Bartlett didn't speak for a moment after David finished. Then: 'You saw Termite Tommy's sample check after it had disintegrated?'
'With my own eyes. Believe me, it turned to confetti in about four days.'
'No way he could have pulled a switch on you?'
'Come on, Jimmy; I'm no rube. That check just fell apart.'
'And since Rita deposited the fake Treasury check, you've heard nothing about it? No cops knocking on your door at midnight?'
Rathbone rapped his knuckles on the walnut dash of the Bentley. 'So far, so good,' he said. 'We got the cash, and Treasury has a handful of fluff.'
'So what's your problem?'
'How to capitalize on this. I could keep buying new ID for Rita-or anyone else-and pulling the same scam on other Florida banks. But the take wouldn't be big enough. I thought of franchising the whole operation: selling pads of blank checks to paperhangers all over the country. But that wouldn't work; the checks would destruct before they got through the mail. You got any ideas?'
'I know a little about counterfeiting,' Bartlett said, 'and I can tell you one thing: That German never made the paper. Making paper is just too difficult and complex an operation for one guy. It would take forever.
So counterfeiters buy standard grades of paper and doctor them to suit their needs. A lot of them soak paper in black coffee to give it a weathered look, like their fake bills have been handled. I knew a hustler who spent hours with a one-hair brush painting his paper with those tiny threads you see in U.S. currency.'
'Well, if the German didn't make the paper himself, how did he get the checks to fall apart?'
'My guess is that he bought paper of Treasury check weight and stiffness, and then treated it with chemicals. Probably an acid. You know, David, the wood-pulp paper used in most books and magazines is acidic and will crumble to dust in about thirty years. I think the Kraut found a chemical that speeds up the process.'
'Well, all I know is that it works, and I've been racking my brain trying to figure how to make the most of it.'
'David, why did you use the trick paper in a check?'
'Why? I guess because Termite Tommy gave me a sample of the stuff in check form, and that got me thinking of how to turn a profit from self-destroying checks.'
Bartlett sighed. 'You know, you're one of the best idea men in the game. You've got a lot of creative energy. Like that commodity trading fund you came up with. But sometimes you go sailing ahead without thinking things through. You're so eager to cash in, you don't stop to wonder if there might be a less risky or more profitable way. One of these days your love affair with lucre is going to do you in.'
'I don't see you passing up any surefire rackets, old buddy.'
'I don't-if they are surefire. But I spend a lot more time than you do calculating the risk-benefit ratio.
Look, David, you can go on hanging queer checks, hiring more pushers, buying more fake ID, but as far as I'm concerned, the risk outweighs the benefit. The banks are sure to be alerted by the Federal Reserve, and sooner or later they'll get to you.'
'So you think I should just drop it?'
'I didn't say that. But there's a better way. You said this Lakeland printer did time for counterfeiting?'
'That's what Termite Tommy told me. He met the guy in the pokey. The German was doing five-to-ten. Tommy said he had been printing and wholesaling the queer, not pushing it.'
'Well, there's your answer. Get him back to making twenties and fifties, using the self-destruct paper. Then anyone-you, me, the man in the moon-can deposit the queer cash in any bank account. If it gets by the teller, you're home free because in a couple of days those bills are going to be gone, and there'll be nothing to point to who made the deposit. How are they going to arrest you for pushing forgeries if there's no evidence? The only things left will be your deposit slip and the credit to your account.'
Rathbone lifted one palm from the steering wheel to smack his forehead. 'Now why didn't I think of that? It's a great idea. But maybe we should wholesale the stuff instead of pushing it ourselves. How do you feel about that?'
'Wholesaling is what put the Kraut behind bars, and he might be a little gun-shy about trying it again. There's another possibility that occurs to me. You know, in my laundering deals, the cash is brought to the banks' back doors in shopping bags or suitcases. Sometimes the banks don't even bother counting; they weigh it. And they certainly don't inspect every bill to make sure it's le-git-'
By that time they were parked in the brick driveway of Bartlett's home. Rathbone switched off the engine and turned to stare at the other man.
'Jimmy,' he said, 'let me guess what you're thinking. If we wholesale the queer self-destruct bills, we'll be lucky to get twenty percent of the face value. But if you can switch the fake bills with your clients' genuine bills, we'll get full face value.'
'That's right,' Bartlett said, 'and so will my clients. They'll be credited for the correct total deposited. It's the banks that'll take the loss when the queer turns to dust.'
'But won't the banks scream when their twenties and fifties fall apart?'
'Scream to whom?' Jimmy asked. 'If they call in the law, they'll have to explain why they were accepting shopping bags full of cash at the back door. No, they'll take the loss and keep their mouths shut. They'll figure it's just the cost of doing business, and the profits are so enormous they'll keep on dealing. So it really ends up a win- win game.'
'Brilliant,' Rathbone said.
22
The bullpen was on the second floor of Sidney Coe's office building, and although the ceiling and walls were soundproofed, the place was bedlam.
Almost twenty yaks worked in that madhouse, their splintery desks cramped side by side. On each desk was a telephone, script, sucker list, and overflowing ashtray. The air conditioner was set at its coldest and operated constantly, but the smoky air in that crowded room rarely got below 80°, the humidity was a fog, and some of the men stripped to the waist.
The yaks were currently hawking platinum, selling ounce bars of the metal with 'free insurance and storage' included in the sales price. At the moment, the price was $500 per troy ounce (ten ounces minimum purchase), and any mooch could consult the financial pages and see he was buying at $23 per ounce under the market price.
'Because we have an exclusive source of supply that's liable to dry up any minute, the demand is so great. Now's the time to get in on the greatest money-making opportunity we've ever offered. Here's the chance of a lifetime, but you've got to get in on it NOW! Tomorrow may be too late. How much can I put you down for? Mail in your check today, and then go shopping for a new Cadillac because you're going to be rich, rich, RICH!'
Twenty yaks made this pitch, talking into their phones as rapidly and loudly as they could so the mooch was confused, didn't have time to think, heard only the shouted NOW! and RICH! and decided he better get in on this bonanza before the exclusive source of cheap platinum was exhausted.
Checks arrived daily from all over the country, so many in fact that Sid Coe made two trips to the bank every day, hoping the checks would clear before the mooches had second thoughts and stopped payment. Few did. Even more remarkable, suckers who had lost money with Instant Investments, Inc., on precious gems, uranium, rare coins, and oil leases, sent in checks for platinum, hoping to recoup their losses.
'They like to suffer, Cynthia,' Sid opined to his wife. 'I tell you it's pure masochism. For some reason they feel guilty and want to be punished.'
'Thank you, Doctor Freud,' she said.
Coe stalked the boiler room like a master lashing on his galley slaves. 'Close the deal!' he kept yelling. 'Close the deal, get a meal! Get the cash, buy the hash! Get the dough or out you go!'
He hung over their sweaty shoulders, nudging them, spurring them on. Occasionally he grabbed the phone from their hand and demonstrated his version of the hard sell: raucous, derisive, almost insulting.
'Go ahead,' he'd shout. 'Put your money in CDs and savings accounts. Take your lousy eight percent. Haven't
