Money Men (13 page)

Red put it in his shirt pocket. He grasped the arms of the chair tightly. "I wouldn't ask you if I didn't need the money. I've sent you a lot of business through the years. I never handed you up to the Feds in the last project. I could of handed you up to the Feds but I didn't. They asked about you but I kept my mouth shut and walked the yard. You could have been there with me. You know that."

"I also know that the statute has run. I'm a lawyer, Red. I'm home free. They can't arrest me, because the offense happened over five years ago. That's the law. Please don't try to muscle me. Nobody muscles me. Let's remain friends." Max turned his palms up and gave a weak smile.

Red stood up and put his hands in his pockets. He thought it odd that his stomach had suddenly stopped churning.

"Tony the juice man has a long memory, doesn't he?" the lawyer asked. Red felt his head bob up and down. "I told you years ago that it was a mistake to go to him for front money. I'm sorry you didn't take my advice. I'm really very sorry."

Red walked toward the door.

"Bring something to me! Anything except grass. I have a truckload man who keeps me busy with grass. Anything else! With luck you'll be out of the bind in no time at all. I am sorry, Red." Max looked at his watch.

The door closed.

A jukebox played soul music.

Red Diamond and Ronnie Boyce sat in a corner booth with drinks, served by a floppy-breasted waitress who wore nothing but a G-string.

The only light in the bar was a semicircle of pink, which illuminated a small, round stage. On the stage, a naked blonde woman with stretch marks on her stomach arched backward clumsily to give some men at a nearby table a good look at her crotch. The men made drunken remarks of appreciation.

No one else in the place seemed to be watching her. The tables and booths buzzed with whispered negotiations of all
kinds. In
the next booth an older man with a ponytail and a fat Mexican woman snorted cocaine from a tiny spoon.

Red handed Ronnie the ten-dollar Sahara Casino chip. "Take a look at it, lil' brother. I just got it today. You can't tell the difference between it and a real one. It's a sample counterfeit from the guy who makes 'em. He's an inventor, a genius really."

Ronnie rubbed the chip, tried to bend it. "Can we get some more?"

"That's the problem. The inventor made up this sample for me, but we need cash before he'll go into full production. We're back in a negative-cash-flow situation at this point."

Ronnie looked puzzled.

Red wrote on the paper place mat. "Cash flow...equipment trip to Las Vegas...$100,000." He turned the place mat around to Ronnie. "This is the way I have it mapped out. We need another score to make this thing move. The dude will make the phony chips for a flat fee and we lay 'em down in Vegas. I figure we can do four or five grand at a time. We'll take our time so the pit bosses don't catch on, then we drive back to good ol' L.A. with a hundred big ones. Fifty for you, fifty for me...And by the way-" Red smiled and took the chip out of Ronnie's hand-"passing phony gambling chips is only a state crime. No Feds to worry about. Once we come back across the California border we're fucking-ass home free. You like?"

Ronnie gave a noncommittal nod. "Yeah, I guess. But how about the money on the last score? Couldn't we..."

Red snapped his fingers. "Damn! Let me apologize...I thought I had told you what we have working on that end. I've been so busy... Briefly, things are great on setting up the front. I have things worked out for you and me to have offices in Century City. It looks like the best thing to go for at this point is limited partnerships for food franchises or maybe gold futures. This is what the suckers will probably go for. But I need more marketing research. We can't just jump in without
knowing
we can get the suckers. Too much risk for too little profit. You know what I mean..."

Ronnie looked uncomprehending. "Yeah, sure," he said.

The near-naked waitress set fresh drinks down on the table and walked away.

"Then we're together, lil' brother?" Red said.

Ronnie, with a mouth full of ice cubes, grunted.

"That's good, that's fine," said Red. "We've got a lot of irons in the fire right now, and I want to be sure we are thinking along the same lines, you know, to avoid any fuck-ups. We have to think in terms of a long-range program. To get off the ground it's a simple matter of getting that positive cash flow...That gives us a backup. There's always extras. You remember the story I told you about how I got caught short? The manager of the office building walks in and asks for the rent right when I had a sucker sitting there. I mean like the dumb fuck had his wife sitting out in the car holding his life savings. I was supposed to be selling him half ownership in a gold mine and suddenly he sees I'm behind on my rent! No way. It was a good lesson. The farmer and his old lady drove off with their fifteen grand, but I learned a good lesson: don't get caught short. Simple." Red gave Ronnie a pet-shop-window smile.

"Remember me telling you about the lawyer? Here's his card."

Boyce accepted the business card and looked at it curiously.

MAX WAXMAN

ATTORNEY AT LAW

SUITE 4101

SUNSET CONTINENTAL BLDG.

PHONE 721-0196

"Max Waxman is strictly a money man. You talk price with him, but the hand-to-hand will be between you and his private investigator. Max never touches anything himself; finances a couple of dope deals a week the same way. He drives a Rolls Royce."

"What size deal should I talk about?" Ronnie put the card in his pocket.

"Tell him you have a hundred and twenty-five thousand that you're willing to sell for twelve points. Make him come up with twenty-five thousand for the buy. Don't go over that or he'll smell a rip-off. He's shrewd, real shrewd." Red took out an envelope, opened it, and showed Ronnie the two counterfeit twenties. He handed the envelope to the younger man. "Take good care of these. They're the last samples we have. The dude that gave them to me got busted last night and they got his stash."

"Two phony twenties for twenty-five grand. Sounds like a fair profit." Ronnie smiled.

"And I know you've got the balls to bring it off just like the one at the motel." Red gave his best flattery look. "Oh, that reminds me. Max will never permit a deal in a motel room. He'll push for a public place, probably a parking lot or something."

Ronnie nodded, took a bite of toast, and swallowed. "Who do I say referred me?"

"Drop Stymie's name. Stymie's been a front man for Max for years. He used to impersonate a cop, take care of the heavy stuff when Max was shaking down fag movie stars back in the old clays."

"You mean Stymie the old trusty from E wing?"

"That's the one." Red finished his soda water.

"What if Waxman checks me out with him?"

"No problem. Stymie got piped last week-some Mexicans.

He's in the prison infirmary with his head bashed in. He can't talk."

"So there's no way Waxman can check me out?"

"No friggin' way, baby. Old Max is shrewd, but he'll bite once he sees those samples." Red felt a slight churning in his bowels.

"With this score we should have enough, right?" Ronnie asked.

"Wha...Oh, yeah. One hundred percent for sure! This will give us enough to set up the counterfeit-chips caper. When that's done, we'll get our phony office, bank account, everything. I've got a guy who can draw up phony oil-field charts, whatever we need for the operation. It will be big. We'll have the suckers ringing our phone off the hook to put in their grand." Red took out a ball-point pen and scratched figures on the place mat. "Everything depends on cash flow. We've got to start out big to
make
it big. We can't get in the middle and have a cash-flow problem. That's a problem area."

Red underlined some of the figures and pointed with his pen. "See? It works out to one hundred and fifty grand for each of us, after both capers. Twenty days after we start the project. And that's minimum. Complete minimum." As Red spoke the words seemed familiar. He could switch off his mind and the words would continue. Prison chatter.

The woman on the stage bent over and grabbed her ankles. She wiggled.

"This private-eye fucker-is he gonna be heeled?" Ronnie broke a swizzle stick in half.

"Always. Waxman buys him a gun permit from a judge every year. The Red guy is telling you to be careful, very careful."

Ronnie lit a cigarette and put the match in the ashtray. "I got my permit right here." He stuck out his middle finger.

Red laughed nervously.

****

THIRTEEN

"Who gave you my name?" said Max Waxman, fiddling with his teen-ager's mustache.

"Somebody I met in T. I.," Ronnie Boyce said.

"Who is somebody?"

"Stymie,"

"What does Stymie look like?"

"He looks
a lot like a cop, but he ain't."

Waxman smiled.
"
You look
a little like a cop yourself

"Your mother looks like a cop," Boyce said.

"Okay, kid, what have you got? I'm busy today."

Boyce handed the envelope to the lawyer.

Waxman lifted the flap and blew into the envelope. Holding it open with one hand, he reached into his desk drawer and removed tweezers. He took the bills from the envelope with the tweezers and examined them carefully, both sides. He tucked them back into the envelope and handed it to Boyce.