Loitering with Intent

19

STONE TURNED TO Dino. “How about some tennis?”

“Okay,” Dino replied, “but is this tennis business or busi-ness business?”

“A little of both,” Stone said.

They changed clothes and drove to the Olde Island Tennis Club. Chuck Chandler was working with a student, a very pretty girl in a tiny tennis dress. He stood behind her, holding her arm as she swung.

“I like the teaching position,” Dino said.

Stone went into the pro shop, found the reservation book and led Dino to a vacant court. They hit balls for a few minutes, then Chuck finished with his student and joined them.

“You need more backswing in your serve,” he said to Stone. “You could pick up another ten miles an hour of ball speed.”

“I’ll work on that,” Stone said.

“And Dino, you need to turn your body more when you hit the ball; you’re using too much arm and not enough full body.”

“Okay,” Dino replied.

“You guys want to play a three-handed set?”

“Sure,” Stone said. He and Dino played Chuck, and Chuck beat them six-four. They sat down for a break.

“Chuck,” Stone said, “when Evan Keating paid you the hundred and thirty grand in cash for your boat, what did it look like? New bills or old?”

“A mix, I guess. It was all neatly wrapped, some of it with rubber bands, some with bank wrappers.”

“What was the bank name on the wrappers?”

“I don’t really remember, except that it was in Miami. Something Security.”

“Think hard.”

“South Beach Security, that’s it.”

“Never heard of it,” Stone said.

“I’ve never heard of half the banks in Florida,” Chuck said. “I’d never heard of any of the banks in Key West until I moved here.”

“May I ask, what did you do with all that cash?”

“Well,” Chuck said, “I had a yard bill at Peninsula Marina for around forty thousand, mostly materials and shed rental; I paid off about twenty thousand in personal debts, I bought a T-bill for fi fty thousand, and I put the rest in my safe. Sometimes you can do better deals for stuff if you’ve got cash.”

“Yes, you can,” Stone said. “Did you fill out the federal forms for big cash deposits at your bank?”

“Yeah, and at my brokerage house, too. I thought I might expect a visit from the feds, but my banker told me the feds are inundated with those forms, and they never get around to checking most of them.”

“Don’t forget to pay your taxes on the sale of the boat,” Stone said.

“I actually had a small loss; my basis was more than Keating paid. Did you ever fi nd him?”

“Yep.”

“Good. You seemed a little stressed about it the last time we talked.”

They played another set, then Stone and Dino went back to the Marquesa and showered. Stone called Tommy Sculley.

“Tommy, do you know a bank in Miami called South Beach Security?”

“That has a familiar ring,” Tommy said, “but I can’t place it. I’ve heard somebody talking about it, though. It’ll come to me. Why do you ask?”

“Some of the hundred and thirty grand Evan Keating paid Chuck Chandler for his boat had South Beach Security bands wrapped around it. The rest had rubber bands.”

“Let me look into it. By the way, I talked to the headmaster’s offi ce at the Groton School, and Evan and Charley Boggs were in the same class there for three years. They were described as inseparable. The office gave me a next-of-kin address for Charley, too. His parents are still alive, and I had to tell them their son was dead.”

“That’s never fun.”

“His old man said he was only mildly surprised; the only news he had had of him in years was that he was still drawing on his trust fund. He didn’t want the body; he said to have it cremated and disposed of and to send him the bill. He also said that Charley’s mother has thought he was dead for a long time, so he’s not going to tell her.”

“I wonder if trust funds make father-son relationships worse?”

Stone asked.

“I guess they make the kids more independent. What is it they call a trust fund?”

“ Fuck-you money?”

“That’s it. Independence means they don’t have to be nice to the folks anymore.”

“Kind of sad, isn’t it?” Stone asked.

“I still talk to my old man a couple of times a week,” Tommy said. “He’s in a retirement home in Boca. He comes down here for Christmas, or we go up there. But then I don’t have a trust fund.”

“My folks are gone,” Stone said, “and I miss them.”

“I’ll bet you didn’t have a trust fund, either.”

“Nope.”

“Hang on a minute,” Tommy said. “Hey, Jim, have you ever heard of a bank in Miami called South Beach Security? Pick up the extension, line three.”

“Hello?” another voice said.

“Stone, this is Jim Pierce; he’s the worst kind of fed: an FBI man.”

“Hi, Jim.”

“Hi, Stone. How’d you get tangled up with this reprobate?”

“Beats me.”

“Jim, tell Stone about South Beach Security.”

“Tell you what I know, Stone. The bank is less than five years old; majority stockholder is one Max Melfi. I’m told he’s from old sugarcane money in the Glades, but I can’t prove it. I can’t prove the bank is dirty, either, but the name keeps coming up in investigations. You might say it’s red-flagged with us. Why do you want to know about South Beach Security?”

“Friend of mine sold his boat for a bunch of money, and the deal was done in cash, some of it with wrappers from South Beach Security.”

“Sounds like whoever bought your friend’s boat is in the drug business.”

“Possible, but unlikely. The guy told me he had sold a previous boat for cash and that’s why he had so much on hand.”

“Then the guy who bought his boat is probably dirty. In my experience honest people don’t do business in large sums of cash, unless they’re dodging the IRS, and that’s dishonest, too. You want to tell me who the three parties in this two-boat transaction are? I’ll check it out.”

“Not yet, but maybe later.”

Pierce gave Stone his cell phone number. “You can get me there

’most anytime, unless I’m doing business, and if that’s the case, I’ll call you back.”

“Maybe we’ll talk later, Jim. Nice to talk to you, Tommy. See you later.”

Stone hung up. “You get the gist of that?” he asked Dino.

“Pretty much. Maybe Evan Keating is in deeper than he thinks.”

“Maybe.”