Copyright © 2002 Ed Lynskey. All rights reserved. 

    These days large sums of ill-gotten money laundered through rogue banks operating in less-than-lawful provinces is dangerous. One such place is my present destination. After three days traveling by Greyhound (swept each morning for bombs), I am fast approaching Arapaho, New Mexico.

    Everything my eyes touch on the sun has baked and bleached. Mile after mile, the Sangre de Cristo Mountains cast gaunter shadows. At last, the bus slows to a dust-choked stop. Seizing a satchel, my only luggage, I step off blinking, half-convinced I belong at a dude ranch, not here.

    Trudging across the street, I spot a sign. "AMES GUNS AND AMMO" is hand-lettered inside a star. Heartened, I tromp inside, lean a hip against the counter. Since Homeland Defense now forbids peace officers to board any public transportation armed, the National Guard took my weapon back home in Virginia.

    A trim brunette in beige culottes and open-toed sandals emerges from a curtained doorway, her stride assertive, her pleasantness practiced. I breathe in her heady scent. Lavender. No. Perhaps lilac.

    "Yes sir?" Her greeting is a question.

    "I need a reliable 9 mil." Eyes downcast, I’m studying several models tiered under the illuminated counter glass. "A Browning, for instance."

    "This Glock I have is it." Stooping, she retrieves the 9mm. Clamped in my fist, it delivers an even and hard enough weight.

    "What else?" I ask. "A license? A waiting period?"

    "Nope. Not any more." With expert ease, she dry-fires it. I flinch at the solid click. "So is that a ‘yes’ on the Glock?"

    "Yeah. Throw in a box of shells, too. You accept electronic vouchers?"

    "Ace or Diva." She slings open a paper sack. "Just a reminder. We still have a concealed gun law on the books." She thrusts the package at me. "You sticking around long?"

    "Long enough to research my article on cougar hunting," I lie.

    "A knife could come in handy." Her coral-tipped fingers point at a cutlery display.

    "You must’ve been reading my hard drive," I quip. Too young to remember, her expression goes blank.

    Breathing easier, I stalk outdoors toting the paper sack and satchel beneath each arm. Squinting down the block to the motel I noticed while arriving in town, I strike out in that direction. For twenty dollars on the sly, the desk clerk puts me in the end unit.

    He removes a blue toothpick to say, "It commands a view of the parking lot."

    Bracing a chair under the doorknob, I extract the 9mm, load its firing clip, test its trigger action. Satisfied, I poke the piece down my waistband, draw out my shirttail. Nudging aside the curtain, I spot no armored limos. Recent events crawl through my mind. I now work for Robert Gatlin, the billionaire attorney who plays Robin Hood. Gatlin had defended a stable groom busted on a bum narcotics rap. I tried to investigate but wasn’t allowed onto the fortified estate of the groom’s employer.

    "That drug lord is untouchable," I told Gatlin.

    Gatlin chuckled. "I don’t think so. Where to touch him is the big mystery."

    Several nights later, we had a stroke of luck. At a black-tie campaign fundraiser, Gatlin overheard that a New Mexico bank took in suitcases of money, no questions asked. That sent me west.

    Snagging my cell phone, I now key in Gatlin’s private number. In mid-ring, he picks up

    "You cased that Arapaho bank?" he asks.

    "Relax. I just breezed into Nowheresville. So far I’ve acquired a gun and holed up in a dive."

    Gatlin clucks his customary impatience. "Ah, don’t hand me that. I’m paying you to dig up incriminating evidence, not to gold-brick."

    "Skip it. What’s new?"

    "I bribed a federal prosecutor for information. This kingpin ferries drug money to Arapaho using couriers who pose as tourists."

    "Like our client Mr. Cocoa is accused of doing?"

    "Precisely," says Gatlin. "Our plan is a go. We’ll expose the bank president, then jam him to clear Mr. Cocoa in a plea bargain arrangement. I’ve hammered out the details with Federal prosecutors . . ."

    "Okay, that’s enough," I cut him off, fearful of listening devices.

    "Stay in touch." Gatlin severs the connection.

    Unzipping the satchel, I pluck out the Greyhound schedule to re-check the next day’s runs. Finding the asterisk marked by 9:15 a.m., I remind myself that FBI Special Agent Sanderson will be arriving on that bus. Impersonating my first courier, Sanderson is transporting with him several hundred thousand dollars, a tidy profit turned from street sales. Business is brisk. Other mules are in the queue.

    In actuality, I’m aware we cannot keep the lid on this sting much longer. We’re dealing with homicidal whack jobs. I shudder to recall crime scene photos. The thugs like to smash in your mouth toothless and sew it shut like a baseball. Real salt of the earth people.

    For the next few moments, I rehearse what I scripted on the bus. I’m to meet later with the bank president as the brains behind a cocaine racket. This money laundering scheme, I will stress, must erase any traceability. I’m a player -- Gatlin has already deposited five million dollars in a shell company account bearing my name. Sighing, I stash the Glock under the mattress. The knife fits inside the snakeskin boots I also charged off on Gatlin’s voucher.

    At the coffee shop, I press a sawbuck into a newsstand box for the local paper. Folding back the front page, I scan headlines. Bomb blasts Amtrak train en route to Terra Haute. MLB team owners suspend play. Congress votes themselves a 25 % pay hike. CDC confirms an Ebola outbreak. Shaking my head, I chuck the newspaper into a truck bed. Observing the assault rifle on its rack leaves me drained.

    The First Arapaho Bank is a two-story red sandstone building blazing under the mid-afternoon sun. The lobby echoes a decorous desolation. A guard sleeps as I blitz through the squealing metal detector. I tap on the well-worn turquoise countertop to alert a teller.

    "My name is Johnson," I announce. "Frank Johnson of Johnson, Inc. Please notify Mr. Harriet I’m here for our 3 o’clock."

    Impressed, she buzzes the receptionist upstairs for clearance. "Yes sir, Mr. Johnson. Please go right up. Our elevator is across the lobby. Mr. Harriet is expecting you."

    In short order, I select the high-back red chair inside Mr. Harriet’s swanky office. The chair bottom is plush and padded. Wrinkle-free, the bank president smiles. Manicured fingers tent in a pensive gesture. His diamond cufflinks glitter, what matches his blue eyes.

    "Please excuse the rustic garb," I chuckle a bit. "Fact is, I’m so busy making money, I don’t have the time to shop for a wardrobe."

    Frowning, Mr. Harriet twitters a finger at me. "I understand you shipped in on a bus and purchased a firearm."

    "What of it?"

    "It could be construed as uncouth for a gentleman of means such as yourself."

    I shrug. "Call me eccentric. I suffer from a fear of flying and indulge a fondness to collect firearms. If that snarls your snout, I’ll funnel my millions to the Dakota banks."

    "Not at all." Mr. Harriet smiles again. "How may we service you?"

    My gaze settles on his flicking a pastry crumb off his tie. "My present account is seed money." I lean forward and sense Mr. Harriet doing likewise.

    "Seed money?" he prompts me.

    "Yes. I project a dozen like it handling a robust cash flow. Business associates tell me this is your specialty."

    Mr. Harriet snaps at the bait. "My financial institution oversees numerous such accounts."

    "Excellent. Expect my initial deposit tomorrow afternoon. Shall we keep this same time slot free?"

    "Absolutely." Mr. Harriet swivels his chair back. Unfolding my legs, I arise and proffer my hand.

    Just then, fear eclipses my repulsion of this man.

    Mr. Harriet’s eyes size me up. I find myself wondering how many men he has killed or ordered killed. Twelve seems like a conservative estimate.

    "May this benefit us both," he says.

    "You can count on it," I mutter, anxious to be off.

    Outdoors in the Southwest sun, I flip down shades and head to the motel. My muscles tense. Eyes are on me. Small towns do that, making it their business to know your business. The brunette I notice has closed the gun shop.

    A janitor mopping the floor inside the bus depot glances up at my footfall. Diesel exhaust and ammonia prickle my nose. Wringing out the mop, he watches me count the paces from the rental lockers to the platform. Next, I measure off the distance from the platform to the doors venting to the street. I overlay the 9mm’s range to obtain decent results. If a rival gang strikes, they will when Sanderson lumbers off the bus lugging a sack of Gatlin’s money. Waving at the janitor, I depart.

    The mesquite breeze fanning my brows does little to sooth my jittery nerves. I hike toward the motel. Gatlin and I had begged the FBI Money Laundering Unit for more than one agent. Post-terrorist America, however, had stretched law enforcement resources.

    "Sanderson is a top-notch operative," Gatlin had assured me. "He’s got your back, see?"

    "My ass is exposed," I said. "The second things sour, I shut it down, see?"

    "Give it a chance," said Gatlin. "Don’t be paranoid."

    The solitary roadhouse in Arapaho is a flat-roof adobe rectangle that advertises itself as The Silver Dollar. It is an unmemorable watering hole to pass a late afternoon. A brawny man crawls from the tar pit of smoke, beer, and urine behind me. Out the corner of my eye, I watch him. He jostles my elbow on the bar top just enough.

    "Excuse me," I mutter while setting down the beer glass.

    "Ain’t no excuse for you," he says.

    I burst through the door outside, intent on avoiding a brawl. My relief is short-lived. A shadow following me looms larger and longer on the sidewalk.

    Cursing, I feign a trip to land on my knees and unlimber the knife. The brawny man stampedes the last few paces to pounce. I spring up in a combat crouch, the knife slashing in a savage uppercut to plant itself in the mushy gristle between his rib bones.

    His black heart walls around the blade but steely sharpness does malicious damage, lacerating and puncturing vital tissue. The split-second his pulse quivers to die, the man gapes into the haze beyond the mesa, his bloodshot orbs bared to the hellish finality.

    Looking, I spot no bystanders lurking about.

    Hoisting up his spurred boots, I drag his cloddish bulk down an alley. Dark crimson blood splotches his bunched up shirt. The still warm corpse gurgles. That unnerves me.

    Propping him across my back, I elevate with his weight and roll him into a Dumpster. Untying a bandana to swab my prints off the knife, I figure Arapaho is minus one scorpion. My appetite ruined, I hurry on.

    The mission for tonight is to hunker down and rest. My mood darkens. An intruder has ransacked my motel room. My first alarm is the 9mm under the tossed mattress. I search the dresser, closet, bath, nightstand, and toilet tank -- no sign of the gun. Frustrated, I search again, this time sifting through trashcans. The blue toothpick points me to the lobby.

    The same desk clerk is poring over the local sports section spread out over the cash register. Without a word, I grab his button-down collars and jerk up.

    "You took an object from my crib." I wham him against the wall. "And now I want it back."

    "Don’t know what you mean," he tells me.

    Even angrier, I bash him backward. His fingers signal to end the abuse.

    Shoving the 9mm he gives me into a hip pocket, I extend a hand for the shells. Shaking, he scoops them from the same drawer.

    "Don’t snitch on me," he whines. "I-I-I needed to pawn it for cash."

    I say: "Just steer clear of me."

    An edgy delirium disrupts my concentration. Laying in bed, I consider the ugly possible outcomes this could take. Snaking onto my side, I conjure images of the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. Sanderson and I had trained there for Special Operations too many years ago. In the interim, I debate if Sanderson has grown soft and mellow while pulling desk duty until the retirement bell dings. I doubt it. Hadn’t he been a gung-ho crusader prophesizing how all evildoers capitulate in the end?

    Something else less admirable about Sanderson bugs me, though. What is it? Think. What? Yeah, his obsession over money, whether winning at billiards or ferreting out the latest hot stock tip. Shuddering in the dark, I speculate on how much a FBI Special Agent pulls down in a year. Not enough. With an attaché case bulging money chained to his wrist, Sanderson would be tempted as never before.

    Restless, I stir and knock over the lamp, then right it. Before dialing Gatlin, I sweep the ceiling and walls for bugs. Nothing external shows up. I’m reasonably safe.

    "What’s wrong?" asks Gatlin.

    "It slipped my mind until now how money drives Sanderson over the edge."

    Gatlin wheezes as if he’s tickled. "Aw, let him go to Mexico. That loot is counterfeit. Every damn Benjamin of it."

    Gatlin’s revelation doesn’t surprise me. "The thornier problem is my first mule won’t show tomorrow. You have to pinch hit."

    "Me?" Gatlin clears his throat.

    "The courier and I are to seal the deal with Harriet tomorrow afternoon."

    "Beg off. Say there’s been a snag. Postpone it a few days."

    "This sting already dangles on a thread."

    "I sign your checks. Do as I say. Stall until the FBI can bring in another agent. I’ll arrange it from this end." After he clunks the receiver down, I stumble into a hagridden sleep.

    Later, sun prodding at the drawn curtains, I roll over and abhor confronting it. About the same time, a rap sounds at the door. Someone slides something underneath. Kicking off sheets, I retrieve the envelope. Inside is a note: "COME TO THE GUN SHOP AT 8 A.M. I’LL EXPLAIN." No signature or other marks appear on it.

    My watch reads 8:05.

    I part the curtain. A dark sedan is hitched to a U-Haul trailer. Not bothering to shave or shower, I pack my satchel, place the door key atop the broken TV. With the 9mm inside my jacket, I wriggle out the bathroom window and spill flat on my face. Nobody is waiting. After brushing myself off, I race toward the gun shop.

    Churning a sweat, I edge up the alley behind Main Street. There’s no tail on me. No pedestrians. I squeeze inside the gun shop’s cracked rear door. It dawns on me that I might waltz into a buzz saw. Only then does the 9mm make its appearance. As my eyes adjust, a shoe scuffs from behind.

    "Mr. Johnson." The brunette converses in whispers. Clad in a carpenter apron, she steps beside a bench now between us. "I’m with the Agency. My name isn’t important."

    "It’s about the bank op, isn’t it?" I wait for her confirmation.

    "Yes. Sanderson tipped off Harriet. I picked it up on a wire tap." With a trace of wry amusement, the brunette smiles at the 9mm I brandish.

    "That son of a bitch."

    "Forget Sanderson. You’ve a bus ticket back East. Scram. Bag this op."

    "First, I’m obligated to notify my boss," I insist.

    "No need. Gatlin is already in the loop." Leaning, she tugs on my shirttail, a desperate and frantic tug. Adrenaline kicks my heart to hammer in my throat. "Please, just g-g-go." Palming the knob, she swings the door a few inches wider. "Before you blow my cover and risk my life."

    Disgusted, I shake my head. "I’ll borrow this to even up the odds."

    Over her protests, I tramp down the alley, a pump 12-gauge shotgun cradled under my arm. The bus dept is only across the street. However, the success of my stealing away on a Greyhound without suffering a scratch does not compute. Some folks want me dead.

    At the next corner, I kneel, reconnoiter the not-so-distant First Arapaho Bank. Common sense tells me that I should attack this problem at the root. That would be Mr. Harriet in his big office expecting every Johnson of this world to bow and kiss his ass.

    Hitching the shotgun, I zigzag up the alley clear to where it ends behind the bank. Huddled against an adobe tool shed, I scrutinize the second-floor’s glassy expanse until pinpointing the windows to Harriet’s office. He’ll materialize at the glass sipping his gourmet coffee. The last thing he’ll observe is me blasting him into eternity. Waiting and watching is my forte.

    Over the arid day, the only noise is a nearby A/C compressor humming to refrigerate the bank. A tug at my shirttail startles me.

    "You don’t like instructions, do you?" a female’s voice asks. She is the brunette. Shimmering heat magnifies her scent.

    "Your superiors will cost me in the direst way," I explain while again checking Harriet’s windows, the slack shotgun steady in my grasp.

    "Nailing Harriet like a bounty hunter will land you behind bars."

    "Sure," I say. She has pried a .38 from her belt holster.

    "You’ve tainted this op," she says.

    By not responding, I let the accusation hang to forestall any pointless argument.

    Within the next ten minutes, Harriet pussyfoots out a side exit, pausing in the sun long enough to slip on a pair of shades. Before he climbs into the Mercedes, I’m on the move, the brunette a step behind me. Our scampering over hard-packed earth, then a concrete sidewalk goes undetected. Once Harriet peeks back, it’s too late. The muzzle of the shotgun kisses him.

    "Don’t kill him," cries the brunette.

    "D-d-don’t kill me," Harriet repeats.

    "After she cuffs you," I order Harriet, "hop in the Mercedes, back seat, passenger side. And no talking."

    The brunette forces Harriet’s raised arms to behind him and clamps on the manacles. "This is so illegal, bordering on criminal," she mutters.

    I underhand her Harriet’s car keys and stash the shotgun up front under the seat. "Relax. Consider this an extradition to Virginia. I work for a mastermind lawyer who’ll iron out the legal niceties for us. You drive first."

    Harriet bristles angry and indignant. "What’s the charge?" he demands. "You can’t hang anything on me you little pissant . . ."

    Lunging, I jab him in the ribs. "Money laundering and racketeering for starters. Not another word out of you."

    The brunette starts the Mercedes, creeps out of the parking lot. "So, this is it, Mr. Johnson?" She looks at me in the rearview. "This is the new American way of justice."

    "You better believe it," I reply.