Cash Landing

by James Grippando

  “It’s pretty powerful,” she said, as she lowered the window.

  “Sorry. I thought it would be in role.”

  They were headed to Night Moves, a private club for couples who liked to swap partners. The club’s owner, Jorge Calderón, also owned a paint and body shop near the airport—the chop shop that Marco Aroyo had used for the black pickup after the heist. According to the FBI’s source, Leonard Timmes, Calderón spent every Friday night at the club. It was their best lead of the week. There was no further information on Marco Aroyo. Octavio Alvarez had returned to work at Braxton Security on Tuesday; no more suspicious activity. The plan at Night Moves was for the hot new couple to prowl their way over to Mr. Calderón and see if anything came up, so to speak.

  They pulled into the parking lot just before midnight, and Sosa found the last open space. Night Moves claimed to be south Florida’s largest “adult lifestyle” nightclub, the “premier playground for sexy couples and select singles.” Theme nights were popular. Andie was relieved to see that they’d missed Thursday’s “Sushi in the Raw Night.” Eating raw fish off the hairy chest of some man she’d never met wasn’t her cup of Japanese tea.

  “No cover charge tonight if you wear pink pasties,” said Sosa, pointing to the sign outside the entrance.

  “Not gonna happen,” said Andie.

  The club was BYOB, no liquor license, so Andie brought a faux bottle of vodka to share. Dance music greeted them as they stepped into the entrance lobby. The sign on the wall said “DO NOT ENTER if you are offended by any form of nudity or sexual activity,” but the disrobing came later. “Smart and sexy” attire was required of anyone who didn’t dress in line with the night’s theme of pink pasties, “schoolgirl,” or whatever. The bouncer gave Andie the thumbs-up on her backless black cocktail dress. The attendant at the front desk checked their photo IDs, which were convincing fakes; then she ran their names through the club’s database. Andie was Celia Sellers.

  “First-timers, I see,” said the attendant. “I’ll ask a couple of our club mentors to show you around.”

  “That’s not necessary,” said Andie.

  “It’s mandatory. I’ll be right back.”

  Mentors and a tour weren’t mentioned in the FBI field dossier that Andie had studied. The bouncer explained after the attendant stepped away:

  “It’s not really mandatory. It’s for newbies they want to impress.”

  Flattered, I’m sure.

  The attendant returned with the mentors and made the quick introductions. The tour protocol was to separate the men from the women. Agent Sosa went off with a good-looking Latino who could have been his fraternity brother. The men disappeared into the noisy dance studio. Priscilla took Andie down the hall to a quiet lounge where they could talk.

  “You two married?” asked Priscilla.

  “No. Just dating.”

  “When’s the last time you had sex with someone else?”

  “Too long.” She wasn’t lying.

  “Good attitude,” said Priscilla.

  A handful of couples were at the bar, all fully clothed and in keeping with the “smart and sexy” dress code. Andie wasn’t in South Beach, but so far the look and feel of the club was no different. Night Moves was not your grandmother’s swing club, no Charlie’s Angels wannabes inviting men with long sideburns to have sex on skanky shag carpeting. Priscilla led her to a seat on the couch, crossed her legs, and smiled. The tattoo script on her calf jumped out at Andie: Not all who wander are lost.

  “Let me tell you what’s happening right now,” said Priscilla. “Your boyfriend is getting the full tour. First, he’ll see the dance floor, which can be pretty erotic. Some people will be dressed, others will be undressing. Some will be touching, a few might be doing more. Then the tour will head over to the Red Room. This is where you can actually do the things you were fantasizing about on the dance floor. If you feel like it, you can bring along some new friends you’ve only just met. The Red Room can suit any member’s comfort level. Some people like to do it in the open, where anyone can watch. The luv-nasium, we call it. Others like a private cabana. Some of our members will walk around completely naked. Others want a robe. It’s up to you.”

  Andie considered her response, mindful that she needed to work within the restrictions on acceptable agent conduct in the FBI undercover operations manual. “I’ll be honest: I’m not going to make it to the Red Room on my first visit.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s not even part of tonight’s tour for you,” said Priscilla. “But your boyfriend will come back from there all pumped up for an orgy and ready to sign on the dotted line for a lifetime club membership. My advice to you on the first visit is to have fun and keep your clothes on. Then go home and have the best sex you and your boyfriend have ever had.”

  “That sounds like good advice,” said Andie.

  “It is. You’re the kind of people we want. You have class. You’re beautiful. And as much as the club’s marketing materials say that the membership is mostly people in their twenties and thirties, an awful lot of folks only wish they were that young again. The club needs more people like us.”

  Andie tried not to smile too cynically. Priscilla was clearly in the wishful category.

  “So,” Priscilla said, rising. “Let me show you the dance floor.”

  Priscilla led the way, and Andie followed her through the set of chrome-clad double doors at the end of the hallway. Inside, it was the typical loud music and flashing lights. The dance floor was spacious but packed, maybe fifty couples. Andie saw more bare skin than Priscilla had led her to believe she would. The “pink pasties” theme had apparently drawn out the exhibitionists in spades. Low-slung couches and tables surrounded the dance floor. Many of the tables had a brass pole. Housewives in G-strings honed their amateur stripping skills. Men in tight briefs played underwear model. A few even had the six-packs to pull it off. On the enormous wall behind the DJ were at least a dozen flat screens. Technologically, it was a match for even the greatest of sports bars, except that the only thing to watch was porn.

  “See that guy over there?” asked Priscilla, pointing with a subtle nod.

  Andie shot a discreet glance across the dance floor. The man’s partner was in the process of removing his shirt.

  “Good-looking, right?” asked Priscilla.

  “I’d say so.”

  “Fair warning: He’s only got one testicle. I know, you think I’m shallow, and your politically correct reaction is probably, ‘Oh, one nut, so what?’ Funny thing about balls, though. You don’t really pay much attention to them, but you kind of miss them when they’re not there.”

  Andie wasn’t sure how to respond. “Like grandparents, I guess.”

  Priscilla laughed. “I like you. Yeah. Grandparents.”

  Andie looked away, but Priscilla tugged at her arm. “Over there,” she said, “at the end of the bar. That’s definitely someone you should know about.”

  She meant another man who was definitely in the “wishful” age category. The brunette on his right arm and the blonde on his left were little more than half his age and, in Andie’s quick estimation, well out of his league.

  “He’s really not much to look at,” said Andie.

  “Craig has the biggest unit in the club.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m not kidding. I measured it. That thing goes from my elbow to the tip of my little finger, no exaggeration. It must take ninety percent of the blood in his entire body to get it . . .”

  Priscilla went on and on, but Andie had tuned out after “little finger.” She was thinking back to her conversation at the tile depot earlier in the week. At the time, the warehouse manager’s quip about the prison nickname for Marco’s friend had seemed superfluous. Not anymore.

  “Excuse me,” said Andie, “but did you say from your elbow to your pinky?”

  “Yeah. All the way to the tip of it. Can you believe that?”

  “By any chance, do people call him Pinky
?”

  “As a matter of fact, they do. It’s a joke. They call him Pinky because—

  “He’s enormous,” said Andie, finishing for her.

  “Exactly. How did you know that?”

  Andie glanced across the bar. It had to be the same Pinky, Marco’s friend, which was satisfying on many levels. She’d hit pay dirt without having to eat hairy sushi, wear pink pasties, or take a weeklong shower.

  “Let’s just say his reputation precedes him,” said Andie.

  Chapter 26

  On Saturday morning, Ruban dug up more money.

  Friday had been another gangbuster night at the restaurant, and it was after two a.m. when he’d finally gone home. He woke before sunrise so neighbors would not see him digging in the yard. He took only what he needed, left the rest in the PVC pipe, and covered up the hole. A flick of a knife removed the vacuum-sealed packaging. The bills went into a backpack. Savannah was still in bed when he stepped out of the shower, and it wasn’t his intention to wake her before leaving. He almost made it.

  “Where you going, honey?”

  He was at the front door, reaching for the knob. She was standing across the room, wrapped in her peach terry-cloth robe, her hair up in a chip clip.

  “Oh, you’re up.”

  “I am now,” she said. “Where are you going?”

  “Back to the restaurant,” he said, lying. “A pipe broke in the kitchen last night. I need to see if I can fix it. Got my tools right here,” he said, patting his backpack of money.

  “Can’t you call a plumber?”

  “Ha,” he said, smiling. “Do you have any idea what a plumber charges on a weekend? I’d have to get Jeffrey to knock off another money flight to cover his bill.”

  She folded her arms, clearly not amused. “Please don’t joke about that. Jeffrey’s lucky to be alive. I’m still very worried about him.”

  “We both are.” He laid his backpack on the floor, keeping a safe distance between Savannah and what was really inside it. Then he crossed the room and put his arms around her. “I told both him and your mother that they should pack their bags and get out of Miami. I can’t put a gun to their heads and force them to go.”

  Savannah laid her head against his chest, but she kept her eyes wide open, thinking. “I think we should turn in the money.”

  Ruban froze, then took a step back. “You what?”

  “We don’t have to tell the police that Jeffrey stole it. We can say that we were walking along a bike trail and saw a hundred-dollar bill on the ground. We looked around and saw another one, and then another one. Then we found a whole bag of money that the crooks had buried, and some animals must have dug it up.”

  Animals? Dug up? It was actually possible. He took another step back, suddenly feeling the need to sit, and leaned against the back of the couch. “That’s just a bad idea.”

  “Why?”

  “We find millions of dollars in a bag, and we just turn it in? That’s our story?”

  “Yeah. We did the right thing. Why is that a bad idea?”

  “It’s not believable.”

  “Why not?”

  “First of all, where do you think we live, Mayberry? Nobody in Miami finds that much money and just turns it in.”

  “That’s not true. I remember a story on the news just a few years ago. An armored car got in an accident and overturned on I-95. Two kids turned in the money.”

  “No. I remember that story, too. It was almost a half million dollars that spilled out of the truck. Two kids found fifty-five bucks and returned it. The rest of the folks, they just kept the money. The city practically threw a parade in honor of the kids who stepped up, because no one could believe they did it. That’s Miami.”

  Savannah walked around the couch and sat on the armrest. She was right beside Ruban, leaning against him. “I’m afraid that the longer we keep this money hidden, the harder it is to figure out what to do about it.”

  Ruban reached for her hand and held it. “It’s going to be okay.”

  “What about Pinky?”

  He felt a chill. “What about him?”

  “You still have his share of the money, right?”

  He didn’t, but he’d told her otherwise, and he was sticking to it. “Yeah, his and Jeffrey’s share. Or at least I thought I did. Jeffrey had some cash I didn’t know about. Enough to come up with a four-hundred-thousand-dollar ransom. I suppose Pinky does, too.”

  “We can turn in whatever we have. How much is it?”

  He’d never told her, and putting an exact number on it would make it even harder to maintain equilibrium in the ebb and flow of lies mixed with truth. “Savannah, put this idea out of your head. If we don’t have all the money, turning in part of it doesn’t solve anything.”

  She sighed deeply. “Pinky is such a scumbag. Even if we could convince Jeffrey to turn in the money, he’ll never make this right.”

  “You never know what will happen.”

  “Have you been in touch with him?”

  “Last time we talked, he said he was leaving Miami.”

  “Just as well. He scares me. He was always nice to me when I was a little girl. Used to bring me presents whenever he came over to the house. But even before he went to prison, he scared me.”

  “I’ll take care of Pinky.”

  She looked at him with concern. “What does that mean?”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything stupid.”

  “You promise?”

  “You have to trust me on this, Savannah.”

  Their eyes met and held. Then she smiled a little, but it was a sad one. “Okay. I trust you.”

  Ruban drove south and didn’t stop until he was almost to the Florida Keys. It was his first visit to Eden Park.

  The Eden Park mobile home community was twenty-seven acres of manufactured housing, a flat and treeless tract of agricultural land that the county had rezoned “residential” to accommodate thousands of migrant workers who worked the surrounding fields of beans and tomatoes each winter. Like many who’d lost a house in foreclosure, Ruban and Savannah had considered the manufactured-housing option before deciding to rent. Some mobile home parks were beautiful, having made it from one hurricane season to the next with nary a sign of damage from wind or rain. Eden Park was not one of them. When it came to tropical storms, Eden Park was like that unknowing kid in middle school who walks around all day with the “Kick Me” sign pasted to his back. It bore the scars of every major storm to make landfall in the last decade. Empty lots aplenty, the demolished houses long since hauled away. Some homeowners bought storm-damaged units on the cheap and fixed them up, good as new. Some bought as-is, unable to afford the necessary repairs. Windows remained boarded with plywood year round, the roof perpetually covered with blue plastic tarps, the “temporary” fixes that never went away.

  The bluest of all was at the end of Eden Lane.

  Ruban stopped and parked alongside the gravel road that bisected the park. He rolled down the window and sat behind the wheel for a minute. Just ahead, a little farther down the street, boys and girls were kicking a soccer ball. They looked to be around kindergarten age. In a place like Eden Park, video games were a luxury. Kids learned to kick a soccer ball almost before they could walk. All of these youngsters were good. One boy, in particular, was skilled for his age. Good ball control, dribbled with both feet, excellent speed. Ruban watched him with passing interest, focusing more on the feisty little girl who kept stealing the ball from him.

  Ruban, you can’t buy back what’s lost.

  Savannah was so wrong. She could not have been more wrong.

  Ruban climbed out of the car, grabbed one more glimpse of the Eden Park World Cup, and walked to the front door of the trailer with the blue roof. He had his backpack with him. He knocked firmly. No one answered. He knocked again, and the main door opened, but the storm door remained closed. The old woman on the other side of the screen wasn’t smiling. Her expression soured even more when sh
e recognized Ruban.

  “What the heck do you want?” she asked.

  “Can we talk?”

  “We got nothing to talk about.”

  “Please. I want to make things right.”

  She scoffed and shook her head.

  “It could mean some money for you,” he said.

  Money. The magic word with Edith Baird. She had once been a pro at working the system. When her daughter and Ruban had dated, Edith was living comfortably in a four-bedroom house with a swimming pool. A felony conviction for welfare fraud put an end to the scam. Unfortunately, the pendulum swung too far in the opposite direction, and now the monthly assistance check wasn’t even close to what she needed.

  “You got two minutes,” she said, as she opened the screen door.

  Ruban thanked her and went inside. The living room was a cluttered mess. In fact, it wasn’t used as a living room. An ironing board stood in the middle of it. Several damp loads from the morning wash hung on the drying racks. Mostly children’s clothes. Lots of pink.

  “How are you doing, Edith?”

  Edith was a large woman with enormous flabby triceps that sagged over her elbows, and ankles so swollen that Ruban would have sworn she didn’t have any. Her old sundress was at least two sizes too small, which didn’t make it any easier to bend at the waist. Just lowering herself into a chair seemed to leave her breathless.

  “How’s it look like I’m doin’?”

  “Mindy okay?” He meant his ex-girlfriend, Edith’s only child.

  “Locked up. Another parole violation. At least if she’s in jail, I know she’s not selling her body and doing drugs. I guess that’s something to be thankful for. That can’t be what you’re here about—to talk about Mindy.”

  “No.” Ruban moved to the edge of the couch, leveling his gaze at Edith. “I’m here about my daughter.”

  “Kyla ain’t your daughter, Ruban. You never married her mother, and you gave up any possible paternal rights you had when I adopted her.”