“There’s maybe one thing you could do,” I said.
“Yeah? Cheat at bingo?”
“How would you like one more score?” I said.
“I’ve seen this movie,” he said, but, oh, there was a spark in his voice, so I played it out.
“Never mind, then,” I said. “Sam will call the feds, see what we can work out.”
“Let’s not be hasty,” Bruce said. “You haven’t even told me the score.”
I smiled. “That’s the super criminal we know and love,” I said. I waved Sam and Fi over.
“Finally,” Fiona said, this time loud enough that everyone could hear.
Sam sat down between Bruce and me on the sofa and handed him the laptop. “You recognize this?” he asked.
On the screen was a two-story house in what appeared to be a nice neighborhood. The lawn was cut. The windows had white shutters. In the driveway was a Volvo SUV. You could almost hear the sound of a gold dog barking and small, adorable children telling their J.Crew-model mother that they were bored.
Suburbia personified.
“Am I supposed to?” Bruce asked.
“It’s a stash house belonging to the Banshees,” Sam said.
“Nice taste,” I said. I looked at the address. It was a neighborhood only a few miles from my mother’s that was once just open fields but was now a housing development absurdly called Coconut Commons. Still, the homes were the kinds thirtysomethings imagined in their Pottery Barn dreams.
“The Banshees just know how to protect their interests,” Sam said.
Sam was probably correct. Houses in nice neighborhoods don’t get robbed as often as houses in bad neighborhoods and just because the Banshees were criminals, it appeared they at least read the newspaper more often than the Ghouls did. Pick up the Miami Herald on any given day and you’re more likely to see a home invasion robbery in the toughest parts of Liberty City or Miami Gardens than in the toniest areas of Key Biscayne.
“So you never cased this place?” Sam said.
“No,” Bruce said, “it doesn’t look familiar.”
“What’s inside?” I said.
“My buddy who did undercover? He says they have a couple houses like this all through Miami that they grow marijuana in.”
“In?” I said.
“Yeah,” Sam said, “they gut all the rooms and turn the entire place into a hydroponic farm. Maybe have two or three guys living in the place, tending to the crop.”
“What’s there to steal?” Bruce said.
“Finally,” Fiona said, “someone asks a good question.”
“Well, that’s the thing,” Sam said. “They don’t keep cash here, or if they do it’s just a small amount, and we don’t know if they’ve got a new crop that they are cutting and bagging, so could be that the worst case is that all there is to steal is a bunch of trees, which might be hard for Bruce to hustle out.”
“He wouldn’t be going alone,” I said.
“I dunno, Mikey,” Sam said. “You get caught walking out of that house holding a bunch of trees, that’s not something you can easily talk your way out of if the nosy neighbors get the law involved. Last thing you need is to get picked up by the police.”
“I can think of worse things,” I said.
“You don’t want to be locked in one place for too long,” Sam said.
“Well, that’s true,” I said. “Besides, I thought Fiona might enjoy this.”
“There is no ‘might,’” Fiona said. “I will enjoy this. Provided you don’t slow me down, Bruce.”
She gave him one of those looks that makes men do stupid things in hopes of seeing it again, maybe with fewer clothes involved. Bruce, naturally, had no chance with Fiona, but then very few people did.
I’d seen that look a few times. Never regretted the outcome. Too much, anyway.
“What if there is a new crop?” Bruce said.
“You don’t need to take all of it,” I said. “Just enough to make the Banshees angry.”
“How will they know who they are mad at?” he asked.
“I’ve got that worked out,” I said and told him what our plan was. All the Banshees would need to see was a single Ghoul patch left on the floor. No one had access to Ghoul colors but the Ghouls; or at least that was the case prior to Bruce Grossman’s booty. Fiona and Bruce would leave just enough evidence to point the Banshees in the right direction. And then we’d do the rest.
“What if this doesn’t work?” Bruce asked.
“That’s not a possibility,” I said.
“You can say that,” he said, “but you’ll pardon me for saying that I’ve never done a job with a partner before. You want me to break into the place without ever having seen it. I normally spend a few days, maybe a week, making sure I know every angle. How much time do we have for this?”
I looked at my watch. “None,” I said. “We case it now. Then we make our move.”
“I don’t get it,” he said. “How can you be sure the Banshees will be out of the house? And what about the neighbors? Have you thought any of this through?”
When you’re a spy, sometimes the best way to explain a complex plan is to lie. It saves everyone a lot of worrying and heartache.
“It’s all taken care of,” I said. “We’ve actually been planning this for months, Bruce. Really. Since long before you came on the scene.”
“Really?” he said. He looked to all of us and we all nodded.
Yes.
Sure.
Absolutely.
It didn’t matter, really. Bruce wanted to hear the positive responses because he wanted to do the job. The only thing that could dissuade him would be if I told him it was going to end with him in a body bag. Bruce was a good bank robber, but he wasn’t a “please go on without me, I’ll just die right here” kind of guy.
“Okay, then, I guess I’ll have to put my trust in you, Michael. And Fiona,” he said. “I trust you, Fiona.” Bruce gave Fi a smile that was probably very enticing over at Sherman’s Deli but didn’t do much for women under seventy.
“Okay,” I said. “You agree to this, then you’re agreeing to Sam making a few calls to see what can be done for you. There’s no guarantee. If the feds don’t want you, your friend Barry is going to have to find you a new life. Either way, your time as Bruce Grossman is done. Understand?”
“Being Bruce Grossman was never that great, honestly,” he said. He looked down at his hand, at his missing finger, and shook his head. “You know, if I had to do it all over again, I think I would have made a pretty good spy. What do you think, Michael?”
“Maybe something a little less interactive,” I said.
He chuckled. “Hmm, maybe so. You know what I might like to do in this new life? Maybe get a wife and settle down. After my mom is all taken care of, of course. Get a house in Big Sur. Maybe have a couple dogs or chickens or hamsters, you know? Something I have to take care of that I can’t mess up too badly. That sounds like a good life, you ask me.”
“Maybe take Maria with you,” I said. The girl was listening to Bruce prattle on, but didn’t seem upset. She had her own dreams, some of which the Ghouls had frightened right out of her.
“Naw,” she said, “I just wanna go home. But Bruce, you got the idea. Nicky? He never had no idea what he was gonna do. But you seem like a better guy. Head screwed on, but screwed on right.”
Sometimes the people you least expect to have insight are the ones who deliver the most unvarnished truth.
“We’re good, then?” I said. Bruce said that we were. “Sam,” I said, “why don’t you see if anyone might be interested in the whereabouts of a master criminal with a fascinating insight into the mind-set of bad guys the world over.”
“Will do, Mikey,” Sam said and gave Bruce a big pat on the back, the special code between men that actually means “please leave so we can talk about you,” which fortunately Bruce wasn’t aware of and thus took the pat to mean we were all part of a big team and thus walked off wi
th a nice stride of confidence. Nevertheless, Sam, Fiona and I walked outside and stood on the front lawn to continue our conversation.
“Nice smile you gave old Brucey there, Fiona,” Sam said. “He’ll be on blood thinners by the morning.”
“We all have unique skills that help people acquiesce. It’s not my fault that I was born with unbelievable charm.”
“We’re going to need more than Fi’s charm to get Bruce FBI protection,” Sam said.
“There’s a hit squad looking for him,” I said. “Shouldn’t that be enough?”
“The fed boys didn’t even respond to him dropping off the Ghouls’ papers. He was a big deal twelve years ago, but times change, Mikey. Unless someone in the Ghouls was born in Qatar, that’s back-burner stuff. He’s not the asset he was.”
“So make him sound better,” I said.
“How am I going to do that?”
“Don’t you have any friends who could, say, improve his sheet? Make it look like he was suspected of even more than he actually has copped to?”
“I could talk to some people,” Sam said.
“Unsolved bank heists in foreign countries would be good,” I said.
“What about I get him implicated in fixing American Idol, too?”
“Whatever it takes,” I said. “I’m going to call Barry and see what we can cook up.”
Ten minutes and fifteen phone numbers later, I reached Barry.
“Michael,” he said, “good to hear from you.” In the background I heard birdsong. Pleasant.
“Sorry to interrupt your vacation,” I said.
“No worries,” he said. “Did you know North Dakota is officially the friendliest state in the country?”
“That’s great,” I said.
“Not the best-looking people,” he said, “but you make concessions when your life is at risk. They also eat everything with a cup of melted butter as a dipping sauce.”
“I need your help,” I said.
“I was afraid of that.”
“Your friend Bruce Grossman might need a new life,” I said. “We’re trying to get him a little insurance.”
“I thought that’s what you nice government people did for a living.”
“I’m not the FDIC,” I said. “And besides, he’s your friend, remember?”
“Right, right,” Barry said. “I’m just used to playing hard to get.”
“Endearing,” I said. “I take it you can handle your business from North Dakota?”
“If Lewis and Clark could, I can,” Barry said. “Did you know that they wintered in North Dakota? True story.”
“That’s great. Here’s what I need: You need to build an identity for Bruce and Zadie. Good stuff. Passports that can get them into somewhere nice with good medical care.”
“I can’t just materialize that,” Barry said. “You realize that?”
“Barry,” I said, “it’s either that or one day Zadie goes for therapy and comes out to some lead- pipe hitters. We’re working our end tonight, but I need to know there’s an out.”
“I can get decent stuff,” Barry said, “but we’re not talking about documents that can get them into Europe. Maybe South America. But even then, it won’t be permanent good.”
This was not good.
“Where are you?” I said.
“A safe location.”
“Specifically, Barry. This is important.”
“Valley City. Sign says it’s the City of Bridges.”
“What are the banks like there?”
“Nice. Filled with money.”
“Old or new?”
Barry paused, figuring out what I was moving toward. “You want me to check the safe-deposit boxes?”
“If you have the chance.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah,” I said, “rent an apartment. A nice one.”
“You’ll be surprised to know that Valley City isn’t exactly brimming with high-end condo complexes.”
“Rent a house, then,” I said. “Something big and near a hospital.”
“Anything else?” Barry asked.
“A bank account,” I said. “Fill it appropriately.”
“This part of your fee?”
“No,” I said, “this is part of you making sure your friend Bruce Grossman and his mother have a way out that does not include summering in Mozambique.”
“You put it like that . . .” Barry said.
“When can you get this done?”
“I’ll have it in place tonight. How will I know if it’s on?”
“If you don’t hear from me after midnight,” I said, “don’t come back to Miami.”
“I love working with you, Mike,” Barry said and hung up.
18
Even in the face of a natural disaster—like, say, Hurricane Katrina—people still cling to the belief that they alone can stop Mother Nature and, in the process, save their homes. Looked at unemotionally, it seems silly: Your life for wood, drywall, and furniture? But people tend to form bonds with places, to the point that it’s nearly impossible to separate a person from their possessions.
So if you absolutely must get people to leave their homes, you have to make it seem like their possessions are actively causing the problems.
Most people don’t know anything about their homes. Oh, they know the address. They know which bedroom is drafty in the winter, which is broiling in the summer; they know that the microwave takes thirty second to melt butter and ten seconds to warm up pie; they might even know how to turn off their gas in the event of a leak.
What they don’t know, however, is what they cannot see or choose to avoid . . . which is why I went door-to-door in the cul-de-sac where the Banshees’ weed farm was located to let people know that there was noxious fungus growing underneath their over-mortgaged dream homes. In order to appear to be an absolute authority on the topic, Sam and I rolled up in front of the homes in a white van. A van and a clipboard could get you into the Kremlin at the height of Communism.
“Noxious?” the man who answered the door at the house next door to the Banshees’ said.
“Yup. Yup,” I said. I possessed two things at that moment meant to instill perfect confidence in this fine gentleman: I was holding a clipboard and I had on a denim shirt. I also had a red bandanna in my hand and every few seconds I used it to wipe off my forehead. “And flammable, too.”
“Flammable?” The man was horrified.
“Yeah, seems like it’s one of those funguses that feeds off of water-based paints. You probably been reading about that? Yeah, see, what had happened is that, you know, back further on in the day when people didn’t care so much about the environment, well, they just dumped their used paint into the gutter. Come to find, ten years later, that stuff is coming to roost. House on Fisher Island blew just this morning.”
“Oh, my,” the man said. “Well, how much time do I have to gather my belongings?”
“None,” I said. “We found a fester under this street. We gotta get all of you out so we can get a hazmat team down there to spray it all with one of those secret government potions.”
“I have a dog. Can I grab my dog?”
“Yeah, old Fido is probably more susceptible, actually. I’d get him out in the next ten minutes there, buddy.”
“Why wasn’t this on television?” he said. It was a good question for him to ask. He should have asked it about five questions previous.
“Sir, we can’t have a pandemic on our hands. We start telling people there’s a fungus-humongous growing in the ground that will blow them up, we’ll have widespread panic. National Guard would get called out. It would just be like giving Al Qaida a blueprint on terror, you know?”
There was no color left in the man’s face five minutes later when he came running out of his house—a barking Maltese under one arm, a laptop under the other. On the corner, Sam ushered a family of five out of a cream-colored split-level.
That left just one more house on the cul- d
e-sac to evacuate: the Banshees’ smartly appointed factory. Over the course of the last twenty minutes, while Sam and I flushed out the other six families found on Me-Laina Court, I kept my eye on the house for any activity. I saw nothing. The same Volvo SUV that was depicted in the photo Sam pulled up on his computer was parked in the driveway, but oddly there wasn’t a drip of oil to be found beneath it on the pavement.
I walked up behind the car and acted very interested in my clipboard while I took a basic inventory of what was known.
The back window of the Volvo SUV was covered in stickers. OBAMA FOR PRESIDENT. MY SON IS AN HONOR STUDENT AT CASTLE ROCK ELEMENTARY. MIAMI DOLPHINS. WE LOVE OUR COCKER! All innocuous enough, except that the window was caked with dirt and the stickers were pulled away from the window.
Inside the Volvo?
Nothing.
Not a scrap of paper.
Not a bottle of water.
Not a toy or a patch of fabric pulled up by the beloved Cocker.
I knelt down to tie my shoe and to see the underside of the carriage.
The SUV had a lattice of thin metal cable running in between all of the tires, in effect locking the car in place. If you tried to tow the car, you’d need a flatbed truck and special equipment—in short, you’d need to make a production of the event, which would provide the homeowner plenty of time to take note of the activity.
If you want to keep law enforcement from sending a battering ram into your garage, park an immobile 4,500-pound block of metal directly in front of the garage door.
Better yet, rig it with explosives. The Banshees did that, too. There was a bundle of C-4 between the two back tires. There was a bundle between the two front tires. There was also a bundle under both passenger doors.
The gases in C-4, when they explode, expand at over 26,000 feet per second. One pound of C-4 would be enough to blow up just the SUV and kill anyone within fifty feet.
There were at least twenty-five pounds of C-4 rigged to the SUV, or enough to take out the house, the truck and the rest of the cul-de-sac, leaving just a steaming crater behind.
The Banshees clearly understood the value of their property. If they’d put that much C-4 on the SUV, what was the inside of the house like?
Tod Goldberg Page 17
