Downward Dog in Miami

by Larry David Allman

* * *

  After about ten minutes, the door opened, and Gonzalez returned to his seat behind his desk. He was carrying a different paper, which he handed to me. It may have been one of the briefest banking documents ever: it showed the date, the Cayman account number, the figure $13,000,000, and the account and routing information for the Jersey account. I studied it for two minutes, for a reason. That reason chimed on my cell phone. I looked at the screen: Michael O’Callahan, It’s done. Modern technology in action. I would be getting another one soon from my friend Aho. No need to wait.

  “Thank you. What about the cash?” I asked.

  “It will be here in a minute. Do you need a bag or something?” he politely asked.

  “I brought this.” I lifted up the second briefcase.

  “There will be packs of ten thousand dollars in hundreds. I assume that will work.”

  “Yes, that’s fine,” I said as if he was asking about the weather.

  Just then, the door opened, and the heavy woman who had led me to Gonzalez entered, carrying a cardboard box, something that might have held books. It was filled with bundles of cash. She handed it to Gonzalez, then quickly left. I got the feeling that this was not the kind of business that she wanted to be a part of.

  He handed me the box. I re-located the bundles of cash into my second briefcase, counting nineteen of them, and shut it tightly. I placed my cell phone in the breast pocket of my jacket so that my associates could hear if there was a problem. I stood up; he stood up. I reached for the twentieth packet, ten thousand dollars, and handed it to Gonzalez, making sure the whole transaction got recorded in HD-quality video and audio.

  “Thank you,” I said. He took the cash. “We appreciate good work. Don’t worry, I’ll give a good report on you to Santo,” I added, trying to grease my exit with something positive—cash and words.

  He placed the cash in his top right drawer and closed it, all on record. He led me to the door, opened it, and gestured for me to leave—no handshake offered. I walked out with my two briefcases. He said, “Good luck,” as I passed him, and closed the door quickly behind me.

  He had just lost over thirteen million dollars of Siroco’s and the bank’s money. It would not be pleasant for him.

  * * *

  As soon as the door closed in his office, Horatio Gonzalez reached for his cell phone and tapped on the directory. A cell phone rang in Miami, four rings, then went to voicemail.

  “Damn!” Ray said to himself. He glanced at his watch; it was two-thirty. He opened his top desk drawer and secured a piece of paper which was sitting just under the packet of hundred-dollar bills. He ran his finger from the top of the list, found Siroco International Investments Corporation, and punched in that number. The call was answered on the third ring.

  “Siroco,” a woman answered, but it was difficult to hear her over shouting and voices in the background.

  “Mr. Lavorosky, please. Ray Gonzalez calling.”

  It was weird for a business, he thought, but this only served to build the fear that was starting to grip him around the chest.

  “Not available,” she said over more noises in the background.

  “It’s important. Tell him it’s Mr. Gonzalez in Cayman,” he said more forcefully.

  “Not available. Call back later,” she said and hung up.

  What was this? He knew something was wrong, especially with Chapman—something was not right about that guy. He ran his finger down the list of numbers on the page, found another one, and tapped it nervously into his cell. It was answered on the first ring.

  “Santo,” he heard.

  “Mr. Garcia, Ray Gonzalez,” he said and paused to catch his breath. “Did you send a guy named Daryl Chapman today?”

  “Who’s Chapman?” he said.

  Ray knew it then: he was a dead man.

  “Tall, thin, beard, white guy,” he said.

  “I didn’t send anybody down there. What happened?” Santo was calm.

  “You sent me a text to meet with this guy and do what he asked,” Ray said, his pulse rising.

  “I never sent you a text. What happened?”

  “I wired the money… He had your power of attorney… I spoke to you about it.”

  “I never spoke to you. I was out on a boat… I just got back.” He paused while what had happened sunk in. “How… much… money?”

  “Thirteen mil from the small account.”

  “What the fuck?!”

  While Santo raged, Gonzalez picked up his office line and dialed his wife. “Get the box and take the kids to your mother’s. Do it now; I can’t explain,” he ordered her.

  Then he dialed 9-1-1.

  * * *

  I walked purposefully through the bank without glancing to either side, made it to the doors, opened them, and exited Cayman National Bank and Trust. I spotted the black Mercedes parked across the street, where heavy traffic was moving in both directions.

  “I’m out. I see the car… I’m coming to you. Lenny… James?” I said into my cell while trying to secure the two briefcases as I walked at not quite a run.

  “Come. I see you,” Lenny said. He opened the back door facing me.

  “All good here,” James said, “Wait! It’s Gonzalez. He’s on his phone again. It’s a Florida number.”

  Shit! I knew what that meant.

  * * *

  I waited for a break in the traffic; each passing car raised my heart rate. I finally made it to the car, got in, and closed the door.

  “Back to the plane,” I said to Ryan.

  He put the car in Drive, and we lurched forward, only to abruptly stop after fifty yards at a stop sign at the first street. It was just a normal tourist day in Heroes Square… except we saw a single police officer running toward the bank with a comm unit at his ear. Ryan jammed the car forward but quickly ran up on three cars in front, waiting for the next red light.

  “Sounded good in there,” Lenny said.

  “We need to get off the island,” I responded, not sure about how good it had been in the meeting, except that the money had been wired and I had walked out with cash.

  “Definitely. Let’s get out of here,” Lenny said as he pulled the handgun from his holster and placed it on the seat between us.

  “Gentlemen,” Ryan said from the front with eyes on us in the mirror. “Will there be trouble?” he asked calmly with his British accent.

  “Maybe,” I said. “We may have some police.” I tapped my cell directory. “Captain, we’re coming now. Have the plane ready for immediate wheels-up,” I barked more than said.

  He replied “Copy” and clicked off—no need for discussion. But there had been some voices in his background. Who else was there?

  “I have a scanner,” Ryan said. “A police scanner.” He flipped it on… and right away we knew there was trouble. “All units… All units,” a policewoman said, her voice crackling over the transmission. “Robbery at Cayman Bank, Heroes Square branch!” There was plenty of static, but the message was getting through. I should have foreseen this and had James cripple it beforehand. This could be a fatal mistake. The smallest details!

  “McTavish in the square, at the bank in one minute,” we heard, probably from the police officer we had seen running toward the bank.

  Ryan finally got beyond the red light and powered through slower traffic toward the ocean road and the airport. More static: “All units, robbers believed to be headed to airport. All available units, head to airport! Bolo Black Mercedes!” It sounded more like a movie… but we were the intended targets.

  This was not my thing. We were now being pursued by island police—and they knew what kind of car we were in. Lenny’s face reflected mild concern. I was probably sweating bullets… and something else even more unpleasant. I looked at Ryan. “Are you okay with this?”

  “You hired
me, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’m fine. Gentlemen… I’ve seen real action,” he said, his tone implying a tsk-tsk. “I have an idea of what you’re doing here if you’re meeting with Gonzalez. Just take care of your cases back there. I’ll get you through this.”

  Ryan’s unexpected confidence made me feel a little better. There was no visible pubic panic or police physically around us as we got to the ocean road, maybe eight or nine minutes from the airport. I opened my second briefcase, pulled out two packs, and placed them on the seat next to me. Lenny saw the money and nodded.

  More static on the scanner, something about police at the airport. It sounded like one unit of two guys at this point. I thought about calling Major Donden, the immigration guy, and asking him to meet us for lunch at the beach—better if he and his partner were somewhere else, anywhere but the airport.

  We heard, on the scanner, a second unit arrive at the airport; the two units were trying to coordinate. Fortunately, they weren’t very good at their jobs. We heard them trying to meet up in the main concourse. They were parking and walking in through the main entrance like we were going to escape on a leisurely commercial flight off the island. Air Felony, all aboard!

  Ryan drove onto airport property. We could see two police cars parked in front of the main building. Nothing else appeared to be troubling. Ryan turned off the entrance road before he got to the passenger drop-off zone and headed toward the air charter service hangars on the other side of the runway. When we got to the midpoint of the runway, we could see problems waiting for us over at Air Charter, about three hundred yards distant: two more police cars. Ryan pulled off the road and parked the Mercedes behind several Dumpsters.

  He turned and faced us. “There’s a way for you gentlemen to get out of here, but you’re going to need help.”

  “What kind of help?” I asked. And where were we going to get it?

  “Your pilot is going to have to do something they’re not supposed to do.”

  “What’s that?” Lenny asked.

  “He’s going to have to pick you up at the end of the runway. I can drop you off about fifty yards out. You’ll have to run. It can be done. I’ve done it before.”

  “You sure?” I asked.

  “No, I’m not sure,” he replied, fortunately not dismissing me as a complete idiot. “But I’ve done it before… and it worked before. Whatever you did in that bank, I don’t want to know. But you asked for me, so this is my mission today.”

  “Having no other real option” would have been an understatement.

  “Here,” I said, handing Ryan the two money packs. “What do we need to do?”

  “That’s a good start,” he said with the cash in his hand. “Call your pilot back, then give me the phone.”

  I tapped in Captain Eddie. “We’ve got a little problem today,” I said.

  “Yes, I can see that. There’s a lot of chaos around us here in the hangar. Is that you?”

  “Not sure, but here’s our driver. Do whatever he says!” I ordered just like I was in charge.

  Ryan took the phone. He must have been senior management in the SAS, because he took charge like a general—or whatever they called the bosses in that service. “Pilot, leave the hangar, now! Taxi on Outbound One to the turn-around area at the west end of the airport. Forget about the tower. Turn around, spool up, open your door, throw down your stairs, and your passengers will board. Close up, scoot down the runway and take off, as they say, with all deliberate speed. You clear, pilot?”

  I heard the pilot: “What about incoming?”

  “I’ll handle it. I won’t release the passengers unless it’s clear. Copy?”

  “Copy,” the pilot replied, then attempted some humor. “I’ll need your number for when they revoke our licenses.” How could these guys joke at a time like this?

  “Not gonna happen,” Ryan said to the pilot. “Now move out; I’m coming behind you,” Ryan said and handed me back the phone with the pilot still connected.

  “Get your stuff ready,” Ryan said to us, holding up the two packs of money. “This is it?” he added, like it was not enough.

  I looked over to Lenny, not sure.

  “Just joking, mates. That’ll do… quite nicely,” he said as he put the cash in his inside coat pocket, jammed the car into Drive, and pulled away from the Dumpsters and back onto the road.

  We moved swiftly on the road parallel to the runway. I admit I was a little frightened about what was happening around us. This was not my thing, cops and guns and the distinct possibility of getting shot by foreign police officers. Lenny reholstered his gun, which I took as a good sign, and grabbed the handle of his suitcase. I grabbed my two briefcases, sat back, and watched Ryan maneuver the car like a Formula One driver. He was even more calm than Lenny.

  We saw the G550 taxiing away from Air Charter.

  “Okay, we’re moving,” the pilot said over the open cell.

  “We’re moving too,” Ryan yelled from the front.

  “One minute out,” the pilot said.

  One minute to showtime. My stomach was somewhere up around my throat. Lenny looked over to me, saw my condition, and said, “Piece of cake, brother.” Then he rapped me in the stomach with his large hand, totally unexpectedly. I exhaled what little air I had in me, but it brought me back to reality from the disturbing mental images coagulating in my head.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Okay, get ready,” Ryan said from the front.

  The car was moving fast. We came to some board fencing, about six feet high, something to protect the airport security. We could not see anything on the runway.

  “Where are you, pilot?” Ryan yelled.

  “Just turning. Come on; they’re coming from the hangar,” he said, sounding not quite as confident as he had before.

  Ryan jammed the breaks and swerved off the road toward the fence. I almost flew into the front seat. He drove up to some missing sections in the fence, about four of them, enough space for anybody to walk through, even someone as large as Lenny. Ryan braked the car to a dead stop. “Right there, guys. Scoot through there; you’ve got about fifty yards. Go get your plane! Pilot, nothing on the horizon; you’re clear,” he said.

  “Copy,” the pilot responded.

  Ryan opened his door, jumped out, and opened my door for me.

  “Go!” he yelled right in my face in full military command.

  We could hear the plane’s engines roaring behind the wall. I wanted to thank him some more, but my life was more important to me in that moment. I was in survival mode.

  Lenny and I ran at full speed to the missing section of the fence and easily slipped through. We could see the plane waiting, its steps down. We could also see a police car off in the distance, moving toward us.

  Lenny demonstrated his NFL training and ran faster than me, got there first, and ran up and into the plane. I did the same, fortunately not tripping.

  The plane bolted forward as I bumped into Lenore. She recovered like a pro, pushed me toward the seats in the back, and pulled with all of her strength to get the steps up. The police car was maybe a hundred yards off to the side. Would they try to ram the plane?

  The pilot jammed the throttles full forward; the plane shot forward and was already beyond the police car by the time Lenore muscled the door closed and locked it.

  The thrust of the powerful engines threw Lenny and me back against the seats into which we had just collapsed. The plane was off the ground almost as soon as we sat upright, and it climbed at what must have been an unsafe angle, more like that of a rocket ship. I had never experienced a plane take off like this. I flashed on whether Cayman Island had an Air Force on standby to send after us as I looked out the window at the fast-receding land. Man, this was dicey.

  Lenore yelled back to us above the engine noise
, “Put your seat belts on! You want to get us a safety violation?”

  This was funny to them? My heart was pounding, and I could hardly breathe.

  * * *

  I expected to have a peaceful flight back from Cayman, energized by the victorious recovery of money from Siroco. That was not to be.

  After about ten minutes of closed eyes, breathing, and meditative energy to wash away the stress and tension I had built up, I opened my eyes. Lenny was busy on his cell phone. He saw me re-enter consciousness and immediately called for Lenore. When she came in, he asked her to start lunch service. She handed him a menu, and, after about three seconds of review, he told her he would have one of everything. He was serious.

  She looked at me, I shook my head no, and she departed to the galley at the back of the plane to prepare lunch.

  “You okay?” he asked as soon as she closed the door.

  “Yeah, I’m good now,” I said, and I was. “We need to cut up the money and then get updates from everybody.”

  “What do you have in mind?” he said. Lenny was never a problem about money—or anything else. We had a deep friendship, and his skillset and talents were critical to my success, including today.

  I checked my sat phone and found exactly what I wanted to see. First, a text from Aho: Package in and out. Thanks, dear Brother Derek. Please come and visit us. Then, basically the same thing from Franz in Zurich: Package received, awaiting instructions. Excellence in action in both cases. I showed them to Lenny.

  “I want to get this done next,” I said as he handed me back the phone. “Move the money as far away as possible, as quickly as possible.”

  He nodded; that was enough. I proposed that we cut up the money: three million dollars back to Sabra, three million for each of us, and three hundred thousand for James and for Linda. From our net recovery of twelve-point-six mil, that would leave three mil to cover the rest of the case. We both knew there would be more expenses to cover.

  Lenny did not have to think about it too long. He said, “Very kind, brother, very kind. Always a pleasure.”

  Lenore returned with plates of food for Lenny, a salad, some bread, and a Coke Zero and placed them on the table in front of him. When she left, I tapped in Franz, who picked up immediately even though it was nine-thirty p.m. there. I had all the wiring instructions handy, which I gave to him verbally. Putting that kind of specific information in a text or email was not the best security practice. As I was completing this, Lenny waved to get my attention and said, “What about Lauren?”