Black Cat Weekly #16

A CHRISTMAS PIT, by John Gregory Betancourt-3

“I’ll find them,” he said.

Within twenty minutes, he returned with eight of the ten volumes. Not a bad average—he made a fair research assistant.

The Manhattan Federal Trust sounded like a good choice. After suffering a series of financial losses in the late 1960s, it merged with Third Continental Loan, forming the Manhattan Third Federal Loan and Trust. It suffered a huge loss in 1973, when one of its armored cars had been hijacked. A half-dozen name-changes, mergers, and acquisitions later, I lost the trail in a 1991 Savings and Loan collapse. There didn’t seem to be a surviving corporate entity.

I sat back. Yes, it would do nicely.

“Why do you care about this particular bank?” Bob asked suddenly.

“My father did some work there a long time ago,” I said. “Can you find microfilm of back issues of the New York Times? I need to see July, 1973.”

“The whole month?”

“Yes. And maybe part of August.”

“You’re the boss.” Shrugging, he went to find a librarian.

Meanwhile, I returned to the computerized card catalog and began looking up volumes on the U.S. legal system—choosing more for titles than content. I had no intention of reading them if I could avoid it.

“You’re in luck,” Bob announced when he finally returned. “They have the New York Times going back over a hundred years on microfiche. A lady is setting up the viewer now. They have a private room you can use, too.”

“Excellent!” I beamed as I handed over my new list. “When I’m done, I’ll need these books. Can you find them?”

“Sure.”

When he glanced at the titles, his eyes widened. Volumes like Circumventing the American Tax System, Overseas Tax Havens, and Criminal Statutes of Limitations: A State by State Guide must have caught him by surprise.

“What are you planning?” he asked.

“Bodyguards aren’t supposed to ask questions,” I said with a wink. “I’m doing some research.”

“If this is illegal, I want to know. I might be held responsible as an accomplice—”

I laughed. “Since when is research a criminal act? I’m thinking of writing a book.”

He frowned, clearly unsatisfied. But I offered no more explanations.

“Where do I go for the Times?” I asked.

“Over here.” Turning, he led the way to a small room at the back of the library. An elderly woman had a machine set up for me, and while Bob went off to find my legal books, I began to skim newspaper headlines. Minutes ticked by. My bodyguard returned with a stack of hardbacks, then settled into the chair next to mine.

Finally I found what I wanted: an article dated July 19, 1973. Five men made off with an estimated half million dollars in cash by hijacking an armored truck on the Brooklyn Bridge in broad daylight. It had been a daring robbery, ably executed.

“Way to go, Dad!” I muttered just loud enough for Bob to hear. Never mind that I hadn’t been born yet when the robbery took place—thanks to my accident, I looked thirty years older than my actual age.

I printed out the article, folded it up, and stuck it in my shirt pocket. Bait. The library charged thirty cents for the printout, and I paid the lady happily.

“That’s all I needed from the Times,” I said as I limped out of the room. I found an empty reading table and pretended to study tax evasion and statutes of limitations for the next half hour. The volumes seemed interminable.

At last, just when I couldn’t take it any more, my stomach growled, announcing dinnertime. Another chance to gouge my assassin-bodyguard? I’d see how far I could run up his credit cards before letting him off the hook.

“I don’t think Davy would mind springing for dinner instead of breakfast,” I told Bob, closing Offshore Flight: Where and How to Take Your Money.

“Probably not,” he said.

“There’s a little seafood house around the corner called Charley’s Red. Supposed to be pretty good, too.”

He perked up. “I could go for some surf and turf.”

“You won’t be disappointed.”

How could he be? It was a four-star restaurant with a wine list to die for.

#

Dinner was sublime. I ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon Rose 1988 with my caviar-and-truffle-stuffed lobster á là Charley. As I kept telling Bob throughout the meal, “Don’t worry, it’s on Davy.”

Bob could only grin and nod. Finally, after a delightful chocolate soufflé followed by a glass of aged port, I could eat no more. I leaned back and patted my too-full belly.

Bob received the check and blanched. Dinner for the two of us came to almost $750, I saw. Not including tip.

“They expect a 25% gratuity,” I told him, feeling generous: service had been exceptional.

“I…I’m afraid I can’t, sir.” He gulped. “There’s only a couple hundred left on my credit card. David was going to reimburse me!”

“Oh.” So much for running up Bob’s credit cards. The possibility that my bodyguard might be broke had never occurred to me. “I’ll handle it, then.”

I pulled out my AmEx. At least I knew Bob’s finances now. Could I somehow use that to my advantage? I would have to think on it.

After I signed the credit card receipt, I found I could barely stand. So much for keeping my head clear. I had no choice but to agree to a taxi—which Bob said he would pay for, to make up for dinner. We rode in warmth and comfort back to my apartment.

There, I set my trap. I accidentally “forgot” to remove the robbery article when I tossed my shirt into the bathroom hamper. I carefully left the lid up and the article in plain sight. Neat-freak that he was, I knew Bob would rush to close the hamper’s lid, and when he did, he would spot the printout.

If he didn’t conclude that my father had been in on the armored car heist, he was dumber than he looked. That, plus the research on offshore tax havens, painted me as a criminal at work…something he could try to turn to his advantage.

“Good night!” I said as I headed to my bedroom with a fresh bottle of whiskey. I carried it mostly for show; I had no intention of clouding my mind further tonight. “Oh, I’ll be up early—we have to go to Atlantic City tomorrow.”

“Want me to drive?” he offered.

“No need. Casinos return your bus fare in quarters when you get there, plus they sometimes throw in coupons for lunch and other freebies.” I had a drawer full of Golden Nugget tee-shirts to prove it.

#

As I lay in bed, thoughts racing, I mentally reviewed the recording Mr. Smith had played for me—and realized I had made a huge mistake.

Every button on a telephone keypad has a different sound. Since I remembered each tone on Mr. Smith’s recording perfectly, it was a simple matter to match them up to numbers. Two seconds later, I had Joyce’s phone number. If I’d thought of it in time, I could have used a reverse directory at the library to look up her name and address.

Calling myself a drunken i***t, I picked up my phone’s receiver, punched number 4 so the dial tone went away, and said in a low voice: “Please tell Mr. Smith I’m going to the Azteca Casino on the nine o’clock bus tomorrow morning. When I get there, I’d like my bodyguard’s complimentary drink spiked—something that will tie him up in the bathroom for an hour or so. I’m going to win a million dollars at the blackjack tables. Don’t worry, I’ll give it back. If Mr. Smith is willing to help, I’ll owe him another favor. If not—well, I’ll manage on my own.”

I hung up. Then I opened my night table’s drawer and removed four pens from the neat row inside, along with an unused pocket notebook. In tiny, cribbed lettering, I began making lists of fictional transactions using several different colors of ink and alternating between sloppy and neat handwriting. First came dates, then names of various casinos, and amounts I had won. At the bottom of each page, I noted the anonymous Swiss or Brazilian bank account into which the money had been wired. My fictional net worth climbed rapidly into the millions.

Of course, I included all the secret passcodes anyone might need to get the money out. I emphasized that part on the inside front cover: Funds not accessible without account numbers and passcodes. Bob would read those words first when he opened the notebook.

#

My legs and back ached fiercely the next morning. When I couldn’t take the pain any more, I rose and stumbled into the bathroom. I gulped four aspirins with a glass of tepid tap-water. God, I needed a real drink.

Someone had lowered the hamper’s lid. I peeked inside. The printout in my shirt pocket had been removed, then put back—but not quite folded properly. Sloppy, sloppy work.

Returning to my room, chuckling to myself, I dressed in black Dockers and a navy blue shirt—more leftovers from my Wall Street days—then took a small suitcase from my closet and began to pack…underwear, socks, shirts, pants. Everything I’d need for an extended trip. I needed to convince Bob I planned on fleeing the country.

My bodyguard appeared in the doorway. “Going somewhere?”

“In case I decide to spend the night.”

He nodded. “I’ll bring my bag, too.”

#

An hour later we were on the bus. The drone of wheels on pavement, the murmur of little old ladies on their weekly gambling junket, the soft hiss of recycled air from the blowers overhead—I found it all curiously soothing. As I let myself relax, I began to open up and chat confidentially with Bob…part two of my plan.

“My father used to be involved with organized crime,” I confessed in a low voice. Never mind that he had been a plumber. “He hijacked that armored car on the Brooklyn Bridge. The one I read about yesterday.”

“What happened?” Bob asked. “Was he caught?”

“Not caught,” I said. “Killed. His body turned up in the New Jersey wetlands near where Giants Stadium stands today. He had a bullet in his head, mob execution-style. I don’t know what happened to the money, but I found out who did it the hit a few years ago.”

“Who?”

“Well…let’s just say he’s come a long way in the last thirty years. He runs the Azteca Casino. That’s why I gamble there a lot—every dollar I take away is a little piece of my revenge.”

He looked puzzled. “I thought odds favored the house.”

“For most games.” I chuckled. “You’d never guess I’m worth nearly as much as Davy Hunt, would you?”

He gaped at me. “Then why are you stuck in that shabby little apartment? You should live like a king!”

I lowered my voice confidentially. “Because,” I said, “I don’t want to attract the IRS’s attention. If I started spending hundreds of thousands of dollars, they’d want to know where I got it.”

“The tax havens,” he said slowly. “That’s why you were researching them!”

“Bingo.”

He frowned. “Why are you telling me?”

“Because,” I said grandly, “this is it. Today is my final day. I’m going to make one last big score and retire to Brazil while I wait for the statute of limitations on income tax evasion to pass. I want you to come with me as my bodyguard and assistant. I’ll need help, and I think you’re the man for the job.”

He chewed his lip thoughtfully. This was a lot for him to consider. Would he go for it?

“If you’re worried about salary,” I added, “I’ll pay you a lot better than Davy—starting with a $20,000 signing bonus as soon as our plane lands. That buys a lot in South America. When we come back, we’ll both be set for life. What do you say?”