Walking Money

by James O. Born

  His final move was to cut through an Office Depot lot, then squirt into traffic over a curb. In less than a minute, he was eastbound toward the city without anyone in the federal government knowing where he was or where he was heading.

  DRIVING down Seventh Avenue near Fifty-fourth Street, Tasker felt as if everyone on the street had their eyes on him, a white guy in a nice car. They thought he was either looking for a prostitute, buying crack or lost coming from the Miami Heat Arena. He kept his hand on his gun as he scanned the area for trouble. He was a victim of the media portrayal of the area. Sometimes he had to remind himself that most people just live here and don’t want any trouble. He relaxed now, focusing on the individuals, trying to get an idea if Cedric Brown, known on the street as “Spill,” was anywhere in sight.

  Tasker saw a thin, dark-skinned guy leaning against a bus stop, drinking a Coke from a McDonald’s cup about a block from the Church’s Fried Chicken. He eased the Jeep into the slot where the buses stopped to pick up passengers. The man gave him an uninterested look. His half-opened eyes barely raised to meet Tasker’s.

  “Whatcha need?” mumbled the man.

  Tasker appraised him for a second.

  The man came off the bus stop and said, “I got twenties and fifties. I’ll make a deal for anything over a hundred.” His eyes cut in both directions.

  Tasker realized what he was talking about and said,

  “You Spill?”

  “I spill what?”

  “Are you Cedric Brown?”

  The man dropped his Coke and took off in an instant sprint west across a parking lot away from the street.

  “Shit,” Tasker muttered, throwing the Jeep back into gear and bumping over the curb in pursuit. He never minded car chases when it was a state car he was tearing up, but he didn’t like the sound of his undercarriage scraping the curb. Tasker knew these streets from surveillances and dope deals in the area. He drove a block past where he’d seen the man, pulled down the street and hopped out. He crept next to a walking trail that ran from Seventh to Twelfth Avenue. As he came to the trail, he saw the man slowing to a trot and looking behind him to see if anyone was following.

  Tasker stepped up and shoved the man off his feet while he wasn’t looking and said, “Don’t run again, shithead. I’m not looking to bust you for sales. I just need to ask you a question.”

  The man looked up at Tasker, no longer uninterested, and asked, “Why you want to talk to me?”

  “You’re Cedric, aren’t you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Cut the shit. I’m not interested in what you do, only what you saw.”

  “I’m not Spill. He four or five inches smaller than me and he don’t dress this nice.”

  “Then why’d you run?”

  “You the police, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, that’s my job.”

  “And it’s my job to run from the police.”

  Tasker bent down and helped the man up. “You seen Spill around tonight?”

  The man nodded, looking at Tasker as he came to his feet.

  “What’s he wearing?”

  The man shrugged. “He probably got on some Black Power shirt. That’s all he ever wear.”

  “You drive around with me and point him out for ten bucks?”

  “What about twenty?”

  “Okay.”

  “And a Church’s dinner.”

  “Okay.”

  “And a pass the next time I get picked up for selling.”

  Tasker looked hard at him. “You got your pass tonight.”

  The man smiled. “You right.”

  As they were starting to turn toward the Jeep, a figure came strolling down the path. The small man, about thirty-five, sipping a Schlitz beer, stopped and looked at them.

  Tasker’s assistant said, “Shit.”

  The new guy spilled his beer; Tasker smiled, handing his assistant a twenty. “That’s for the thought.”

  Tasker realized that Spill had talked to him the day he’d gone to the bank to ask about the robbery. He looked at Cedric Brown’s wet T-shirt that read “Black Panthers are endangered, too,” and said, “C’mon, Spill, we gotta talk.”

  TOM Dooley drove his roughly patched-up Buick Century slowly down the street where Tina Wiggins’s apartment building stood. He’d taped over the three bullet holes Hodges had put in his trunk and paid two-twenty-five to have the glass replaced. No way he was gonna tell the Bureau about this. The car now rattled and wind blew through it no matter what speed he went.

  As he looked down at the paper with her address, he nearly drove off the road to avoid a Chevy Monte Carlo. Before he could curse, he realized his luck. Tina Wiggins was oblivious to him as she cut through the neighborhood toward the main road.

  He had to make a snap decision and decided to pull another page out of Cole Hodges’s playbook. The slick lawyer had definitely gotten his attention when he’d cornered Dooley near the ball fields. Dooley didn’t want to waste any more time. He’d have this little bitch take him back to the money and then thank him for not killing her. Once she saw the gun, he knew she’d fold like a cheap lawn chair.

  Dooley waited until she stopped at a four-way stop away from the traffic on Ives Dairy Road, then hit the gas, slamming into her with a pretty good thump. He saw her head snap, then twist to see what had happened. He already had his pistol up so she could see it, giving her a minute to realize what was going on. As he aimed, he flinched at the sound of his own windshield shattering. The pings of the rounds from Tina’s automatic sounded like a fast Latin beat. He threw his car in reverse and hit the gas, seeing for the first time the female FDLE agent holding her big Beretta nine-millimeter in both hands, shooting over her seat. She hadn’t even hesitated to blow out her back window and then destroy his brand-new windshield. She kept up the fire until Dooley had taken the corner in reverse. As soon as he swung the car around and stopped, he took a couple of panting breaths and surveyed his car. It had ten new bullet holes and the right mirror had been blown off. He felt the sweat pour from his forehead and wiped it off, noticing the blood from all the flying glass embedded in his face.

  He checked his face in the mirror. “Shit!” he said out loud.

  Then, without warning Tina’s Monte Carlo whipped around the corner, tires squealing, and bore down on him.

  Dooley threw the car into drive, even though he was facing her, and hit the gas. Swerving hard, he rolled through a front yard as Tina passed by, popping off a couple more shots as she approached. Dooley lost the rear driver’s window to that barrage.

  He laid on the gas and fled toward Ives Dairy Road before that crazy bitch came back.

  SLAYDA “Mac” Nmir lay half asleep, going over all the facts in the case. David Letterman talked quietly on a small TV across from his comfortable bed. The facts of the case said Bill Tasker had committed the robbery and stashed at least part of the cash at his Kendall town house. But Mac’s instincts told him this guy wasn’t a thief, much less a killer. This was difficult reasoning for a person with a degree in engineering who looked only at facts and figures. He found it hard to ignore those facts and go with his feelings. He went through it all again and then was zapped out of his dozing by a pounding on his front door. He stopped long enough to put on the safety chain before opening the door.

  The door caught on the four-inch chain and he peered through, speechless for a second. “How did you get this address?”

  Bill Tasker smiled and said, “I still got friends.”

  “How’d you get past the gate?” Mac asked, still secure behind the door.

  “There’s no gate,” Tasker said, then added, “anymore.” Tasker stepped back from the door. “Listen, I just need to talk to you.”

  Mac relaxed a little. “So what’s this all about?”

  “About getting me off the hook. You know I didn’t have anything to do with that robbery or murder.”

  “Explain the money in your grill.”

  “We can go
round and round or you can come out to my Jeep and meet someone. In fact, I wouldn’t mind bringing him to you because so far he’s ruined my Jeep’s interior.”

  “Who is it?” Mac tried to look past Tasker but couldn’t see anyone.

  “Come and see for yourself.”

  Mac thought it over and figured if this guy wanted him dead, he could’ve shot through the door. “Okay, I’ll tell you what. Give me a few minutes to get myself together and I’ll meet you over at the park in front of my complex. The kids playing late basketball will be my insurance against any funny business.”

  Tasker smiled and said, “You watch too much TV.”

  DERRICK Sutter had plans. No one knew what they were, maybe not even himself, but he had plans. He sat at his kitchen counter in his small Miami Beach apartment that looked over one of the old diners that was now considered a new cafe and tripled its prices, writing down a few notes on what his story would be once the FBI rounded up all the players in this drama he’d bought into. He knew someone was going down, mainly because he couldn’t let a guy like Bill Tasker take the fall for something he had no part of. No matter who went—Dooley, Tina Wiggins—they would talk and someone would mention his name. He knew the score. No one stood tall for too long. Right now he could just deny, but sooner or later someone would look for the cash. He knew it was safe for now, but that wouldn’t last long either.

  He wrote out a scenario on how he could help Tasker and not incriminate himself, then tore up the paper when he saw a flaw. He did this twice more, then cursed and threw the pad across the room. His line of shit would carry him when the time came because he had the goal and the ball and all he needed was a little interference.

  TASKER had sat quietly listening while Mac Nmir went through some stock questions with Cedric Brown, known to the residents of Liberty City as Spill. During the interview, Spill had managed to splash coffee on both himself and Mac. He’d been reluctant to go into detail with the FBI man at first, but, like he had when Tasker questioned him, he opened up.

  Mac asked again, “You certain that when you said you saw a cop in front of the bank, it wasn’t Agent Tasker?”

  Spill nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Why didn’t you say that when we first interviewed you?”

  “You didn’t ax me about him.”

  “But you said all cops look alike to you.”

  “Yeah, but not that much alike. The other guy was fat and old.”

  Mac paused, making a note.

  Tasker cut in. “Sound like anyone we know?”

  Mac looked up at him. “Be careful there, you’re inferring that a federal agent was involved in these crimes.”

  Inside, Tasker had been maintaining his composure. His nerves were shot. He looked at Mac Nmir and said, “You can’t...” Before he could finish his thoughts, he balled his fist and threw it into Mac’s stomach, knocking him backward and then onto the ground.

  Mac gasped for air a second, then scrambled to his knee in case there was going to be a follow-up attack. He looked confused as he realized that Tasker hadn’t moved.

  Tasker went on. “Stay over there in case I can’t control myself again. You seem like an okay guy, but this pompous attitude that the FBI is king has got to stop. Have you ever looked around your office?”

  Mac nodded cautiously.

  “You got a lot of good people, but you’ve got your share of slugs, too. You were awful quick to assume I was a crook, but you can’t think the same of Dooley? Give me a break.”

  Mac finally got enough air to speak. “But you had a track record.”

  “That’s a long story and really none of your business. Now the question is, if you thought this witness was credible enough to investigate me, he must be credible enough to look at Dooley. Christ, Mac, I’m not even saying arrest him, just check out this story and see what he held in evidence, see about his finances, do something, don’t just say it’s impossible.”

  Mac stared at him, then looked over to a clearly overwhelmed Spill, trying to distance himself from this whole situation. Mac raised his hands in front of him. “Okay, Tasker. I’ll admit I see your point. I’ll poke around, but without letting the Bureau know until I turn up something.”

  “We’ll talk to Sutter together.”

  Mac said, “I don’t know.”

  Tasker leaned forward. “I do.”

  Mac shrugged his acceptance.

  Tasker realized that not only did he feel better, he liked being rude. It was fun. Suddenly he understood South Florida much better.

  TINA Wiggins paced next to the service counter of Artie’s Auto Glass as Artie wrote up an estimate for her blown-out rear window. She dialed her cell phone for the fourth time and squeezed the end button in frustration when there was no answer. Ever since that asshole FBI agent had tried to ambush her, nothing had gone right. She had fought with her sister over Derrick Sutter’s true nature, searched fruitlessly for him and was now wasting time having this moron replace her window. She looked up when Artie cleared his massive throat.

  The wildly obese man smiled, wiping the sweat from his upper lip. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll do the whole thing for one-seventy-five. That’s less than the other cop paid. You guys must be going through some glass.”

  Tina leaned in. “What other cop?”

  “Didn’t get his name. He waited just like you, but it was a white Buick. He come in twice. Once for windshield and rear window and then just this morning I replaced them both again. Said it was kids in the neighborhood fuckin’ with him.”

  Tina forced a smile. “Yeah, me too. They never quit.”

  “That’s for sure. I got a couple of teenagers. You know what? They—”

  Tina cut in. “Can you tell me after you put in the glass, I’m in a hurry.”

  “Sure, doll, anything you want.”

  As he walked past, her thin but muscular arm reached out and grabbed his shoulder, twisting him toward her. “And if you call me ‘doll’ again, you’ll have a personal rear-window problem.”

  The guy knew better than to answer back.

  She walked out the bay garage door and punched in the number she’d been trying. This time she got a “Hello.”

  Tina said, “Do you know who this is?”

  The voice said, “I can’t talk. Give me a number and I’ll call you in two minutes.”

  Tina gave in and waited, still pacing from one end of the short lot to the other, occasionally looking in at her car where Artie and three other guys were busy pushing in foam rubber around the newly seated window. The phone rang in her hand and she answered it immediately.

  “Yeah,” she said, walking away from the garage.

  “What did you want?” came the voice.

  “C’mon, Sutter, you know why I’m calling.”

  “No, tell me.” Derrick Sutter’s voice was broken over the cell phone but clear enough.

  “We have issues, Sutter. You took something that belongs to my family, and you broke my little sister’s heart.”

  “I’m sorry about your sister, but I didn’t take anything of yours.”

  Tina hesitated as she kept walking. “Okay, be that way, but we need to talk. Pick some place away from your office. I don’t want an encounter with that fat son of a bitch Dooley.”

  Sutter paused so long she thought the line had gone dead, then his voice filled the receiver again. “Okay, okay. I’ll meet you, but I don’t have anything that’s yours.”

  “Whatever,” said Tina. Then, “Where?”

  “How ’bout tonight, around six.” He paused again, then said, “Make that seven. Seven at the north end of the Aventura Mall.”

  “I’ll be there, but you better be serious. This could get ugly.”

  “I’ll be there, but I still don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

  She hung up rather than saying what she thought and pissing him out of meeting her. She needed him within grabbing range and he needed to understand the value of a partner.
/>   BILL Tasker sat with Mac Nmir in the conference room of the robbery task force, still in shock that Derrick Sutter was on the phone talking to Tasker’s ex-girlfriend about her role in a bank robbery. Both Tasker and Mac had been skeptical when Sutter laid out his whole theory on Dooley and the money and how Tina and her sister had it now. Then, out of the blue, Tina had called. The vice cop mentality in Sutter thought fast enough for him to put off the call for a minute or two to set up a recorder and let the other two men sit in on the call. Tasker could only shake his head. He now understood some of Tina’s questions and the timing of her breakup with him.

  As Sutter hung up, he looked at Mac. “Now do you believe me, Mr. FBI?”

  Mac nodded. “I would say this adds credibility to your statement. But we still don’t have the money. Where is it?”

  Sutter shrugged. “Maybe Dooley figured it out and got it back. Maybe he has partners. Shit, who knows? We’ll have a better idea tonight.”

  Tasker finally composed himself enough to speak up. “Maybe it’s a mix-up, a misunderstanding?”

  Mac looked at him. “Is that what it looks like to you? Not to me.”

  “You were wrong at least once before.”

  “What do you want, Tasker? You want off the hook or not? Someone has the cash and whoever does can tell us how they got it. We got about seven hours to try and track down Dooley and get a better idea of what’s going on. You with me?”

  Tasker thought about how he’d been wrong about Hodges, then looked at Nmir and Sutter. He nodded, starting to feel the effects of being up all night and the shock of learning Tina was involved.