Deadman
Page 16
“Foolproof,” Joe assured her, “at least, pretty foolproof. The heir is discouraged from ratting to the IRS, or whomever, since they have been party to a felony. In addition, they continue to enjoy a modest annuity from the trust fund, providing they don't make a fuss. Still"—he sighed—"there are fools who will take a hatchet to the golden goose. Nothing is really secure. But I've built in a couple of cut-outs that should insulate us from investigation.”
At any rate, in the few months since they had acquired the money (which was how she saw it: they had acquired . . . although she'd had no part in stealing the money), Joe had not managed to place more than a couple of million into these seemingly legitimate accounts. This hadn't bothered him: “I've got the rest of my life to lay it out.” Helen's problem was more pressing: she had something like twenty million dollars sitting in the back of a truck on the street. She finally hit upon what she thought was at least a reasonable solution. She considered that as long as she and Joe lived in Tinstar, they weren't too concerned about so much cash lying around. They'd simply stashed it in convenient places: a few handy thousand in a drawer; a hundred thousand in an artfully incised and relabeled plastic antifreeze jug that sat on the floor of the garage among similar windshield-washer-fluid containers; lesser amounts in plastic bags in the bluebird houses (bluebirds crowded out by millionaires, alas) that Joe had mounted on trees and posts. Of course, the bulk of it was stashed in the abandoned mine that Joe had fixed up, up behind the cabin.
What she did now was go to a rental agency in Salt Lake City and lease a house. It was a nice house—two bedrooms, half-basement, a small garage—on Main Street, about a mile and a half south of the city center. She spent a restless night at the hotel, constantly reassuring herself that the little pickup truck and its fabulous cargo (approximately that of a seventeenth-century Spanish treasure galleon) would be safe in the hotel garage. She had taken the trouble to purchase and have mounted a simple, lockable pickup campertop, but she knew that wouldn't survive even a modest attempt at burglary if left on the street overnight, even in Salt Lake City, which was no Detroit. The very next day she found the house by midmorning and obtained the key. That same afternoon she unloaded the money into the half-basement and had a locksmith install some formidable security. By grossly overpaying a couple of carpenters, she got them to drop their current projects and immediately set to work to further secure the house with some unobtrusive window barriers and steel doors. “I can't help it, I'm just paranoid,” she said, easily emulating a woman-alone-in-a-strange-city. In the small half-basement they had constructed a vault remarkably like the one that Joe had constructed in the old mine.
So here was at least a measure of security. It still didn't answer to the nagging anxiety of money that was idle. This was a genuine anxiety for Helen. She had never encountered this problem before. As the child of a well-placed mob figure she had never wanted for money, even when Big Sid was being punished for overly sticky digits. Later, as a young woman running her own consulting business, she had done quite well (with, admittedly, occasional donations from Sid when cash flow waned), but she had no capital, and so she had never given much consideration to what happens to capital when it isn't invested. Now she viewed capital in fairy tale terms: the golden goose versus the sack of grain with a hole in it, on the back of an ass, en route to market. Even the tiniest hole makes of the sack an hourglass, with its ceaseless flow of sand. Yes, that was it: It was a kind of philosophical juxtaposition, life versus time. It made her uneasy, even a little ill, to think that she couldn't stop those grains trickling out—one had to eat, one had to live. But there must be a way, if only she knew what it was. Why hadn't Joe told her? Was it part of the old plot, how men keep women down? She tried to console herself with the notion that this was only temporary, that soon she'd get on with the business of making this money work, once she figured out how to keep it safe and also take care of such obligations as Joe's medical care.
It was here in Salt Lake, involved in this busywork, that she read about what had befallen Joe, in the Butte paper that she picked up every day at the newsstand downtown. She was greatly relieved to hear that he wasn't dead; she realized that she had been masking a considerable measure of grief with anger and resentment. To be sure, it didn't sound like he was likely to ever recover his amazing energy and delight in life, and she was sorry to think that he would be a kind of vegetable henceforth, but at least he wasn't dead. Nonetheless, it imposed certain obligations on her and the resentment revived.
She made her first payments to St. James Hospital from Salt Lake City, to secure Joe's treatment. This act was an eye-opener in itself. She walked into one of the large banks downtown and simply asked one of the ladies sitting at a desk for a cashier's check for $50,000. She carried a vanity case, part of a complete set of luggage that she had just purchased, filled with small bills. She was taken aback when the woman, an officer of the bank, pointed out that not only would she have to identify herself, but she would have to file a Currency Transaction Report with the Internal Revenue Service for any—any —transaction over $10,000, even the purchase of a simple money order.
Helen was appalled. “But how can this be?” she demanded. “I have all this cash. I have obligations in other states. How am I to take care of them? I can't send fifty thousand dollars in cash through the mail!”
“What is the source of this currency?” the woman asked, clearly very interested.
“None of your business,” Helen retorted.
“Actually, it is my business,” the bank officer replied. “This bank would be subject to severe penalties if we accepted undocumented currency in amounts of this sort.”
“Well, what amounts can be accepted?”
“You can purchase a money order or cashier's check in an amount less than three thousand dollars, without any report, but not more than one in a day.”
“Jeez,” Helen muttered, counting out $2,995 in small bills. As she left the bank, the woman stood at the window and watched her walk across the street to their competitor. She called her superior. “I think I just encountered a smurf,” she said, referring to the well-known practice of drug-related money washers. They stood at the window for several minutes before they observed Helen leave the other bank, swinging the vanity case lightheartedly as she proceeded down the street toward the Zion National Bank.
“Well, you can call the FBI or the DEA,” the boss said, “but she hasn't done anything illegal.”
The following day Helen returned and the woman saw her purchase another check for $2,995 from a different teller. This time she did call the FBI. An agent arrived in time to see Helen leave the bank across the street. He thanked the officer for identifying her and set off in pursuit. The bank officer never heard from the FBI again.
After a few days, the house having been secured, Helen loaded $500,000 into two suitcases and checked them as baggage as she flew to Los Angeles. She had never been to Los Angeles before and she was thrilled, at first. She spent a few days smurfing the money and shopping in Beverly Hills. By that time she had decided that Los Angeles was not as pleasant as she had initially thought. It was warm and the sky was milky, but it was expensive and not really nice. It seemed about as fragile a place as Detroit. In fact, it was Detroit-by-the-sea, in many ways—sprawling, frenetic with cars, not really visible except from a low-flying airplane: No part of it seemed to stick up much above expressway level. There was a terrible juxtaposition of poverty—shattered buildings and automobiles, people standing about idly—and sheer glitz, a chromed approach to luxury. She flew to Denver.
Now her main project was to find a better way to turn her money, so it could begin to be put to use. She had already smurfed $100,000 for her own use and had invested it with a brokerage (plus another $50,000 for Joe's medical bills), but it was really a lot of work, accumulating that much money in $3,000 increments—visiting some fifty banks and savings and loans. It wasn't an easy life. She wanted to contact someone in the criminal wo
rld who could help her, but not in L.A. She had in mind just walking up to, say, a crack peddler on the street and saying, “I've got quite a bit of money, in cash . . . do you think you, or perhaps your boss, could give me a little advice on what to do with it?” But after thinking about it for a couple of minutes she realized it was too dangerous. Maybe it would be easier in Phoenix. It wasn't.
In the end she called Roman Yakovich, the Yak. He told her everything that Humphrey had told him.
“Roman, that's great! It just happens that I've been having a little problem, about money. I'm sure he could help.”
“I dunno,” the Yak said. “Mr. Diablo has always been okay to us, but I dunno. You oughta be careful.”
“Why? Whatever for?”
“He says he forgives you for everything, but I dunno,” the Yak insisted. “He's pissed off about Joe.”
“He doesn't blame me for Carmine, does he?”
“He says he don't, but I dunno. He says you should call him. ‘Tell her to call Uncle Umberto,’ he says.”
“Thanks, Roman. I know it's late, so I won't ask you to wake Mama, but tell her I'll be home for Christmas. Maybe even Thanksgiving, if I can.”
The next day she flew to New Orleans and checked into a fancy hotel. It was about ten P.M. when she called Humphrey.
14
Northern Tier
One of the three other detectives at the Northern Tier Task Force meeting at the courthouse in Butte claimed to know Mulheisen. His name was Larry Edwards and he was from Missoula. He had grown up in Detroit and had gotten his start as a patrolman in the Thirteenth Precinct, he said, before he'd moved to Montana. “I'd probably be dead now, if I still lived there,” he said. “As Yogi might put it,” he added with the faintest hint of a smile.
Mulheisen didn't remember ever meeting Edwards, but he recognized him as a Detroiter all right—the cynical humor, the implacable face. Edwards was amusing, but he didn't let it get in the way of business. Evidently Edwards was familiar with Mulheisen's career and had spread some tall tales. The other detectives greeted Mulheisen with exaggerated respect. Even the other prosecutors and Judge Leahy seemed to share this deferent attitude, as if Mulheisen were some kind of super detective who was here to set them all on the right path. It was annoying, but as soon as they got down to business, he was gratified to see that the attitude modulated toward simple respect. After a while, however, he realized that all comments were directed toward him, as if this were a briefing of a newly appointed cabinet minister.
Mulheisen forced himself to interrupt, finally, with a little speech. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I don't know what my friend Johnny Antoni has led you to believe, but I have not signed on for this task force. I'm in Butte as part of the investigation of a murder that took place six months ago in Detroit. I was also asked to attend this meeting, as an observer. I don't know anything about this ‘invasion’ that you speak of, but I do know a little about the mob in Detroit. This is the old mob. It's not what you're up against, if I read you correctly, but if my experience can be of any help, I'm glad to . . . well, to be of any help,” he ended lamely.
Johnny Antoni leaped to his feet, smiling, his voice ringing. “Aw c'mon, Mul. You know more about this kind of stuff than we do. Hey, don't you like it here?” He gestured toward the large windows, through which one had a view of some mountains. “Didn't you catch a trout the other day?” After the laughter died, he said, “You don't have to sign on today, but just let us put forward a little bit of what we've observed and what we're looking at in the future. If you want to go back to Detroit, fine, no strings . . . but I've got an idea you might have been hooked yourself.”
The meeting resumed, with reports from investigators from Spokane and Boise, from a Kalispell sheriff, an investigator from Medicine Hat, and so on, detailing an increase in gambling interest from “outside.” Apparently, someone was buying real estate, trying to muscle into existing taverns that had a substantial gambling business, and making offers to state legislators to support a broadening of state laws regarding gambling. In addition, there was increased prostitution along the interstate system—truckers’ plazas now had nude dancing bars and massage parlors where allowed—and an increase in drugs, especially cocaine. In just about every case the trail, admittedly faint, led back to the West Coast, to Orientals, or to people who spoke of Oriental interests.
Mulheisen listened to all this as attentively as he could, although he longed to be out of this meeting room, perhaps out on the river, or at least in a barroom talking to a suspect. What he was hearing, it seemed to him, was not a really great increase in crime or suspect behavior, but just the rumblings of it. He thought it sounded like a normal increase of business that attends an increase in population. He wondered what the demographics were. And then some woman got up with a flip chart and began to show them what the demographics were. Basically, what they showed was population growth—not a very significant population growth overall (Montana had just lost one of their two congressional representatives because their population growth had not kept pace with other Western states), but a different kind of growth. Traditionally, the state had grown through immigration from the east and the south; now it was growing from the west, and the westerners were not arriving in covered wagons, they were arriving in Jet Commanders and BMWs. They were looking for retirement homes and vacation property. They weren't coming to work, they were coming to play. The average income of this group . . .
At this point Mulheisen began to fade. He found himself turning more and more to the vision of the mountains beyond the windows and he felt a bit sleepy. At last he roused himself and said, “I haven't seen anything that strongly suggests an Asian invasion. Now I'm not about to say that it's a phantom, although there is a history in this country of periodic ‘Yellow Peril’ scares, but I'd like to know if there are any more specific instances, something we can really glom onto.”
The Missoula detective, Edwards, said quietly, “I have a snitch who says that a meeting took place on Flathead Lake between three people. One of them was a Mr. Lee, who is supposed to be a Hong Kong businessman. Another was a Mr. Service, who was described to me as a Mafia figure. The third was a Montana businessman, Thomas Shivers, who owns the house on the lake. Mr. Shivers used to be a rancher, but he long ago moved into investments. My informant says the conversation was mainly about gambling and investment. The idea was to set up some kind of money-washing system. Gambling was seen as a good way to do this. Money can be washed through gambling machines, the kind you see in practically every bar in Montana. These machines accept nickels and dimes and quarters, but when the customer scores, he has to collect from the barkeeper. These countless little payoffs have to be reported, but it's easy to fudge. It can be a lot of money, when you consider how many bars there are, how many machines. Now, you can say this is only hearsay, nothing is certain, but my feeling is that if Mr. Lee meets Mr. Shivers, or Mr. Shivers meets Mr. Service, or Mr. Lee meets Mr. Service . . .” He shrugged as his voice trailed off. “But when they all meet together, then I sit up and take notice.”
Mulheisen agreed that this was worth notice, but he pointed out that it was mostly conjectural, dependent on a single informant. Were there some other significant instances? Nobody, it seemed, could really provide anything concrete, just this growing awareness of an impending problem. But they were all quite adamant about the need to prepare for a crime wave. It went on in this vein for some time, but eventually the meeting broke up.
Afterward, at lunch with the judge and Johnny and two of the prosecutors, Johnny pressed Mulheisen very hard not to close his mind about joining the task force. The problem was real, he insisted, and the task force was going to happen—the money had been appropriated. Mulheisen began to see that it was politically important to Antoni. He didn't want to let his old friend down, and he ended by agreeing at least to consider joining the task force. For now, he was going back to Detroit. A decision would have to be made soon, though.
“I've gone over all this with Jacky,” Edwards said. “I haven't spread this info around too much because I've had some problems with other enforcement agencies blabbing. Jacky I trust. I don't know anything about this Service guy, but Jacky tells me you do.”
They had stopped near a park down on the Flat. The three men got out and strolled around through the rattling autumn leaves. The sun was shining but it was brisk out. A beautiful day. Mulheisen said that he'd been giving a lot of thought to Service lately. “It seems pretty certain that Service is the guy who's up there in the hospital. I never paid enough attention to Service in the past, but now it seems to me that he's been involved in several cases that came my way in Detroit. He was never a suspect in any of these cases and, as far as I know, he has broken no laws . . . but he was always there. I missed something, I think. There were frequent rumors about a guy from the West, someone the mob had called in to straighten things out. Sometimes they called him a hired gun, but generally he was just a trouble-shooter. It was never solid enough to pursue. But lately our investigations of the deaths of some mob figures in Detroit have turned up this name, Joe Service, again. We think he might have been involved in at least three killings, one of them in Iowa City. We have fingerprints from the Iowa City killing, and when I get back to Detroit, we'll try to match them with Jacky's ‘Deadman.’ There was also an eyewitness in Iowa City, but we don't have any pictures to show her, and we can't justify bringing her out here to look at this guy, at least not yet. But it's enough to pursue.”