AHMM, May 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  D. J. broke off, letting the concept sink in.

  Benny said, “Okay, so they arrange for this company to print new bank-notes. That's fine. But then they would also have to pay off somebody to let them get at the shipment and plant the stuff in it."

  "They would. They do. They have."

  "Horse, eh.” Beemer was concentrating. “I'm a little outta date here. Help me with this. Just how much is a brick worth onna street these days?"

  D. J. said: “A brick of white, onna street, used to be worth a hunnerd large. And that was back a while, I dunno what it goes for now. But you can bet it's a whole lot more than that."

  Beemer sat back. Folded his hairy arms.

  "The guy who made the stash would have to make room for it somehow."

  "Yeah."

  "To do that he would have to take some bills out."

  "Yeah."

  "Quite a lot of them. Is that what we're talking about here?"

  "You got it,” Little D. J. said. “It is. But Jimmy Sticks, see, Jimmy's after the white. He don't know about the money angle. He's been following the suitcase, he thinks it still has the white in it. He don't have all the facts."

  "So how come you do?"

  "I know a guy who knows a guy. The guy called me, I called this other guy. The guy made some calls, and then I figured it out."

  "And no one knows what you figured out?"

  "No. Except for you two guys."

  * * * *

  Beemer sat pondering in his chair, one big hand cupped around his coffee mug, the other propping up his chin, His eyebrows bunching and unbunching. Finally he said, “And buddy there, the guy with the suitcase. He's where?"

  "At the hotel. He was there—” Little D. J. looked at his watch. “—three hours and twenny-two minutes ago."

  "With the suitcase?"

  "With the suitcase."

  Beemer scratched his jaw. “A suitcase can hold a lot of things. It could be packed fulla this guy's laundry. I haven't heard you say for a fact it isn't."

  "It could be packed with a lot of things,” Little D. J. said, “but what do you think is really in it? I mean, hey, it wasn't a Campbell's soup factory he went into and came out again. They're not shippin’ canned goods, a place like that. This I know for sure."

  Benny spoke. “Getting back to Jimmy. Okay. So he thinks the case has still got the horse in it. Why don't he scoop it himself? Save the five?"

  "At one time he would, but he's not really into that now. The way it is, he's got to watch himself. He's got a sheet on him would cover a king-size bed, and the way he looks at it, he can't go down again."

  "And you can?"

  "Jimmy takes care of Jimmy. I take care of me. And I'll just tell you this. If Jimmy thinks there's H in that case, he'll go better than five large to get it, which means there's room to deal in you guys too."

  Beemer still didn't look entirely convinced. “You know where the guy is, you know where the suitcase is, you don't need us any more than he does. You could take care of business yourself."

  "I could,” Little D. J. said. “I would. If it wasn't for the other two guys."

  "What other two guys?"

  "The guys with the guns."

  "Uh-huh,” Beemer said. “I wondered when you were going to get around to mentioning something like that."

  * * * *

  Beemer said they could count him out. If they wanted holes knocked in them, he said, they could go for it. He wasn't keen on the idea. He said he'd been shot once or twice before and recalled that it hadn't been a pleasurable experience. “People think, yeah, getting shot, that'd bum you out. What they don't understand, if it doesn't kill you, is how big a shock it is to your system. Like being slapped with a garage door. After it happens, you got a hard time thinking straight. At my age I'm not sure I could handle it."

  "Hell, I'm older'n you are,” Little D. J. pointed out.

  "Yeah, and only half the target. A guy who could put a bullet in you on the fly has prob'ly got a row of marksman's trophies at home on the shelf. An’ when a bullet hits you, it's got less to go through. Me, it would do a lot more damage."

  "I dunno,” Little D. J. replied, “if that's an accurate assessment. Being smaller, I break easier. An’ being older, it's more likely to knock me off."

  "Do we have to talk about this?” Benny asked.

  * * * *

  Maximillian Grospierre sat in a green leather bucket chair in the lobby of the Holiday Inn waiting for his cell to ring. He had been waiting for seventeen minutes. He looked at ease. He sat squarely in the chair with his slender hands gripping the smooth broad arms. But he was not a patient man, and the little finger of his right hand was minutely fluttering against the Australian leather.

  Things would work out. He was sure of that. Everything was completely in hand. It had all gone very smoothly, and Minister Roque would be able to find no fault in it. Not even when the crate arrived and he went out to the airfield to inspect the contents.

  In Montreal, Maximillian had carried out the minister's instructions to the letter. Well, to a point. From Montreal the goods would be flown to Lisbon, and from Lisbon directly on to the homeland.

  To Minister Roque's homeland, of course. Maximillian hailed from quite a different part of the world. Not that it mattered. After tomorrow there would be no question of him returning home ever again. But for that there would be compensations. These would flow from the tightly packed contents of the small blue suitcase presently tucked between his ankles, which, he was supremely confident, would provide him a new home anywhere in the world.

  He was not quite out of the woods yet, as the Americans liked to say. There was still the matter of his escort. They were clearly determined to share in his plan. He was going to have to shake them off, and he knew just how to do it.

  The ship was a clever idea. He congratulated himself on that. He was known as a man of particular tastes. Fastidious Max, he was often called. No one would think to look for him on a pockmarked, rusted-out old ore carrier, beating its way across the gloomy Atlantic to the cold North European continent. He would take the call, set the minister's mind at rest, and be somewhere at sea bound for safe haven before the least suspicion was aroused.

  Denmark would do nicely. Or Sweden.

  In the pocket of his jacket his cell phone trembled. He closed his eyes, swallowed hard, then forced a carefree grin and reached for it.

  "Yes, Minister?"

  * * * *

  They convinced the Beem to stick with them, but as D. J. pointed out, they hadn't much time. The guy with the suitcase would be on some kind of schedule, and he wouldn't hang around to make things easier for them. The first thing to do was to contact Jimmy Sticks and let him know they were going for it. Within the hour there was a banging at the door, and Little D. J. hurried along and opened it.

  Jimmy Sticks wasn't much over five feet tall, and he was a walking men's wear advertisement. He came along the bar, black alpaca coat hanging open at the neck, blood-red scarf swinging with every lurch, clacking and banging with his cherry wood canes. He had a square, chiseled Hollywood face and eyes that didn't miss a thing.

  Little D. J. pulled out a chair out for him; Jimmy Sticks ignored it.

  "What is this? What exactly is this? I ask you to do a little job for me, and all of a sudden I got a cast of thousands?"

  "There's only the three of us,” Little D. J. said.

  "Three, he says. Only three. One suitcase I want. Just one. And it's got one handle on it, not three handles, I'm sure of that. You told these guys my personal business. You didn't think maybe I might have to take them out?"

  Beemer, whose scowl was growing progressively deeper, got up and stepped behind the bar. He dragged a baseball bat out from under the till, brought it along to the table, and leaned it against the wall. Then he sat down again.

  "What?” Jimmy Sticks said. “We're going to play baseball? Somebody'll have to run the bases for me."

  "That's the bat,”
Little D. J. said with awe in his voice, “that Al Capone owned. The one he whacked his business associates with. The Beemer bought it on the Internet."

  Beemer said, “You want to talk about taking people out, you're gonna do it, you better do it quick. You won't be the first loud guy in loud clothes who got his skull busted by that bat."

  The bat had large, suggestive olive stains on its fat end.

  "Threats, now,” Jimmy Sticks said throwing up his hands. “I'm getting threats."

  Benny leaned in. “Look, we can discuss this thing. We can all sit down and talk calmly about it.” He nodded to D. J., who moved the chair up closer. Keeping a corner of his eye on the bat, Jimmy Sticks hooked his canes over the chair back and sat down. “All right,” he said. “But it better be short. I got a tap-dancing lesson in the morning, and I need to get some rest tonight."

  "Look—” It was Little D. J. again. “—look, Jimmy. Three guys are what we need for this. Really. One to make the pull, one to drive, one to keep an eye out for any heavy guys that might pop up somewhere along the way. So I'm thinking fifteen large. That's five apiece."

  Jimmy Sticks looked perturbed. “Thanks for the math lesson. Now try this one—three into five. The job pays five. Split it any way you want."

  "But it's risky, Jimmy. It's worth five apiece."

  "What risk? This isn't a bank job. It isn't Brinks. It's a suitcase in a hotel room, a job don't come any easier."

  "Except for the two loogans, the heavy artillery with the guy, Jimmy. Now maybe you didn't know about the hard guys, but I made some calls. The guy's got two gorillas with him."

  Jimmy Sticks narrowed his eyes. “What else do you know that I don't know?” There was a quiet moment, then he let a breath slide out. “Okay. If you say there's gorillas, there's gorillas. I could go you twelve because of the gorillas. That gives you four apiece."

  "Fifteen, Jimmy. Look, I'm not squeezing. If it wasn't for the hard guys, I'd go by myself. But that's not how it is. You gotta understand that."

  "Okay, okay! Fifteen.” Jimmy pulled himself to his feet. “I'm always a sucker for a hard story. But you bring the suitcase to me, and don't play around with it. I want it unopened. That's the deal."

  He went knocking along the aisle to the door, paused there, and called back to Beemer. “I don't know about you threatening me with a bat. Last guy did that to me, you know what happened to him?"

  "No. What?"

  "I don't know myself. That's why I'm asking. But I don't see that guy around anymore."

  Little D. J. helped Jimmy out the door.

  * * * *

  They set out next morning across the old bridge—the Angus L. Macdonald. It was Sunday. Benny drove. They talked in the car about what they should do.

  "These bums with the guns—let's get that particular point sorted out.” Beemer broke off to prod Benny's arm. “You wanna drive in the middle lane? I don't like looking down at the water this way. I get this feeling you might lose control, go through the railing, and drop us in the harbor."

  "Oh, you mean like all those other times I dropped you in the harbor."

  "Just use the inside lane, you mind?” Beemer hooked an elbow over the seatback and eyeballed D. J. “About those loogans?"

  "Well,” Little D. J. said, “what can I tell you? Guy onna phone said they looked like muscle. That's about all I know about them."

  "And what do you think?"

  "I don't think we should question him."

  "Long as they're not cops."

  "I don't think they're cops."

  "You don't think they are?"

  "Not from what I was told."

  "Well, I guess I'll have to take your word for that, you spending most of your life studying cops up close. I don't wanna go up against any cops, this particular time in my life. Maybe an old cop, somebody my age, that might be all right, I guess. But definitely not one of them younger ones."

  "All I know is they're a couple of guys who stick close to the guy who sticks close to the suitcase."

  "Cops nowadays, they got an attitude. Carry those Tasers now, just looking to unload on you. Any excuse to light some poor slob up."

  "Better'n being shot, I guess."

  "Not at our age. Anybody our age, it'd give you a heart attack. Might as well get shot with a .38."

  "You seem to be hung up on how old you are,” Little D. J. said.

  "I'm hung up on not getting shot."

  "Nobody's gonna get shot if we go about this right. We handle things properly, nobody's gonna get shot."

  Little D. J. sounded convinced. But he didn't sound especially convincing.

  What they had to do—they agreed on this—was to separate Suitcase Man from his knuckle-draggers. If they couldn't do that, then they couldn't do anything, and they might as well call the whole thing off. But before they decided on anything they had to find out whether or not the guy was still in his room.

  "You know what his name is?” Beemer asked Little D. J.

  "Max, I think. Maximillian something."

  "You know what he looks like?"

  "Well, I know what the suitcase looks like. It's blue."

  "You didn't ask your pal out west for a last name? A description of buddy? Something to go on?"

  "I was going to ask about that, yeah, but then I guess we never got around to it."

  "Hell of a detective you'd make."

  "Guess that's why I never became one."

  "Oh, that'd be it, for sure."

  * * * *

  They pulled up in the parking lot of the Holiday Inn, facing the front of the building with an excellent view of who went in and who came out. “Anybody sees a guy,” Beemer said, “looks like he might be called Max, let the rest of us know."

  "You think maybe this is him?” Benny pointed.

  A silver stretch from a local limo service had suddenly swept up under the hotel portico. A heavy, well-dressed man with a dark complexion was trudging out through the doors to meet it; the guy had a small blue suitcase in his hand.

  "That's him,” Little D. J. said.

  "Then it looks like you're in luck,” Beemer growled.

  "Why am I in luck?"

  "Because I would've thrown you off the bridge on the way back if we couldn't find the guy."

  Benny was cautious. “Where are buddy and buddy?"

  They glanced around. A second car could be seen hanging back, engine running but keeping a discreet distance from the stretch. A couple of iron-pumpers squatted in it, their eyes glued to the limo driver as he loaded a couple more suitcases into the trunk.

  "Hungry hippos,” D. J. said. “Gotta be them."

  "I would say so,” Benny agreed.

  "I don't like this,” Beemer said. “Our guy's leaving. The guy is probably headed for the airport, and once he gets there, we might as well go home. We can't do nothing at a place like that. Nowadays, your basic airport, they got security up the ying-yang. Little old lady with a bottle of water, they're practically slamming her up against the wall."

  "He ain't there yet,” Little D. J. pointed out.

  "So what? How can we stop him? Run him off the road, those two cruisers following him, both of them ready to shoot our butts off? I don't think so, and you shouldn't either."

  "Seems to me . . .” Benny started to say. The stretch limo pulled out, the loogans trailing it, and he fell in behind the two vehicles. “Seems to me they can't be going to the airport."

  "Why not?"

  "Well, think a minute. You just explained it. How's he gonna get a suitcase stuffed with dough past the x-ray machine? They're gonna want to open it. And the two heavies there, kitted out like the James gang? Uh-uh. I don't think it's the airport."

  Little D. J. drummed his hands on his thighs. “A private plane maybe? A private airstrip?"

  "That'd work. I guess we're gonna find out."

  * * * *

  But the stretch didn't make for open country. It changed direction suddenly, exited the Circumferential,
and swooped down onto Windmill Road. The maneuver left the two gorillas on the wrong side of a septic truck, sending them onto the bridge approach and headed for the other side of the harbor.

  Benny followed the stretch.

  "That was slick. You'd almost think it was done on purpose."

  "Whatever,” Little D. J. said. “It's nice to be rid of them. Now what?"

  "On this road he's got the National Gypsum wharf. He's got the Dartmouth Yacht Club, a couple of other docks. Some private boat, any of those places, could take him anywhere he wants to go."

  It was the yacht club the guy was headed for. They watched from the visitors’ parking lot as Maximillian boarded a large white power launch, the Acadie, the small blue suitcase tightly clutched in his hand. The stretch driver shifted the other two bags to the boat, and almost immediately the launch slipped her moorings and began easing out into open water.

  Beemer wheezed. “Whadda we do now—swim?"

  Benny turned the car around, got back up onto Windmill, then pulled a hard right onto Cove Road which brought them out above the National Gypsum wharf. Below was a peaked mountain of the powdery ore, and the enormous bulk of an ore carrier being shunted into position by a tug. Beyond it the Acadie, making good speed now, was heading not for the harbor mouth, but out into the basin.

  "I knew a little puddle-jumper like that wouldn't head out to sea,” Benny said. “Not unless there was a dead calm. See where she's headed? That ship anchored there?” He made a hurry-up motion of his hand at the glove box. “Hand me the binocs."

  Beemer extracted a small pair of folding binoculars from the glove box and passed them to Benny. Benny peered through them, elbows braced on the steering wheel.

  "Whadda you see?” Little D. J. prompted.

  "I see . . . yup. They're tying up at that ship. Name is . . .” He fine-tuned the focus. “Looks like . . . how about that! The African Queen."

  "Hey. That's the name of the boat in that old Bogart movie,” Little D. J. said brightly. “I loved that film. They had it there, you know, up at Dorchester. I used to watch it over an’ over—"

  "We all seen the movie,” Beemer growled. “It don't help us get our hands on the suitcase."

  "No,” Little D. J. replied, “it don't. But I know where we can get something that will."