Walking Money

by James O. Born

  They watched quietly until, without notice, Bill Tasker’s face appeared behind the news anchor. The announcer started, “And now the story of a cop who may have used the riot as a shield for his own crime. Here’s Olga Vasquez with the story.”

  Tasker sprang to his feet, almost knocking Tina to the floor. “What’s this bullshit?”

  Tina shushed him. “Let’s listen.”

  A thin, attractive Latin woman with a long, pointed nose, wearing a short red skirt, standing in front of the Miami FDLE office, started the report.

  “Rick, tonight officials from the Florida Department of Law Enforcement are not talking about one of their own who is currently under investigation by the FBI for the robbery of an Overtown bank and the murder of its manager.”

  Tasker squirmed through the details, but was relieved no one from FDLE would come on camera. The FBI spokesman confirmed an investigation, but that was it. He breathed a little easier until the end of the report.

  The young reporter continued, “Special Agent Tasker has only one significant incident in his personnel file, which involved the death of another agent but, officials said, was not related to the current allegations.”

  “I think I’m gonna be sick,” said Tasker.

  The reporter continued, “Although FDLE has refused comment, a source within the FBI has indicated that an indictment and arrest are imminent and that evidence exists suggesting that Special Agent Tasker had planned the robbery for weeks prior to the riot.”

  The phone rang, jolting Tasker out of his trance. “Hello,” he answered sharply. After a pause, he asked, “How’d you get this number?” Then, “No, I have no comment.” Tasker slammed down the phone as the TV report concluded.

  Tina asked, “Who was that?”

  “Miami Herald.”

  “Relax, baby. They never get it right. It’ll all blow over.”

  Tasker sighed. “Why me?”

  “Billy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you help me?”

  Tasker remained monotone, asking, “How?”

  “Need a loan, that’s all. I’m used to a certain lifestyle.” She smiled, obviously trying to diffuse things.

  “So am I, and it doesn’t include sodomy from some lifer at Marion.”

  Tina laughed, then said, “Let’s go out to eat instead of eating here.”

  “I already started cooking. Why do you want to leave?”

  “I don’t want to be seen here.” She giggled at his stare. “And your spaghetti sauce smells like it burned.”

  TOM Dooley sat in his Buick three houses down the street from Tasker’s town house and settled in for his chance. He was pleased, no, proud, of his execution of a well-laid plan. Talking to that news babe Olga was just about the sharpest thing he’d ever done. She was so into being a “journalist,” even working for that shitty station, she’d never give up her source in the FBI. Now that she’d reported Tasker’s story, the Bureau would do whatever was necessary to bury him. The pressure on Slayda “Mac” Nmir would already be enormous. The fucking cock-sucking, ass-kissing special agent in charge probably blew a gasket when he heard that story. Now they had to make the case or drop the allegation, and the FBI didn’t like to admit it was ever wrong.

  Dooley chuckled at the whole situation as he patted the satchel on the seat next to him. He’d decided to find a new place to hide the cash after he put the nail in Tasker’s coffin. Dooley reached in and pulled out several stacks of cash wrapped in Miami Herald newspaper with a rubber band holding it all securely. He opened the ends and counted the five separate bundles. He was holding about sixty grand. Each bundle had different denominations and varied in thickness. He tossed in the two biggest bundles, leaving about ten large in his lap.

  Dooley turned his attention back to the house just in time to see Tasker and a knockout babe with long brown hair hop into a Jeep Cherokee and zip down the street. This was his chance. His heart skipped up to a steady, fast rhythm as he realized he still had a few holes in his brilliant plan. Where should he hide the cash? It had to look natural, like a little stash in case of trouble. He had to make it hard for Tasker to find before the FBI came to look for it. He had to get into the house without leaving any trace or suspicion that the house had been entered. Fuck! He hadn’t thought through this plan to the end.

  His eyes searched the street in both directions. All clear. Taking the cash, he slipped out of the small car, careful not to slam the door. He quick-stepped past a couple of nice but small houses, and a BMW parked in front, looking all around, feeling his head rotate like something out of The Exorcist. In a few seconds, he was past the first door into the town house and to the covered patio of Tasker’s unit. The courtyard was screened with a view of several other town homes, each with four units.

  Dooley stopped, breathing hard, his blood pounding in his ears, looking around the screened room. He tried the front door, then the sliding glass door. “Didn’t fucking think so,” he said to himself quietly. He could try the windows, but that would open him up to view from the neighbors and look damn suspicious. What could he do?

  Then he saw it. The perfect spot. The guy was already eating tonight, and with any luck Tasker would eat tomorrow’s dinner in stir. The gas grill on the porch was perfect. He thought, Okay, Tommy Boy, just toss the cash in there and get the info to the FBI somehow. He opened the lid to the grill.

  COLE Hodges had decided he really didn’t need the heat from killing an FBI agent but he did want this fucker to pay. After following the fat bum all the way out here to Kendall, curiosity had kept Hodges from taking action. He had to know what this motherfucker was up to.

  First, the guy had had dinner with the news reporter, then cruised to a house in South Miami, probably his own, and now he was doing some kind of surveillance in Kendall. No way it was official. Hodges had never heard of an FBI agent working alone. This guy Dooley had to be working some kind of scam.

  Sitting way down the street, Hodges could see Dooley move inside the car, then, after a Jeep pulled out, the fat man hopped out and fast-walked to a house. Hodges went ahead and started up the street in his gold Lincoln. He looked for any sign of Dooley and then, when he pulled next to Dooley’s vehicle, he leaned over and took a look inside. He froze. The satchel was sitting on the front passenger seat all by itself. It couldn’t be, he thought. What had he done to make God love him so much?

  Hodges jumped out of the car and bounded to the Buick. Locked, but Hodges had defended car thieves before and whipped out a buck knife with a four-inch blade. With a quick thrust under the lock and a few twists, the door popped open and he grabbed the satchel. He scanned the surrounding houses quickly to see if anyone had noticed, then looked to see if Dooley was hightailing it back to his car. All clear. Hodges gave the rest of the car a quick once-over and then locked the door and closed it. The gash where he had used the knife was clearly visible.

  Back in his car, he checked the satchel again and decided most of the cash was still there. Hodges said out loud, “Thank you, Mr. FBI.” It would’ve been a chore to track down the good reverend after he left that day. That’s why he’d had Ebbi Kyle try to follow him. He hoped Dooley had dealt with Al Watson the way he deserved. Now the question was: Should he drive away and let the FBI man wonder what had happened, or should he get some satisfaction and let the man know he’d taken back what was his? The smart move was to leave.

  As he sat there, the question answered itself as Dooley came lumbering out to the road. Hodges saw his head snap and his pace pick up as Hodges slowly pressed the accelerator, his electric window whirring down, a grin spreading over his face as he saw the recognition in Dooley’s eyes.

  Hodges said, “That’s right. I got it now. ’Preciate you picking it up for me. Now you don’t tell on me and I won’t tell on you.”

  Hodges hit the gas as Dooley broke into an all out run for the Buick. Hodges cackled, knowing he’d be halfway to Liberty City before the dumbass got that little-piece-of-shi
t car rolling. He made a quick calculation on how long it would take him to leave town and how hidden he could stay. It didn’t really matter because Dooley was obviously working alone and was an FBI agent, not a Miami cop. He’d never find Hodges unless Hodges wanted to be found. The CCR attorney sped up and turned onto the main road and good times.

  ELEVEN

  BILL Tasker lay across his bed, still dressed in his shirt from the night before, with the sheets twisted in a ball next to him. The TV, showing the morning newscast, had the volume turned down. A crack of sunlight penetrated the heavy curtain drawn across the sliding glass door. Sweat soaked the sheets and hung in the air. The sound of a Weedwacker strummed through the closed doors and mixed with the central air unit laboring against the South Florida morning sun. His head had a beat of constant pain, reminding him not to question a street gang alone again.

  Tasker rolled over and saw 8:05 on his alarm clock. “Oh shit,” he yelped, springing upright. Then, remembering he had no job to go to, he relaxed, flopped back down on the wet sheets.

  He didn’t even have to check in by phone. The director had told him it was bullshit, and it was okay as long as he wasn’t getting into any trouble. Tasker figured getting beaten wasn’t really trouble, it was more like punishment. Staring up at the ceiling, he cursed the fact that he hadn’t slept two hours the whole night, and it wasn’t because of Tina. She had made a polite exit around eleven, saying he shouldn’t aggravate his injuries. She was a fun date, but, man, she could spend. He’d gone through a couple hundred bucks between dinner and drinks. That was cash he should’ve been saving in case he was suspended without pay. Right now his bosses were backing him, but after the news report the night before he didn’t know how long that support would last.

  As he thought about the news report, he noticed the same reporter on his silent TV. Finding the remote in the tangle of sheets, he clicked up the sound. Instantly he realized it was a repeat of the same story.

  “Great,” Tasker sighed, surveying the wreckage of his bed. “I can’t live like this,” he said, shaking his head. He realized he could be buried by these charges if he didn’t take action. He just wanted to lay out his actions to a reasonable person so they’d see he had nothing to do with the robbery. Who should he talk to? His bosses? They were already on his side. The FBI? They were the ones after him. Dooley? He’d obviously told the Bureau he thought Tasker had knocked over the bank. He had to do something and do it fast to straighten out this giant misunderstanding. He’d learned in West Palm that just letting things ride wasn’t the answer. He’d waited out that mess and it had ruined his life.

  He spent an hour cleaning up his town house as he ran through his arguments in his head. Then he said out loud, “I’ve been interested in all types of robberies, not just banks.” His big argument was an alibi. He could account for all his time the day of the robbery. The problem was that no one had seen him. Traffic had been at a standstill. It didn’t matter—unless he spoke up, he was screwed. He had considered a lawyer but never had had any luck with them. He figured an attorney wasn’t needed until he got charged. He had nothing to hide. How many times had he heard crooks say that?

  He needed to talk to Tina. Picking up his portable phone, he strolled out onto his patio. The air was clean but warm. He tried her cell but got no answer. He tried her direct line at work but got put through to the operator. He heard a female voice say, “Florida Department of Law Enforcement, may I help you?” He clicked the off button and slammed the phone onto the lid of the grill.

  “C’mon. I need a break.” He took in a deep breath and realized he hadn’t eaten yet and it was after ten. Maybe that was the problem, he was hungry. He needed food to get his brain working. He needed a clear investigative goal. Pancakes sounded pretty good, with bacon, but it was a little late. Maybe a sandwich? He looked at the grill. He hadn’t used it since his daughters had visited a month ago. A hamburger would hit the spot.

  He opened the patio gate to the front and grabbed the Miami Herald sitting by his front door. Heading inside with the paper under his arm, he looked for the grill lighter. When he tossed the paper on the table, he saw one line of a smaller front-page article that made him freeze: FDLE Agent Suspected. He opened the paper and confirmed his worst fears. Just like last time, it was becoming a media frenzy.

  “Fuckin’ Sandersen!” he said out loud, as he threw the paper down. His eyes fell on the only thing that showed from the patio: the grill.

  TOM Dooley spent the morning in a panic. He’d locked himself in his den and told his wife to leave him the hell alone. He had to think. How had that fucking son-of-a-bitch collard-eating jig figured out where he was and that he had the money? Where had he gone? What was he going to do now? He didn’t like the feeling of not having all the answers. He’d spent his whole life knowing the score, and being left in the dark went against his nature.

  He jumped at a knock on the door and bounded to it, if only to scream at his wife for bothering him after he’d told her to stay away. As he was about to explode, the sight of his boy stopped him. At thirteen, Andy was as slight as his mother was broad.

  “Sorry, Dad, I need to ask you something,” the boy said, almost quaking in his huge, baggy bathing suit and saggy tank top. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he stared at his father.

  Dooley caught himself. This kid didn’t have a mean bone in his body, even if he was a mama’s boy. Dooley relaxed his grimace and spoke softly. “Whatchu need, Andy?”

  “I’m going to the movies and Mom said to see if you had any cash.”

  Dooley grunted a short laugh. “I’m a little short right now, son.” He dug in his pocket and looked at his money clip. He peeled off two tens. “How’s that?”

  The boy smiled. “Great. Thanks, Dad.”

  “No problem, pal. Hope to have more later.” Watching the teenager bounce down the hall, clutching the money tightly, he smiled, but only for a second.

  Dooley closed the door, refocusing on his problem. Maybe he should go back to Tasker’s house and retrieve the money from the grill. Ten grand was better than nothing. The thought of settling for a fraction of the one and a half million turned his stomach sour. He’d never have another clean chance at that much again.

  Then he seized on a bigger problem: That fucking asshole, Cole Hodges, knew everything. He was a witness who, if he wanted to, could cause all kinds of shit. No matter what Dooley did about the cash, he couldn’t leave Hodges around to blab. He just didn’t have the contacts to find the scumbag. The FBI never had a lot of informants on the streets because the agents relied on local cops helping when they were looking for someone. It never mattered who found a fugitive, because the Bureau’s media machine made sure they got the credit. Why not treat this like any other investigation and bring in a local? Dooley knew enough cops that he figured he could get one he could trust to find Hodges and the money. But who?

  Dooley sat down, concentrating on his mental Rolodex. He kept coming back to two cops. The two he most often worked with: Derrick Sutter and Rick Bema. Why not use the robbery task force to find a fucking robber? But which one?

  He leaned back, breathing deeply, picturing each man in his mind. He’d had problems with Sutter. He never really trusted those people and Sutter had more attitude than most. The Miami cop seemed to be friendly with Tasker and might not want to screw the guy, even for a pile of cash. That left Bema.

  The Dade County detective would have the contacts, still lived at home and was always bitching about money. He was a definite possibility, and if it didn’t work out, Dooley could always kill him, too.

  TASKER glanced at his watch and realized he’d been at his kitchen table for thirty minutes. If he had a gas oven, maybe he could solve his problem now. He blinked his eyes and an image of his daughters popped into his head. He had to do something. But what was his next step? He believed the Eighth Street Boyz when they said they didn’t do it. The beating they’d laid on him seemed pretty sincere. He still couldn’t beli
eve the FBI hadn’t even gone by their clubhouse and asked a few questions. The Eighth Street Boyz were the reason he’d first asked about surveillance on the bank. Were the Feds that focused on him? Mac Nmir didn’t impress him as such a bulldog that he’d ignore any other leads. Tasker figured it was up to him.

  If he were running the investigation, he’d obviously talk to the people at the bank. Since the Bureau would surely have been there, he’d have to be careful. He took a few minutes to clean up and dress, even put on a tie so he might be mistaken for a Fed. He backed out the Jeep and slowly started toward I-95. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but in Dade County, I-95 and the 826 would take you just about anywhere. He headed north toward the bank, realizing that if he got caught he could be charged with witness tampering or obstruction. It wasn’t like the movies, where it was romantic to clear your name. Here in Miami he could aggravate any problems he had. The FBI’s inattentiveness had pushed him to take some chances. If he didn’t find out who’d taken the cash, then he might find that, as a convenient target, he would end up taking the blame.

  The Alpha National Bank of Miami, Overtown branch, was the product of a lawsuit claiming the bank ignored the less fortunate neighborhoods. Obviously the Overtown branch held little in common with the main office downtown. The eight-car parking lot was empty as Tasker pulled in his Jeep. He quick-stepped right inside the small, dinged, peeling door. The tellers looked up, almost startled that a white man had walked in the door. A younger white woman in a professional suit motioned to him from behind the single desk in the corner marked “Loan Department.”

  Tasker turned toward her, welcoming her smile and blue eyes. She stood up, almost as tall as him, and offered her hand. He had to concentrate to look in her eyes.

  “Lilly Dane, may I help you?” she asked, her eyes running up and down Tasker like a scanner.