"No."
"He's in the game. He knows everything about banks. He should; he owned one up in Wisconsin until the examiners moved in. He did a year and nine, and he was lucky. Anyway, he knows how banks move checks. I asked a lot of questions-without mentioning the self-destruct paper, of course-and Jimmy gave me some good skinny on how to hang paper with minimum risk."
"How do we do that?" Termite Tommy asked.
Rathbone turned to look at him in the gloom. "I figure the best is to print up government checks."
"Holy Christ!" Tommy cried. "That's a federal rap."
"So is mail and wire fraud. No matter how you slice it-queer civilian checks or government checks-the bottom line is Leavenworth. But I think it can be fiddled. The risk-benefit ratio looks good to me. The big plus in using fake checks from Uncle Sam is that, according to what Jimmy told me, you can draw against them in one day. Sometimes immediately if the bank knows you."
"I don't get it."
"Look, if you write a forged check against someone who lives, say, in California, that crazy paper would be sawdust before the check clears. That means the California bank will never debit it to the mooch's account because all they've got is a handful of confetti. But if a local bank will credit a U.S. Treasury check within a day, then you can draw on it and waltz away whistling. By the time the blues catch up with the scam, that fake check is little bitty pieces of nothing, and they've got no evidence. No fraud. No counterfeiting. No forgery. Nothing."
"Yeah," Tommy said slowly, "I can see that."
"What I figure is this: We'll make a trial run. Have the Kraut make up a fake U.S. Treasury check, complete with computer code. Make it look like an IRS refund or something. Then we'll get the pusher to set up a checking account in a local bank. After the account is established, the fake government check is deposited. The next day the pusher takes out the money and disappears."
Tommy lighted another cigarette. "The way you explain it makes sense. Let's try it and see how it works. But don't expect me to do the pushing. I've done all the time I want to do."
"No," Rathbone said, "not you and not me. I think I've got the right player for the part. As soon as you have the check ready, let me know.''
"How much you want to make it for?"
"Some odd number. Like $27,696.37. Not over fifty grand. We'll start small and see how it goes."
Termite Tommy nodded and got out of the car. Then he leaned back in. "You'll have to give me the name of the pusher. It's got to be printed on the check."
"I'll let you know," Rathbone said, and took a business card from his Mark Cross wallet. "Here's my front; it's legit. David Rathbone Investment Management, Inc. Call me there when you're set."
"Will do," Tommy said, and walked away.
Rathbone went back into the Grand Palace Lounge. All the gang had assembled, and everyone was laughing up a storm. David took his chair at the head of the table and winked at Rita. She rose and came behind him, leaned down and nuzzled his cheek.
"Where have you been?" she asked.
"Business," he said.
"Monkey business?"
"Something like that. How would you like a job?"
"I've got a job: keeping you happy."
"And you succeed wonderfully. This is just a little errand with a super payoff."
"Lead me to it," she said.
9
Knowing the ways of officialdom, Harker asked Crockett for ten more warm bodies. He got four, which was one less than he had hoped for. They were reportedly all experienced investigators from agencies lending personnel to Crockett's operation.
Tony started with a local from the Broward County Sheriff's Office. He was a tall black named Roger For-tescue.
"That's an unusual moniker," Harker said. "English, isn't it?"
"Beats me," Roger said. "Could be. My folks come from tidewater Virginia. I got a grandpappy still alive. When he talks, I catch about every third word he says. What kind of an outfit is this?"
"Mostly white-collar crime."
"Nobody in south Florida wears white collars. We got red, green, yellow, all-colored golf shirts. Call it purple-collar crime and you'll be closer to the mark."
"I guess," Harker said. He passed Frank Little's business card across the desk. "This is your subject."
Fortescue held the card a moment without reading it. "What's his problem?"
"Unsavory associates."
"Sheet," the investigator said, "they could rack me
up on that charge. I guess you want the inside poop on this guy."
"You've got it. He may turn out to be clean, but I want him checked out."
"No strain, no pain. I report to you?"
"That's right. Here's my night number. If I'm not in, you can leave a message."
"This Frank Little-is he a heavy?"
"You tell me."
Fortescue nodded and rose lazily. "I'll take a look at him. Keep the faith, baby."
Harker said, "They stopped saying that twenty years ago."
"Did they? Well, I still say, That's cool,' but I always was old-fashioned."
Fortescue ambled down to his four-year-old Volvo and took another look at Frank Little's business card. The guy was out on Copans Road. The snowbirds were beginning to flock down, and Federal Highway would be crowded. But the investigator figured he had all the time in the world. That Harker seemed laid-back; not the type to crack a whip.
He found FL Sports Equipment, Inc., sandwiched between a shed that sold concrete garden statuary and a boarded-up fast-food joint that still had a weather-beaten sign: our grits are hits. Fortescue parked and eyeballed Little's place.
Not much to it. A cinderblock and stucco building, painted a blue that had been drained by the south Florida sun. Behind it was what appeared to be a warehouse surrounded by a chain-link fence with a locked gate. A wide blacktop driveway led from the road past the office to the warehouse. And that was it-except for an American flag on a steel flagpole in front of the blockhouse.
Roger locked the Volvo and shambled up to the office. The door was unlocked. The inside was as bare and grungy as the exterior. There was a cramped reception room with one desk, one chair, one file cabinet, one coat tree. No inhabitant. An open door led to an inner office.
"Hello?" Fortescue called. "Anyone home?"
A man came out of the inner office. He had hair as fine and golden as corn silk. He was wearing a sharp suit that Roger recognized as an Armani. His embroidered shirt was open to the waist, and he wore a heavy chain supporting a big gold ankh. It lay on his hairless chest.
"Yes, sir," he said briskly. "Help you?"
"Hope so," Fortescue said. "I'd like to buy a dozen baseballs."
The man's smile was cool and pitying. The investigator didn't like that smile.
"Oh, we don't sell retail," he said. "We're importers and distributors."
"I was hoping maybe you could sell me a dozen baseballs wholesale. Give me a break on the price."
"We don't even sell wholesale. As I said, we're distributors. We sell to wholesalers."
"Sheet," Fortescue said. "Well, can you tell me any local place that carries your stuff?"
"Sorry, we have no wholesale or retail outlets in south Florida. All our sports equipment goes north."
"You sure?"
The flaxen-haired man gave him that irritating smile again. "I'm Frank Little. I own the business, so I should be sure. I think your best bet would be Sears or any sporting goods store on the Strip in Lauderdale."
"I guess so," Fortescue said. "Thanks for your trouble. Sorry to bother you."
"No bother," Little said. "I wish I could help you out, but I can't. Tell me something: Why do you want a dozen baseballs?"
"I coach an inner-city Little League," the investigator said. "We haven't got all that many bucks. That's why I was trying to shave the price."