Feelers (25 page)

“This is how I often find money in houses I clean. Old people stash money, then die, and nobody knows it is hidden under the couch, or in the drapery valance . . .”

“Valance?”

“Yes, it is the thing that goes at the top of the drapery, to shield the top. Do you think for a moment I would make up something as idiotic as this?”

His eyes met mine again, but they were squinty. “I don’t know. How much did you find, then?”

I figured I had better tell him. “One hundred and ten thousand dollars!” I made my eyes light up like I was excited beyond
words. If he made me give him half or even the whole amount I just lied about, I would still be both alive and six hundred and ninety thousand dollars richer. I ask you, Father: Is a hundred and ten thousand dollars too much to pay for one’s life? To realize the dream of La Paz free and clear?

“What were you doing in that house I found you in, with that other guy?”

“He was trying to force me to give him the money because he felt cheated that I won the contract to clean the house. I told him I hid it where I found it, in the attic.”

Danny’s eyes widened.

“Excuse me, but you’re saying that you found it—”

“Yes, at 804 Vanderhoosen.”

“My uncle lives at 806.”

“Yes? But that is next door to . . . is your uncle’s name Trux?”

“No. Kessel. My father’s brother, Cuddy. That’s why you found it under the couch. I didn’t put my money in peanut tins.” He leaned back in his chair, crestfallen. “You’re right, Morty. It wasn’t my money that you found.”

Could this possibly have gone any better? At that moment I felt so good that I actually felt sorry for him.

“Danny, it is too bad. The cleaner of that house must have—”

His eyes locked back on mine with the speed of a snake on a tiny defenseless mouse.

“Who?”

“Well, it could have been almost anybody, really . . .” At first, I felt alluding to Frog had been a blunder, but all at once, I realized that when Frog was buying me drinks and toasting to my good fortune, he was really toasting to his own. That when he wanted me to keep the cops off, it was for him, not me. That when Hugo called from the airport, the Swiss bank account . . .

Frog had cleaned 806 Vanderhoosen a few weeks back. Frog had the five million and was escaping to Switzerland with it. By that time I figured he was over Greenland somewhere in first class, thinking about how he used me and my legitimate find of eight hundred thousand dollars, my life in jeopardy, as a shield for his escape.

Bastard.
No sense protecting him now.

I was not an idiot for the slip about the house cleaner, only for letting Frog pull the sheep over my eyes.

“Frog has your money.”

“Frog?”

“Yes, Louie ‘Frog’ Franco. It was he who cleaned 806 Vanderhoosen Drive two weeks ago, and he was at the airport an hour ago. I got a call from his foreman, who was trying to find him. I fear he is probably over Greenland now, drinking cold duck and eating soft herbal cheeses and laughing, the dirty bastard.” I reached out and put my hand on Danny’s forearm. “I will tell you where he lived, and you can ask his landlord, and wait, but he will not be returning unless he is a bigger idiot than I am. I will put you in touch with his foreman, who will tell you the same story I just told you. I am sorry, Danny.”

At this point our conversation had reached conversational levels. Oscar, Mim, and Slim were agape, meaning their mouths were hanging open with surprise. Of course, it was Mim who spoke first, and quietly for a change.

“Ho-lee shit.”

That pretty much said it all.

SO WE WERE SITTING THERE
at Oscar’s, four of the five of us agape (not me—I had a sympathetic, sad smile on my face), when Buddy came barging into the bar talking.

“Ooo: You won’t believe it. Hugo beat up Frog at the airport. Frog is at East Brooklyn Hospital, and Hugo is at a precinct in Queens. It took a buncha TSA guys and a loada cops just to take Hugo down, like baboons on an elephant. Whatsamatter?”

Buddy looked at each of us in turn until finally his eyes came back to Danny, who shot to his feet, put on his sunglasses, and walked out the door.

“Who wassat?”

“Danny Kessel,” Mim barked.

“It was Frog that had his five million!” Slim sank onto a bar stool, amazed.

Oscar began to tap a beer for Buddy. “I think Danny is headed to East Brooklyn Hospital to get Frog to tell him where it is.”

Buddy pointed at me, cocking his head. “Then it wasn’t you who found his five mil?”

“Idiots.” I shook my head wearily. “I kept telling you people that I did not have the five million, but you did not listen. I
cleaned the place next to Danny’s uncle’s place. It was Frog that cleaned that house and found the money. Now I’m guessing that Frog tried to make off with the money, part of which was Hugo’s, and that made Hugo very angry.”

Buddy slid onto a bar stool. “Ho-lee shit.”

“That’s what I said.” Mim chuckled.

I stood, picked up the helmet from the bar, and went over to the motorcycle.

“Where you going?” Mim asked.

“To return the bike, of course.”

“Somebody gonna call the cops?”

“About what?” I asked.

“Danny,” she said.

“As far as I know he has not done anything wrong. If he has, it is up to the police to catch him. Or that detective who was here. I want nothing more to do with Danny Kessel and that five million.” I slid the helmet on my head and wheeled the bike back out into the late-day sun.

It had turned humid as hell, and by the feel of it, we were in for a thunderstorm, the kind we often get on summer afternoons.

I stopped at an ATM for more cash, returned the bike to the furniture store kid, handed him the second hundred, and walked to my car. It had a ticket on my windshield. Expired meter.

I am telling you this very plainly, Father, because I was mentally exhausted, just going through the motions. A great weight had been lifted from me, and my mind was free of knots.

Well, there was the matter of Fanny. Too bad, a very attractive girl, and I liked her, but that bitch had played me for an idiot. But I had the locker key, didn’t I? Who was the idiot now?

The most important task was to move the money to a new
location. The reason? Because as soon as I did that, Fanny and whoever was her accomplice in the orange Malibu would no longer know where the new storage locker was.

But how to get my money and not have those two crooks try to take it from me or follow me?

I smiled the big smile I usually reserve for the ladies and occasionally my landlord.

I had an idea.

At a bargain store, I bought a duffel bag.

At a free newspaper box, I transferred the contents into the duffel bag until it was bulging.

At my car, I put the bag into the backseat.

Whistling a merengue to myself, I drove calmly down the boulevard to where the tractor trailer almost ran me down, and where I almost ran down the old woman with the grocery cart. I made the turn and then drove to where the storage facility was. I drove past once, and sure enough, I saw the orange Malibu parked down the block, in an alley. I guess they thought that if I returned I would not think to check to see if their car was nearby. Idiots.

I drove around the block and into the storage facility, through the gate, and parked. I did not see Fanny or anyone else suspicious hanging around. It would not have mattered if I had.

There was a pay phone just inside the entryway, and nobody around. I dialed 911 and got the dispatcher, told her I saw a man and a woman with a gun outside the storage facility, and hung up.

I went to my locker and opened it.

Inside was the Scottish suitcase. I unzipped it a little. The cash was still there. Just checking. After the key had vanished, I felt anything could happen.

I went back downstairs and from inside watched the police arrive. They began to talk with the guard, and he jerked a thumb toward the entrance.

That is when I exited.

One of the cops cocked her head at me. She was a strapping brunette with a French braid and slight mustache. Her hands were on her gun belt. “Hey, you, mister. You call 911?”

“Me? No, officer.”

She looked me up and down a moment and then went back to talking to the guard. Nobody could prove I made that call—or let us just say it was not worth the effort. I put the Scottish suitcase with the eight hundred grand in my trunk.

I started the car and drove from the lot. Wherever Fanny and company were, I was sure the police scared them off. They probably did have a gun if they intended to take the money from me.

This would be the tricky part, but I was pretty sure that Fanny and whoever were not hardened criminals like Danny.

I drove by where the orange Malibu had been, and it was gone.

Taking my time, I stopped for a soda at a deli and then made my way home as the skies were getting dark. Not from night, but from storm clouds.

The Camaro tucked into a parking spot up the block, I took the duffel bag from the backseat and headed toward my door.

Footsteps were behind me, and I was sweating but moving slowly and casually.

“Morty!”

I turned.

It was only Speedy.

“Speedy, my friend.
Qué pasa
?”

He smiled and pulled a gun from his pants pocket.

Do not ask me to tell you what kind of gun, Father. It was not a rifle, if that is what you are thinking. It was a revolver, I guess, black.

“
Por favor, amigo
. The bag.”

Fanny emerged from the alley up the block but did not come near. Clever girl—staying clear of danger, let Speedy take all the risks.

“Speedy, what are you doing . . . do you mean to tell me
you
and Fanny . . .” Of course. I am an idiot. It was he who knew to look under my battery for the paperwork to the storage locker. Remember? His father in Central America somewhere used to keep the family’s meager savings under the battery of a Ford Fairlane. The lipstick on his neck at the chica bar would have been Fanny’s pink lipstick, and that would have been her waiting for him, her shadow on his window, when I dropped him off. While I went to see Dexter, she left Speedy to go search my place and then wait for me. “You do not drive a Malibu.”

“My car broke, so I borrowed this one from my cousin.” Speedy shrugged, looking cheerful. Cheerful probably because Fanny had serviced him in the car to build his courage.

“She came to the house on Vanderhoosen as we were working, after you took the tight ones away. It was her uncle’s money. He used to tell her about it to torment her, even though she—his only surviving relative—brought him food. He even showed her a tight one once to prove it. He hated Fanny and would not let her in the house after a while because he knew she was looking around for the money. It was a sick game. Even after he died, there were instructions that she receive nothing and have no access to the house. She tried breaking into the house once after he died and the neighbors saw her and the cops came and the estate lawyer had a restraining order put on her to stay away
from the house. The lawyers were giving everything the old man had to the Catholic Church, but they didn’t know about the tight ones, though Fanny didn’t know if they had found them or not.” He shrugged apologetically, smiling. “Give me the bag.”

“You are my friend, Speedy. I cannot believe . . .” Now
my
mouth was agape. There were tears in my eyes—partially genuine, I must tell you. Even though he was stealing a duffel full of free newspapers, it hurt me that he would do such a thing. Yet I told you before that his trustworthiness was untested.

He held his hand out. “The bag.”

Slowly, I slipped it off my shoulder and handed it to him.

“Speedy, you fucking bastard. I will get you for this.”

“No, I do not think you will. We are going away together, just me and Fanny.”

“You better go far and fast, old friend.” I was acting real mad, you know, like Clint Eastwood, my eyes all squinty, my jaw working, my hands flexing at my sides like I was ready to draw my six-shooter. My imaginary six-shooter, of course.

“I am sorry, but it is rightfully her money.” He backed away, and the two of them went around the corner into the alley.

I backtracked to my car and drove to a pay phone. I called 911 again and told them that I had seen a Hispanic male in a straw hat and flannel shirt with a taller woman with great tits and elegant nose in an orange Malibu rat-rod with a gun, and they drove off onto the Belt Parkway. How did I know they would be on the Belt Parkway? Because it is the nearest highway. If they were to go far and fast, that would be the way, and it is near enough that I hoped they would wait that long before opening the bag.

But it did not matter. I drove west, inland, on back streets, away from the Belt Parkway, until I found a smaller storage
facility called Storage Hut on a corner a few blocks from East Brooklyn Hospital. There was a Sudanese security guard who showed me to my new rental locker.

The money was once again secure. Next time I needed the bag, when I left town, I would hire a security guard or private detective to accompany me.

This Storage Hut key was smaller, and so I wrapped it in the paperwork, stuffed it in an envelope, and mailed it to my business P.O. box. It could sit safely and comfortably in my box under the watchful and protective eye of the U.S. Postal Service.

I was clever, wasn’t I, Father? I think I saw something like this in a movie once, so I am only really clever for having remembered it.

And it was idiotically easy, yes? You see, Speedy and Fanny were amateurs, and they thought that the element of surprise was all they needed. I am quite certain that any professional criminal would have had me open the bag and show them the money.

Yes, of course, Fanny and Speedy could come back at me, but the element of surprise was gone, their trap sprung, and the rat now wise to the danger of cheese. In the mind of the amateur criminal, I think there is a big difference between trickery and robbery, even though both can land you in jail. If they are going to commit a felony like any common criminal by pulling a gun on me and making me take them to money, then why not go to Manhattan and hold up Donald Trump? Or kidnap Oprah for ransom? The effort is essentially the same, the reward greater with millionaires.