Tin City (11 page)
I asked to see Phu. I would have used the owner’s first name, but I couldn’t remember it. A few moments later, I was approached by an older woman who looked the way I imagined a Vietnamese librarian would look. She pointed and said, “I know you maybe.”
“Yes.”
“You friend of Colin Gernes.” She pronounced the name “Olin Ernes.”
I said, “Yes.” Colin Gernes had been my supervising officer when I first broke in with the St. Paul Police Department.
“Kenzie?”
I nodded. Close enough.
“You cop no more.”
“No more,” I confirmed.
“You not come to roust poor Phu.” She pronounced the word “oust.”
“I wouldn’t think of it.”
“You come maybe buy camera?”
The shop assistant who met me at the door was now behind the glass counter. She scrunched up her nose and shook her head like a sudden chill had run up her spine.
“Cut it out, Phu,” I said. “You’re embarrassing the help.”
Phu glanced over her shoulder at the young woman.
“Oh, nuts, McKenzie. She’s my teenage niece. I embarrass her just by being in the same room.”
“Kids.”
“If they didn’t work cheap, there’d be a bounty on them. So what can I do for you, McKenzie?”
I took Phu’s arm and led her deeper into the store, away from her assistant.
“Let’s say, just for argument’s sake, that I wanted some paperwork done and didn’t want to trouble the bureaucracy. What would that cost?”
“Didn’t you try to arrest me for that once?”
“Nah. That was two guys who looked like me.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Seriously, Phu. Can you help me out?”
“I’m retired.”
“So am I.”
“Who are you kidding?”
“Phu …”
“Help you? You want me to help you?”
“Yes.”
“Times have changed since you were last in my store.”
“Tell me about it.”
Phu gave it some thought, then said, “You’re not going bad on me, are you, McKenzie?”
“I need to hide in plain sight for a while, just like your clients.”
“Former clients.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What are we talking about, McKenzie? Not passports.”
“Nothing that elaborate.”
“That’s good, because I don’t do passports anymore. Not since 9/11.”
That’s my girl
, I thought but didn’t say.
, I thought but didn’t say.
“So,” she added. “Driver’s license? Credit cards?”
“Yes to both.”
“From where?”
“Anyplace but Minnesota.”
“Twenty-five hundred.”
“I need it right now.”
“Three thousand.” And she didn’t mean dong, the official currency of Vietnam.
I agreed to the price.
“You come.”
Phu led me down a flight of stairs to her cellar. She unlocked one door, then another, and ushered me into a cramped room where a digital camera mounted on a tripod and a pair of strobe lights were aimed at a blue screen. The camera and lights were cabled to an Apple computer. There was a gray filing cabinet against the wall, a table, and three chairs.
Yeah, Phu. You’re retired.
Yeah, Phu. You’re retired.
I said, “Can I ask a question?”
“Hmm.”
“What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”
“Mostly I help immigrants and refugees. You know that.”
“No, I mean, why do so many Southeast Asians live here?”
“Family.”
“I don’t understand.”
“In the seventies, St. Paul became a kind of refuge for people fleeing the war. The population was small back then. But it grew because the
refugees had family here. It’s like the Swedes and Norwegians. They settled in Minnesota because there were already Swedes and Norwegians in Minnesota, which in turn encouraged even more Swedes and Norwegians to come to Minnesota.”
refugees had family here. It’s like the Swedes and Norwegians. They settled in Minnesota because there were already Swedes and Norwegians in Minnesota, which in turn encouraged even more Swedes and Norwegians to come to Minnesota.”
“A lot of Southeast Asians live here because a lot of Southeast Asians live here.”
“Exactly.”
“Makes sense. When did you come to Minnesota?”
Phu chuckled.
“I was born in St. Joseph’s Hospital on the Fourth of July 1948.”
“Why, then, do you insist on speaking in that pidgin English of yours?”
“So many of my white customers expect it.”
Phu shooed me in front of the blue screen. Noting my appearance—unshaved, unruly hair, creased black sports jacket over wrinkled maroon T-shirt, blue jeans, white Nikes—she asked, “Is that what you want to look like?”
“No. I want to look like Russell Crowe, but what are you going to do?”
The lights flashed, and a moment later my image appeared on a computer screen. I actually looked pretty good, all things considered, and urged Phu to take another photo. It took several more shots before we were able to duplicate the vacant-eyed, mug-shot expression that we’ve all come to expect from bureaucracy photography. Afterward, she filled in my height, weight, eye color, and hair color, then slid a card printed with the outline of a rectangle in front of me.
“Sign in the box.”
“What’s my name?”
“Jacob Greene.” She spelled it carefully, and I signed slowly.
“Where am I from?”
She told me, “Rapid City, South Dakota. Have you ever been there?”
“No, but my parents have.” Mount Rushmore is near Rapid City.
“You sit. You wait.”
Phu left the room. I sat. I waited.
About ninety minutes later Phu set a driver’s license in front of me with a blue header bar, a driver’s license number printed in red, the South Dakota state seal, the words “South Dakota” written all over the face, and Mount Rushmore in the background. It also had Jacob Greene’s name and address but my face and signature. Next to it, she placed Visa, Discover, and American Express credit cards.
“More,” she said, handing me a Rapid City Public Library card, an American Red Cross Volunteer Blood Donor card—it indicated that I had given six pints—a Blue Cross Blue Shield health insurance card, and another card saying I was a proud member of the United States Golf Association—all of them in Jacob Greene’s name.
“These no good,” she said, sliding into her pidgin English. “Just for show. Don’t use. These”—she picked up the credit cards—“good until end of month. Greene get statements then, know something wrong, call companies, companies trace cards. No good.”
I nodded my understanding.
“Three thousand dollars.” She said that clearly enough.
I paid her from my shoe box.
“Do you have a wallet?”
“No.” I didn’t want to use my own.
“Everyone forgets the wallet.” A moment later she produced a worn, thin brown wallet and gave it to me.
“No charge.”
I filled it with Jacob Greene’s life.
What did Thoreau write? Beware of enterprises that require new clothes?
Fifteen minutes after I left Phu Photography, I entered the Sears store across from the State Capitol Office Building. I was carrying the shoe box under my arm, which made me a figure of some suspicion to store security—how many people carry worn cardboard boxes into department stores, and why would they? A plainclothes guard was dispatched to follow my every move at a respectful distance, watching me while pretending not to. I made sure I did nothing to arouse his suspicion. The last thing I wanted was for him to inspect the shoe box for either a bomb or shoplifted merchandise.
I found a cart and began loading it up with a week’s supply of socks and underwear, an electric razor, toothbrush and toothpaste, deodorant, and a hairbrush. Next, I rolled over to the men’s department, where I carefully shopped for the most bland polo shirts, Dockers, Top-Siders, sweaters, and blue sports jacket I could find, working hard to choose clothes that would make me appear as colorful and distinct as a loaf of white bread. Finally I selected the ugliest soft-sided suitcase to cram it all into.
The security guard followed me to the checkout.
The cashier smiled without actually looking at me. She took each item and ran it past an electronic eye that made an annoying “bip” sound—I couldn’t imagine listening to that eight hours a day. Instead of a bag, I had her pack each purchase into the suitcase. I added the shoe box last. The cashier rang up a total, and I gave her a wad of fifties. After accepting them, she scribbled across each bill with a counterfeit-detector pen. The ink turned amber—instead of brown—proving that the fifties were all genuine.
It was distressing to know how untrusting people can be.
I drove the posted speed limit in the right-hand lane and was passed by nearly every car on I-94. Some of the drivers gave me a look that bordered
on open hostility, while others demonstrated their disgust with hand gestures. Instead of responding, I found KBEM-FM on the radio and cranked the volume, soothing my savage breast with some mainstream jazz. Normally I’d be speeding, too, but I couldn’t afford a ticket-happy patrolman taking a close look at Phu’s handiwork.
on open hostility, while others demonstrated their disgust with hand gestures. Instead of responding, I found KBEM-FM on the radio and cranked the volume, soothing my savage breast with some mainstream jazz. Normally I’d be speeding, too, but I couldn’t afford a ticket-happy patrolman taking a close look at Phu’s handiwork.
I had no doubt that the driver’s license was all right, especially after the rent-a-car folks checked it out, but why push my luck? It had been tense enough leaning on the counter while the agent accessed both Jacob Greene’s driving record and his credit card account. There had been a computer glitch, and when the agent said, “Just a moment, Mr. Greene,” I nearly grabbed the suitcase and made a break for it. As it was, I needed the agent to return the driver’s license before I could fill out his forms—in all the excitement, I had forgotten Jake’s address!
The agent had attempted to put me into an SUV, but I requested something smaller and less expensive. I wasn’t concerned about the money. I wanted a vehicle that was nondescript, only I didn’t want to say it aloud for fear of arousing suspicion or giving the agent something to remember should anyone ask about me. To meet my request, he rolled out a blue four-door Plymouth Neon with a tiny four-cylinder engine, five-speed manual transmission, and a tinny AM/FM radio. It only goes to show, you should be careful what you wish for.
It called itself a sporting goods store, yet it served only two sports—hunting and fishing. The store was small and old and located just off of I-35 north of Forest Lake, about thirty minutes from St. Paul. A sign near the cash register read GUNS DON’T KILL PEOPLE, ONLY PEOPLE INSTRUCTED IN THE PROPER USE OF FIREARMS KILL PEOPLE. JOIN OUR SEVEN-HOUR “CONCEAL AND CARRY” HANDGUN COURSE. BECOME QUALIFIED TODAY! The store seemed ideal for what I had in mind.
After a half hour of browsing, I selected two handguns, a Beretta
double-action 9 mm with an eight-round magazine and a modest .25 Iver Johnson. I piled fifties on the glass counter next to the guns until I covered the nearly thousand-dollar cost plus tax. The store owner didn’t seem surprised that I was paying cash until I added three more fifties to the stack.
double-action 9 mm with an eight-round magazine and a modest .25 Iver Johnson. I piled fifties on the glass counter next to the guns until I covered the nearly thousand-dollar cost plus tax. The store owner didn’t seem surprised that I was paying cash until I added three more fifties to the stack.
“What’s that for?”
“I’d like to buy a little convenience.”
“What’s that mean, convenience?”
“I want you to backdate the 4473 three days so I can take the guns with me.”
The owner looked at the ATF firearms transaction form as if he were seeing it for the first time.
“You do, huh?”
“I live in South Dakota, and I’m going home soon. If I have to come back to the store, I might as well buy the guns in South Dakota.”
The store owner looked at the stack of fifties and then at me.
“I can appreciate that,” he said.
“So how ’bout it?”
“Do you have identification?”
“Of course.”
The Holiday Inn on I-494 insisted on a credit card. I gave Greene’s Visa to the desk clerk. It went through without any problem. After my experience with the car rental folks, I was certain that it would. Nor was I worried that Greene had reported his card stolen, because it hadn’t been stolen. Somehow—and there are many ways, including mail theft—Phu had acquired Greene’s name and account numbers and had essentially made a duplicate of his existing cards. The same with his driver’s license. They were as real as the cards he carried in his own wallet. In a month or so, Greene would start getting unexplained charges on his account
statements; he’d start getting confusing bills from companies that he didn’t remember doing business with. If he was smart, he’d realize that he was a victim of identity theft and would take the necessary steps to protect himself. Until then, I could confidently pretend to be him.
statements; he’d start getting confusing bills from companies that he didn’t remember doing business with. If he was smart, he’d realize that he was a victim of identity theft and would take the necessary steps to protect himself. Until then, I could confidently pretend to be him.
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