Quick & Dirty

57

Arthur Steele pointed at the large black Zero Halliburton case on wheels. “That one, please, no need to wrap it.”

The salesman pulled down the case from the shelf. “This one?”

“That is correct.” Steele handed him a credit card and waited as patiently as he could while the sale was processed. He read the instructions for setting the combination on the locks, then handed the salesman the leaflet in frustration. “I can’t do this. Will you please set the combinations to eight-six-nine?”

The salesman didn’t bother with the instructions. He made a few swift moves, and the combinations were set. He handed Steele the slip to sign.

Arthur pulled out the handle on the case and it followed him down Park Avenue to his office building. As he passed the reception desk, he said to the uniformed security guard, “I’m expecting a delivery soon, which will require my signature. Send him up to my floor.”

“Yes, Mr. Steele.”

Steele went from there to the chief accountant’s office. “Please open the vault,” he said.

“Of course, Mr. Steele,” the man said, rising. “May I ask why?”

“Because I asked you to.”

The man complied, then returned to his desk, out of sight. Steele walked into the vault and pulled the door nearly shut behind him. He took out a key and opened a steel door at the rear of the vault, exposing a tightly shrink-wrapped block of bank notes. He found some scissors and slit the pack open, then set the case on the nearby counter and began to stack the banded bundles into it, four at a time, counting aloud. When he had stacked in five hundred bundles, he rearranged the notes a little, then closed the case. He was surprised that it held all the money.

He set the case on the floor; it was very heavy, and he was grateful for the wheels. He locked the cabinet and left the vault, closing the door behind him and spinning the locking wheel. He towed the heavy case down the corridor to his office, stood it up beside his desk, and sat down. He removed a magnifying glass from a desk drawer and retrieved the 8x10 transparency of the painting from his personal safe, then set a light box on his desk and sat down to wait, dabbing at his damp face with a tissue.

Sol Fineman, now Blankenship, maneuvered the rented white van, on which he had pasted a plastic FedEx logo to each side. He found a space in a loading zone a few steps from the entrance to the Steele building, then he took a closed FedEx box and a clipboard, walked into the building, and approached the front desk, where a uniformed security guard awaited. Sol was wearing a khaki uniform with a matching zippered jacket bearing the FedEx logo and a name: Jenson. He was also wearing heavy-framed, tinted glasses and a thick goatee, mustache, and eyebrows.

“May I help you?” the guard asked.

“I have a delivery for Mr. Arthur Steele, requiring his personal signature.”

The man picked up a phone and reported this to the receptionist on the executive floor, then hung up. “Please go up to the thirtieth floor. They’re expecting you.”

Sol got onto the elevator and pressed the button for 30. He felt oddly buoyant and relaxed. He got off and started toward the receptionist.

“You may go right in,” she said. “You’re expected. First door on your right for Mr. Steele.”

Sol walked to the door and rapped lightly on it.

“Come in,” a voice said.

He opened the door, took a step in, and looked around. A bald man in a black suit sat behind the desk.

“Delivery for Mr. Steele,” Sol said.

“I am Arthur Steele. Come in.”

Sol walked to the desk and set the box on it. “May I see a picture ID?” he asked.

Seemingly surprised, Steele produced a driver’s license.

Sol tore open the paper zip of the box. “You have three minutes,” he said, starting the stopwatch function on his wristwatch.

“There’s the money,” Steele said, pointing. He tore at the box, removed the wrapped painting.

Sol set the case on a conference table and dialed in 869. Nothing happened; the lock refused to open. “Stop!” he said to Steele.

Steele stopped. “What’s wrong?”

“The combination didn’t work. What did you set it to?”

“I asked the salesman at the store to set it to eight-six-nine. It must work.”

“You’re sure you said eight-six-nine?”

“I’m certain. I’m not trying to trick you.”

Sol turned back to the case and tried 986: nothing. He tried 689, and the locks opened. “Got it.” He reset his stopwatch. “Three minutes from now.” He began counting the bundles of hundreds, flipping through them to be sure there was no plain paper hidden there. He saw a postage scale on a nearby credenza and moved it to the conference table and started weighing banded bundles at random: all the same weight. He counted the stacks and rows of bundles and multiplied in his head. Five hundred of them.

Steele had turned on the light box and set the transparency there and was peering first at the light box, then at the painting.

“You have twenty seconds,” Sol said, feeling for the pistol at his belt.

With five seconds to go, Steele switched off the light box. “It’s the authentic painting,” he said.

Sol snapped the case shut, spun the combinations, set it on the floor, and extended the handle. He walked toward the door and stopped. “Nice doing business with you,” he said, and headed for the elevator.

He stepped out into the lobby, where his wife awaited, had a quick look around, then, satisfied, handed her the handle to the case. “Out the uptown door and turn right,” Sol said. “I’ll catch up to you in the next block.” She started in that direction and he turned toward the front door.

The van was where he had left it. He got in, started the engine, and pulled out into the traffic, just as a cop came around the corner toward him. He looked straight ahead, ignoring the uniform, then made a right at the corner. He made another right and started looking for his wife. There she was, near the next corner. Sol stopped the van next to her, got out and loaded the heavy case into the rear, while his wife stripped off the FedEx logo from each side of the truck. She got into the driver’s seat while Sol got in beside her and started stripping off his jacket and shirt.

He ripped off the mustache, eyebrows, and goatee and wrapped them in his shirt, along with the tinted glasses, which he had wiped clean. “Take a right on Forty-second Street and head for the tunnel,” he said. “Check your mirrors regularly.” He reached out the window and turned the mirror so that he could see behind them.

“So far, so good,” she said.

Traffic was backed up a block at the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel, and it took another ten minutes before they were inside it. Finally, they broke out on the New Jersey side in bright sunshine and drove normally past the cops stationed there.

“Take 3 West and get off at 17 North,” Sol said. He got out a cell phone and made a call. “Twenty minutes,” he said to the man who answered. “Get your clearance and start an engine.” Twenty minutes later they pulled up at the security booth at an entrance to Teterboro Airport. “November one, two, three, Tango Foxtrot,” she said to the guard, and the bar was raised. They parked the van, and Sol got the case from the rear, while his wife gave the attendant the car rental papers and told him they would pick up the van. Two minutes later they walked out onto the ramp, where the chartered Citation was waiting.

She got onto the airplane, while Sol helped the copilot hoist the case into the rear baggage compartment. “Got your clearance?”

“All the way to Wichita,” he replied. He followed Sol onto the airplane and settled in the right cockpit seat, while Sol strapped himself in next to his wife and put on a headset so he could hear the pilots talking. He heard the other engine start.

“Teterboro ground,” the pilot said, “N123TF is ready to taxi, IFR to Wichita.”

“N123TF, taxi to runway one, via kilo taxiway.”

The pilot repeated the instruction, and the airplane began to move.

There were two aircraft ahead of them waiting for the runway, and another ten minutes passed before they were rolling and rotating.

Sol waited until they were given a higher altitude and had contacted New York Center. “Pilot,” he said.

“Yes, sir?”

“Request a new destination and routing to Anderson, Indiana, identifier AID.”

“Yes, sir.” The pilot did so, and ATC cleared him direct AID, where their car was waiting for them.

Sol sat back in his seat and squeezed his wife’s hand. “Now we can relax,” he said. “We’ll sleep near Chicago tonight and get an early start in the morning. I’ve arranged a charter flight from New Orleans Lakefront to the Caymans the day after tomorrow, and we’ll open a bank account there, then make our way back to New Orleans and drive west.”

She gave him a big, wet kiss.