“A little,” Maria said. “But I don’t feel like going out there.”
“Gimme five dollars,” Shanice said. “I’ll go get us something.”
Maria eyed her suspiciously.
“Fuck it,” Shanice said. “I’ll buy and you can pay me when I get back. Deal?”
“Sure,” Maria replied.
The black girl pulled the door open and left. Maria could hear her footsteps on the stairs for a moment, and then it fell quiet. Alone with her jumbled thoughts, the silence was oppressive.
She stood and moved over to the window. She had to stand on her toes to see through the crack. Her knees shook.
After a moment, she saw Shanice on the sidewalk below. She walked down the street a little way, then turned to cross over to the fast-food restaurant.
Suddenly, a Chevy lowrider came careening around the corner. It stopped and several Hispanic men jumped out and grabbed Shanice before she could take two more steps.
The men wrestled her toward the car. When she screamed for help, they started to beat her. Finally, they threw her into the backseat and climbed in on either side of her.
The car’s engine roared and rattled as the Chevy sped off down the street.
Maria collapsed to the floor, sobbing.
Once we reached the marina and got the Revenge tied up in her slip, I told the others to stay aboard while I walked to the bank. I carried a well-worn backpack on one shoulder.
It was only a mile and the walk allowed my mind to decompress from the run up from the Keys. When I arrived at the bank, I stood in line for the teller windows and when it was my turn, I asked to speak to the manager.
I’d done this kind of financial transaction before and knew it was a waste of time to tell the window clerk what I wanted. She asked me to have a seat in the lobby and Miss Thompson would be right with me.
I sat and watched the news on a TV with the sound turned down. After a few minutes, a middle-aged woman approached. She wore a business suit and skirt, and her hair was cut short.
“I’m Noreen Thompson,” she said. “What can I help you with?”
I stood and extended a hand. “Jesse McDermitt.”
She shook my hand and invited me to her office.
I dropped my empty backpack in one of the chairs in front of her desk and sat down in the other one.
“I received a wire transfer for you,” she said. “But I’ll need to see some identification.”
After showing her my license, she asked how I’d like the funds.
“Twenty straps,” I replied.
She picked up her phone and talked to someone for a moment, then after hanging up, turned to her computer. After a few seconds, the printer started, and she produced a receipt and asked me to look it over.
She seemed reserved and slightly put off, and I knew why. Bankers encounter all kinds of businesspeople. But a rough-looking customer picking up a ton of cash usually meant only one thing in South Florida. What she thought I was doing with the money or what kind of person she thought I was didn’t matter, and I offered no explanation.
The receipt seemed in order and I only nodded.
An armed security guard came in with a metal briefcase. He placed it on her desk and left, closing the door behind him.
Miss Thompson pulled the blinds, then turned and opened the briefcase. Inside were neatly stacked bundles of one hundred-dollar bills. She removed them one by one, counting them out as she placed them on her desk.
“Please sign here, if everything’s okay,” she said, moving the receipt closer and pointing to an X.
I signed for the cash, then put it all into my backpack.
Ten minutes after walking in, I was back out on the street, headed toward the marina, with nearly a quarter million dollars in my backpack. I wasn’t armed, but I also didn’t look like a target.
Muggers and thieves usually worked in darkness, anyway. And they preferred victims who wouldn’t fight back. Though there were some gray hairs around my temples, at six-three and over two hundred pounds, any would-be thief would think twice. So, I wasn’t worried.
Still, as was my habit all the time, my head was on a swivel and I walked with a confident stride.
The sidewalk was busy, but not crowded, as I made my way back to the marina. Most of the people I encountered were office workers, probably going to or from lunch.
When I got back to the boat, DJ had arrived. They were all sitting around the cockpit coaming, talking.
“Hey, Jesse,” DJ said, as I stepped down into the boat. “The guys were just filling me in.”
“Let’s go inside,” I suggested.
In the galley, I slid behind the counter and put the pack on top of it, unzipping it. I took out one of the bundles, tore off the strap and counted out five stacks with five bills in each.
“Go out and buy something,” I said. “Anything small—a coffee or something. Pay for it with a hundred-dollar bill.”
“What gives?” DJ asked.
Tony stepped forward and picked up a stack of bills. “Hookers don’t make change.”
“That’s right,” I said. “And the type we’re looking for will be suspicious of a hundred-dollar proposition.”
“You sound like you’ve done this before,” DJ said, stroking his long goatee.
“Saw it on TV,” I lied.
The truth was, I don’t watch a lot of television, and aside from the one on the Revenge, we didn’t have one on the island.
It just made common sense. Streetwalkers weren’t the same as high-dollar Las Vegas call girls. Those who turned tricks in a filthy alley to get drug money probably wouldn’t spend more than ten minutes with a client. I had no idea what the going rate was but would be surprised if it was more than twenty bucks.
“Paul, there’s a Publix a couple of miles from here. Get an Uber and head over
