The sound of a car horn woke Mal. Sunlight sliced between the boards of the barn, heating the air in the hayloft. It had to be noon, at least. Mal stretched joints achy from sleeping on the cot he kept for late nights. The horn tooted again, impatient.
“Hold your damn horses.”
He sat up, spat on the dirty floor, pulled on his pants and shoes, then stuffed his flask and cigarettes in his pocket before he climbed down the ladder. The horn sounded a third time as he reached the door and peered through the gap.
Pete was alone.
There were too many ways they could be found out. Pete’s driver talks to his girl after sex and one of Dalitz’s goons grabs her and puts the squeeze on her. Maybe her granny needs an operation, so she sells out. They beat the driver with a tire iron until he squeals. Or the story about how Pete’s pulling a fast one on Dalitz is too good not to repeat, and it gets around.
So Pete left his driver at home.
Mal pulled the barn door wide. He took a slug from his flask and lit a cigarette while Pete drove into the barn.
The first words out of Pete’s mouth as he hopped out of his car were, “Where is it?”
Mal nodded at the hearse. “Under the floor. Nobody can get to it until I move the car.”
Pete stared at the hearse as if willing it to levitate. “I thought you were nuts when you said I should put the Chinese squeeze on my own take, but this takes the sting out of getting hit last night.” He pointed a thick finger at Mal and grinned. “You’re the bee’s knees. Let me see my money.”
“Let’s talk first,” Mal said. “We’re safe as long as it stays where it is. We’ll load it when you’re ready to leave.”
Pete gave him a long, steady look, then sat on a crate, unconcerned about the state of his suit. “You’ve been thinking.”
“Yeah. This gag could work half a dozen, a dozen, maybe two dozen times before they start wondering. We have to stay ahead of them.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Cash takes up too much space. We need to turn it into something else.”
“How do you propose we do that?”
“More misdirection. I heard sometimes customers want to sell their watches and cufflinks to keep playing.”
“Go on.”
“You turn your cash into something else and let other people walk out the front door with the money. You have big rollers from all over the country coming in every weekend with briefcases full of money they plan to lose in your casino.”
He took a long drag as he read Pete’s face. So far, so good.
“Get a handful of middlemen from outside the Syndicate’s turf to play big rollers, only instead of money, they bring in small things that are valuable: gold coins, rubies, even art. They blow some cash at the tables, then you conduct a private transaction in your office like you usually do.”
He took another drag, drawing out the reveal to allow Pete time to think about this new proposal.
“It’s business as usual to anyone watching. Only instead of grandpa’s watch, they sell you loose stones, a lot of them. Your money leaves with one of those fine patrons Dalitz doesn’t want to upset. Instead of a truckload of money, you only have to hide a handful of stones. Then you have lots of options.”
Mal deliberately didn’t mention the guests who came straight from the airport, leaving suitcases in Stu’s custody while they disappeared into back rooms for high-stakes poker.
It was better if Pete didn’t realize how much Mal knew about the operation. But it hadn’t taken long to figure out a few of the private poker games were shams to cover a money laundering operation, with the dirty cash they brought in run through the casino and returned—minus a percentage—in winnings.
Pete would make the jump without Mal’s help, that Dalitz had no desire to disturb one of the BH’s cash cows, that what looked like men bringing in money to launder could be couriers with pretty baubles to sell. Dalitz would be none the wiser.
Pete pulled on his chin. “Doesn’t have to be loose stones.”
“Anything smaller than a breadbox will be easy to hide. I build secret compartments in my tricks. I can put some in the hearse, in places they won’t look because they’re looking for a truckload of cash.”
Mal’s people had been smugglers back in Ireland. Before Da died, he’d told Mal all the old stories and gambits. But Pete didn’t need to know he came from a long line of criminals. Better for him to think Mal came up with the scheme because he was a magician.
Pete frowned, shook his head. “That means bringing in outsiders. Outsiders who might talk.”
“They don’t have to know what’s going on. You pretend you’re a middleman for someone else. You don’t tell them you’re stealing from the jerks who are stealing from you before they get a chance to do it.”
“This is complicated. I like things simple.”
“Confuse and conquer. That’s what I do every night on stage. It’s either that or get on your knees every day and pray no one finds the warehouse you have to buy to keep all the cash hidden, because before long it’s gonna be like hiding an elephant.”
Pete pulled out a cigar, tucked it in the side of his mouth. Pete whipped out his lighter and lit it without thinking. Pete looked at the rafters, blew a smoke ring.
“Confuse and conquer, huh?”
“Just like magic.”