Walking Money

by James O. Born

  FOUR

  THE FDLE Special Operations Team huddled around a tiny TV screen, watching the court proceedings from the back of their van. The four-hour delay before the verdict was read had given the Miami Police Department parking lot time to become an absolute zoo. Uniformed cops searching for extra vests, commanders briefing small groups, detectives squeezing into old uniforms that no longer fit. It had taken Tasker the full four hours to drive out to his office, grab some gear out of the empty building, get some gas, then drive back to meet the rest of the team. The traffic reminded him of an African refugee flood, with lines and lines of cars flowing in the same direction. The verdict was about to be read and no one wanted to be at ground zero if the jury dropped a bombshell. The FDLE Special Operations van had been left at the Miami police station the night before just for this reason. That still meant each agent had to find his own way to the lot.

  As Tasker fumbled with a magazine to his AR-15 rifle and chatted with other agents, he noticed a small, courtly-looking sergeant walking toward him. Sergeant Walter “Deac” Kowal was a legend in the Overtown community. When others cracked heads, he turned the neighborhoods around with youth programs through the church where he was a deacon. The older black man smiled.

  Tasker said, “Hey, Deac.”

  The older uniformed cop said, “Billy, what happened to your eye?”

  Tasker said, “Athletic daughter.”

  Deac let it slide. “You still trying to work yourself to death?”

  “Just gettin’ by. What about you? Thought you were on your way out.”

  Deac nodded and said, “Supposed to be two more days, but I told ’em I’d put off retirement till things settle down. They want me talking to the folks. Calm ’em down.”

  “Not like Reverend Watson.”

  Deac shook his head. “He makes me sad more’n anything else. He could do so much with that CCR. But all he’s good for is speeches and lookin’ pretty.” The older man’s creased face looked up at the sound of a gunshot somewhere out in the city. “You know, I tried to take the CCR over once. Me and my church. We were gonna use it to fund some youth programs in Liberty City.”

  “What happened?” Tasker watched the light in the man’s eyes.

  “He sicced that back-stabbing attorney of his on me. Cole Hodges, you boys with the State should remember that name. He’s no good.”

  “Good luck, Deac,” Tasker said, turning to listen to his team commander. “Take extra care your last few days on the job.”

  “You too, Billy. Remember, you boys are here to restore order, not go on safari.”

  Tasker thought about the older man’s comment. It did seem like a lot of the cops were looking forward to trouble.

  TASKER focused on the tiny figures on the TV sitting at an angle on the dash of the step van. “Turn it up,” someone behind him shouted. When the judge asked for the verdict, the entire parking lot froze for a moment, making the little TV suddenly sound like an amplifier. On the screen, a fat man in a brown shirt stood up and started to read in a wavering voice, “We the jury find the defendant, Jesus Hernandez, as to count one, manslaughter...” Tasker could hear his heart beat in his ears. “Not guilty.” The cheers of the cops drowned out the “Not guilty” on count two, reckless endangerment.

  “Looks like we work tonight,” said the agent next to Tasker.

  The commander leaned out of the van. “Let’s move out. Things’ll be hot real soon.”

  As he started to jump into the van, Tasker felt a tug on his leg.

  “You look good in black,” Tina Wiggins said with a smile.

  “What do they have you doing?”

  She shrugged. “Intel with the squad and a few of the black agents from upstate.”

  “Out there?” He pointed past the ten-foot walls of the station. Like a fort from the old west.

  “The black agents are out in the community. I’m coordinating the info for the field forces here at the station.”

  Tasker said, as the van pulled away, “Wish I could stay with you.”

  “Me too,” Tina said, as the van turned onto the street.

  Tasker broke into a broad grin.

  THE Reverend Al Watson watched the exodus from his business office in the Brickell Avenue office building. He had his arm around a thin white boy about thirteen years old. “There is opportunity in this situation, Cole. After talking about showing our anger, no one is going to label me an Uncle Tom when I ask for calm.”

  Cole Hodges sat on a leather couch, glued to the big-screen TV. The only opportunity he wanted was an opportunity to grab the box before the Reverend Al did.

  The newscaster talked to a correspondent on Third Street. Crowds grew behind the casually dressed man. “What’s the situation, Jason?” asked the anchorman. “Well, Rick, the word that springs to mind is ‘tense,’” said the correspondent. The camera swept the area, showing a group starting to toss rocks and bottles at the police. A car ignited as some young men ran from it. The anchor came on screen again. “We’ll continue our coverage of ‘Miami Under Siege’ after these messages.” Hodges stood up to switch off the set, just catching a man in a plaid jacket saying, “At Big Tony’s Appliances, you can just walk in, anytime!”

  Hodges smiled. They’ll be walking in real soon, dumbass. “What d’you think, Cole? Should I speak from the scene or from City Hall?” He stroked the boy’s hair while looking at Hodges.

  “Definitely the street. But leave Scott at home.” He loved those little digs.

  Watson’s voice boomed. “I shall speak from the scene of the original shooting.” Then much quieter, “Where was that again, Cole, Fifth or Sixth?”

  “Third and Thirtieth.”

  “Whatever. I’ll head over there. You man the phones here. Call me on the cellular if you hear anything good.”

  “Later, Al.” Cole had a few plans of his own.

  TOM Dooley sat in the robbery task force office watching the court proceedings, but not following them. He concentrated on his best plan to liberate Cole Hodges’s money from the bank in Overtown. The TV showed the crowds in the ’hood getting nastier by the minute. No one would expect him to show up now. If questioned about his visit, he could point to the intelligence about the bank being hit during the riot. If he had to hurt the fat little manager, he could throw that off on the local wild men, too. Perfect. Now he just wanted to get there. The only other thing he needed was a scapegoat, and the rioters looked like they’d do nicely, unless someone better came along.

  Dooley jumped at the sound of a door slamming and loud voices. He heard Derrick Sutter say, “You don’t know shit. We stopped the Lozano riot. Metro-Dade didn’t do jack.”

  Then Rick Bema growled, “They kicked your ass. The county kept things from spreading west.” His thick accent made Dooley smile.

  Dooley looked up at them as they came in the room. “Well, if it isn’t Amos and Alejandro. Where are you boys headed all dressed up?”

  Bema, adjusting his heavy ballistic vest, didn’t look up but said clearly, “Kiss my ass, Tom.”

  “Ignore him, Bema,” Sutter said. He kept talking like Dooley wasn’t around. “Like I was sayin’, the city can handle the big shit. That’s why we’re the best.”

  Bema said, “We got better cops. Better training. Shit, we even got better cars than you guys.”

  “The county spends more money, but the city sees all the action. Without Miami, Dade County ain’t shit.”

  “Without Miami, Dade County is paradise.” He adjusted his gun belt, then Sutter helped him attach a face shield to his helmet.

  Dooley didn’t move from the large, padded swivel chair. “You boys are loaded for bear.”

  “We got work to do,” Bema said, still not looking at the pudgy FBI agent.

  Sutter held his Kevlar helmet under his arm. “What’s the FBI going to do if this turns bad and the city burns?”

  “Not a federal problem. I keep my usual routine till you get back.”

  Bema said
, “That mean you won’t do a fucking thing?”

  “You’d be surprised at what I’ll do.” Dooley grinned from ear to ear.

  “THAT was close,” an FDLE Special Operations agent said, reacting to an explosion a block or two away.

  Eight agents, dressed in black, waited in the back of their van for the fifty-man Miami police field force to move into the troubled areas.

  Tasker grew anxious, listening to the noise and watching the little TV. All the evidence convinced him that every minute they waited things would get further and further out of hand. They needed to move now. The Miami cops seemed content to mill around and casually get their gear in order. He’d been sitting in a thick, hot, bulletproof vest and black fatigues with an AR-15 strapped around his neck for an hour and these jerk-offs were just now getting off their asses. Then everyone turned toward the TV.

  “Quiet down, let’s listen up,” shouted the special ops commander. Jesus Hernandez came on-screen to make his first statement after his acquittal an hour before.

  Tasker squeezed in close to the set. Hernandez’s eyes were puffy. His loose tie hung from an unbuttoned collar. He held a small piece of paper as he stepped to the gigantic bank of microphones.

  Hernandez waited for the flashbulbs to subside, then slowly started to speak. “I wish to tank my freends and family who support me through this crises. My attorneys do a berry good job.”

  He sounds just like Rick Bema, thought Tasker.

  “They tell me to trust in the system, and I feel it was a fair trial.”

  One of the FDLE agents mocked him, “America been berry, berry good to me.”

  Hernandez put down the prepared statement. “Now I wish to say zomething else.”

  “Look out,” an agent in the van said.

  “I think the people who causing trouble in Miami should be shot like dogs. They nothsing but animals. They don respect the law or nothsing and I think is time to get tough with these thugs. I hope the mayor has the balls to do somesing this time and not let them burn down the city.” An arm from off camera grabbed Hernandez by the shoulder. “But I not finished,” he insisted. The arm tugged him offstage anyway. His lawyers restrained him from going back to the cameras.

  FIVE

  TOM Dooley cursed the new Bureau rental cars, small and efficient. He could barely squeeze his bulky frame into the new Buick Century’s narrow vinyl seats. His heart pounded as he considered the score he was about to make. With the city going to shit, now was the time to pay the Alpha National Bank in Overtown a visit. He had dreamed about how he’d take off a bank. Watching people get caught for the last fifteen years had taught him what mistakes to avoid. He knew it could be done. Knew! The hundreds of open bank robbery cases the Bureau had all across the country proved it could be done. Dooley always thought about a good disguise, maybe a biker with tattoos or a spook with shoe polish all over his face. The security cameras weren’t set up for too much detail, not in the smaller banks. The problem Dooley always faced was the size of the haul. After all the risk of a straight-up robbery, he’d only walk away with three, maybe four grand. If he were lucky, he’d be assigned to investigate the robbery himself. That would be a hoot. Of all his ideas, this riot presented him with his best chance. The big score. One shot to secure retirement, his son’s college and a little something left over. He stomped on the gas, not wanting to risk having the little fat manager close early, making him miss his chance for early retirement.

  The traffic moving away from Overtown filled both lanes of Dixie Highway going south. This was outrageous at two in the afternoon, even for Miami. This was America, or at least South Florida, not some backward African country with refugees flowing one way then the other. He breezed toward the old section of Miami until Tenth Street, where it looked like people were panicking and starting to flow into all four lanes, both southbound and northbound.

  Dooley yelped, “Oh shit,” and swerved hard into a pawnshop parking lot as the oncoming traffic grew to a flood. His stomach tightened as he realized he wouldn’t be at the bank for at least an hour. He pulled the car to the edge of the road and reached for the siren. Shit, they didn’t install them on all the cars anymore. He laid on the horn, trying to force his way back onto Dixie and to his retirement nest egg.

  LOUIS Kerpal, manager of the Alpha National Bank of Miami, Overtown branch, tried not to fidget as the last employee gathered her things to leave. Lilly Dane, the loan manager and assistant general manager, grabbed things off her desk she wouldn’t normally take home. Mementos, a calculator and some photos. Louis especially liked the photograph of her in Acapulco in a bikini before she had her boob job. People had to wonder when they saw the before picture and the after product sitting in front of them. He wondered how she stayed upright.

  “C’mon, Lilly, while it’s still clear.” He kept his voice calm.

  “I’m trying, Louie. I don’t want to lose anything if those animals get inside.” She scooped everything into her purse, stood and straightened her suit top. She was magnificent.

  He opened the door for her.

  “Aren’t you coming, too?” she asked, not slowing much.

  “No, I’ve gotta call the main office and then check the alarm.”

  She hesitated. “I’ll wait with you.”

  “No, don’t be silly. You need to get out of here before anything starts. I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  She didn’t need to hear that twice and started toward her car. “Please be careful, Louie.”

  He watched her hips sway as she hustled to her car. “I will, dear, don’t worry.” He waited until her blue Mustang cleared the lot and headed east toward Biscayne Boulevard, then locked the door and went to work.

  Louis Kerpal scurried around the empty bank, grabbing peeks of the outside to see how bad things were getting. Smoke poured from the building across the street and only a couple of cars now drove past the front of the bank. He had to be the last white man left in Overtown. He glanced at his plastic Timex, then out the front glass door. It seemed dark for three o’clock. This was the first time he had ever closed the bank early and he didn’t care that it wasn’t a holiday. The other reason he’d closed and sent everyone home was to be alone in the bank for a few minutes. Although he would have liked to be alone with Lilly Dane in the bank, inspecting the silicone additions she so proudly displayed, right now he needed complete privacy. He’d figured out a long time ago that embezzlers always got caught. But if he punched the right safe-deposit boxes, no one would say a word. A crook wouldn’t call the cops about being robbed. Besides, with any luck the bank would be looted during the riot and they’d never suspect him.

  After grabbing the master key and his personal spare, something he never mentioned to clients, Kerpal entered the safe-deposit-box room. When some of the dope dealers who liked this branch because it was inconspicuous came by to open a box account, Kerpal led them to the older section of boxes in the back. Unlike the rest, he could use the master key and his spare key to open any box. He’d never done it, but now it seemed like the best possible chance he’d ever have.

  He pulled out four boxes from the bottom row and lined them up on the table inside the room. He had grabbed them at random because they were easy to reach, but it was worth a try. He unlatched all four without looking in any of them, pausing to savor the anticipation. Then, one at a time, he flipped open the long lids.

  The first two had nothing but papers. He didn’t even look to see if they were bearer bonds. He wanted something more marketable. He looked in the third box and found something closer to his goal: nice antique jewelry. Nothing too fancy, but nice. He’d see what else he came up with before deciding whether or not to take it. The last box had more papers. Did everyone think their family papers were more important than anyone else’s? This was infuriating. With a new attitude, Kerpal checked his list and went after boxes that he knew didn’t just have papers.

  The first box was up high, over Kerpal’s five-five frame. He remembere
d the Cuban gentlemen dressed in white. They had visited the box only four or five times in the last year. He hoped they had cash because he wouldn’t have a clue what to do with cocaine. As he slid the box out, he could tell it wasn’t too heavy. Not a good sign unless it held jewelry.

  He ran his tongue over his dry, fat lips as he quivered with excitement. Placing the box on the table on top of the other four, he yanked it open like a kid with a birthday present and stared for a moment, then picked up the crucifix with a hook on the bottom for hanging upside down. Damn Santería. He looked at the only other thing in the box. A human finger. Looked like an index, sealed in plastic. No, thanks. He left it and, on an impulse, grabbed the CCR’s box. He knew it had cash but no idea how much. That slick attorney Cole Hodges always dropped in some cash on Thursdays, but he took some out, too. Maybe not the big win, but it’d be a start.

  After putting the heavy box on the rickety table with the other five and opening it, one word came to his mind, then he said it out loud as a grin spread across his wide face. “Jackpot.”

  He decided that it was enough cash, over a million, easily, that he didn’t need to hit any other boxes. Kerpal was so excited he couldn’t think straight. He dumped the whole box into a leather satchel that was also in the box and that looked like a big purse. The cash and a couple of letters, as well as a CCR patch and T-shirt, all fit into the roomy pouch. He decided to run it out to his car, come back and clean up and act like nothing had happened. If the bank got looted, fine; if not, Hodges wouldn’t admit he was skimming money from the till. He hefted the satchel, feeling the weight against his arm. Time to go.

  Kerpal hustled through the front door. The streets were quiet, but in the distance he could hear sirens. He set all the alarms and turned to check the door one last time. All secure.

  As he spun back around to head to his car, he found himself facing the barrel of a blue steel revolver. Then he heard the man behind the gun say, “Closing early today?”