* * * *
Maximillian Grospierre had been tickled at how adroitly his driver had ditched his escort. But his high spirits were already flagging. Surveying his surroundings he suppressed his revulsion. He had forgotten how abysmally wretched fourth-class travel accommodations could be. Then he gathered himself. This was part of the plan. And as far as the plan was concerned it was just what was needed, thank you very much.
He sat down on his rock-hard bunk and looked at the suitcases grouped in the middle of the cabin. He had not unpacked them. He didn't think he was going to. He didn't much like the thought of hanging his beautiful shirts and trousers in the narrow fly-blown closet with the water-stained curtain that served as a door. It might be best under the present circumstances to live out of a suitcase until the crossing was made.
As for the rest of it...
Well.
He was to have destroyed the displaced notes. Burnt them. Sunk them in the ocean. But destroying genuine legal tender was an act Maximillian found to be quite impossible. Especially in these denominations. It was risky to disobey the minister. He was known to be unforgiving. But Max had charted his course and now he must follow it.
All the way across the Atlantic.
* * * *
It was midnight, partly overcast, a waning moon gliding over the harbor. Benny paused to rest his arms. He hadn't rowed a boat in thirty years, and he wasn't finding it an easy experience. Little D. J. sat facing him. Behind D. J., Beemer hulked in the stern. Behind both of them was a backdrop of city lights, the casino blazing away like a small city.
There was a chop on the water, the odd whitecap sluicing by. The dory pitched and rolled. They were halfway out to the freighter, which showed only the obligatory white anchor lights, a glow on the bridge and a sprinkle of lamps on the deck. A generator murmured softly.
"You couldn't have found a boat with a motor?” Benny glared at Little D. J.
"You wouldn't have wanted it,” Little D. J. said. “Too noisy."
"Yeah, well I just might have a coronary event out here. How noisy is that?"
"You guys wanna put a lid on it?” Beemer was gruff. “They can hear you two jawin’ all the way over there at the casino. An’ if you don't start rowing soon, we're gonna be sucked out to sea on the tide."
Benny swore, unshipped the oars, and started pulling again.
In fact, the tide was turning, and instead of pulling them out through the Narrows, it was drawing them speedily toward the African Queen. Within minutes, her portside loomed over them, blotting out half the starry sky.
Benny gazed up, kinking his neck. “I dunno how those Somalian pirates do it. You need to be a mountain climber to get your butt up there."
"The crew will probably be in town,” Benny said, “an evening in port. So there's got to be a ladder waiting for them."
He sculled the small boat along the ship's Plimsoll line and, sure enough, they discovered a ladder. It was actually more like a flight of stairs let down the side of the ship almost to the water. Tied to the bottom of it was a launch.
Benny scowled at D. J. “Okay. Up you go."
"Up I go?"
"Well, who else? You're the thief."
"I don't know if that's a fair thing to say. We're all in this together, aren't we?"
"Start climbing or start swimming.” Beemer hefted his shoulders.
Little D. J. got out of the boat, went up three steps, then gazed back down at them.
"I dunno much about ships. An’ this one's pretty big. Where should I look?"
"It's an ore carrier,” Benny reminded him. “You can ignore ninety-nine percent of it. The cabins will be under the bridge someplace. Head for the lights and you can't go wrong."
Little D. J. looked skeptical, but he continued on up. His pointy shoes made plinking noises on the treads of the metal stairs. Soon the generator drowned him out.
"I hope he don't fall,” Benny said.
"Especially on me,” Beemer replied.
"He'll have to be careful up there. Sneak around."
"Oh, he can sneak,” Beemer said. “That's one thing I know."
* * * *
"I do not permit you to interfere with my ship!” the captain screamed. “I do not permit you to interfere with my passenger! We are sailing within the hour. You must go ashore at once!"
Dananda studied the fiery East European captain and exchanged a subtle glance with M'buku. He made a moue with his lips, laid a shepherding hand on the captain's sleeve, and drew him gently to the rail. Before them spread the inner harbor, the lighted arch of the Mackay Bridge spanning the Narrows, a glittering strand. It was past midnight. Buoys winked in the blackness. Dananda spoke quietly, his deep voice rumbling, and suddenly the captain threw up his hands, capitulating. He waved one hand in the air, spat out a room number, and toiled away to his bridge. Dananda nodded at M'buku.
Together they descended the companionway, opened a door without knocking, and stepped into a cramped cabin. Maximillian Grospierre stood there among his suitcases with a dumbfounded, unhappy, and slightly astonished expression on his face.
"I hope,” M'buku said, “you were not trying to get rid of us."
"No, no,” Maximillian said. “My driver . . .” He left his explanation unfinished. Everybody knew how unpredictable drivers were.
M'buku eyed him suspiciously. “You have got the suitcase?"
Maximillian put his face in his hands. “I stepped out only for a moment,” he said. “I came back to the cabin, and now it is gone."
* * * *
Benny and Beemer waited, the boat rocking and grinding against the hull of the ship. Beemer said, “Where is that guy? It's getting late. Bars'll be closing, Popeye an’ Bluto an’ the boys'll be back, an’ I don't think we want them to find us here."
"You're saying you want me to go up there and find out what's keeping him?"
"What I'm saying is, it wouldn't hurt. Two heads are better'n one, and even one is better than what Little D. J. carries around on his neck."
"You think he might screw up."
"I think he's a guy who's spent most of his seventy-two years behind bars. Got to be a reason for that, you think? I mean it's possible he might've made the odd goof here and there."
"I better go check."
As Benny climbed up onto the ladder, a klaxon suddenly began to shriek. At the same moment Little D. J. appeared at the top of the ladder with a small blue suitcase in his hand. It hung as if it was filled with paper weights, and it banged and bumped against his knees.
"Hurry up!” Benny shouted at him.
"What?” Little D. J. stopped and cupped his hand to his ear.
"I'll kill him,” Beemer said. “So help me, God. I'll hold his head under water all the way back. Come on, let's take the other boat. We'll never get away in this thing."
They clambered into the launch.
Little D. J. continued awkwardly down the rest of the stairs. As he stepped into the launch and sat down, Beemer took the suitcase from him and plunked it on his lap. Benny tinkered with the ignition.
"What happened up there?” Beemer asked.
Little D. J. shrugged. “I dunno. I found the cabin, all right. Nobody around. I seen the suitcase sitting there and I grabbed it. It's got a weight to it, let me tell you."
"You took your sweet time."
"Hey, everything's locked up. Every door's got a lock, an’ every lock is locked. I thought for a minute I was back at Dorchester."
"That explains it. You didn't want to leave."
Benny said to them from the helm, “I heard about a guy did a twenny year jolt. After he got out he put locks on everything—the fridge, the cupboards, the bathroom door. Only way, he said, he could feel at home."
"He musta been a ding,” Little D. J. said. “Anybody normal, they wouldn't do a crazy thing like that."
"Can we get this tub moving?” Beemer snarled. “Gossip later? Any minute now we're gonna have some company."
As if
on cue, two large shapes appeared at the top of the ladder. There was a shot and the suitcase jumped on Beemer's lap. Benny tried the starter, the engine caught, and soon they were roaring over the choppy water with bullets whizzing and pinging around them.
* * * *
"I couldn't believe it,” Beemer said. “I got the suitcase on my lap, I'm looking down at it, and this bullet hole appears in the top of it. I'm thinkin', what if the suitcase hadn't been there?"
"No loss,” Benny said, “somebody your age."
The Rob Roy was dark, deserted and silent. Beemer fumbled with his keys. “I don't like this,” he said. “Opening up in the middle of the night. What it does, it attracts attention. I got enough people wondering about me already."
"Then the sooner we're inside, the better,” Benny said, nipping through the door the moment Beemer opened it. There was an eerie half-light in the room: a few burglar bulbs glowing, a small fluorescent drawing an island of light around the open drawer of the till.
"Let's go around the dogleg there,” Benny said, “in case some cop strolls by and peers in."
"Cops don't stroll anymore,” Beemer said. “Cops don't peer. They fly by at forty miles an hour punching keys on their computers.” He grabbed a bottle and a glass from under the bar and started after them. Benny looked at him. Beemer made a wheezing noise, went back and got two more glasses.
They sat down and Beemer poured the whiskey. They studied the blue suitcase. It was small but took up most of the table. There was a hole punched in its lid and no corresponding hole in the bottom of it.
"Bullet must still be in there,” Little D.J. said, marveling. “Heavy sucker, I'll tell you that. Like it was stuffed with phone books. Prob'ly what saved you."
"If it's fulla phone books,” Beemer informed him, “you're gonna eat every number."
"What it's supposed to be full of,” Benny pointed out, “is the cash. If it's cash, it must be hundreds of thousands."
"Only way,” Little D. J. said, “we're gonna know, we'd have to open it up and take a look."
"Except that your pal there, Jimmy Sticks, doesn't want it opened. We open it, we could lose the fifteen."
"I've been thinking about that,” Little D. J. said. “Opened or closed it's gonna be worth what it's worth. Thing is though, if we know what's in it, we'll be in much better shape to negotiate."
Beemer puffed out his cheeks. Benny scratched the back of his neck. Then Beemer said, “Well, it works for me.” He got up from the table, stepped behind the bar, rummaged in a drawer, and came back with a screwdriver. “I guess I got a right to know what I almost got shot in the Johnson over."
He rammed the tip of the screwdriver behind the latch on the suitcase, levered a couple of times, and the latch fell off.
He threw open the lid.
* * * *
"Whoa,” Benny said.
"Jeez,” Little D. J. breathed.
Beemer said to D. J., “Looks like you might have finally found us a deal that's worth something for a change."
The suitcase was completely packed with banded, crisp packets of bank-notes. Three bundles, just under the lid, had a hole through them. The bundle below these had a bullet lodged in it. The notes were not familiar looking.
"Pounds,” Little D. J. said. “It says pounds. That's English dough, right?"
"British.” Benny spoke with authority.
Beemer picked up a bundle. Buzzed his thumb through the stack. “You believe these numbers? Every bill says a thousand pounds."
"What's a pound worth?"
Beemer shrugged. “I don't see too many of ‘em come across the bar. The Rob Roy ain't exactly a prime draw for tourists, if you know what I mean. But I know a pound is worth more than a dollar. I dunno, maybe even double."
"We could take one down the street when the banks open and find out,” Little D. J. said.
Beemer winced. “This is why you spent more than half your life having your lunch shoved at you through a slot. Take it to the bank!"
"No way those dudes on the boat'll say anything,” D. J. said. “I don't see them blowing the whistle."
"Maybe not. But somebody sooner or later, will.” Beemer rapped his knuckles on the table. “Back to Jimmy Sticks. What do we tell him? Do we cut ourselves a better deal?"
The Budweiser clock behind the bar ticked. Beemer drummed his fingers. Little D. J. said, “In my opinion, you look at these numbers, I don't think fifteen is gonna cut it.” He opened his hands and laid them flat on the money. “How about this: We call up Jimmy, tell him we went out there, the hotel, but when we got there the guy was checking out. We lost him at the bridge. True story. Pretty much."
He looked earnestly at them.
"So you're saying—” Benny looked hard at him. “—we don't let on that we got the case."
"Something like that, yeah."
"We made an agreement—"
"Sure. When we thought he was playing it straight with us. I don't mind playing it straight with a guy who plays it straight, but what happened here, I don't think that was straight, you know?"
"And the dough? What about that?"
Beemer, who had been looking more and more interested, said, “We'll get somebody over here'll give us a price on it. Get Wiggy G. in here. He knows money."
Beemer eyed Benny.
"What's the matter with you?"
Benny heaved a sigh and shrugged. “It's just, I hope you guys know what you're doing."
* * * *
At ten o'clock the next morning they were jammed into Beemer's tiny clothes-closet office, Willy Golightly—Wiggy G.—seated at the kitchen-midden desk. Little D. J., with reverence, set the suitcase down in front of him.
Wiggy was the egghead type, very tall, very thin, with large-knuckled hands. He wore a necktie that had diagonal purple stripes, and a gigantic, fake diamond tie tack through it. The rug on his head looked like something he had bought at a taxidermy shop.
He touched the bullet hole in the lid with the tip of his finger, seemed about to question it, then took his hand away.
Little D. J. opened the case.
Golightly peered at the contents.
"Well, they're pound notes, all right."
"Not counterfeit?"
Golightly fingered one. “No, I don't think so."
"Good."
"The thing is, though, they aren't British notes."
Beemer's face clouded, his heavy brow gathering into a knot. “How's that?"
Golightly raised his bespectacled face. “To start with, they're the wrong color. On top of that, they're the wrong size. They don't have Her Majesty's likeness, and if you want to get technical, they do not have ‘Bank of England', or ‘Bank of Scotland', or Bank of Ireland’ printed on them."
"No,” Beemer admitted. “We know that. But they say ‘Bank of the United Kingdom.’”
Golighty arched an eyebrow. “There is no ‘Bank of the United Kingdom.’ There is the Bank of England, with distinct note issues for Ireland and Scotland, as well as for certain protectorates and territories. What the printing says, if you will examine them more closely, is ‘Bank of the Unito Kingdom.’”
Benny and Beemer frowned. They each snatched up a note and scrutinized it. From out front came the sharp clicking sounds of a Rob Roy customer racking up snooker balls.
"Okay then,” Benny said. “All right. But they got to be worth plenty all the same. Look at the numbers on them, for crying out loud."
Golightly drew a cell phone out of an inside pocket, poked the buttons, and held it to his ear. He spoke a few words, listened for a moment, said “thank you,” and put the phone away.
"Are they all thousand pound notes?” he queried.
Beemer nodded. Little D. J. and Benny nodded. Golightly pawed through the case, his lips moving. Finally he put his clasped hands in his lap.
"The contents of this case . . .” He paused as if to consider his math. “The contents of this case are worth approximately six hundred and th
irty dollars..."
"What?” Beemer looked ugly. “With all those zeros there?"
"I'm not finished. The contents are worth six hundred and thirty dollars before I take my commission. But I won't take my commission because I won't buy these notes from you."
Beemer opened and closed his mouth like a fish.
"I won't buy them,” Golightly went on, “because according to my advisor—” He touched the phone in his pocket. “—inflation in the Unito Kingdom of East Africa is running at upwards of ten thousand percent. By the time I got them to the end of the street, I would be losing money on the transaction."
Beemer found his voice. “Six hundred and thirty bucks?"
"Golightly tapped his watch. “Ten minutes ago. If somebody wanted them. Which I doubt."
He stood up and made as if to squeeze past Little D. J. and Benny.
"Let me get this straight,” Little D. J. said. It still hadn't quite sunk in. “You're telling us this money is worthless?"
"To all intents and purposes—yes. What I would do in your place . . .” He took his glasses off, blinked, and put his glasses back on again. “Actually, I don't know what I would do. Good day, gentlemen."
He went out.
"Maybe,” Little D. J. said, “we shoulda stuck with plan A."
* * * *
"Spoiled goods,” Jimmy Sticks said.
"What?” Beemer demanded.
"Spoiled goods."
Jimmy Sticks sat at the dogleg table, his canes hooked over the back of his chair, leaning back from the open suitcase as if afraid of contamination.
"Not only that, you agreed on the fifteen, you were happy with the fifteen, now you're telling me twenty-five? Is that what I'm hearing from you guys?"
"What it is,” Little D. J. said, “what the reason is, the job got a whole lot tougher than what you said it would."
"I didn't say one word about how tough it would get."
"That's what we mean. We think maybe you should have. After what we went through—the Beem almost got shot in the Johnson—we need to walk away with something meaningful."
The chiseled face drew itself in tighter.
"I said not to open it. You opened it anyway. I come here to pick up the goods, and what I got is a buncha something, I don't even know what the hell it is. On top of that, you try to shake me down. I'm about ready to get on somebody's case here. I'm about ready to rap some knuckles!"
AHMM, May 2010 Page 12
