Operation Underworld (38 page)

“How do you know him?” Doc prepared himself for a captivating story which never materialised.

“Reputation. Never really met him. But anybody who can say the word ‘counterfeit’ knows about him.” Harry could see that Doc was wondering if he was being strung along. “Honest ta God, Doc! Never met him, he was way outtta my league. Never did business with anyone he didn’t know. So they say.”

“That’s how you knew the southeast?” Doc had walked across the room to man the hot plate.

“Yeah. He used to operate outta Hot Springs a lot. Mob jobs, mostly.”

“Is he still around?”

“Depends on what ya mean.”

“I mean like, you know where he is? Can we talk to him?”

Doc’s excitement was building, but Harry maintained an even keel. “Sure. Everybody knows where he is. And I guess anybody can talk to him. Long as you’re there during visitin’ hours.”

“You’re enjoyin’ this, ain’t ya? Ya old bastard!”

“Louisiana State pen, ten to twenty.”

“What happen? He spell ‘In God We Trust’ wrong?”

“Back alimony. Said he’d rather go ta jail then give her a penny.”

“Man of principle, huh?”

“Hey Doc, was all them bills crumpled up the same?” Harry propped himself up on one elbow and assumed a quizzical look.

“Jeez, Harry, no idea. What does it mean if they were?”

“When you do a run, ya want the new bills ta look old before ya pass ’em, like they was used. So there’s a variety a ways to do it. Basically, they should look crumpled. Like they been handled.”

“So whatta we do?”

“Get a few of ’em out.” Doc and Harry began to compare the real notes with the home-made brand. Soon, the desk, table and any other available flat surface was occupied with money, neatly laid out in rows, by denomination.

“Harry, this ain’t workin’ too good. Let’s move the furniture away and use the floor.”

After ten minutes of crawling around the floor, Harry found something.

“Well, whatta ya know!!” Doc looked up at Harry as he made his exclamation. Then the inevitable happened. Laying the bills out on the floor had seemed like a good idea at the time, until Hurricane Louie barged through the door.

“Hey guys! What’d I miss?”

The bills flew in every direction.

“God-damn it, Louie!!” Doc jumped up but Harry stayed down on the floor staring at two of the twenties he had pinned to the floor with his fingers.

“Louie, sit at the table,” Harry instructed while his eyes continued to scan the rows of notes.

“What for, Harry?”

“I want ya to do somethin’ for me. Sit at the table.”

Louie complied while Doc started laying out the bills again. Harry went over to Louie’s table and handed him a single twenty, and then a separate stack of twenties. “Look through all these notes and put them in numerical order. But keep this one separate.”

Harry walked over to Doc, who was trying to arrange the bills.

“Ferget that, Doc, look at this.” He handed Doc the two twenties. Doc saw it right away.

“Son-of-a-bitch! Why would they do that?”

“Come on, Doc, that’s the easy part! They switched the fake dough for the real stuff. Even Louie could figure that out!”

“Hey, guys some a these numbers are the same!”

“Keep lookin’, you’ll see a lot of em’s the same. Each real bill will have an identical serial number on a counterfeit bill,” Harry explained. “Doc, run downstairs, get me a couple of bags. We’ll weed out all the Monopoly money, and see what we have left.”

Doc returned with the cash bags a few minutes later and, as he came back in something else occurred to him.

“Harry, when did Sheinfeld go up the river?”

“Before the war started. Thirty-five or six, I think.”

“And you said last night you thought these bills were how old?”

“Six months to a year, max.”

Doc and Harry looked at each other.

“If Scheinfeld made these, he did it while he was still on the inside.”

Harry nodded in agreement.

“I found one!” Louie yelled excitedly.

Knowing that Harry was secretive about having done time, Doc was hesitant about posing his next question. But he couldn‘t let it go.

“Harry, is it possible? I mean, are there art studios or something in the joint?”

“I only done two years, Doc.”

Louie looked up from the table and then glanced at Doc, but remained silent.

“But it was in a federal pen. And there ain’t no possibility that I know of ta have the time and materials you need ta carve plates on the inside.” Harry was emphatic.

“Couldn’t they have been made before he went in?”

“No way! They’re soft metal. They wouldn’t have kept for five or six years. Heat, humidity, general abuse. They would’a been ruined. Any little defect, a bump, a chip, would’a rendered ’em useless. Easy to trace. Besides, who the hell would you trust with a pair of plates of that quality?”

Doc sat at his desk. “They were definitely made on the inside?”

“He had backin’. I’d stake my leg on it! Someone with a helluva lotta pull. Like in the Mob, or in the government.”

Doc involuntarily turned towards the window as his thoughts raced ahead of him. “Or in the department of the Treasury?” he half whispered.

Silence shrouded the room. Doc continued in a subdued voice.

“Those pricks murdered an old man because he found out they switched the money.”

“Doris is right. All the rats aren’t ‘over there’.” added Louie.

Doc continued to stare out of the window, thinking about his wife leaving him for money, his business partner’s tactics for money and the motivation of the DA to stop his father at all costs as they collided in a blinding light in his mind. There it was again. That feeling in the pit of his stomach like falling off a tall building and waiting for the impact, only it never comes. But the feeling stays.

“Doc. Hey Doc!” It was Louie. “
DOC
! The phone!”

The ringing of the phone suddenly snapped him out of his trance. He reached down and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” He spoke in a mechanical voice as the residue of the disturbing thoughts lingered in his mind.

“Doc, it’s me.” The soothing sound of Nikki’s voice cleared the air.

“Doc… I just called to see… if we’re still on for the parade.” Doc was instantly alerted by the forced composure he detected in Nikki’s voice. “Kate’s here and she asked me to call.” That was her signal to Doc that she was upset about something, but didn’t want Kate to know.

“Put her on.” Doc had to know if someone was in the house with them. Kate’s voice would tell for sure.

“Hi, Doc! This is Katie! I’m really excited for you to take us to the parade! Mommy says there’s music, clowns. All kinds a neat stuff!”

Doc sat down, relieved. “You count on it, sweetheart! I’m excited too! Put your mommy back on, okay?”

“Doc?”

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Remember those men you mentioned? I think they were here.”

“Why? Why do you think they were there?”

“I found something they might have left.”

“Bring it in the morning. I’ll have a look at it.”

“But Doc! It’s a book. A strange book, with – ”

“Nikki! Bring it tomorrow! I’m sure it’s nothing. See you at noon. At Woolworth’s.” He hung up.

Nikki had no idea what the hell the comment about Woolworth’s was or why Doc down-played the importance of the black book. Not knowing about the developments of the last twenty-four hours, she also couldn’t understand that Doc was just being cautious. It was a good thing, too.

Huddled in the cramped space of Redbone’s makeshift basement office, were three of the very men Doc and Nikki sought to avoid. Mistakenly believing that Doc probably had the book, they listened in on the phone call. At least one in their company was shocked to hear that Nikki actually possessed the secret document.

“Just outta curiosity, where did you morons stash that book?” Johnson pushed away from Redbone’s desk and addressed the two men who stood before him, heads bent to one side to avoid the steam pipes criss crossing the ceiling.

“We thought it’d be a good idea ta have someone ta blame it on… case they start a investigation.”

“Case they start a investigation.” Johonson mocked the agent’s reply. “Your mother have any kids that lived? Case they start an investigation! So you picked
A GOD-DAMNED SECRETARY
! What the
HELL
would her
MOTIVATION
be for stealing a top secret
CODE BOOK
? Keep people from copyin’ her J
ELLO RECIPES
?”

“We were just try’n ta cover our asses!” The agent who had been doing all the talking sought unsuccessfully to extinguish the fuse he ignited. “Besides, how the hell did she get it?” he asked, seeking to change the subject.

“
WHO GIVES A FUCK
!
SHE GOT IT
!”

Redbone arrived in the basement to check the pressure in the number two boiler. He had no idea he had visitors until Johnson’s little temper tantrum attracted his attention, and drew him back towards his office.

“If we don’t get that book back and she goes to anybody with this, there’ll be a hundred investigations. Every agency, newspaper and freakin’ aspiring politician in the country will want a piece of this! There won’t be a hole deep enough to hide in! Worse yet, we got two more outsiders dragged into this thing that we gotta contend with.” Johnson’s voice was tainted with desperation as he tried to make his cohorts understand the ramifications of their mistake.

The old metal door creaked open to reveal Redbone’s frail, bent frame standing in the doorway.

“Who da hell are you people and why’s you in my office?”

The dumbfounded look on the agents’ faces only lasted until Johnson gave the order. “Take care of him!”

One of the lackeys grabbed the defenceless old man and pinned his arms behind his back. The other had seen one too many movies, and hit Redbone in back of the head with a pistol butt, causing him to yell out and kick wildly with his feet. His heavy work boot found a mark in the shin of the agent, who disengaged, howling and hopping around the room, both hands holding his leg.

The second agent remained occupied with restraining Redbone’s arms, and that’s when Johnson intervened. A punch to the jaw, followed by two vicious blows to the back of the head with his brass knuckles rendered the frail man unconscious.

The agent, who had not uttered a word until now, released Redbone, allowing him to fall to the floor and looked at Johnson.

“Looks like now we got three, huh?”

“Three what?” Johnson enquired with a puzzled look.

“Three ta contend with.”

“Less than a year to retire,” Johnson said to himself.

“Should we go to Woolworth’s?” enquired the agent with the bruised shin.

“Yeah, good idea. We’ll just split up so we can cover all hundred and twenty-nine of them in the greater New York area quicker! Fuckin’morons!”

“You wanna go after the book?”

“No. We’ll wait until tomorrow. Use the parade as cover,” Johnson replied.

“What about him? He ain’t breathin’ too good!” the agent with the bruised shin asked, pointing to Redbone. Johnson eyed Redbone’s brutalised body before answering.

“Fuck him. By the time they find him we’ll be back in DC with a cover story.”

“And McKeowen?”

Johnson thought before answering. A smile crept across his face as he stared through the agent. “Déjà-fuckin’-vu.” He uttered under his breath. The two agents exchanged glances.

“That guy’s father was a prick, and his kid’s a prick.”

“You knew his father?”

“Yeah. I helped the DA on an operation one time to control some rogue cops. Now I get to take this prick out.”

Although winter appeared to have lost her way to New York City, tell-tale signs of the season encroached. The defoliated trees in front of Gracie Mansion in Carl Schultz Park waved in the late afternoon breeze.

The Mansion is normally reserved for charitable, humanitarian and social functions as opposed to hardcore, political head-banging sessions. Those are done downtown. However, the afternoon of Friday the thirteenth was a notable exception.