather than, well, whatever it was he did from nine to five. And whatever that was, it did not involve being in the sunshine. While Colorado was famous for its outdoor activity, Richiamo had the pallor of the Pillsbury Doughboy.
John Swensen towered over Richiamo. Swensen had played basketball at the University of Nebraska, and even though it had been decades earlier, he had kept his athlete’s physique with weights, group power, step aerobics, and watching his diet. Richiamo had a paunch, while Swensen had a dad-bod—in spite of the fact he had no family. John had a full head of hair; Richiamo not so much and was losing what was left.
Richiamo broke the momentary silence by asking to see the package.
“Seeing the package will not be a problem, Joe. John and Ramon can show you the package,” he paused briefly, “but just to show it is still in the warehouse. Opening it will be a problem. Legally we, that is, the Swensen Armored Car Company, do not own an
y shipments, only the transportation of the shipments. We pick up and deliver shipments on contracts. We do not open them for any reason here in the shop.”
“But I am the shipper,” insisted Richiamo.
“True,” responded Swensen. “I know that. You know that. But the paperwork lists RMD, LLC as the shipper. I can only legally allow a bona fide representative of RMD, LLC to take possession of the package early.”
“But I am the R in RMD, LLC.”
“I know that. You know that. But the ICC does not. And the insurance companies do not. To let you open the shipment, I need some paperwork from RMD, LLC. Legally, I cannot even tell you if the package is here. Even though it’s yours, and I know it, and you know it. All I can legally do is assure you the package is in the holding facility. Besides, what difference does it make? Your shipment is going out tomorrow, and within a matter of hours you will know if the shipment is moving.”
Richiamo smiled. “My concern is more than just this one shipment. I mean, if you can lose an armored car today, what about tomorrow?” The young Swensen and Delgado stood up suddenly, but President Swensen waved them back into their chairs.
“We haven’t lost an armored car, Joe. It’s been misplaced. I find it hard to believe an armored car—and particularly an empty one—can simply just up and disappear.”
Richiamo smiled weakly. “Things do happen, and there is quite a lot riding on my shipments.”
Swensen shook his head. “Joe, I can show you the shipment, but you cannot open it. By the time you got the legal paperwork to get it open here, it would already be in Ocracoke. Do you want me to hold the package here until you get the paperwork?”
Richiamo thought about it for a long moment. “No. I don’t think so. I’ll just wait for it to move on down the line.”
Swensen gave a chamber-of-commerce smile. “Anything to accommodate.”
Richiamo took a deep breath. Then he asked, “Chemo doing you justice?”