The Procane Chronicle

26

Myron Greene had a big desk but a half-million dollars managed to make it look small.

“Is it all there?” I said.

Greene looked up. He was counting the money. For the third time. “It’s what you said it was. Five hundred thousand.”

“Well?”

He shook his head and frowned. “It’s stolen money.”

“It doesn’t look stolen.”

“I mean there’s no source for it. No legitimate one at any rate.”

“Make it an anonymous contribution.”

He shook his head again. “Did you ever hear of anyone who gave away half a million dollars anonymously?”

“The most I every gave anonymously was five dollars,” I said. “After that I wanted credit.”

“The IRS would — well, I don’t even want to think about it.”

“We can split it”

He looked up at me. “You’re kidding, of course?”

“Not necessarily. If you can’t think of a method to give it away, we can keep it. You can invest my share for me.”

“But it’s Procane’s money.”

“Procane’s dead and it wasn’t his money. It belonged to the drug dealers. He stole it from them and I helped. They got it from the junkies. Procane wanted to give it to that drug clinic up in Harlem. He seemed to enjoy the irony of the idea. But you say it can’t be done.”

Myron Green frowned again. “I didn’t say it couldn’t be done. I said it would be difficult.”

I got up and moved toward the door. “Let me know how you work it out.”

“Wait a minute.”

“What?”

He walked around his desk, picked up a packet of the money, and riffled through it. He looked at the money and then at me.

“You could have kept it all, couldn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And there would have been no way to trace it?”

“None. Almost none anyway.”

“And you helped steal it?”

I shrugged. “I suppose I helped. At least I didn’t get in the way.”

“But you can’t keep it.”

“No, I can’t keep it.”

“I want to ask why.”

“Go ahead.”

“All right, why can’t you keep it?”

I had to give him some sort of an answer. It wasn’t going to be completely true, but Myron Greene was far too experienced a lawyer to expect the complete truth from anyone.

“You’re not going to believe me,” I said.

He nodded. “I know.”

“But you want to hear it anyway.”

“That’s right.”

“By not keeping the money I may be trying to prove something.”

“What?”

“Something that I don’t believe exists.”

“I’ll ask what again.”

“A good thief.”

Myron Greene thought that over for a moment. “And have you? Proved it, I mean.”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes,” he said, “I can see how you wouldn’t.”