Robin began sending more withdrawal messages. At noon we sent the biggest one so far — seven hundred and fifty thousand to the account in Santo Domingo: Western Allied Services Group.
I was beginning to get nervous again. So far we had transferred a little over two million, with more than three to go. Twenty’ minutes later Robert called in from the van.
“Mike. That Mr. Griffin. He call the house. Want to speak with Mr. Goldman. He sound very concerned. Is that the right word — concerned?”
“Yes, go on, Robert.”
“I tell him that I am the houseboy. That Mr. Goldman and his wife they go to the Bahamas. That Mr. Goldman say he have big business deal with someone there. That OK, Mike?”
“Yeah, that’s quick thinking! Let’s hope it works. Keep in touch.”
Robin looked worried as I put down the phone, “Well, what do we do now?”
“Keep to the plan. Send the next message at one forty-five. A few prayers are indicated, I think.”
We sent three more withdrawals. At seven I called Bob.
“Any news yet?”
“I’ve confirmed three transfers. How many have you sent, Mike?”
“Seven today, but the bank manager here called Boynton’s house about noon. Robert told him he was away on business. The big one for seven fifty hasn’t cleared your end; he called after we sent it.”
“Oh, boy. It’s going to be a long night.”
It was. I left Robin with Aunt Tilly, and Glenn, Robert, and I went out to the villa. Robert watched the outside again while Glenn and I went back inside. We removed all the bugs. If Griffin got suspicious and called in the police, I didn’t want anything left around to find. We still had the phone tap hooked up, but that was two hundred yards away with the van. If anyone came snooping we could disconnect and get out quietly.
I saw Glenn and Robert off in his boat at sunrise on Thursday. Robert said they’d go about ten miles to a nice deep spot where Glenn could deep-six all the bugs and anything else that might look questionable.
At ten Robin and I were back in the office. I put a call through to Bob.
“What’s the good word?”
“You guys can relax. The last four transfers are confirmed and deposited. How’d you sleep?”
“We didn’t. We’ll continue as planned.”
Bob laughed, “Right. I’ll start transfering money to the Swiss account. You’ll finish today?”
“Yeah, we’ll finish today.”
“OK, I’m on a flight to Geneva in two hours. Friday I’ll move the money in cash from the Basel bank to Naughton’s account in Geneva and then transfer it to International Merchants Bank in L.A. Any questions?”
“No. Good luck. I’ll talk to you there on Friday as agreed for a progress report.”
Robin kept sending telexes: 150 thousand to Miami, 375 to the Bahamas, 430 to Santo Domingo. Glenn and Robert got back a little before one. Glenn started packing up all the little stuff. At 2:30 we would send the last message, a big one, 630 thousand. We were all edgy, wishing the clock ahead. Glenn was at the window.
“Damn. It’s a phone company repair-truck. He just started down the alley. If he opens the box next door he’ll see the temporary connections I made. Damn.”
We all looked out the window. The repair truck had stopped just up the alley from us. It wasn’t quite two o’clock.
Robin asked, “What’ll we do now, Mike?”
“Send the last message, Robin. Glenn, get down there and be ready to take out our wires if you get a chance.”
Robert broke in, “I’ll stop the phone company!” He grabbed the bottle of scotch Glenn always kept in his tool box, took a quick swig, splashed some on the front of his shirt, and ran out the door.
“What’s he going to do?” Robin asked.
I answered, “Maybe God knows. I don’t.”
A minute later our car came weaving down the alley from the opposite direction. It came to a shuddering halt next to the truck, almost taking its door off. Robert got out, playing the drunk, bottle in hand. A minute later he had the repairman in tow, heading up the alley to the bar across the street.
“Robin, send the last message now! Glenn, when she’s finished, pull everything quick and get back here!”
Inside five minutes we had sent the message and pulled in our wires. It was another twenty before Robert and the repairman came back. Robert slapped him on the back, waved, and came pounding up the stairs.
I greeted him at the door. “That’s terrific, Robert. Quick thinking. It was awful close there for a minute.”
“Yes, was pretty good, man. But was not problem. That phone man, he a cousin of my cousin.” We packed up everything — telex, scrambler, radios, and put it all in the car and headed for Aunt Tilly’s.
We wouldn’t know until the next morning if all the transfers had gone through. Aunt Tilly fixed a fabulous fish dinner for us, but it was a subdued celebration. I wondered if you could hold your breath for twelve hours.
Early Friday morning I put a call in to Bob in Geneva. The rest of the crew sat around the living room waiting, watching me and the phone.
“Bob, Mike. Don’t drag it out, we’re going crazy here.”
“Mission accomplished, Mike. Everything’s arrived here and it’s being sent on. I don’t see any trouble from this end.”
I gave them the thumbs up.
Later we packed all our gear and ourselves into the car and Robert headed for the airport.
I asked Robin, “How much did you leave in Boynton’s account?”
“A little over sixteen hundred. I didn’t think we should be greedy.”
Robert turned onto Edward Street and as we passed the Inter-Island Overseas Bank, a taxi pulled up and Mr. and Mrs. William Goldman of New Zealand got out.
Glenn said, “Hey, looks like our friends got back a little early.”
I put my arm around Robin and looked out the back window, “I hope they had a good time. It looks like they spent all their money in Curaçao.”
Skin Deep
Sara Paretsky
Commenting on “Skin Deep,” which features detective V. I. Warshawski, Miss Paretsky writes, “I got the idea while pursuing my futile but rigorous quest for perfect beauty at a skin-care salon in Chicago. In a small, darkened cubicle, one lies supine in a reclining chair, eyes covered with thick layers of wet cotton, face encased in mud, for perhaps half an hour. As I lay there, alone, I heard the sliding door to my little cubicle open and footsteps approach. The paranoia never far from a mystery fan made me give a gasp of horror. I tore at the swathing on my face. But it was too late: the cosmetologist had returned. And I thought, as one does, if someone wanted to come in here and kill you, it would be so simple. You cant see a thing, and the cosmetologist is painting your face with wet stuff, you don’t know what, and some of it smells a bit unpleasant. So there you’d lie, getting poison painted into your skin without even letting out a yelp.
“I had wanted for some time to do a story with Sal, the owner of V. I.’s favorite bar (the Golden Glow), and this skin-care tale seemed a good place to do a little more with her. Since these beauty salons often don’t employ blacks in other than menial jobs, it seemed like a good place to highlight some of the subcutaneous racism of wealth.”
Sara Paretsky’s most recent novels are Deadlock (Doubleday, 1984) and Killing Orders (Morrow, 1985).
1
The warning bell clangs angrily and the submarine dives sharply. Everyone to battle stations. The Nazis pursuing closely, the bell keeps up its insistent clamor, loud, urgent, filling my head. My hands are wet: I can’t remember what my job is in this cramped, tiny boat. If only someone would turn off the alarm bell. I fumble with some switches, pick up an intercom. The noise mercifully stops.