The Moneychangers (50 page)

The club's all-male membership, as far as Miles could see, was divided broadly into two groups. One comprised those who seriously used the club's athletic facilities, including the steam baths and massage parlors. These people came and went individually, few of them appearing to know each other, and Miles guessed they were salaried workers or minor business executives who belonged to the Double-Seven simply to keep fit. He suspected, too, that the first group provided a conveniently legitimate front for the second, which usually didn't use the athletic facilities, except the steam baths on occasion.

Those in this second group congregated mainly in the bar or the upstairs rooms on the third floor. They were present in greatest numbers late at night, when the exercise-seeking members seldom used the club. It became evident to Miles that this second element was what Nolan Wainwright had in mind when he described the Do
ubleSeven as a "mob hangout."

Something else Miles E
astin learned quickly was that the upstairs rooms were used for illegal, high stakes card and dice games. By the time he had worked a week, some of the night regulars had come to know Miles, and were relaxed about him, being assured by Jules LaRocca that he was "okay, a stand-up guy."

Shortly after, and pursuing his policy of being useful, Miles began helping out when drinks and sandwiches had to be carried to the third floor. The first time he did, one of a half-dozen burly men standing outside the gaming rooms, who were obviously guards, took the tray from him and carried it in. But next night, and on subsequent ones, he was allowed into the rooms where gambling was taking place. Miles also obliged by buying cigarettes downstairs and bringing them up for anyone who needed them, Including the guards. He knew he was becoming liked.

One reason was his general willingness. Another was that some of his old cheerfulness and good nature were returning, despite the problems and dangers of being where he was. And a third was that Jules LaRocca, who seemed to flit around the fringes of everything, had become Miles's sponsor, even though LaRocca made Miles feel, at times, like a vaudeville performer.

It was Miles E
astin's knowledge about money and its history which fascinated it seemed endlessly LaRocca and his cronies. A favorite item was the saga of counterfeit money printed by governments, which Miles had first described in prison. In his early weeks at the club he repeated it, under LaRocca's prodding, at least a dozen times. It always produced nods of belief, along with comments about "stinkin' hypocrites" and "goddam gumment crooks."

To supplement his fund of stories, Miles went one day to the apartment block where he had lived before imprisonment, and retrieved his reference books. Most of his other few possessions had long since been sold to pay arrears of rent, but the janitor had kept the books and let Miles have them. Once, Miles had owned a coin and banknote collection, then sold it when he was heavily in debt. Someday, he hoped, he might become a collector again, though the prospect seemed far away.

Able to dip into his books, which he kept in the fourth
-
floor cubicle, Miles talked to LaRocca and the others about some of the stranger forms of money. The heaviest currency ever, he told them, was the agronite stone discs used on the Pacific island of Yap up to the outbreak of World War II. Most of the discs, he explained, were one foot wide, but one denomination had a width of twelve feet and, when used for purchasing, was transported on a pole. "Waddabout change?" someone asked amid laughter, and Miles assured them it was given in smaller stone discs.

In contrast, he reported, the lightest-weight money was scarce types of feathers, used in New Hebrides. Also, for centuries salt circulated as money, especially in Ethiopia, and the Romans used it to pay their workers, hence the word "salary" which evolved from "salt." And in Borneo, as recently as the nineteenth century, Miles told the others, human skulls were legal tender.

But invariably, before such sessions ended, the talk swung back to counterfeiting.

After one such occasion, a hulking driver-bodyguard who hung around the club while his boss played cards upstairs, took Miles aside.

"Hey, kid, you talk big about counterfeit. Take a looka this." He held out a clean, crisp twenty-dollar bill.

Miles accepted the banknote and studied it. The experience was not new to him. When he worked at First Mercantile American Bank, suspected bogus bills were usually brought to him because of his specialist knowledge. The big man was grinning. "Pretty good, huh?"

"If this is a fake," Miles said, "it's the best I've ever seen."

"Wanna buy a few?" From an inner pocket the bodyguard produced nine more twenties. "Gimme forty bucks in real stuff, kid, that whole two hunnert's yours."

It was about the going rate, Miles knew, for high-grade queer. He observed, too, that the
other bills were just as good as
the first.

About to refuse the offer, he hesitated. He had no intention of passing any fake money, but realized it was something he could send to Wainwright.

"Hold it!
" he told the burly man, and went upstairs to his room where he had squirreled away slightly more than forty dollars. Some of it had been left over from Wainwright's original fifty-dollar stake; the rest was from tips Miles had been given around the gaming rooms. He took the money, mostly in small bills, and exchanged it downstairs for the counterfeit two hundred. Later that night he hid the counterfeit money in his room.

The next day, Jules LaRocca, grinning, told him, "Hear ya didda stroke business." Miles was at his bookkeeper's desk in the third floor offices.. "A little," he admitted

LaRocca moved his pot belly closer and lowered his voice. "Ya wanna piece more action?" Miles said cautiously, "It depends what kind."

"Like makin' a trip to Louisville.
Movin' summa the stuf
f you bought last night."

Miles felt his stomach tighten, knowing that if he agreed and were caught, it would not only put him back in prison, but for much longer than before. Yet if he didn't take risks, how could he continue learning, and gaining the confidence of others here?

"All it is, is drivin' a car from here to there. You get paid two C notes."

"What happens if I'm stopped? I'm on parole and not allowed a driver's license."

"A license ain't no problem if you gotta photo front view, head 'n shoulders." "I haven't, but I could get one." "Do it fast."

During his lunch break, Miles walked to a downtown bus station and obtained a photograph from an automatic machine. He gave it to LaRocca the same afternoon.

Two days later, again while Miles was working, a hand silently placed a small rectangle of paper on the ledger in front of him. With amazement he saw it was a state driver's license, embodying the photo he had supplied.        When he turned, LaRocca stood behind
him, gnnning. "Better service than the
License Bureau, oh?" Miles said incredulously, "You mean it's a forgery?" "Can ya tella difference?"

"No, I can't." He peered at the license which appeared to be identical with an official
one. "How did you get it
" "Never mind."

"No," Miles said, "I'd really like to know. You know how interested I am in things like this."

LaRocca's face clouded; for the first time his eyes revealed suspicion. "Why ye wanna know?"

"Just interest. The way I told you." Miles hoped a s
udden nervousness didn't show.

"Some questions ain't smart. A guy asks too many, people start wondering. He might get hurt. He might get hurt bad."

Miles stayed silent, LaRocca watching. Then, it seemed, the moment of suspicion passed.

"It'll be tomorrow night," Jules LaRocca informed him "You'll be told wotta do, and when."

Next day, in the early evening, the instructions were delivered again by the perennial messenger, LaRocca, who handed Miles a set of car keys, a parking receipt from a city lot, and a one-way airline ticket. Miles was to pick up the car a maroon Chevrolet Impala drive it off the lot, then continue through the night to Louisville. On arrival he would go to Louisville airport and park the car there, leaving the airport parking ticket and keys under the front seat. Before leaving the car he was to wipe it carefully to remove his own fingerprints. Then he would take an early-morning flight back.

The worst minutes for Miles were early on, when he had located the car and was driving it from the city parking lot. He wondered tensely: Had the Chevrolet been under surveillance by police? Perhaps whoever parked the car was suspect, and was followed here. If so, now was the moment the law was most likely to close in. Miles knew there had to be a high risk; otherwise someone like himself would not have been sought as courier. And although
he had no actual knowledge, he presumed the counterfeit money probably a lot of it was in the trunk.

But nothing happened though it was not until he had left the parking lot well behind and was near the city limits that he began to relax.

Once or twice on the highway, when he encountered state police patrol cars, his heart beat faster, but no one stopped him, and he reached Louisville shortly before dawn after an uneventful journey.

Only one thing happened which was not in the plan. Thirty miles or so from Louisville, Miles pulled off the highway and, in darkness, aided by a flashlight, opened the car's trunk. It contained two heavy suitcases, both securely locked. Briefly he considered forcing one of the locks, then commonsense told him he would jeopardize himself by doing so. After that he closed the trunk, copied down the Impala's license number, and continued on.

He found the Louisville airport without difficulty and after observing the rest of his instructions, boarded a fl
ight back and was at the Double-S
even Health Club shortly before 10 A.M. No questions were asked about his absence.

Through the remainder of the day Miles was weary from the lack of sleep, though he managed to keep working. In the afternoon LaRocca arrived, beaming and smoking a fat cigar.

"Ya whacked off a clean job, Milesy. Nobody's pissed off. Everybody pleased."

"That's good," Miles said. "When do I get paid the two hundred dollars?"

"Y' awready did. Ominsky took it Goes toward what ya owe him."

Miles sighed. He supposed he should have expected something of the kind, though it seemed ironic to have risked so much, solely for the loan shark's benefit. He asked LaRocca, "How did Ominsky know7" "Ain't much he don't."

"A minute ago you said everybody was pleased. Who's 'everybody'? If I do a job like yesterday's, I like to know who I'm working for."

"Like I told ye, there's some things it ain't smart to know or ask."

"I suppose so." Obviously he would learn nothing more and he forced a smile for LaRocca's benefit, though today Miles's cheerfulness was gone and depression had replaced it. The overnight trip had been a strain and, despite the horrendous chances he had taken, he realized how little he had really learned.

Some forty-eight hours later, still weary and disheartened, he communicated his misgivings to Juanita.

8

Miles Elastin and Juanita had met on two earlier occasions during the month he had been working at the DoubleSeven Health Club.

The first time a few days after Juanita's evening ride with Nolan Wainwright and her agreement to act as intermediary had been an awkward, uncertain encounter for them both. Although a telephone had been instated promptly in Juanita's apartment, as Wainwright promised, Miles had not known about it and came unannounced, at night, having traveled there by bus. After a cautious inspection through the partially opened apartment door, Juanita had taken off the safety chain and let him in.

"Hugo," Estela said. The small, dark child a miniature Juanita looked up from a coloring book, her large, liquid eyes regarding Miles. "You're the thin man who came before. You're fatter now."

"I know," Miles said. "I've been eating magic giant food." '- Estela giggled, but Juanita was frowning. He told her apologetically, "There was no way to warn you I was coming. But Mr. Wainwright said you'd be expecting me." "That hypocrite!" "You don't like him?"

"I hate him."

"He isn't my idea of Santa Claus," Miles said. "But I don't hate him either. I guess he has a job to do." "Then let him do it. Not make use of others." "If you feel so strongly, why did you agree…?"

Juanita snapped, "D
o you think I have not asked mys
elf? Maldito sea el diva que lo conoc`. Making the promise that I did was an instant's foolishness, to be regretted."

"There's no need to regret it. Nothing says you can't back down." Miles's voice was gentle. "I'll explain to Wainwright." He made a move toward the door.

Juanita flared at him, "And what of you? Where will you p
ass your messages?" She shook h
er head in exasperation. "Were you insane when you agreed to such stupidity?"

"No," Miles said. "I saw it as a chance; in a way the only chance, but there's no reason it should involve you. When I suggested that it might, I hadn't thought it through. I'm sorry." "Mommy," Estela said, "why are you so angry?"

Juanita reached down and hugged her daughter. "No te preocupes, mi cielo. I am angry at life, little one. At what people do to each other." She told Miles abruptly, "Sit, sit!" "You're sure?"