Crossing the Line - Franklin's Bennies Installment 16

Chapter 55: All Neat And Tidy, Bricked Up

“The Brooklyn district is smack dab in the Paseo district, according to the GPS.  At night the area is hopping,” Gil said. “And while I haven’t frequented it recently, it wasn’t too friendly to white boys in years past. But Swing and Big Mike are well known entities in the area, so whomever we run into they’ll have your back.”

“My back?”

“I know my friend that this whole thing must seem like a dream, but if it goes well, then it will be nothing but get the money, hand it over to Weintraub and you can head home.”

Unassuming counselor type in the middle of a fed sting. My own doing.

“That’s what you say. Time out here, Agent about to retire. The whole reason I got into this whole nefarious, what can we call it, caper, called a sting is because of the FBI’s involvement...”

“I know, “Gil said. “And you’re wondering how does Franklin get his money, if the set up is to give it to Weintraub? And if all the money is dirty.”  

Gil glanced out his window to the river bottom as we took the new and improved Rocheport Bridge across the Missouri river. He checked his rear view and side mirror, then digital dashboard, as if to get some reassurance that he was on the right roadway before telling me the rest of the story. 

“You should know,” he said, like a good friend telling some dark secret, “that after you gave me the letter, your boy gave you about where the money was hidden, we investigated the aunt’s house and the garage.” Gil checked his rear view mirror again, then sped around a flat bed hauling some equipment.  “That ol boy thinks he’s on some country road.”

“And,” I said, “What did you find out?”

“The money is right where Franklin said it was, all neat and tidy, bricked up. My friend, guess how much is in that, if stacked right?”    

“I have no idea.”

“A brick of C notes, Ben Franklins, is a little over 400,000 dollars. And also he had other money in the wall of auntie’s garage.” 

My stomach sank at the description of how much money was in the mix of this whole thing. 

“So, let me get this straight, Agent. If this Swing has talked to Weintraub, you are thinking that this lawyer will show up on a Sunday morning, not knowing me, just say thank you sir, for your service, shake my hand and all is done.” I shook my head. 

Gil had a habit, circumstantiality, which took him off in tangent conversation; sometimes useful as a distraction technique, to distract a suspect, and get him to spill the beans, unknowingly. I wasn’t a suspect though, at this point anyway.  

“Timing is the key,” Gil said. He glanced over at me staring into my coffee cup. “Clearer, Peter?”

“Well, Franklin did say something about the money being stacked in C  notes, I can’t remember if he told me in person or related it in the letter you have. He took the money from the gangster boys as a pay back for killing his little nephew. So, they must have packaged it. But where was any money he had? I mean…” 

“So,” Gil said, nodding. “Remember, I said, after running the two gangster boys' sheets, it came up that they were suspects in some bank robberies.”

“I remember.” 

Gil turned up the heat a notch. “That OK?” he asked. 

“Feels good,” I said. 

“Myself and another agent, who will take over my caseload, checked on the loot in the garage. The packaged cash was in kind-of-like mail bags, and it seemed like Franklin’s cash from his work was there too. So, right, he didn't package up his money in bricks. All the money up front in the wall and what you hand over to Weintraub will be the money that is bank money, we believe. Make sense? Money he took from the home boys you, uh…”  

I downed the last of my coffee. 

“Just to educate you Peter.  Banks secure, what are called, straps, around a group of bills of the same denomination. And they color the straps. A strap, mustard colored, of 100 dollars equals 10,000 dollars. Ten straps make up a brick. So, one brick of 100 C notes has 100,000 in it. Follow? Called a honey bun.” 

“Uh, I’d have to see a visual too…”

Gil chuckled and sped up around another flatbed truck. 

“Well, my friend, in a very short while you’ll get your visual. But had there been a dye pack in the stolen straps, these boys took they wouldn’t had gotten far. It would have exploded. And of no use to them. But, evidently the clerk didn’t hand over money which had dye packs. Or something happened.”

Nora crossed my radar screen, worried I’d never see her again. Gil took another quick look in my direction. “You okay?”

“Self preservation,” I said. Gil put the jeep on cruise control at 75, as he steered us, one hand on the wheel, toward the western side of the state, out of the Missouri river bottom. The fantastical part of me wondered what Weintraub’s role was in my shooting of the two men, only yesterday morning. 

“I am a little concerned that I am handing over the money to this guy, no protection and you are telling me you will be nearby. That’s one thing. The other..”

“I will be nearby, along with KC police,” Gil said. 

“Oh, there is more to the story,” I said. “Now the local police are involved.” 

Chapter 56: Get The Loot In The Wall Of The Garage

Gil’s cell phone rang. He lifted his coffee out of the cup holder, handed it to me and dug out the phone which was nestled next to a handgun in a holster in the well of the console. “I am on my way,” he said. “Yeah, yeah.” He looked at me. “It will work. Just have your boy run it and wait until Weintraub’s exits his vehicle. Make sure he gets out though. Right. I will text when we get there. Chow.” 

He clicked off the cell, placed it back in the console and reached for his coffee. “Ex wife,” I said, with a smirk. 

He let another Peterbilt zoom past, then moved around a slower sedan into the left lane, accelerating. “That was my boy with  KCPD. It takes a village,” he said, chuckling. Change of plans. We exchange the money at an abandoned apartment building.” 

A gut crawl knotted up in my insides, even more. I waited for more of the story, wondering who is leading this charge, Gil or KCPD.

“So, all the C notes in Franklin’s grandmother’s garage… or aunt’s garage, the strapped bricked cash we believe comes from bank robberies done up and down the interstate as I said. Your two dead home boys…”

“Not mine. They’re not mooseheads on my study walls.” 

“Sorry, Peter, thirty years doing this makes me a callous one. Anyway they and their boys, who did the robberies, hadn’t spent it because all the money was still in their stacks. Franklin must have come in and made off with the cash right after the robberies because the money, when we looked at it in the garage, was all still strapped. Follow?”

“So. The bank robberies are done; Franklin knows who did them, somehow and right away takes the money.”  

Gil continued. “The bills are marked with serial number recording, we hope. These were little out of the way banks off the interstate. We are still checking on that. As far as we know no dye packs were stuffed in the stolen money. No ink burst when the robbers left the bank. The plastic dye pack explodes once it leaves a bank. Voila. Money no good. But with these boys all the loot they got could be untraced. We don’t know. 

“Too bad Franklin’s little nephew was the causality in it all. But the bait money, or marked money, has its limitations, but as far as evidence goes, whomever gets caught with it, gets arrested. Marked or not, it’s goin to be hard to explain, especially in large quantities. So, that is why we want Weintraub as the benefactor.  

“All you need to do today, Peter, is simply get the loot in the wall of the garage, it is in some old mail bags and hand it over to Weintraub at the meet place. Over the weeks since this thing has started to come together, we have had stake outs at Franklin's aunt’s place. A lot of temptations to anyone keeping tabs on the place. So as we speak, I hope the loot is still there. But your job is to get it and leave. Then your job is done. There is other money there, but leave it.  We just want the bank money. 

“Other money was what Franklin I think wanted to use to help out his aunt. It is also in bags. But not mail bags and not strapped. Just in wads in rubber bands. That was the best we could tell. We could have gotten a warrant to search aunt’s house and garage, probable cause existed, but then there would be no Weintraub. And there is the matter of taping the whole thing though.

“Fuck,” I said. “You aren’t going to have me wired, I hope.” 

“No, no, just telling you, so you know there will be other players about. In this world, everybody has a camera, the transaction will be videoed of you handing over the bags to Weintraub. 

He pounded the steering wheel. “Fuck. But plans have changed. Now I don't know about our videotaping. Mother Fuck. If you ever get into this business, Peter, remembering improvising is the calling card. Nothing ever starts out, or ends like it’s supposed to. ” 

I sighed, spit in my empty coffee cup, and rolled down the window a crack, wondering if Nora was up yet. “You are giving me mixed messages, Agent. All will be well, then you say be ready just in case.” 

“Just good information, that’s all, Doc.” 

The winter air cooled my brow. It was getting too complicated for me to comprehend. I just wanted to be back in my warm bed. 

“Seems to me, Agent. That you really don’t need me. I mean, Swing is there. He knows where the money is, now. And he is the link to Weintraub anyway. Why couldn’t the story have Franklin just as easily telling Swing about the money?”

Gil sighed, bothered. “Because, my friend, he didn't. And in this world of crime, Weintraub knows enough that his boy Franklin wouldn’t have told another gangster about the money. He found a kindly white man he could trust to tell.” Agent Gil cackled a sarcastic laugh. “Hell, my friend, you should feel honored.”   

“But there will be no guns in the mix, “ I said. 

“No guns will be drawn.” 

“Drawn,” I said. 

“Swing is still on federal paper still, so he’s not to ever carry,  but probably has a derringer somewhere. But I doubt Weintraub carries a gun. If he gets suspicious, like a good lawyer he will just walk. “ More caffeine?” 

Chapter 57: Bank Robbery Money

Gil pulled into the McDonald’s in the little town of Concordia. “Stay here, I need to piss. Want anything to eat?”

I ordered a sausage biscuit, breaking from my vegetarian diet, and juice, along with coffee. It was 8 am an hour out from our destination. I began to text Nora, but deleted the message, trying to let go of any need for contact until this whole thing was over. I rewound Gil’s summary of what was to transpire. 

He’d leave me with the jeep, at some compound where he would pick up another vehicle. I’d follow him over to meet a man called Swing in the Paseo District of the city who was Gil’s long time confidential informant. And who had been a dissatisfied client of lawyer Weintraub. I’d take Swing with me to Franklin’s aunt’s house, also in the inner city, where I’d supposedly retrieve the money which was in old mail bags stuffed in the wall of a garage and then wait for lawyer Weintraub to show, or we’d go somewhere to meet the lawyer, who had been in communication with Swing.

The cash had been taken by my man Franklin as retribution for these men or the gang they were associated with who had killed Franklin’s little nephew in a drive by. It was the stash from the two men I’d shot in my house who had robbed banks located up and down the interstate. Gil claimed that he who was caught with the money would be arrested. And that was the game plan, to arrest lawyer Weintraub, not because he had anything to do with any robbery, but because he was a known money launderer. A money launderer who evidently Gil and all his fellow lawmen couldn’t get the best of. And I imagine neither could the IRS. The Treasury G men, who’d visited me, were on the trail of Weintraub for that reason too. 

The whole interchange was to be videotaped. But now plans had changed and there might not be any videotaping. Gil didn’t explain why plans had changed.  

A late model black high rise pickup pulled in the space next to the jeep and broke me out of my wonderings. Its engine idled for a minute or so, until an elderly white haired baby boomer dropped herself out of the passenger side onto the parking lot. She called out something. In seconds her other half showed and grabbed her arm and began walking her to the restaurant. “ Beautiful day,” Gil said loudly.

He groaned getting back in the jeep, handing over a breakfast tray to me. “Food for the fight,” he said, with a caustic bellow. 

“Not funny.” We sat nourishing ourselves in silence, watching the coming and goings of the travelers ordering at the drive-through. “So, you said the other bag of money is what Franklin had for the purposes of buying his aunt a home out of the city.” 

“I don’t know what he planned to do with it,” Gil said. “You said that. But when we checked on the cash to make sure this whole story was copacetic, in his legit bag, if we can call it that, he had bills rubber banded up. It was stuffed behind the bank loot. We left it. I am sure there is a shit load of cash there, though.”

Gil burped after nearly swallowing his egg sandwich whole, turned on the jeep and exited onto the road leading to the highway ramp. I asked, “So, what about Franklin’s money?

“I fuckin don’t know. Your guess is as good as mine. As I said, my sole reason to be doing what we are about to do today is to nab Weintraub. Just so happens that if the money we catch him with is bank job money, then we are in the money. Ha, Ha.  This makes your help with this whole thing easier on you because, before we knew there was bank money and thought the in to Weintraub was getting you to take whatever money was in the wall, I would have had to wire you, and get him to make some reference to money laundering. And that might have bordered on an entrapment thing to say the least. So, thanks to Franklin, we get to take down Weintraub and recover stolen money.”

Gil answered his cell, moving in behind an early morning Sunday airport shuttle van. Again a “yeah, yeah,” with, “bout an hour away. Got it about the change in plans. ” He hung up.

“I don’t know if I ever mentioned it to you, but my dad was a lawyer,” I said. “And one thing he grilled into me was silence is the best medicine when talking to the police. So, I have to think Weintraub, the lawyer, is going to be real cautious about this whole thing, expecting a set up, don’t you think?”  

Gil checked his rearview and passed the van full of people heading to KCI airport.  “Don’t think I knew your ol man was a barrister. He still around?

“No,” I said. Silence. Two motorcyclists riding erect on their Harleys, insignias IDing them with some biker club sped by us. 

“I am banking on Weintraub’s avarice. His greed. And his sociopathy. Greed will trump any sense and good caution, lawyer or not. 

“Well, with any luck that the fuck will go to prison. To clarify, Weintraub doesn’t know that the money you will hand over to him is bank robbery money. If there is a hint he does, then we will have to turn some wheels about how he knows it’s bank money. Swing just told him that you were told by Franklin you wanted to clean money hidden in the wall of the garage from drug sales. Weintraub knows Franklin has been in possession of some money. Word on the street is that he took it from the boys you killed. If he asks about the money being stolen he could have found out by street talk. We need to know if he asks about the money coming from the robberies.  

“Let’s not describe what happened the other night as a killing.

“It was a good kill. Don’t worry,” Gil said, as his cell rang again.

“SPAM call, ” he said. 

My dad’s bald head, thick mustache and blue eyes jumped out at me. It had been two decades since he’d taken his life, almost to the day. Cousin Pat, had said, the last time we talked that we needed to get together to raise the glass to our dads. 

Chapter 58: It Will Be Fine

As we neared the city, the downtown high rises were front- and-center. Gil exited the interstate. He checked his GPS, punching in some figures, then took the overpass road onto a narrower roadway into a pasture-like area. Some miles down, he pointed to a fence, secured by high rise wires and camera stations. 

“There,” he said. At a gatepost to a compound he entered some numbers. The gate lifted to a football field yard full of vehicles, most newer models. “All confiscated in drug and sting raids. And never to be driven by their shitbag owners again,” he said, with a devilish chuckle.  

The yard of vehicles was organized by rows categorized with an alphabet letter followed by either the number 1 or 2. A wide aisle ran down the middle of the yard. “Be on the lookout for row M 2,” Gil said. 

“All these cars go where from here?” I asked. 

“Auctions. Or to me. We use them too. Take your pick. I am going to give this little baby over to you in a minute.” At M-2, Gil took a turn into the right row. “I am looking for a Cadillac, white, Escalade, new.

Midway down the aisle, he pulled over near two identical white Escalades. He left the motor running, scooted out of the jeep and walked to the first vehicle. He opened the unlocked driver’s door, checked the visor, then under the seat, then in the right front wheel well. He cursed, then walked to the other Cadillac, calling back to me, “The place isn’t manned on weekends, just video cameras, but I called Friday and one of the impound guys told me where to get the keys for one of these babies.” He opened up the second car, and nodded to himself as he retrieved a key in the driver’s visor. “Let's see if this girl starts,” he said.

After firing up the car’s engine, Gil scooted out of it and stepped over to me. “So, you will have to follow me. The destination is 18th and Vine. We will end up in the Paseo district. I don’t anticipate there will be much going there, this time of the day. Follow close and park behind me, when I find our meet place, Swing should show up. And he’ll take you to Franklin’s aunt’s house. It isn’t far away from the strip… Questions?”

“A lot,” I said. 

Gil patted me on the arm. “It will be fine, my friend. No worries.” 

I got out of the jeep, circled to the driver’s side, and noticed the license plate of the jeep had an Oklahoma plate. I glanced over at Gil’s Cadillac, which also had Oklahoma plates. Franklin had told me in one of our prison sessions there was an Oklahoma City, OKC, and KC connection. A drug route I guessed.  

I followed behind Gil to the gate, familiarizing myself the best I could with the dashboard gadgetry of the Grand Cherokee, a recent model. Nora and I had talked about getting a new car to replace our old Escape, but in addition to costly tax and insurance reasons, having to learn to run an automobile with anything other than the basics was a bothersome proposition. I wasn’t antique but had always been bothered by too much tech which everything was. Gil fingered us out of compound, waved back at me, quickly accelerating the Cadillac toward the interstate.   

The sun was behind us. Down the I-70 we passed the McGee Street exit toward our destination. From my Missouri history I recalled the McGee family was one of the original settlers of Kansas City, and consequently had a main thoroughfare named after them. 

Some ten minutes later Gil blinkered off the interstate and took the Paseo exit. My gut crawled nearing the inner city, the high rises blocks away. I thought of Nora. I hadn’t checked whether she had texted me. Maria, who had left me in charge of the mental health department in the prison, was still in Phoenix attending to her sick father. But she was due back soon.

Two bikers zoomed past holding tight to the handlebars of their Harleys. Same ones as earlier? 

At a road construction site, moving into the central city, Gil waved back from his car to follow him through a detour sign. The two bikers took off eastward, following the detour directive. 

I’d read that The Paseo District was undergoing reclamation. Workmen were busy ahead. Sunday allowed them to work without much traffic disturbances. Gil pulled over. A man in a hard hat approached Gil’s car with a scornful look. Gil showed him something, his ID I supposed. The man looked back at me, then nodded in the affirmative to Gil and signaled me onward, past the Men Working sign. 

On the other side of construction, Gil slowed. The streets were quiet. He pulled the Escalade over. I followed and stopped. He got out and looked around at the brick buildings, except for the new construction, all in need of some restoration and sandblasting. I rolled my window down. 

“So, Peter, we are almost there,” he said, checking the environment, then putting both hands on the door, “Are you straight about what to do?” 

“I, uh we, uh I, wait for Swing and he’ll show me the way to Franklin’s aunt’s place. I am guessing he knows where the garage is.” 

“That’s what I know. Swing might have Big Mike with him. Either way, no difference. You take both of them in your car. I will run over things with Swing,” he said, patting the side of the jeep. “Then I will follow you guys over and get a front row seat.” 

I stared at the empty street ahead. In the rearview the workmen were sealing the street, a city truck laid out the black tar oil from a fingered-like mechanism attached behind a truck. Two workmen trailed on each side of the truck, shovels in hand.  

“This will be fine, Peter. Don’t look so worried. I will be nearby.” Gil patted the sleeve of my jean jacket. “ 

I smiled ruefully. He got back in the Escalade and headed south. 

Chapter 59: “Now We Wait For Swing.”

In Spanish, Paseo means a “promenade.”  On the ride in with Gil I’d googled the history of the district, learning it stretched ten winding miles north to south and was one of the oldest streets in the City, dating back over 100 plus years. 

Recalling facts about anything was a way of settling myself. It was a distraction or deflection technique. Paseo was meant to be the first grand dual parkway boulevard area which would identify the Kansas City metropolitan areas. Before the Boulevard the area was a shanty town. 

Because of the area’s black population a city council had in recent years renamed the street the MLK Boulevard, but signatures were gathered quickly thereafter and after a ballot initiative the Boulevard reverted back to the Paseo Boulevard. 

The area had many firsts for Kansas City: first fountain which would also be a feature identifying the city, the first shopping area north of downtown proper, and the first real arts section of KC, a center for blues and jazz and the Negro Baseball Museum.  

Washington Wheatly, the area where we were headed, was a housing district and had the highest homicide rate in the city. Likely the reason Gil had set up the meeting time in the morning and on a Sunday, claiming gangbangers, he said, would be fast asleep. 

My heart pounded as we near our target. I followed close to Gil to make the intersection lights.

At 18th Street off Paseo Gil headed east. Despite my history of counseling men in prison, who were captive and vulnerable, I knew these very men can be a Jekyll turn Hyde in their native environment. 

The image of me killing two men from this neighborhood popped up. Has the word gotten back here that neither are returning home? Gil didn’t share their names with me. He didn’t for my safety. My insides churned. I thought of Nora. 

Gil slowed at the Paseo fountain, then blinked toward Prospect street which runs north and south. He headed north again. I remember reading that 150 million had been sunk into this area for renovation. New shopping areas and groceries have appeared.

On Truman he turned catching the lights and headed east past a park then pulled over across from a nail manicure business. 

I parked behind him. The Boulevard had a scattering of parked vehicles. Gil hopped out and scooted into my front seat. 

“Now we wait for Swing.” He pulled my lights on and tooted the horn several times to signal we had arrived, pointing to the salon in an office complex with a For Lease Sign out front. Early Sunday morning. 

Within a minute, a gangly black man appeared from the side door of the salon. He had on a pompeur hat, a long leather brown coat which hung to his knees, and wore sunglasses. In his left hand he carried a McDonald’s bag. His right hand dangled limp and draped over his mid region to his crouch. He nodded quickly toward our vehicle, looked both ways to catch any oncoming traffic and did a kind of strut across the street, holding onto the bag and grasping what seemed like a long appendage hanging down inside his trousers.

Gil nodded half smiling.  I said, “Swing?”

“Bet you never seen anything like that,” he says. 

“Not even in a locker room.”  

Swing opened the back door and slid in; the aroma of a McDonald’s breakfast greets us. 

“Agent Gil,” he says, setting the bag on the seat and fist bumping Gil.

“My man Swing,” Gil said, playing along with the vernacular. “Meet Doc, Peter.” 

I fist bump, turning slightly. “Good to meet you.”

“You boys want some chicken,” he said, cordially, voice rich in timbre. We both passed. “I forgot white boys don’t like chicken like we people.” 

“Just too early, Swing,” Gil said.

Swing set his pompeur on the seat and dug into the bag of McDonald’s. I tilted the rear view mirror. His hair is done in a conk, the style of blacks in the 1940s to 1960’s. 

“Long night, Swing?’ Gil asked, not getting right into the meat of the matter. 

“Quiet, really,” he said, inhaling half a chicken breast. “My bottom lady does her job and she got matters all good for this ism. After today, I be square.” 

Gil chuckled. “Swing all that talk is confusing Doc Peter here.” 

Swing laughed a deep one and jostled my shoulder, smiling at me.  

“So all been quiet?” Gil said, waiting for clarity. Strange for a Saturday night.” 

Swing wiped his chin, simultaneously polking some potatoes into his mouth, he said, ''The word according to Big Mike is that some young home boys took off for the country to talk to your boy Coco in prison to find out bout all this cash. But no one hear back from them. Talk like that puts a fright in the hood.”

Gil and I traded glances. “So, they just up and disappeared, Big Mike thinks?” Gil said.

Swing nodded to himself, polking in some more potatoes. “Two of them. Since Coco been down, the little wanna bee  pagan gorillas who merked Coco’s little tike been crossing the line here. Snooping for the bank, Coco has. Word also the loot real dirty from a bank. ”  

Gil paused assimilating Swing vernacular and said, “ No one heard from them?”

“Not from what Big Mike say. And he knows their people.”   

It appeared Big Mike wouldn’t be joining us. My cell pinged a text from Nora. It read, “Are you Okay?” 

I answered, giving her the emoji thumbs up sign. Gil turned to Swing. “So, you been in contact with Weinberg?” 

Chapter 60: Coco’s Auntie’s

Swing napkined up his meal off his chin and deposited the waste in the paper sack. “The shyster lawyer came by the club last night. Had one of his Diego bodyguards with him. Big gumba type who stood by the booth as we talked, arms crossed. Staring down at me like I was field nigger and he was Colonel Bearegaurd.” 

Gil fidgeted in the passenger's seat. “But you squared with him that you’d text him after the money’s retrieved, so he could pick it up?”

Swing nodded. He patted Gil on the shoulder. “Don’t worry papa. Me and Mr. Doc here be fine.” 

I tapped the steering wheel, nervously. “You too, Doc,” he said to me. “All be fine.”

“Alrighty then,” Gil said, giving me a shoulder rub and opening the door. I leave it with you two.”

“Uh. Wait..That’s it, Gil! 

“Swing will take good care of you. At the most all you will have to do is some heavy lifting. Swing knows the way. I’ll be nearby.” And with that Agent Gil excited and headed to his vehicle.

Swing scooted out of the back seat, threw his breakfast sack in a utility trash can on the sidewalk and hopped into the front seat. “It be fine, Doc. No time you be back with your little woman. You have one don’t you?” 

I nodded. Swing motioned me eastward. Gil, in the Escalade, had disappeared. My stomach dropped. I breathed deeply. I was an idiot. How did I get myself into this fix? Something I’d gone over ad nauseam since this whole matter began, back in late Fall. And now Christmas is upon us. Me heading to pick up bags of cash, of drug money gotten illegally, taken by a man, an inmate, who had marked me as a sucker to clean up a mess he’d gotten himself into. Me with a beautiful Irish lass at home, waiting for me, I hoped. Mostly, oblivious to this whole mess.  

All this was spearheaded by an FBI man, in his sunset years, who also needed some unassuming mark, me, to nab some lawyer who all parties claimed was a shyster. Franklin, aka Coco, wanted the money to go to his aunt. Agent Gil wanted to catch this lawyer in the act of taking illegal monies to help what was a long standing money laundering case against this lawyer. My part was just to give the trade of monies some legitimacy, as opposed to Swing, a criminal, setting the whole thing up. 

I hadn’t talked to Weintraub. My guess: he knew my background, somehow. Had he had any part of the break in at my house Friday morning? Sending the two men on an exploratory mission? He could have. Not something Gil spoke about. My heart pounded. Swing tooth picked his teeth, smacking his chops. 

Minutes later. “Be slow, down here Doc,” Swing said as we neared what was an apartment building, which had a sign posted saying remodeling will begin soon. “Things be quiet. But still want to case it out. This be Coco’s auntie’s place. Money’s in the back.” 

I checked my rear view for Gil. No sight of him. Swing directed me to continue down the street as he bobbed his head about looking for any suspicious activity. My cell pinged a text. It was Gil. I pulled up the gadget from its resting place, quickly looking at the message. “Agent Gil wants to know how you’ll be telling Weintraub about the pickup?” 

“I already told that ol white boy,” he said, holding up his cell. “Tell him with a burner.” 

I pulled over into a parking lot just off the complex and texted the message. Swing studied the surroundings. I looked for a trace of Gil. “Let’s stay here for a bit, Doc.”  

Gil had been ambiguous about what Swing did know and didn’t know about the supposed bags of money in Franklin’s aunt’s garage.  I asked, “So, Swing, you have known our agent Gil for a while, I take it?”  

He rested his hat gently on his right leg as if to shield the appendage which seemed to almost need a holster itself to hold it. “Gil and I go back to my days in Leavenworth, probably before that if I think back. He rubbed my back and me his.”

“So you have been out at the garage where the money is, I am guessing?” 

“Right, Doc,” he nodded toward a small evergreen cluster which banked a sidewalk leading to a row of small one car garages set behind the apartment complex. 

A pickup truck pulled into the lot. Swing perked up, putting his hat back on. “Not a brother ride,” he said.   

A  man got out. He had a thick black beard with a baseball cap pulled down over his brow and a beige winter coat pulled up to his chin. “White dude too,” Swing said.

The man looked around, nonchalantly, then made his way toward the front door of the building. 

Swing bent over and raised the right pant leg, keeping his forearm resting on his appendage under the trouser. He pulled out a handgun from an ankle holster and smelled the barrel of the gun. “My little Lucy Luger.” 

I squeezed my eyebrow, wishing I was home. “It be alright, Doc. You work on the inside. You gots to know we all carry. Don’t tell Gil though. Never know, he might pop me with a case of felon carrying.” 

The man from the truck entered the building, then quickly exited and returned to his truck and motored off. Swing motioned me toward the parking garages in the back of the building. 

“So this is the place?” In an Annals of Missouri Revised Statutes I was certain I was committing a crime. I checked around for a trace of  Gil’s Escalade. Nothing.