though Jack knew better than to ask how he got it done. Theirs was not a textbook friendship, the Ivy League son of a governor meets the black high-school dropout from Liberty City. But they got on just fine for two guys who’d met on death row, Jack the lawyer and Theo the inmate. Jack’s persistence had delayed Theo’s date with the electric chair long enough for DNA evidence to come into vogue and prove him innocent. It wasn’t the original plan, but Jack ended up a part of Theo’s new life, sometimes going along for the ride, other times just watching with envy and amazement as Theo made up for precious time lost.
This time, it was Theo’s turn to go along for the ride-to Falcon’s bank.
“Greater Bahamian Bank and Trust Company,” said Theo, reading the sign on the building. “I hope they got casinos in here.”
Jack had called the bank beforehand and confirmed that it did in fact have a safe deposit box for Pablo Garcia. He then faxed over the executed power of attorney, which would authorize him to access the box. Sure enough, the signature of his client matched the specimen on file at the bank. Jack still didn’t believe there was money inside, but the flight was free, and even a break-even day at the casinos beat a good day in the office, especially if Theo was the one rolling the dice. He didn’t always win, but the guy never seemed to lose money at the crap table. Jack didn’t dare ask him how he did that, either.
Bay Street was essentially Main Street for high-powered finance in the Bahamas, and the Greater Bahamian Bank amp; Trust Company represented one of hundreds of foreign institutions that thrived on the legal protections and secrecy that countries like the Bahamas afforded to offshore branches. While there were many recognizable names-Royal Bank of Canada, Barclay’s, Bank of Nova Scotia, and others-some of these so-called banks looked more like a doctor’s office, basically just an office in a strip mall that might as well bear the name JOE’S BANK OF THE CARRIBEAN. Greater Bahamian was somewhere between the two extremes, occupying the ground floor of a three-story building. The main entrance to the bank was tidy and simple, a mix of chrome, glass, and indoor-outdoor carpet. Two security guards patrolled the lobby, each packing a nine-millimeter pistol in a black leather holster. Another armed guard stood watch at the door. Theo greeted him with a folksy “How goes it, bro?” The same greeting from Jack would have come across like Garth Brooks doing rap. Theo, however, was an imposing man with the brawn of a linebacker and the height of an NBA star, sort of a cross between The Rock and a young Samuel L. Jackson on steroids. Just to look at him, you would guess (correctly) that he’d spent time in prison. That bad-boy image served him well. Very few people ever got in his way. The rest of the world-even armed security guards-just stepped aside and smiled, hoping that “How goes it, bro” was Theo’s way of saying “Relax, dude, I don’t have time to rearrange your face.” On occasion, Jack needed a friend with that kind of firepower. Mostly, he found Theo entertaining, like cable TV and satellite radio rolled into one big, amusing, friend-for-life subscription.
“Hey, I almost forgot to tell you,” said Theo as they crossed the lobby. “Katrina has a friend she wants to fix you up with.”
Katrina was Theo’s on-again, off-again girlfriend, a tough and sexy Latina with a Russian accent who had once laid Jack out on the sidewalk with an awesome left hook-no exaggeration. “I’m really not interested in any blind dates.”
“Katrina says she’s hot.”
“A woman will always say her friend is hot.”
“No. A woman will always say her friend is pretty, which probably means she’s not. But if she says her friend is hot, trust me, dude, she’s hot.”
“That was almost poetic,” said Jack.
“It did kind of rhyme, didn’t it?”
“Like Eminem, without the profanity.”
It was midmorning, and perhaps a half-dozen customers were in the bank, not counting Jack and Theo. In the personal banking center to the left, a dozen or more bank officers were at their desks, busy on the telephone. With customers all over the world, the Greater Bahamian Bank amp; Trust Company transcended time zones.
“Interesting place for a homeless guy to do business,” said Theo.
“Depends on the business,” said Jack.
The court hearing had played out exactly as Jack had predicted. Falcon entered a plea of not guilty, and the judge set bail at ten thousand dollars. Before leaving the jail, Jack retrieved a bit of Falcon’s personal property from lockup. It was a necklace made of metal beads, which Falcon had worn around his neck for years. Attached to the necklace was a small key. Jack had Falcon’s key in his pocket as he headed toward the sign marked SAFE DEPOSIT BOXES.
The boxes were located in a windowless wing of the private banking section. Jack left his name with the receptionist and took a seat on the couch. The well-dressed man seated beside him was reading the stock quotes. An elderly woman on her cell phone was speaking Portuguese. Lasers of light flashed from a three-carat diamond ring with each wave of her hand. Jack tried to imagine someone like Falcon walking in and stinking up the place. It didn’t compute.
“Mr. Swyteck?” a woman said, standing in the doorway. Jack answered, and she introduced herself as Ms. Friedman, vice president. It seemed like everyone in a bank was a vice president. Jack and Theo followed her to a small office behind the reception desk.
Jack presented her with the original power of attorney and his passport. Ms. Friedman inspected both. She then excused herself, explaining that she needed to verify the signature once again, and left the room. Jack sat in silence, waiting. Theo grabbed a magazine from the rack and started flipping through the pages. He never really read anything, save for a menu, and he seemed bitterly disappointed to discover that this month’s issue of Bahamian Banker was short on photographs. Jack needed to find something to talk about before his friend tore the place apart in search of Sports Illustrated.
“So, why does she want to meet me?” said Jack.
“Why does who wanna meet you?”
“Katrina’s friend-the blind date you were talking about.”
Theo smiled. “Ah, so you are interested.”
“No. I’m just curious. Why does Katrina think we’d be a good match?”
“I’m told that she likes a man with a sense of humor.”
“Right. All women just love a man with a sense of humor. But as it turns out, they’re usually referring to the humor of Jude Law, Will Smith, or George Clooney. Apparently, those guys are a stitch.”
The bank officer returned. “Gentlemen, come with me, please.”
They followed her to the end of the hall and stopped at the security checkpoint. Another armed guard was posted at the door.
“How goes it, bro’?” said Theo.
This time the guard said nothing, no pleasant smile. This was the bank’s inner sanctum, the place where things got serious, where security was equal to Theo Knight.
The guard unlocked the glass door to allow Jack and Theo to enter. Ms. Friedman was right behind them. The door closed, and the guard relocked it. The safe deposit boxes were arranged from floor to ceiling, as in a locker room. Everywhere Jack looked was another box with a brushed-metal face. The larger ones were on the bottom. Smaller ones were on top. Ms. Friedman led Jack to box 266, one of the larger ones. It had two locks on the face. She inserted her key into one lock and turned it.
“Your key is for the other lock,” she said. “I’ll leave you in privacy now. If you need me, check with the guard. There is a convenience room in back with a table and chairs. You can take the whole box with you and open it there, if you wish. No one else will be allowed in this area until you’ve finished.”
Jack thanked her, and she gave him a little smile as she left the room. He kept an eye on the keyhole as he reached inside his pocket for the key. “What’s your guess, Theo? You think there’s really ten thousand dollars inside that box?”
“Five minutes ago I would have said no way. But who knows? Everything has checked out so far.”
Jack inserted the key. The tumblers clicked as he turned it clockwise. With a steady pull, he removed the box from its sleeve. It was longer than he had expected-about two feet from front to back. It was heavy, too. He laid it on the bench behind him.
“And the answer is…” he said like a game show host as he flipped the latch and removed the lid.
Jack was suddenly speechless.
Andrew Jackson was staring back at them, many times over. Crisp twenty-dollar bills were stacked neatly side
