“Sit down, Tony,” Cliff said as he directed me to the small couch opposite his desk. “Did Ritmo give you a drink?”
“Later. Do you own racehorses, Cliff?”
“No. The fucking racing commission won’t give me a license. But I have many friends who own them and on occasion I go watch them run.”
Cliff drew a pack of cigarettes from his starched white shirt pocket and lit one with a large flint lighter that was on his desk next to an ash tray the size of a serving platter. There were many old cigarettes, of various sizes depending on when they were extinguished, in the tray. Among the phalanx of horse pictures was a large, gold-framed color photograph of Marilyn Monroe. He pointed to the photo and said, “Look at her. The greatest piece of ass that ever lived.”
Surprised at this, I asked him, “You knew her, Cliff?”
“Naw. But a guy has dreams, you know. Some guys still have their Mickey Mantle card from when they were kids. I keep this.”
My eyes slowly canvassed the small room, recording mental pictures. I was also looking for any weapons or other contraband which I was sure Cliff had somewhere in the office. He opened the middle drawer of his ornate desk and pulled out a single document and placed it on top the desk. He looked at it for a minute, then stood up and handed it to me over the desk without saying anything. He took his seat behind the desk and waited. I looked closely at the document. It was a ten-thousand dollar note issued by the Commerce Bank and Trust Company of Louisiana. It was a bearer note and was completely negotiable. It had no names assigned and the note belonged to whoever had possession of it. Close inspection indicated that it was printed by the intaglio method, which is also used in U.S. currency because it is extremely difficult to counterfeit. I looked for and found colored fibers that are usually injected into documents at manufacture to insure originality, because they are difficult to reproduce in counterfeits. I was convinced that the note was genuine. The note had a very long alpha-numeric serial number, which was impossible for me to memorize considering the amount of information I had already absorbed in the office. So I used the telephone method, memorizing the last seven digits as if they were someone’s phone number. I repeated the number in my head several times before handing the document back to Cliff.
“I’ve seen it and you’ve got it. Now what?”
“I’ve only shown you one document in one denomination. There are more of the same. I know they’re real. If you think the same I’ll sell them for fifty cents on the dollar, cash money, in any bite you’re big enough to take.”
“Fifty cents my ass, Cliff. From what I can see the notes are not fake, but they aren’t easy to negotiate. Neither one of us can just go to the bank and ask to redeem the notes. They have to be laundered through bogus accounts before they wind up as real money in somebody’s pocket. That takes time. And it takes money. Paying half the face value is ridiculous, considering the risk. Not enough profit margin.”
“Fifty cents or no deal.”
“I’ll pass. But I’m around if you change your mind.”
He looked at me without saying anything and put the note back in his desk drawer. He knew well that he couldn’t get that price for the paper. As anxious as I was to sew him up by purchasing the notes, if I agreed to that price he would either take me for a sucker or suspect that I was an amateur. Either way I’d lose. By taking the action I did, it was now up to him. Even if he didn’t sell me the notes, we now knew that he had possession. I wondered how many more like it he might have, where they were, and how he got hold of them. Notes like these are usually safely secured at banks or securities dealerships and don’t just float around in circulation. I knew that there was more to this story.
“I think I’ll have that drink now.”
I got up to leave, and Cliff walked over and opened the door for me. Before I could walk out, he said in his thick accent, “We might talk again.”
* * *
CHAPTER 14
I didn’t leave any notes for Lyle to retrieve from the garbage can the next morning. I stayed up a few more hours to call him before his pre-dawn visit to the refuse alley of the Plantation. At four o’clock I rang his phone.
“Is this the Sanitation Department?”
“What are you doing waking me up? Four-thirty comes early enough.”
“Forget today’s garbage run. We need to meet, give me a cool place.”
An hour later we were sitting across the table from each other in the Lafayette Hilton coffee shop. Lyle wrapped his paw around a hot coffee mug and leaned toward me to listen. I dispensed with the usual jibes and told him about my meetings with Ritmo and Cliff and about the securities. He jotted notes as I laid down the proposition. I pushed across the table the only written note I had for him, which contained the memorized last seven digits of the bank note Cliff Dubroc had shown me.
“These notes are the real deal. They’re bearer instruments, payable on demand to the holder, regardless of who they were originally issued to.”
“Any idea how Dubroc got these notes?”
“No, but we should be able to find out how they got into circulation.” We surmised that they were stolen in a burglary of a bank or securities dealer. Perhaps they tapped them from a private safe deposit box or bank vault. It was even possible that the owner didn’t know they were missing. We knew that with the origin of the securities, we would be able to piece together how they got into Cliff’s possession and the identity of others who might be involved with them. We were in agreement that Cliff didn’t have the finesse or the balls to be involved in the actual acquisition.
Lyle handed me a teletype dispatch sent to ATF from Interpol. When headquarters traced down the notes, the international police agency requested any information we had on the bank securities, which are the type usually negotiated more easily outside of the United States if they’re stolen.
“What about this? They aren’t giving Interpol any information until we have them in hand, are they?”
“Not yet. But it generates more pressure on the brass – speaking of which, what’s the progress on our main target? I’m getting lots of questions from the ivory tower.”
“I’ve met Frank Duplessis but he hasn’t approached me about the contract hit. I can only wait until he makes his move or else chance blowing the deal. Hey, what questions?”
“Take it easy, Tony. I’m fading all the heat. They just want to make sure Uncle Sam is getting his dime’s worth. You’re making my job harder with some of the unorthodox crap you’ve been listing as expenses.”
“Then I guess they’ll flip over the dollar I spent last night for a condom.”
Lyle stared at me for a long moment, then said with a straight face, “You’re giving new meaning to the term ‘deep undercover’.”
He was glad we met for several reasons, one of which was to move other business off his list of things to tell me. He gave me a piece of paper with a phone number for Ernie Chinn from the Secret Service and said he tried to reach me a couple of times. He also told me he had spoken to Gina, that she and Nick were fine.
“She sounds great, Tony, but I think she’s putting up a little bit of a front. She’s anxious to talk to you whenever you can call.”
“Call her back for me and promise I’ll call this weekend.”
“I gave her that message two weeks ago. You didn’t call her, you bastard?”
“I couldn’t,” I muttered.” Do your best to explain, will you?”
I knew this was a lame way to put the matter off, but I was trying hard to maintain the role without family distractions. I promised myself that, no matter what, I would make a long phone call home.
“Lawyer the case for me, Lyle. I’m sure you’ve still got a few sweet words left in you that can soothe the savage wife. Now what else have you got?”
“We put a couple of agents on Luke Trombatore. He’s been back to New Orleans twice since you ran into him at the track. He was seen with Carlos Marcello one afternoon, otherwise no activit
y that can help us out. We haven’t been around-the-clock on him but it looks like he’s got more than a passing interest in Lafayette. The ivory tower wants you to move him up on your priority list.”
“Trombatore meeting with the mafia boss wasn’t of interest? I’ve got the same feeling the tower has about Trombatore from my vantage point. He’s not just out here playing the ponies.”
Lyle caught me up on the routine ATF news, and we chatted for a while about the upcoming major league baseball season. Before leaving he asked, “How’s the snitch?”
I knew from prior conversations that Lyle didn’t like informants, the necessary evil of our work. His tone reflected the feeling of the love-hate relationship all agents have with informants. “T-Red? He's okay, as CI’s go. Anxious to get out. He’s a money sieve. This guy destroys money. What a pain in the ass.”
“That’s why I never work undercover unless I have no choice. I hate snitches. I have my own. I tolerate them, but you undercover guys put too much faith in them. I’ve watched too many agents go down, here with ATF and back in the old Federal Bureau of Narcotics, because of some two-faced, sleaze-ball informant. If they don’t get you killed, they get you fired.”
In a matter of hours my words, as well as Lyle’s, would prove to be un-exaggerated. Lyle stood up to leave, then leaned his hulking frame over and rested his hands on the table in front of me. As if a professor speaking to his student he said, “I’m glad you’re staying focused, Tony. Keep your head in the game. But stay in touch with those at home. I’ve been around long enough to see the carnage of families broken by the job.”
I didn’t answer. His words echoed. He left, asserting that he would call me as soon as information developed on the bank securities. I remained for a few minutes, thinking about the phone calls I needed to make in order to catch up with my personal life. I hadn’t phoned in weeks. When I arrived at the Plantation, T-Red was waiting in front of my room.
“What are you doing here?”
“I need a favor.”
“Sorry, Red. No money.”
“No, not that. My truck broke down and I need a ride downtown.”
“Forget it, Red. I haven’t been to sleep, and I’m going in that room to crash. Besides, I’m not a taxi driver.”
“C’mon Tony. Ten minutes to downtown, ten minutes back. Do this, will you?”
I thought about it for a moment, and realized this would be a favor I could do for him that wouldn’t cost money. My meeting with Lyle had reminded me about the bean counters in the agency and their concern over expenses. I reluctantly agreed. I noticed that he was dressed in a golf shirt and dress slacks instead of the standard jeans and western shirt. His worn leather boots were replaced by oxfords, and his hair was neatly slicked back.
“You look like you’re on your way to make your first communion,” I told him. “What’s up?”
“I need to make a past due payment on my account at Abdalla’s. If I don’t do it today they’ll shut off my credit.”
I followed T-Red’s directions to the central business district of Lafayette. I pulled up to the curb in front of the main entrance to the upscale department store. T-Red leaped out of the car and said, “I’ll only be a few minutes, keep the engine running.” He bounced into the store through the large glass revolving door.
I sat behind the steering wheel and admired the expensive suits and silk ties on the male mannequins in Abdalla’s large display window. I watched the pedestrian traffic and tried not to fall asleep, but my efforts were futile and I began to fade. I was in the state of half-awake, half-dozed when, without warning, I was jolted awake when T-Red jerked open the car door. He jumped into the front seat like an athlete, while simultaneously throwing a large swatch of clothing into the back seat. He slammed the door behind him and yelled, “Let’s get out of here, quick!”
I wasn’t sure what was happening but the suddenness of it all kicked-in my sense of inherent danger, and adrenaline took over. The engine of the Camaro roared as I floored the accelerator and sped through the red light at the end of the block. My mind raced with thoughts of shots being fired at us or worse. I wasn’t sure why, but I knew we had to get away as soon as possible. The situation became clearer as I looked in the side view mirror and saw a well-dressed salesman and a uniformed security guard run out of the store entrance in our direction. Their figures diminished quickly in the mirror as we headed away from downtown at a high rate of speed. My heart pounded and breathing got heavier as I weaved in and out of traffic. T-Red screamed when I swerved to avoid hitting a young woman who stepped off the curb to walk her child across a busy intersection. After a few minutes we were in normal highway traffic and I began to compose myself, knowing that we had escaped. But escaped from what? I pulled the car into an alleyway behind a strip shopping center. When I was sure we were out of public sight, I slammed the car to a halt. T-Red and I hadn’t said a word to each other during the entire trip away from downtown. I looked into the back seat, and there was a dozen or so men’s cashmere sweaters, in an array of pastel colors, each with an Abdalla’s label sewn into the neck. There was a two-hundred dollar price tag attached to the sleeves.
Within a split second, it was all clear to me. T-Red had boosted the sweaters from the swankiest store in town and had used me as his getaway. I was enraged, and felt the veins swell in my neck. My face flushed, and the muscles tightened all over my body. I reached over and grabbed T-Red’s shirt with my left hand, and drew back my right fist and drove it into his jaw. Blood jetted onto the passenger window as his head swiveled from the blow.
“You sonofabitch.”
T-Red protested little except for putting his arms up and curling his knees in self-defense. When he finally uncoiled and dropped his arms enough to peek through, I slapped him in the face with a back-handed open fist. My index finger scraped against his teeth and it began to bleed at the same time as his lip oozed blood. My anger was directed at myself as much as at him. I was mad for having lost control of my informant, for being used and taken in a direction that endangered the investigation.
I slowly pulled myself together and wrapped a handkerchief around my finger. I got out of the car and walked around back to get some fresh air and cool off. After a minute, T-Red joined me outside the car, holding a pale yellow cashmere sweater against his face to stop the flow of blood. Much of it was stained red from blotting the wounds to his face.
“Listen, Tony. I didn’t set you up, this wasn’t planned at all. I went inside and made my payment so they wouldn’t shut off my credit. When I was walking out through the men’s department, there they were, stacks of cashmere sweaters piled high on the display table only a few steps from the door. The score was too easy to pass up. I scooped up an armful, and a few seconds later we were gone.”
“You could have gotten us pinched, or even shot, you little prick.”
At first I gave no credibility to his explanation. Then I began to wonder. We had worked so closely for so long that T-Red may have crossed the line that some agents cross, not being able to separate the good guy from the role he’s playing. Maybe I had done too good a job as far as T-Red was concerned. After all, Ritmo and Cliff Dubroc had certainly bought the act after approaching me to buy the stolen securities. I needed to know more in order to assess what happened.
“What were you going to do with this swag?”
“With the labels removed so they can’t be traced, I can get fifty bucks apiece for them around the track. We’ll cut up the score straight down the middle. Why are you pissed? Do you think old Red would cut you out?”
I couldn’t believe it. He still didn’t give a damn about jeopardizing the case or my career, much less our lives. Considering that we could have been shot during the wild getaway, we were fleeing felons endangering the lives of civilians. We got back in the car and I drove to his truck in the parking lot at Evangeline Downs.
“What are you doing, Tony? I wasn’t bullshitting about the truck breaking down.”
He reached across into the back seat to retrieve the sweaters. I stuck out a hand, grabbed his arm tightly and said, “Don’t even think about it.”
Before he could say anything, I snatched the blood-drenched sweater from his hand, which was now only yellow at the wrists. I slammed the door and drove away quickly. On my way to the hotel I ditched the bloody garment in a garbage dumpster placed behind a super market. I brought the rest of them into my room and threw them onto the bed. I took a quick shower, and slouched in an armchair while thinking about what to do with T-Red and the sweaters. The lack of sleep, combined with mental and physical exhaustion, put me in slumber land.
I slept for what seemed like a few minutes when the phone rang. A glance at the clock told me I’d been asleep for two hours. Still groggy, I wobbled slowly over to the phone, sat on the edge of the bed, and murmured “Yeah,” into the receiver.
“Jackpot!”
The pitch and volume of Lyle’s voice finished waking me up.
“Those bank notes are hotter than a two dollar whore’s ass. A half-million dollars worth were taken in a bank robbery in New Orleans eight months ago.”
“Bank robbery?”
“You got it. But that ain’t all. An off-duty cop working overtime as a security guard was killed in the heist, shot between the eyes during a hellacious gunfight in a bank lobby. He left two kids, grieving widow, slain officer’s funeral, the whole bit. His name was Bobby Cazale’, well thought of in police circles.
“I didn’t know Cazale’, but I heard of the case. We need to get those bank notes.”
“These guys were brazen - broad daylight, walked in with guns drawn, nailed the cop before he knew what happened, caught them with the vault open and got two hundred thousand in cash and the bank notes. One of the shooters was apprehended a week later. He’s in custody awaiting trial but he won’t give up the accomplices. None of the money or notes has been recovered. The bank note you saw is the first of anything that has surfaced.”
Assassin Hunter Page 10
