Sex, Lies & Serious Money

12

Butch called theresa. “Hello, sis.”

“Hello, Butch. I hear you got the job. For God’s sake, please don’t screw it up. You’ll ruin my reputation with the company.”

“Don’t worry about it. I guess you’ve noticed that Curly and I cleared out of your place. We found a furnished studio in the far East Eighties, and we’ll bunk here for a while. What have you been up to? Seeing your new client?”

“My new client has buggered off to Wichita for a couple of weeks.”

“Oh, well.”

“Don’t worry about it. Okay, maybe I’ll see you around the store,” she said.

“Good luck, baby.” They hung up.

“Curly,” Butch said, “there’s good news — our mark is leaving town for two weeks. We’re in.”

“Oh, yes!” Curly exclaimed.

Laurence met the Cessna pilot at Teterboro. The aircraft was a CJ 3 Plus demo, and for having ordered two airplanes, he rated a free ride to Wichita. He was allowed to fly left seat for the nonstop flight, and he flew an instrument approach into Eisenhower Field. He was in his hotel suite half an hour later and looking forward to a good night’s sleep.

Curly affixed the small vise to the kitchen tabletop in their new apartment and went to work on one of the key blanks. Since he didn’t have an emery wheel, he did all the work by hand, filing the blank until it dropped easily into the wax form, fitting perfectly. “Okay,” he said an hour later, “we’re ready.”

In the late evening, Butch and Curly took a cab south, got out a block short of the Fairleigh, and walked from there. “We’ll go in through the garage,” Butch said, “and avoid the gaze of the concierge and hotel staff.” They found the garage entrance on the side street and waited across the way until the drop-off area was clear of workers, then hurried in and took the elevator straight to the fifteenth floor. They emerged in the entrance hall.

“What if there’s an alarm system?” Butch asked.

“Hotels don’t have alarm systems on individual units,” Curly said. He produced the key. “Now watch.” He inserted the key, and with a little jockeying, it worked smoothly. Curly pushed open the door. “After you, sir.”

Butch walked in and felt for a light switch; he found one that turned on all the living room lights.

“Jesus Christ!” Curly said, looking around. “I thought this was going to be a regular hotel suite! It looks more like the inside of a mansion!”

“Yes, it does.”

“What are we going to do, clean out the place?”

“Absolutely not,” Butch replied. “Don’t you take so much as a pair of cuff links. We’re looking for documents.”

“What kind of documents?”

“Bank correspondence, brokerage statements, anything that leads to money.”

“Where do we start?”

“In the study.” Butch got the lights on, and they searched the room. “The only thing here of value to us is the booze,” he said. “You want a drink?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Curly said.

Butch poured them a couple of large single-malt scotches, and they eased into leather chairs and sipped.

“I could get used to this life,” Curly said.

“Don’t. Remember, we’re transients here.” Butch washed the glasses and wiped them dry, then returned the scotch to the bar. “Let’s try the master suite.” He led the way into the big bedroom, then into the dressing room. “My sis sold him all this stuff in a single morning,” Butch said, showing him the suits, shirts, and shoes.

Curly began opening drawers. “What’s this?” he asked, pointing to the contents of one.

“English pounds sterling,” Butch replied. “We’ll take some, but not all. We can change it at a bank later.” He fished out three hundred pounds from the stack of notes. “I think what we need is to find his office.”

They went through the rest of the place and found an office off the kitchen, neat as a pin, everything in its place. Butch started opening drawers, but they were nearly bare; only the usual office tools and stationery. He tried some file drawers and found a file with the name of a trust company on it. The folder held some documents.

“Holy shit,” Butch said. “If I’m reading this thing right, it acknowledges the deposit of six hundred and twelve million, less than a week ago.”

“You must be reading it wrong,” Curly said. “There isn’t that much money.”

“What kind of a forger are you?”

“Prison-trained,” Curly replied. “What do you want forged?”

Butch handed him a document. “This signature,” he replied, “Laurence B. Hayward.” He handed Curly a blank sheet of paper and a pen.

Curly looked at the signature. “Make a copy of the document,” he said, pointing at a machine.

Butch did so.

Curly sat down at the desk, put the copy near his sheet and slowly drew the signature, copying every loop and twist.

“Too neat,” Butch said.

“Relax, okay? I’m just getting started.” Curly drew the signature again and again, a little faster each time.

“Looking good,” Butch said.

Curly continued until he got half a dozen signatures he liked, each a little different from the others. “Got it,” he said. “You see a checkbook anywhere?”

Butch went through the drawers and came up with a large one. “Here you go.”

“How much do you want to steal?”

“Well, we can’t cash a check for all of it.”

“Any bank statements?”

Butch looked. “Not yet. He’s new in town and probably hasn’t been sent one yet. And we can’t just walk into his bank and cash it. We’ll have to open an account somewhere and deposit the check and wait for it to clear.”

“We need a company name to open the account,” Curly said. “The bank is unlikely to just pay a check to some John Doe.”

Butch thought about it. “I know, we’ll create a corporation, using an online legal service. It’ll cost a few hundred bucks, but we’ll have incorporation papers to use to open the account.”

“We’ll need a credit card to do that,” Curly said. “I’ve got a better idea. I know a disbarred lawyer from prison who’s out now. We’ll track him down and get him to do the legal stuff.”

“Then you’d better forge some checks now.”

“Nah,” Curly said. He flipped to the back of the checkbook and tore out two pages of three checks each, then found an envelope and tucked them inside, along with the copy of the financial document. “We’ll just hang on to these until we have our ducks in a row.” He picked up a small metal box. “Look, it’s a check-writing machine.” He ran a sheet of paper through it and printed out an amount. “We’ll pick up one at an office supply store.” He wrote down the name and model number.

They shut off the lights and went into the living room. “Hey,” Butch said, “those paintings on that wall weren’t here the first time I came. The guy’s buying art. We’ll create an art gallery, and he’ll buy pictures from us — expensive ones. We ought to be able to grab a few hundred grand, if we do it right.”

“I like the way you think, Butch. You keep doing that.”

They turned off the lights, locked up, and took the elevator to the garage. Soon they were looking for a cab uptown.