“Okay, Ethel, I’m all dialed-in now,” Dewey said after he remembered her instructions regarding the Nigerian. “I’ll go by the joint and look for some black dude, which might include half the people I see in the parking lot, what with so many silverbacks coming up to Hollywood from South L.A. every goddamn night. Do you have a better description?”
“Your runner said he’s forty, fat, and nervous, remember?” Then she said, “No, of course you don’t remember. Offer one Franklin to him and see how it goes from there.”
“This is just great,” Dewey said. “Somebody walks into that parking lot looking suspicious and the first cop cruising by will be on him like maggots on the horse meat they sell in that joint. And of course, being a black foreigner from his fucked-up country, he’ll be an hour late.”
Ignoring his complaints, Eunice said, “And after you finish with that job, stop and get me a Whopper with fries. No, make it two Whoppers. I’m hungry.”
Then she clicked off, and Dewey threw the phone on the seat beside him, muttering all the way to West Hollywood, for what he’d previously thought would be the last stop of the day.
Dewey was leery about dealing with a Nigerian. They had their own scams and didn’t work well with outsiders. Dewey thought that by now everyone with the brain of a chicken would be onto the big Nigerian eBay scams, such as the one where an item, like a golf cart, would be listed for sale by a legitimate US seller. The Nigerians would send a check to the seller made out for five times the asking price of the item. Many honest but gullible sellers would send the item and the balance of the huge check to the Nigerian, who the seller figured was just not attuned to our American way. Of course, the seller’s check would be legitimate but the Nigerian’s original check would be bogus.
Dewey had seen a notice on the online classifieds site craigslist from a seller who’d been stung. He’d posted a message saying that his item was “not for sale to any Nigerian.” Dewey figured he should be cautious when dealing with the Nigerian tonight and would look and listen very carefully to determine if the sheet of checks was legitimate.
He was lucky to find a parking space for his Honda Civic just off the Sunset Strip, and he spotted his depositor runner sitting outside at a sidewalk table, where he could sip a $5 cup of coffee and pretend that he was going to amount to something in the world as soon as he got his degree in anthropology or whatever useless fucking thing he was studying. Dewey hadn’t met one yet who he thought would end up as anything but a valet parking attendant or a busboy at some Wolfgang Puck restaurant, if he got lucky.
This one was a smallish kid, and of course he was wearing wraparound shades, cargo pants, and a baseball cap pulled low, as if he were someone who didn’t want to be recognized by the adoring public. Dewey wondered where he got the T-shirt with the Warner Bros. logo on the back. That, the cargoes and retro sneakers, and the inability to get out of his car without a bottle of designer water said, “I am employed in some capacity at the studio!” Dewey Gleason was sick to death of doing business with these pathetic little fucks.
When Dewey took the chair across the table, the kid smiled nervously and said, “Hi, Mr. Graham. I’m ready to go to work.”
Dewey, ever cautious, removed the envelope he was carrying inside the pocket of his summer blazer, holding it by the corner between the tip of his thumb and forefinger, and slid it across the table.
“Everything is there, Michael,” he said quietly after glancing to his right at a young woman with a leopard headband who might have overheard them if she hadn’t been jabbering on her cell phone.
“Mitchell,” the student corrected.
“Yes, Mitchell,” Dewey agreed. “You’ll find two checks each for three banks. The debit cards and the driver’s licenses are in the name of Seymour Belmont, Josh Davidson, and Ralph Tanazzi. Instructions are very clear. Make sure you carry the correct ID and debit card for each bank and then deposit the checks as though you do it every day. The PIN number is taped on the card for you.”
“I’m sorta blonde,” Mitchell said, concerned. “I don’t look like a Ralph Tanazzi.”
“You look like the photo ID,” Dewey said. “That’s all you have to worry about.”
“I hope the pictures on the driver’s licenses turned out okay,” Mitchell said. “That guy in the camera shop you sent me to was drunk.”
“He did a good job,” Dewey said. “Don’t sweat it.”
“And my… pay?”
“Is in the envelope,” Dewey said. “Three hundred dollars for walking into three banks. A couple hours of your time, driving included.”
“You said four hundred dollars, Mr. Graham,” Mitchell said.
“Did I?” said Dewey disingenuously. He withdrew his wallet from the pocket of his blazer, removed a $100 bill, and put it on the table, saying, “My mistake.”
An Asian waiter approached and said to Dewey, “Sir, what can I get you?”
“You’ll buy me a coffee, won’t you, Mitchell?” Dewey said.
Happily the kid replied, “Of course, Mr. Graham. And how about a croissant?”
Later, while driving to Pablo’s Tacos, Dewey had to admit that Eunice had some impressive talents she’d learned from her first husband, Hugo. She could legally shop on the Internet and buy whatever she needed. Legitimate companies sold her magnetic ink and high-end printers with different color inks, as well as other card-altering devices. Dewey was amazed the first time he watched her redo a mag number and slide a new mag strip in place of the old one.
She had very valuable information that she sometimes kept in the virtual storage she got when buying new computers. She claimed that the cops were able to get links to Internet sites, but that was all, and that Dewey, who was nearly computer-illiterate, should stop worrying and leave the thinking to her. Of course, a deprecating crack or two would top off any admonishment she directed his way.
Eunice kept much of her information in a Yahoo account, including names, credit-card numbers, and Social Security numbers, so that she could just log in and bring up the information as needed. Sometimes she went to Office Depot to buy Mips VersaChecks with computer programs, along with plenty of check stock. With that she could produce her own checks, account numbers, and routing numbers. She believed it was risky and didn’t like to do it too often, but Eunice had never spent a day in jail, except for a DUI, and Dewey had been jailed only twice, for traffic warrants back when he was a struggling actor, before meeting Eunice.
When Dewey parked in the little strip mall and walked inside Pablo’s Tacos, he saw no black man who was forty, fat, and nervous. The people at the tables were a Latino couple with two small children, all of them eating tacos and refried beans, and a young Latino guy sitting by himself, drinking coffee.
Dewey ordered a taco he didn’t really want and a Coke. Then he sat at the table next to the young man, who was no older than Dewey’s college kids. In fact, this boy could very well be in college. He was a good-looking, slender young guy with great curly hair, wearing a red T-shirt, clean jeans, and Adidas running shoes. He had no tatts, earrings, or face jewelry, but being at Pablo’s Tacos in an apparently expectant mode might mean that he had a drug issue and could use some fast and easy bucks.
While waiting for the Nigerian, Dewey figured he might as well work the kid and see what was what. Dewey nibbled at the taco and felt the heat instantly. He grabbed his Coke, took a couple of gulps, and said, “Damn, they didn’t warn me about the jalapeños!”
Malcolm Rojas said, “You have to tell them no heat.”
“I can’t eat this,” Dewey said, dropping the taco onto the paper plate.
“Take it back to the counter,” Malcolm said. “They’ll give you another.”