Double Exit (Biff's Shorts)

by Biff Olson

  Corazano had settled himself at the end of Lee-Ci’s polished faux-walnut bar and was now sipping his second scotch and soda while reviewing various ways his small fortune could be bankrolled into something more substantial. He no longer considered sharing as an option, instead he was weighing the two basic ways to avoid his ex-partners: he could get rid of them or he could get rid of himself. Miami sounded like a great place in which to effect the latter.

  With that settled, Corazano switched his attention to the large TV sitting above and behind the bar. The afternoon news was on and there was an item of particular interest just now being addressed. It concerned a rather ingenious robbery of a bank’s night-deposit vault.

  * * *

  Flight was also on the mind of Carl Bokashian. His gambler’s instincts, as meager as they might have been, were causing him some worry. How soon before it was discovered that the ransom and the hijacking weren’t connected? And then how soon before a finger of suspicion came pointing at his co-workers... and him? But the money was Bokashian’s major consideration. If he stayed, there would be $60,000 less of the ransom to spend after a financial appeasement of Handsome Elmo. And there was the $2,500 a month that went to alimony and child support... $30,000 in just the next year alone, plus his current delinquent payment. On top of that were mortgage payments and nearly $34,000 in other debts he could avoid if absent. Then he thought of just how long and how far a half million dollars could take him. And debt reduction seemed less and less an attractive option.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, Louis Corazano’s two ex-partners were having a drink of their own at the same South Side bar where they’d shared a drink with Corazano just the day before. They were far less worried about Corazano’s absence than might have been expected of two men out their shares of nearly $270,000. But Corazano was a man easily judged untrustworthy, and given the money involved, his then-partners had purchased some last-minute insurance from a supplier of various “personal business services.” This particular service involved having two highly qualified men assigned to the task of ensuring that Louis Corazano didn’t skip out on his financial obligations. The supplier of this service was the noticeably mislabeled Handsome Elmo Scorelli.

  While Corazano sipped the last of his drink at Lee-Ci’s, two chairs over to his right sat one of Elmo’s associates, Mickey Jones, while out in the side lot, parked just a few inches from the driver’s door of Corazano’s rented Dodge, waited another Elmo associate, “Gypsy D” Montero.

  Corazano dropped several bills on the bar for the bartender, made a quick stop at the men’s room, and then went out into the parking lot, noticing as he approached his car that someone had parked recklessly close. At that moment, Corazano was joined by another gentleman who had also just exited the bar. Two minutes later, a trembling Louis Corazano and a mute Gypsy D were seated in the back of Mickey Jones’ dark red Pontiac. They were on their way to see Handsome Elmo. Corazano’s briefcase, containing $314,800, sat on the front seat next to Jones.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, Elmo Scorelli was addressing another pressing concern. There was the matter of an overdue $61,500 gambling debt. And the debtor in question, Carl Bokashian, was a project Elmo had two of his other associates working on. These associates had watched Bokashian, in disguise, rent a car and take a drive to the Nature Center. They’d watched him retrieve a satchel from a tall, elegantly dressed man, and then they’d followed him back home, later seeing him pack his car as if he were planning a trip. This latter event proved sufficiently disturbing to Elmo’s associates and they decided to “invite” Bokashian to a short business meeting that afternoon just to make sure he didn’t forget to stop by on his own before he left town.

  * * *

  At nearly the same time, Bokashian and Corazano arrived in their separate chauffeured vehicles for in-person visits with Handsome Elmo in his “office” at the back of one of the hundreds of faceless South Chicago warehouses. Each man was led into the large, sparsely appointed room where Elmo held court behind a small wooden table, then Elmo’s associates conferred for some length of time with their boss, turning now and then to nod at their captive audience while imparting, in low voices, whatever information was pertinent. During this procedure, Bokashian and Corazano were seated together on a backless wooden bench with two more of Elmo’s men stationed on either side.

  Finally, Elmo spoke, slowly and very much in control: “Normally, I wouldn’t hold two business meetings simultaneously. But I have other pressing business and the two of you showed up at the same time. Besides, this will be quick.”

  Elmo rose from behind the table and slowly walked over to Bokashian and Corazano. He was dressed immaculately in grays and blacks: three-piece silk suit, $500 impala leather shoes, onyx pinkie rings on each hand. His crooked, pockmarked face was expressionless. His eyes looked through people, not at them, as was the case when Elmo addressed the two men: “Mr. Corazano, my name is Elmo Scorelli. I apologize that we have to meet under these stressful circumstances. As for you, Mr. Bokashian, I’m most concerned that I had to send for you.”

  “Oh, hey now, Elmo,” Bokashian said through a forced half smile, “you don’t have to worry about me. Honest... I was just about to...”

  He was interrupted by an index finger placed to Elmo’s lips. “You’ll speak when I tell you to,” said Elmo. “That goes for both of you.” Now he leaned forward, as if for

  emphasis. “So, these are your current personal situations as I see them. Mr. Bokashian, you owe me $61,500 and it was due two days ago. Now, I in turn owe this money to my boss. And I’m in trouble because I’m two days late.”

  Elmo then turned his attention to a nervous Louis Corazano. “And Mr. Corazano, some associates of yours hired me to look after you. They say you owe them a lot of money, and I’m told you missed a very important appointment with them this morning. And now your car is packed like you’re going on a trip. This concerns me because I gave my word to these gentlemen that I’d keep an eye on you. Running out on them is like running out on me. You understand?”

  Corazano sat mute.

  Elmo’s eyes met Corazano’s, then Bokashian’s. “Now here’s what we’re going to do. I’m told that each of you was packing quite a bundle of cash when my associates invited you to this meeting.” Elmo snapped his fingers and one of his men handed him a small piece of paper.

  “Let’s see,” Elmo continued, “Mr. Bokashian, you have in your possession $500,000 plus a couple bucks in change.” Even Louis Corazano raised an appreciative eye at this. “And Mr. Corazano, you had nearly $315,000 in your possession. Now, subtracting money’s owed, fees to be collected, interest accrued...and,” he now swept a hand in front of both Bokashian and Corazano, “my personal fee for the inconveniences and concerns you’ve cost me...that leaves you, Mr. Bokashian, as a ‘finder’s fee,’ exactly $50,000. And you, Mr. Corazano, that leaves you exactly nothing. Now see, I told you it wouldn’t take long. This meeting is over.”

  “Now, wait a second!” said a dumbfounded Carl Bokashian. “That’s my money... you can’t... only $60,000 is yours. I was on my way here to pay up. Elmo... that’s the truth.” He spread his hands palms-up before him, pleading.

  Elmo: “It was your money.”

  Bokashian: “Come on, Elmo... you can’t do this. You got to believe me... I wasn’t running out on you. Honest. Take the sixty grand... take more...”

  Elmo: “I already told you what I’ll take.”

  Bokashian, pleading: “Elmo, please...”

  Elmo: “Enough! You’re lucky you’re still able to walk out of here.” He glared at Bokashian. “But I could change that.”

  Bokashian pleaded now with a mournful stare while Elmo turned his attention to Corazano.

  Corazano: “You say you were hired to keep an eye on me. Then how about letting me hire you, too? How about letting me outbid those other guys?”

  Elmo: “You can’t. You don’t have any more money. Besides, they’ll be by shortly
... which means money is the least of your concerns. Part of the deal is that I hand you over to them.”

  A now frantic Corazano: “No... you can’t give me to them. Listen... I can get more money. Lots more. What do you care about those guys... I’ll double their fee...”

  Corazano’s plea trailed off as Elmo turned and walked to the table, nodding as he did so to his associates. At that, Corazano and Bokashian were ushered out through the room’s side door. Both, nearly in unison, pleading, “Elmo... no...”

  As the door closed, Elmo began counting his bounty, separating Corazano’s money into a pile of $180,000 for Corazano’s ex-partners, their “discounted” share of the stolen bank deposits, and a pile of $134,800 for Elmo’s boss. Then he added Bokashian’s $450,000 to the $134,800 pile. Elmo had already pocketed an extra $5,000 from Corazano’s ex-partners, and he was now due a nice payday from his boss, a hefty percentage of the take.

  As was the routine on Fridays, Elmo packaged all cash on hand into three large cloth bags. A fourth bag contained “creative” cash register receipts. The organization Elmo worked for owned several Chicago-area businesses... a few pizza shops, a bakery, several magazine stands, a barber shop, an auto service center, a couple dry cleaners... all mostly cash businesses, perfect for laundering “found” money into “legitimate” bank accounts. And it turned out that these businesses had been astronomically successful that past week. In fact, they grossed more than half a million dollars above their projected expectations, something that would now be spread over the next few months.

  The cash and receipts were to be picked up by four associates of Elmo’s boss, Louie “The Nap” Portello, and then transported back to Portello’s office. Elmo was to stop by at noon on Saturday to receive his cut. This Saturday would bring a cool $70,700, including his regular weekly “salary.” Elmo nearly smiled.

  Within fifteen minutes, the four “associates” arrived, took possession of the bags, and departed. They would go directly to Portello’s office where the money would be counted, the receipts checked, and the cash added to the other liquid funds that had come from various other collections. At 4:00 p.m., armed guards from a well-known and legitimate security firm would pick up the money, all neatly stacked, banded, and secured inside several bank deposit bags. By 5:00, the money would be delivered to a local branch office of Illinois Northern Bank where it would be locked in their vault until it was counted on Monday morning.

  * * *

  Carl Bokashian had fled immediately after the meeting with Handsome Elmo. But not far. He’d left Chicago Friday night, but traveled only to the Marquis Motel in Chesterville, still in Cook County. He needed time to think: what was he going to do now that he was on the run and had only $95,000 in his possession? He spent the rest of the weekend mulling this over, coming to the eventual decision that $95,000 was still enough to buy a new identity and set himself up modestly in, say, Phoenix or Tucson. He could start a small business, perhaps, or find a going business to invest in. The future might be fairly rosy after all...and at least he’d be free of his alimony, his mortgage, and his other obligations.

  Checkout time at the motel was 12:15, and it already was noon. He switched on the TV while packing, selecting items from the closet as a preview of the noon news came on. One item was about a major bust in organized crime. Another item concerned the discovery of a dead body. Bokashian put down a pair of neatly folded gray slacks and walked over to stand in front of the TV as the news began.

  According to Chett George, Channel 7's news anchor: “Events in the organized crime bust began to unfold this morning during a routine counting of the weekend’s receipts at a Chicago-area bank. When bank employees opened one of the deposit bags, they discovered hundreds of thousands of dollars in bills that were stained bright red... the same red staining sometimes seen on money used by law enforcement in sting operations, drug buys, or ransom payments.”

  Chett momentarily glanced downward, then raised his eyes to again address the camera: “The stained money came from deposits made late Friday afternoon by several businesses owned by Louis Portello, also known as Louie The Nap. During the serving of a search warrant early this afternoon, police were said to have uncovered potential evidence in, as one spokesperson put it, ‘a whole range of criminal activities.’ The FBI and the IRS were expected to join the investigation, which could have a major impact on one of Chicago’s most notorious crime families.”

  Chett paused for a moment, signaling a break between news items, then he cleared his throat and continued: “And in another breaking story, just minutes before air time, the body of Louis Corazano was found in a South Chicago vacant lot. According to authorities, it was an obvious homicide. They gave no further details, except to say that Corazano had a lengthy criminal record.”

  As Bokashian listened to the broadcast, he eyed the suitcase containing his remaining $95,000, including the $50,000 “returned” to him by Handsome Elmo. Bokashian paused for a moment, then reached for the suitcase, almost reluctant to look inside. He flipped open the two latches, then lifted the top and burrowed into the contents, discovering a predominating bright red. More than half his “traveling money” was now worthless.

  Just then a knock came at the door, startling Bokashian. “Who’s there?” he asked hesitantly, fearing the possible response.

  “It’s the maid,” came the answer. “It’s checkout time, sir.”

  “Yes... I’m just leaving,” he said loudly in the door’s direction.

  Bokashian momentarily turned his attention back to the TV before switching it off and hurriedly grabbing his two suitcases. He then marched to the door and opened it. And there, standing in front of the maid, were two Chicago police officers. Bokashian’s destination had been changed.

  Also available in the collection

  Fear of Frying and other short stories

  William "Biff" Olson is a Virginia-based freelance writer and editor who has plied his trade on both coasts. He's also an inveterate story teller and a prolific producer of long and short fiction. He was born in Schenectady, NY, a fact of which he is almost as proud as his life-long enthusiasm for the many sports successes of his alma mater, Syracuse University.

  Also available from Biff Olson:

  The Ahhh

  Listening for Blue Fog

  Fear of Frying and other short stories

  http://www.hukilau.us/

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Double Exit

  About the Author