“Thank you, Winston, but I have other investments in mind.”

In fact, Fratelli had already looked up an old “school” acquaintance, now operating as a bookie and loan shark around South Florida. He had lodged a million dollars cash with him, in return for a weekly delivery of fifty thousand dollars cash, or five percent. The man would loan it at ten percent a week and would take care of any necessary leg-breaking out of his cut. But Fratelli would not share that information with Carnagy, who would no doubt be shocked.

That was a million dollars in out-of-date hundreds laundered. A Cayman Islands bank would launder the rest of the contents of his luggage, which now resided in the hotel’s vault.

“Do you have a wife?” Carnagy asked.

“No, I have lived the life of a bachelor, though perhaps it’s time for me to shop around for more permanent companionship.”

“My wife has a very attractive niece,” Carnagy said. “Divorced, childless, and with her own money. You might enjoy meeting her.”

“I am sure I would,” Fratelli replied, “just as soon as I get back from, ah, the Bahamas.”

The two gentlemen shared a chuckle.

• • •

Down the coast, in Fort Lauderdale, Fratelli’s old “school” friend sat in his boss’s office, sweating lightly. His boss held up a hundred-dollar bill that sported a red seal.

“Do you know what this is, Manny?” the boss asked.

“Sure, Vinnie, it’s a C-note.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Get it? Me?”

“One of our handlers spotted it, said it came from you.”

“It looks just like any other C-note,” Manny said. “Is it bogus? If it is, I’ve never seen better.”

“No, it’s not bogus,” the boss said, “it’s just old.”

“Still legal tender?”

“It is. But if you come across another one, bring it to me, and we’ll talk.”

“Sure thing,” Manny said. “Anything else?”

“That’s it. Keep up the good work.”

Manny left the office flapping his open jacket to cool himself down. He hoped his boss hadn’t noticed the sweat.

20

Secret Service special agent Alvin Griggs rapped on his boss’s door and was invited in and offered a chair and coffee. He accepted the chair, declined the coffee.

“What’s up, Al?” his boss, Agent in Charge Dick Fine, asked.

“You remember the handful of 1966 hundreds that turned up in New York recently?”

“I do.”

“Well, we’ve had something of an outbreak of them in South Florida, the area between Fort Lauderdale and Miami.”

“What sorts of places did they turn up in?”

“Everything—convenience stores, bars, gun shops, check-cashing services, laundries, used-car lots, Hialeah racetrack, you name it.”

“Any in expensive restaurants or hotels?”

“No, now that you mention it.”

“Any in cheaper motels and hotels?”

“No.”

“So we’re not dealing with tourists, the bills are being spread by locals, and low-end locals, at that, given the places they spend money.”

“Good point.”

“What does that say to you?”

“Maybe that the source of the bills could be a loan shark lending the hundreds or a bookie paying off bets?”

“I think you’re right,” Fine said. “Start there.”

“Loan sharks and bookies aren’t the sort of people we ordinarily deal with,” Griggs said. “I don’t know any, do you?”

“I suggest you visit some police stations in the area and get some names from the detectives who know these guys.”

“Okay, good idea.” Griggs made to go.

“And, Al?”

“Yessir?”

“You understand that we can’t arrest anybody for possessing or passing these bills? Nothing illegal about that.”

“I understand, sir. We just want to know the origin of the notes.”

“Why, Al?”

“Because we think they might have come from the proceeds of a twenty-five-year-old robbery.”

“We’re not in the robbery business, Al, that’s the cops and the FBI.”

“Then you tell me why we’re interested at all, sir.”

“Because we’re curious and, at the moment, a little underworked. And we get points with Justice for alerting the FBI to these things.”

“Well, if the regional AIC gets wind of this, I’ll refer him to you,” Griggs said.

“You do that, Al.”

• • •

The engines of the Beech Baron stopped, and John Fratelli stepped out of the airplane onto the wing, then down to the ground. The pilot followed him and retrieved his large duffel from the rear of the airplane.

“I’ll be two or three hours,” Fratelli told the young man. “You might want to get some lunch somewhere.” He wheeled his duffel into the terminal and out the front door and got into one of the waiting taxis. He gave the driver the name of the bank, then sat back and enjoyed the ride.

• • •

His business at the bank took less than an hour, and he left with a thick envelope filled with crisp, new hundred-dollar bills, an account number, a bank statement, a debit card with only a number on it, and an empty duffel. He took a stroll down the main street of Georgetown and found an elegant men’s shop, where he bought some Bermuda shorts, some short-sleeved shirts, and other resort wear. He packed them into his duffel, just in case some customs agent got curious about why he was traveling with an empty bag.

Late in the afternoon, he returned to his Nassau hotel, then booked a charter flight back to Palm Beach the following morning. He did a little shopping in the town, getting a good deal on a gold Rolex and paying with his debit card, just to try it out. No problem. Back in his room he threw away the leather box the Rolex came in, along with the warranty and instruction book, after he had read it. He would travel with the watch in his pocket, not on his wrist, and not bother to declare it with U.S. Customs.

• • •

The following day he arrived at Palm Beach International and walked into customs.

“Did you buy anything while you were out of the country?” the agent asked him.

“Yes, ma’am, I bought some Cuban cigars, which I smoked, and a few clothes.” He paid duty on the clothes, then took a cab back to the Breakers. A note had been slid under the door.

John, it read, Elizabeth and I would be delighted if you could join us for dinner tomorrow evening. Her niece, Hillary Foote, will also join us. It was signed Winston. Fratelli phoned Carnagy and accepted.

• • •

The following morning he went into the sales office at the Breakers and made an offer for his suite. After a little haggling the deal was done, and he called the Cayman bank and ordered the funds wired to the hotel’s account.

Now, for the first time in more than twenty years, Fratelli had a home that didn’t have bars on the windows. And with a view that didn’t include a wall or barbed wire.

21

Onofrio “Bats” Buono, whose sobriquet arose from his wanton use of that instrument when collecting debts, took the call in the little office behind the chop shop he ran in Red Hook, Brooklyn. “Hey, Vinnie,” he said. “What’s the temperature down there?”

“Eighty degrees, Bats. The tempachur is always eighty degrees down here. I hope you’re freezing your ass off up there.”

“It’s pretty good here, Vinnie.”

“Bats, I heard something on the grapevine about the lost proceeds of your uncle Eddie’s job out at JFK, and I thought you might want to hear it.”

Bats’s blood pressure spiked for just a moment, and his breathing got short. “Yeah, sure, Vinnie.”

“Let’s be straight about this, Bats—if I do something that would help you recover that jack, I would expect to be generously compensated for my assistance.”

“That goes without saying,” Bats replied.