“He’s crazy, this Jeremiah, right?” I was still having trouble digesting all of this, trying to fit all the puzzle pieces together.
“Batshit insane.”
I gallantly gave her my hand to help her up. “So without the money, the whole project goes into deep freeze.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding. This is chump change for them. Logan already took out another twelve million without Klein noticing. That’s not the problem. The issue is that this is marked money, and they know it. “Barium money,” remember? This money is dangerous because it traces back to them. It’s more important for them to get rid of it — and anyone who’s touched it. Like me.”
31.
The Dodge was nowhere to be seen. A taxi soon pulled up next to Angela.
“Why did you want to come here, of all places?” I tried once again, as she got in.
“Experience.” A smile further split her ravaged face. “Have you forgotten? I’ve been doing this for years.”
I heard her order the cabbie, “Highland Village!” A far-off, wealthy suburb. Obviously, she was planning to switch taxis there.
I got into the next cab and sank into the backseat, after wrestling the duffel bag into the trunk with the driver’s help. I had to get my Nova away from the Felicity Bar, and from Texas City in general. I had to get rid of the money too.
On second thought, I took the keys to my Nova out of my pocket and gave them to the cabbie, along with two twenties.
“Look, there’s an old Nova parked by the Chevron anchorage. Do you think you can drive it to the Highland Village Shopping Center?” It was the first name that came to mind. Parking was free there, and no alarms would be raised by an old beater sitting there until I could retrieve it.
“Westheimer and Drexel?” He squinted under thick eyebrows.
I tried to jog my memory. I thought I knew which shopping center he meant. Westheimer was another Jewish immigrant who made it big in Houston, a role model. I hoped it was a good omen, and nothing bad would happen to the driver when he returned my Nova. “Yeah, right there.”
"Sixty,” the driver countered. “I’m not sure a Nova is worth much more.”
“Deal.” I added another twenty.
Finding somewhere to park twelve million dollars was another problem entirely, and I was probably about to stumble into another trap — or maybe I could get out of it neatly this time. Someone had still had a good experience with Texas City.
I had him drop me off at 30 Canal Street and help me get the duffel out yet again. I was getting tired of the maneuver.
I entered and studied the directory of the various offices in the building, looking for the emergency contact that Giora had given me. There were subsidiaries of small oil companies, several modest shipping firms, and four law offices. Finally I found our man, Art Ginsberg. Room 431, on the fourth floor.
I rode up in the elevator to find a reception area, which was small and had seen better days. An ageless secretary was chewing gum and reading the National Enquirer with rapt attention. Not bad, a woman who took an interest in current affairs.
"May I help you?” she asked after she let me survey the room, check her desk, and the neckline of her dress. She was not promising anything.
"Ginsberg,” I said in my best Israeli accent.
"Do you have an appointment?” She knows nothing.
"No, but it’s important."
"Yes,” she confirmed. “For an Israeli, he won’t mind if I interrupt.”
She escorted me to his office. Ginsberg was in late middle age, reasonable professional attire. The man probably knew how to make money, but did not want to show off. He presumably specialized in the oil industry or shipping or both. A Jew in Houston would not have agreed to work in an office building nestled among oil refineries and fuel depots unless he was a total loser or was being adequately compensated. Ginsberg would have never stayed there if he had been the former. Such people found jobs working at some Jewish community center or temple.
"How may I help you?” He wore a tweed jacket and bowtie, and had curious, intelligent eyes.
I looked at the secretary, who kept chewing her gum aggressively, almost biting my ear.
“Lucy, if you would excuse us,” Ginsberg murmured, and Lucy left the room reluctantly.
“I need some help.” I pulled the bag toward me. Ginsberg paused, glancing at it but holding his tongue. If he knew anything and had been waiting for me, he was not going to reveal that. An ancient bookcase sagged against the wall, with volumes on it that surprised me, from The Song of Hiawatha to Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du mal to the unabridged Carmina Burana. Ginsberg had some very special tastes.
"What is your specialty?” I asked him.
"Finance,” he replied patiently. “I consult to shipping and oil concerns. I specialize in securities, tankers especially. An excellent investment. I highly recommend it.” So that’s probably the point. Ginsberg pointed to the smoke detector in his room. I assumed he was afraid of listening devices and also did not completely trust me.
I took a yellow writing pad on his desk and quickly scribbled on it: You come recommended.
"From our mutual friend?” he hurriedly wrote. He betrayed nothing, but responded efficiently and briskly. I had come to the right place.
"Porat,” I wrote.
"Knows what he’s doing,” Ginsberg wrote back to me.
"Do you like jazz?” he asked aloud. Without waiting for an answer, he pressed a button on a large tape deck, inviting Dizzy Gillespie’s trumpet into the room to serenade our conversation. He was indeed afraid of eavesdroppers.
"How much does a tanker cost?” I asked him in a low voice, and he listened patiently. He had seen my Olympia Fitness duffel bag. He knew I wasn’t on my way to the gym.
"Between six million and sixty. It’s better to lease,” he explained
"Well, I would like to buy,” I announced, and he made a sound of approval. “At six million,” I added.
“I think you’re doing the right thing,” he murmured. “How will you be paying for it?”
“Cold, hard cash.”
He sighed.
“You have it here with you.”
I nodded.
“And you’re purchasing this tanker in your name? Are you an American citizen?”
I motioned with my head, and he thawed a bit.
“Perhaps we can do something. What do you know about money laundering?”
“Not much.”
“Can you establish the source of the money, for tax purposes?”
“No.” I had to trust him. It didn’t seem to me that he would steal the money from me just like that. Nor from Giora. Everyone else who wanted to get their hands on the money would have a different kind of problem. I seemed to be on the right track.
"How much money do you have in total?” Ginsberg was blessed with strong nerves.
"Twelve million,” I replied.
"I thought so. How liquid?”
“It’s all here.”
"Cold, hard cash, as you said. Good. Can you dedicate a few hours to me over the next couple of weeks?”
In two weeks, a lot of things could happen. I told him, “You know I don’t. I have half-an-hour now, and that’s it.”
"May I see the money?”
I wheeled the bag to his desk. So far I hadn’t checked. Maybe I was lugging around — oh — forty thousand pages of old newspapers? But as I unzipped the duffel bag, Benjamin Franklin, the First American, peered at me from hundreds and hundreds of stacks of hundred-dollar bills, bound by rubber bands. I smiled at Ben, a great man: a pithy author, brilliant inventor, and admirer of the French lifestyle.
Ginsberg took a stack out to check if the serial numbers were consecutive. They didn’t seem to be; they were bills which had been in circulation. How the hell was this loot
marked? Still, I mentioned nothing about “barium money.”
Next, Ginsberg opened a booklet on his desk to check the serial numbers against a list of tainted bills. Here too, a random inspection yielded no red flags. He gently returned the stack to the bag.
"Well?” I prompted him.
He leaned back in his chair, biting his lower lip, pondering. Again, he examined me with the eyes of a lover of centuries-old poetry. His chin was sharp and severe, his brow furrowed with concern. He began to speak slowly, with great deliberation.
"You appear to have twelve million dollars. If we do business, we’ll have to count it first. You cannot identify the source of the money, but you are willing to serve as a front for it, which does not truly address the problem.” I felt a jolt of nervous energy in my joints. Had my optimism been premature?
“I have about twenty minutes left to finish with you, so that doesn’t leave us much maneuvering room.” Ginsberg fell silent. Wrinkling his delicate forehead, he stroked a lion statue on his desk. Then he placed his palm on the surface. Then he drummed his fingers on the stapler. Then he raised his digits and examined them intently, as if he had only just discovered them. I followed his dizzying movements slowly, with growing despair.
“Very well,” he broke the silence. “Out of the twelve million, I’m taking two. That levees ten million as an investment in a shipping company registered in Malaysia willing to buy a general cargo ship that will sail under an American flag.” He motioned to me with his hand to restrain me as I almost jump out of my chair. “A small general cargo ship, that is, with a light cargo of about twenty-five hundred tons, will cost us nine million. An American flag is the only solution. U.S. law gives preference to it, since there are very high ancillary expenses. We need almost half a million for the Seafarers Union and the Merchant Marine. Then I need another million for ongoing management and goodwill fees.”
"In short, a bribe,” I lamented.
"Absolutely,” he conceded. “American lawmakers agree to turn a blind eye toward the sources of funds for purchasing ships sailing under Old Glory. For patriotic reasons. There’s an old law, used in World War II, which states that the president may seize any vessel flying the American flag, for military purposes, in an emergency. The U.S. Navy today is already far too large for any purpose. The authorities make registration easier just to allow for kickback to American shipping cartels. But what do you care?”
"I just want to understand, that’s all.” I tried to forestall his explanations. “So, what does it mean that I’m the owner?”
"You’re going to invest ten million in a Malaysian company. Of course they will not see the money, but they don’t care. It only costs a hundred thousand dollars. It’s the deal of the century.” He smiled for a moment. “In return, you become the owner of a Malaysian company named after the American ship. What’s your girlfriend’s name?”
I wanted to say “Angela Weinfeld,” but that was dangerous. “Laure,” I said instead.
"A beautiful name,” he decided. “So you will own the Laure Company, which I will run. It will make you a reasonable profit, and I will charge a modest management fee. You can get a banker’s check for any amount you need now as a loan from the company, in exchange for some of the cash here, and it will become the property of the Malaysian company, in which you will become a partner upon your agreeing to and signing four forms. You will, of course, have to go to the bank with me now.”
“It’s that easy?”
“It’s that easy,” he confirmed, and then I was almost ready to kiss him again.
"Where do you live?” I asked him.
"Inverness.” This was an address which was quite popular among the Jewish community in Houston. “Do not be afraid,” he added. “You can ask about me at the Jewish Federation or the Israeli consulate.”
"Who do you know at the consulate?” I tensed.
"Dorothy Jacobs. I was a good friend of her husband. An interesting woman.”
"But he was killed almost twenty years ago.” I pretended to be surprised.
"Do not test me.” Ginsberg did not lose his composure. “The fool left her five years ago.”
The excited manager of Wells Fargo Bank conveyed the money to the depths of the safe, showering his gratitude mainly on Ginsberg. With immeasurable relief, I left the Olympia Fitness duffel with them and set off on my way to Westheimer in a red Mid-Pacific taxi.
I sank into the seat and felt satisfied. I was the owner of a ship and a Malaysian company, with a hundred thousand dollars in an account in my name at Wells Fargo, complete with a checkbook and solid legal backing.
In the meantime, everyone was making a profit — except of course, one or two people. I still had to figure that out. I also did not fully understand how Giora dealt with the national security matters he was in charge of. Apparently, he did it with a lot of business creativity.
"We’ve got a small fire on Westheimer there, in Highland Village,” the cabbie said in his heavy Spanish accent. A pillar of smoke billowed from the parking lot. On the edge of the lot, I could see what was left of my once-blue Nova, now a sooty wreck on tire rims. Two firefighters, their work done, were joking around before getting back on their rig to return to the firehouse. I asked the cabbie to find out what happened.
"A small explosion and a big fire,” explained one of the firefighters to us. “The car was empty. Maybe it was a bomb that went off early.”
Highland Village had a large and luxurious pre-owned car dealership, so as soon as the taxi dropped me off, I set my sights on a two-year-old Pontiac Trans Am, black and beautiful, upholstered in burgundy. Double exhaust, zero to one hundred twenty-five miles per hour in forty seconds. I left the happy salesman a check for twenty thousand dollars and departed with a pleasant double-exhaust roar. At least from here to Houston, no one would recognize my vehicle.
32.
I was enjoying the drive back, but as I entered Houston, I remembered that Larry Klein was hosting his annual reception for the community tonight. I intended to build on this reception, which attracted the who’s who of Houston — and not just the Jews. Maybe even the governor!
Personally, I was interested in the older Jews, who might be looking for rising talent. Under normal circumstances, I would go to the hair salon beforehand and work on my presentation. Among us Texans, you are worth exactly as much as what you wear and how you look. Up to your first billion, then you can dress however you want.
The adrenaline in my blood refused to subside, and I was glad for that; after it did, I’d have an awful night of sleep. I had been in a crazy race for ten hours, and the day was not over yet.
On the nicer edge of downtown, on Lombard Street, I still had enough time to walk into a preposterous tuxedo-rental shop. I passed up the shiny cummerbund, pearl cufflinks, and a few other accoutrements, despite the salesman’s insistence that I could not do without them. Tonight was supposed to be a real celebration. I wondered what Logan might have to say now. If I was lucky, Mr. Moses might show up equipped with artillery. I thought it might be the last reception Klein was likely to invite me to.
The reception was to be held at the penthouse suite of Klein Aerospace at First Interstate Bank Plaza. It was good to go back to the pink granite, black marble, and dark glass at the corner of Louisiana and Lamar Streets. In the center of the white marble floor, the emblem of the First Interstate Bank Plaza was engraved in black and red gold. The air conditioning was excellent, perfectly sealing us off from the murderous humidity on the street.
The elevators were luxuriously upholstered and carpeted, and the music they featured was refined and contemporary jazz. Klein held the reception as president of the Houston Jewish Federation, an umbrella organization of fifteen Jewish organizations, including the Jewish Community Center, the Home for the Elderly, and the Center for Child and Family Care. The fundraiser raises close to forty million dollars every y
ear. A third of that went to the State of Israel, pride and joy of the community; the rest was for local needs. Klein was the biggest donor, and thanks to that he also served as president, which imposed additional responsibilities on him.
I passed the reception desk at the entrance to the penthouse. The beautiful black secretaries greeted the visitors, asking them for their names and marking them off on the guest list. In the tuxedo, I felt like a penguin, the bowtie threatening to strangle me.
"Mr. Markovsky,” said Amparo, Klein’s secretary, whose relationship with Almog was growing more and more intimate. She flashed me a sweet smile, not quite professional.
"So how is Paul?” I asked about her son, the focus of her life.
"He’s doing great,” she politely acknowledged, motioning to the next guest. Almog had lately been telling us about Paul’s flashes of genius, as if he were at least his adopted son.
Klein stood in the doorway. He was slumping a bit, but his face was radiant. He seemed to be having a lot of fun. I shook his hand warmly. He was beautifully tanned and carried an impressive mane of white hair, no matter how much it was the work of quartz lamps and a dedicated team of beauticians and stylists. He looked like a million bucks and was worth seven billion, according to Forbes. He carried his seventy years impressively and elegantly. Beside him was Almog, trying to joke with the other invitees in his English, which was still grating.
The bartender made an excellent lavender martini for me as Noni approached me with measured steps, Shoshi hanging on his arm. In that hand he firmly gripped a glass of soda, while with his other hand he tossed peanuts into his mouth, looking for someone to talk to in vain.
"So you were invited too,” he observed, trying to look down his nose at me. The tuxedo was two sizes too large, and his head looked like a turtle’s in the collar.
"You took the words out of my mouth,” I said, and Shoshi grimaced with her sour face.
"God! You look stunning!” The elderly Sarah Cohan, in a black evening gown exposing her back almost to the cleft of her buttocks, fell into my arms.
The Consulate Conspiracy Page 17