Dark Money

by Larry D. Thompson

  When Cross had finished, she invited him to join her in a second rocker on the porch and fetched him a glass of sweet tea. They said little as they watched the shadows grow at the end of the day.

  Each evening Cross boarded the streetcar to Canal and walked to the French Quarter where he trolled the bars, observing the people as he had several drinks, knowing that even if he drank too much he only had to make his way to the streetcar stop. He had never been a jazz fan. On the other hand, he had never heard jazz quite like that in the French Quarter. While he began by hitting the strip clubs, his tastes quickly evolved and he found himself hanging in a variety of clubs that featured local bands that played jazz and blues. He would sit quietly in a corner, sipping a beer and soaking in the sounds of music until it was time to make the last St. Charles car.

  After two weeks, he was low on cash and realized that he needed to open a bank account where he could have his retirement deposited. He picked a branch on Canal, close to St. Charles and continued to care for his garden in the daytime and spend evenings in the Quarter. He also refinished Rose’s floors, upstairs and down. Then it was summer and the Gulf Coast heat smothered the Garden District. He and Rose had little in common. She was old enough to be his mother. Still, they enjoyed each other’s company, particularly in the late afternoon when the sun had dropped below five o’clock and the temperature finally slipped below ninety. It was then that Cross would go to the front porch and sit until Rose brought two glasses of sweet tea.

  The old lady and the craggy veteran rarely talked. She didn’t care about jazz or baseball. He had learned all she cared about were her departed husband and two children who had abandoned her for the west coast. She used to get cards on her birthday and at Christmas, but the last had been more than ten years before. Still, over the months they became evening fixtures on the porch, sometimes sitting for two or three hours, watching the streetcars and acknowledging the passers-by. Once it was dark, Rose would retire to her bed, and Cross headed for the Quarter. One evening Cross was evaluating the flaking paint on the porch and sides of the house.

  “Rose, it’ll be getting to be fall here before long. Temperature will be getting tolerable. If you’ll buy the paint and rent me a scaffold, I’ll scrape all this old stuff off and repaint the outside of the house.”

  Rose rocked and sipped her tea without saying a word.

  “What, you don’t want your house painted?”

  “Of course I do,” she choked. “It’s just that I’ve never had someone offer to do such a thing for me. You do that, you can forget about paying rent.”

  “I wasn’t trying to get out of rent. I just have time on my hands and restoring this old mansion to how it looked a hundred years ago would give me some satisfaction.”

  “How about white with red trim that’ll match the roses in the spring?”

  “Deal. Give it a few more weeks to cool off and I’ll get started.”

  It was right after Labor Day when Cross arranged to have the scaffold delivered along with scrapers, an electric sander, brushes and fifty gallons of paint which he had the delivery guy take around to the garage that backed up to the alley. As he helped the driver unload, he realized the garage would be next. Like almost any project started by man or woman since the beginning of time, this one took far longer than Cross had predicted. He started by pulling up a few obviously rotted boards on the porch and ended up ripping all of them out and replacing them. Once the porch floor was done, he started the restoration at the front of the house, first climbing the scaffold to the top and slowly working his way down. When he began to scrape off the old paint, he discovered that there were three and sometimes four layers that had to be hand-scraped and sanded. Of course, once he had exposed the bare wood, he couldn’t leave it exposed to the elements; so, every so often he would get to a point where he would put down the scraper and sander and paint the fine old wood he had uncovered.

  Every two hours or so Rose would appear with sweet tea and demand that he take a break or risk a stroke or heart attack. At first she tried to invite him in for lunch. He declined, saying he was too big a mess and would track all over her new floors. So, she quietly began bringing a platter of sandwiches, covered with cellophane, out to the porch and set them on a small table, available for whenever he was ready to eat.

  The work was backbreaking. Cross was up and down the scaffold all day. His legs ached. His neck and arms joined in the chorus with his legs. He thought he was in fine shape for a man nearing sixty. Wrong. He started taking more and longer breaks where he would just sit on the porch. His trips to the French Quarter became fewer as he looked forward to a beer and bed. Since he had begged off the invitation to eat with Rose, when she saw him cleaning his brushes at the end of the day she came out with a wooden tray of hot food for him to take back to his room.

  During the ordeal, as he now called it, Wednesdays were the only day he caught the streetcar to the Quarter since he wanted to avoid the crowds and drunks that frequented the area on weekends. There was a time when he would have been right there with them, but that was twenty years ago. One of his favorite jazz bars was Trombone’s. He tried to visit it regularly, but, lately, his project had interfered. It was on a dark side street off Bourbon. Many tourists were loath to venture down what appeared to be a dangerous alley. The only sign was a small neon trombone in the window. Inside it occupied a narrow space, maybe twenty feet across with light coming only from the bar. The band was in the back. The musicians appeared to be more interested in entertaining themselves than the customers that found their way to the bistro. Cross usually sat at a table against the wall, close to the band. Armand, the bartender knew him by name and that his favorite beer was Sam Adams from the tap. When he took a seat, the musicians nodded to him and Armand would soon arrive with his beer. Cross became enough of a regular before he started his painting project that the band members would often join him on their breaks, particularly once they learned that the beer was on him.

  It was Wednesday, and Cross arrived at Trombone’s around nine, just in time for the first set. The band marched in from a side door, instruments blasting. The piano player took his seat as they did. Cross sipped his beer and tapped his foot in time with the music. After forty-five minutes they put down their instruments. Bernard, the cornet player, drifted over to Cross’s table.

  “Hey, Dude, we ain’t been seeing much of you lately. Thought maybe you found some other bar.”

  Cross smiled. “Have a seat. Naw, I’ve been painting my landlady’s house in Uptown. Been too tuckered out at the end of the day to get over here very much.”

  Armand brought a Sam Adams for Bernard.

  Bernard started with small talk. “You think the Saints can make the playoffs?”

  Cross finished his beer and motioned for Armand. “Depends on Brees as always. He may have lost a little distance at his age, but he’s still one of the top two or three in accuracy.”

  Bernard sipped his beer. “I hear there’s a hurricane brewing out in the Gulf.”

  “Saw that. I’m watching it to see if I have to board up my landlady’s house. Looks like it’s heading for Corpus, but you never know.”

  Bernard took another sip of his beer and sized up Cross over his glass. When he put it down, he reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a gold necklace. He laid it on the table in front of Cross. “You ever buy any fine jewelry?”

  Cross picked up the necklace and studied it. “Can’t say that I have. Never had a girlfriend that deserved anything more than what I could buy at Walmart.”

  “I’ve been told that this has retail value of $5,000.”

  Cross pulled out his cell phone and turned on the light while he studied it. He turned off the light. “Hell, I don’t know why I’m doing that. Costume jewelry and the real thing all look about the same. Why are you showing it to me?”

  Bernard leaned in. “Bought it off a guy I know. I don’t want to mislead you. Let’s just say it may be a little warm, if you g
et my drift. I paid $500. I’ll sell it to you for a thousand.”

  “Play your next set and let me think on it.”

  Bernard rose and, in a show of good faith, left the necklace on the table when he returned to the stage. Close to an hour later he was back and took a seat facing Cross. “What’s the decision?”

  “If you’ll trust me for a day, I want to have it appraised. If it’s real, we’ll try to make a deal. I’ll be back with it tomorrow night.”

  Bernard looked Cross in the eye. “Hell, I gotta trust someone, sometime. I guess you’re as good as any. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  The next day Cross took the necklace to three pawn shops, giving each of the owners a story that he and his wife were breaking up and he needed to sell the necklace to settle up with her. Knowing that pawn shops low-balled value, he was surprised and pleased that the offers were all between $5,000 and $7,500. That evening he went back to Trombone’s, satisfied that he could negotiate a profitable deal. After all, Bernard had already offered to sell it for a thousand bucks. He would pay that if necessary, but decided to bargain.

  When they were seated at his table after the first break, he said, “I shopped it around a little. It’s damn sure not worth five grand, but I think I can make a little money if the price is right. I’ll pay you $650.”

  “No way, dude. Maybe I’ll consider $900. That’s it.”

  Cross hid a smile. “Okay, $800. Take it or leave it.”

  Bernard smiled and extended his hand. “Deal. You got the money on you?”

  Cross had visited his bank that day and pulled a roll of one hundreds out of his pocket. When he peeled off eight of them, Bernard said, “I may run across more of these from time to time. You interested?”

  Cross took a napkin and wrote some numbers on it. “Here’s my cell. Call me when you have something.”

  Cross left Trombone’s and caught the streetcar back to his room, having no idea about what to do with the necklace. He could try to pawn it, but he knew enough about pawn shops to know that if he didn’t find the right one, he might get a visit from the NOPD for selling a stolen necklace. Leaving the streetcar, he had an idea.

  When he took a lunch break the next day, he took his sandwiches back to his room and picked up the phone. He hadn’t talked to Richard Van Zandt in at least a dozen years. Still, Van Zandt’s cell was in his contact information. He punched in the number and hoped Richard hadn’t had a heart attack out there in West Texas. After several rings, a voice said, “Cross, you son of a bitch, is that you?”

  “Damn right, Rich. How the hell you been?”

  “Just out here stocking up for the fed’s attack. Expect it any time now. Of course, I’ve been saying that for twenty years.”

  “You ever dealt in gold, Rich?”

  “You mean bullion? Probably a good investment with what the feds are doing, but I haven’t done it.”

  “No, I’m talking about buying and selling gold jewelry. I’ve run across a fine gold necklace, appraised at ten grand. I need to unload it.”

  Van Zandt thought. “This line ain’t tapped is it?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “I work with a few of the cartels over across the border. They have more money than the damn Mexican government. If it’s really worth ten grand, I can probably get twenty from one of their kingpins. He can give to one of his senoritas. Tell you what, send it to me at the convenience store in Pecos where my daughter works. Fed Ex won’t deliver to my compound. I’ll call you when I get it sold and we’ll split the profit. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  Thus began the criminal career of Adam Crossmore.

  53

  Cross finally finished painting the outside. He and Rose asked a passer-by to take a cell photo of them standing proudly in front of the gleaming white Victorian with red trim. Rose insisted that he hold a paint brush across his chest as a badge of honor. She had the photo blown to twelve by eighteen, framed it and placed it on the wall in the entry.

  The two of them were sitting on the front porch one evening, Cross with a beer and Rose with her sweet tea. Neighbors strolled by and complimented them on the transformation of the old mansion. Rose took a sip of tea and rocked before she spoke.

  “Cross, the outside is beautiful. Only now I need to figure out what to do with the inside. You’ve seen it. Paint’s old. Wallpaper is beginning to peel…” Her voice dropped off.

  Cross also sipped and rocked. “Tell you what, Rose. That’s a lot of rooms and walls. It’s going to be about as big as the outside. I’m not willing to do it for free. If you’ll buy the paint and pay me $10,000 up front, I’ll do it.”

  More sipping and rocking.

  Rose said, “Okay. I’ll go through the rooms and pick the colors. I’ll go online to buy the paint and put a yellow stickie on the wall in each room so you’ll know the color. I have a little money in the bank but I prefer to buy the paint a room at a time. Let me know when you want to start.”

  Within a couple of days Rose handed him a check for the ten grand. Cross was feeling pretty damn good about his finances. Only a few days before Van Zandt had called, saying he sold the necklace for $27,000 and wanted to know how to wire his share to him in New Orleans. Suddenly, Cross had close to $25,000 in the bank, an unheard of sum when he was in the military. He started the new paint job. Rose wanted light colors, sky blue, emerald green, pale yellow, carnation pink for her bedroom. He took his time. There were a few streaks on the outside that only he would ever notice. He wanted the inside to be perfect. After six weeks, he was close to being finished. When he retired to his room, he had a message from Bernard. It was cryptic but clear. He had some merchandise that he wanted Cross to see. Cross texted him that he would be there that evening. He showered and took a short nap before warming up a TV dinner in the microwave.

  It was near the end of the second set when he entered Trombone’s and took a seat at his regular table. Bernard nodded at Cross. When the set was over, Bernard almost rushed over to the table to be sure that no other band member got to Cross first.

  “I was worried that something came up and you couldn’t make it.”

  Cross shook his head. “I told you I would be here.”

  Bernard fished in his pockets and came out with diamond ear rings and a diamond tennis bracelet. “I want two grand. Should sell retail for ten times that. You interested?”

  “Same as before. Let me check them out. I’ll be back tomorrow night.”

  Cross needed a couple of different pawn shops. Fortunately, New Orleans was a tourist and gambling destination along with it being a major port with sailors looking to sell what they had picked up overseas for a few bucks; so, pawn shops were a dime a dozen. Both shops offered $15,000 on the spot. Of course, Cross declined, knowing he could find a buyer across the border for three times that.

  So he did. Cross paid $1,350 and called Van Zandt. In a matter of weeks, he had another $22,500 in his bank account. Cross smiled when he got the call about the wire transfer from Van Zandt. He sized up the situation and concluded that while it might be a criminal enterprise, the chances of getting caught were minimal as long as he was careful about what he purchased and from whom, Certainly, there was little to no chance that on Van Zandt’s end a problem could occur that would be traced back to him.

  He finished the interior painting and moved his painter’s gear to the garage, which would be his next project. Rose was effusive with her praise and thanks. He would never pay rent again. He knew the garage could wait and started spending more time at Trombone’s.

  One evening the third set ended and Bernard joined him. After talking sports, Cross said, “Look, Bernard. I want you to be careful who you tell, but I’m willing to consider fine jewelry from someone other than you. If you can vouch for a seller and send him to me, you get ten percent on top of whatever I pay.”

  Bernard broke into a grin. “Boss, you best plan to be here several nights a week.”

  Cross stared ac
ross the table. “Don’t bring me anyone you can’t vouch for one hundred percent. If I get in trouble, I’ll hunt you down like a gut shot deer. You understand?”

  54

  Over the next two years Cross became one of the biggest fences in New Orleans, maybe the Gulf Coast. He established a routine and sat at his table at Trombones on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday nights. Not on the weekend when the joint was close to capacity with tourists. Bernard was his gatekeeper. Bernard put out the word on the street that he knew a fence who would pay top dollar. Whether it was a second story artist, a pickpocket or a gambler down on her luck, if the seller couldn’t get past Bernard, there was no meeting with Cross. Cross located a pawn dealer who would appraise anything for a flat fee of three hundred bucks, knowing that there would be no sale. Cross watched his bank account grow and decided it was time to buy some wheels. Nothing fancy. He settled on a silver Toyota Tundra pickup with a crew cab. That forced Cross to take another look at the garage. He talked to Rose who agreed that he could tear it down and replace it with one that would hold his new pickup. And about once a week he took Rose for a ride, wandering the streets of the garden district in the early evening. Rose pictured herself as a princess, riding in a carriage of pure silver. Cross was just trying to be nice to the old lady and get her out of the house and off the front porch on occasion. He had no idea what was coming.

  One evening about five o’clock Cross knocked on Rose’s front door. He hadn’t seen her in three days and thought it was time for another drive. When there was no answer, he took his key and let himself into the front foyer. He called her name.