As he drove down Massachusetts Avenue into the District this morning for breakfast with the representative of his oldest, though certainly not richest, client, T. Jefferson tried to decide if he should announce a fee increase or something equally nebulous that would put more money into his pocket. He would wait, he decided, to hear what the client wanted.
These people were going to have to realize that T. Jefferson Brody was a very valuable asset to have in their huddle. T. Jefferson delivered. Always. Money talks and bullshit walks. Somehow he would have to make that point. Professionally and unobtrusively, of course.
He checked his car with the valet at the Hay Adams Hotel and walked purposefully through the lobby to the elevator. Whenever Bernie Shapiro came to town he always stayed in the same suite, a huge corner job with an excellent view of Lafayette Park and the White House.
Bernie opened the door, grunted once, and closed it behind the visitor. “When’s it gonna get cold down here?”
“Weird weather,” T. Jefferson agreed as he took off his topcoat and laid it on a handy chair. “Maybe the climate is really getting warmer.”
“Like hell. Nearly froze my ass off in New York these past two weeks.”
Bernie Shapiro was a bear of a man. He had been fearsome in his youth; now he was merely fat. The years, however, had added no padding to his abrasive personality. He sank into an easy chair and relit the stump of cigar that protruded from his fleshy jowls. “Breakfast’ll be here in a few minutes,” he muttered as he eyed his visitor through the thick smoke.
The attorney found a chair and took in the luxurious room and the White House, just visible from this angle through the naked tree branches.
Classical music played on the radio beside the bed a tad too loud for comfortable conversation. This was a normal precaution. The music would vibrate the window glass and foil any parabolic mikes that might be pointed in this direction by inquisitive souls, such as FBI agents.
The men discussed the Giants’ and Redskins’ chances this year as they waited for breakfast to be delivered. The knock of the room-service waiter came precisely on the hour. After all, this was the Hay Adams.
When the white-jacketed waiter had wheeled the serving cart back into the hall and closed the door behind him, Bernie opened his briefcase and extracted a device artfully crafted to look like a portable radio. This device detected the electromagnetic field created by microphones. Bernie pulled out the antenna, then walked around the room, paying careful attention to the needle on the dial as he paused at light switches and electrical outlets, swept the antenna over the food and slowly down Brody’s back and front. The operation took about two minutes. Finally satisfied, Bernie nodded toward the conference table laden with food as he collapsed the antenna and flipped switches.
The lawyer seated himself and poured a cup of coffee while Bernie put the device back in his briefcase. Only when both men were seated and had their food on their plates did the serious conversation begin.
“We’ve decided to expand our business. What with everybody making acquisitions and expanding their profit potential, it seemed like the thing to do.”
“Absolutely,” T. Jefferson agreed as he forked into the eggs benedict.
“We thought we would get into the check-cashing business at several likely places around the country. We’ve located a little business here in Washington and want you to buy it for us. You’ll do all the negotiating, set up some corporations, front the whole deal.”
“Same as the DePaolo deal?”
“Pretty much.”
“What’s the name of the company you want to buy?”
“A to Z Checks. The owner ran into some trouble Friday evening and the business now belongs to his widow. I want you to make her an offer. Better wait until Tuesday. The funeral’s tomorrow. The business is ten outlets. We’ll pay a flat four hundred thousand, but if you can get it for less you keep the difference.”
“Okay.”
Bernie got to work on his sausage as Jefferson Brody turned the project over in his mind and decided it offered few problems. A couple of dummy corporations and some negotiating. Assignments of the leases on the outlets — he knew from experience that these storefront operations were always leased — and the usual business papers. All very straightforward.
“If the widow won’t take our offer, you let me know.”
“What’s the business make in profit?”
“About a hundred grand a year.”
“Your offer sounds reasonable. But if you don’t mind my asking, why do you want this business?”
“That’s the second half of the project. The crack business here in Washington is turning some hefty dollars. Six organizations here in the area have all the trade. Anyone else tries to get started, they shut them down. These organizations are all getting along and turning decent money, with the usual friction at street level for turf.” Bernie waved that away as a problem not worthy of discussion. “The real problem is washing the dough after they got it. That’s the service we’ll provide. We’ll take the cash and trade it for government checks — welfare, ADC, Social Security, and so on — and the usual private checks, deposit the checks in a business account, then run the money through dummy corporations which will feed it to legit businesses owned by us. Other real businesses with absolutely no connection to the first set will feed money back to our crack friends. They’ll get a nice legit income from a corporation they own and nobody can ever prove a thing. I think they’ll really like this operation when it’s explained to them. We won’t need you for that though.”
“What will you charge for this service?”
“Twenty percent.” Bernie grinned.
Brody felt his eyebrows struggling to rise. He made an effort to control his face.
“They’re paying ten to fifteen percent now. So they’ll be less than enthusiastic at first. They’ll change their minds, though, and see the benefits of our proposal.”
“Will ten outlets do enough business to handle the volume you’ll need?”
“I doubt it,” Bernie said. “We’ll probably double the number of outlets within a month, then open other outlets in other cities. A to Z is going to enjoy an explosive expansion.”
They discussed the intricacies of it. The key to staying in business was having a bulletproof cover story. “You’ll need a bank, maybe two,” Brody told his client as they pushed their plates toward the center of the table and poured coffee.
“Yeah. There’s a savings and loan in Alexandria that should become available in the next week or so. The head cashier had a bad accident on the freeway Friday. Guy named Harrington.” Bernie grinned. “Fridays are not good days around here, apparently.”
The lawyer chuckled his agreement.
Bernie continued: “This Harrington was washing money for Freeman McNally.” McNally was the largest crack dealer in Washington and also one of T. Jefferson Brody’s clients. Bernie Shapiro may or may not have known that. Brody survived by never, ever mentioning one client’s affairs to another client. He had absolutely no intention of breaking that rule now.
Bernie continued: “A guy on the inside figured out what Harrington was up to and talked to a guy who knew somebody. One thing led to another, and now we got a deal with this guy on the inside. Tomorrow or the day after the regulators will be called in. Three or four days after that, the place will probably be for sale cheap. You’re going to buy it for us.”
T. Jefferson Brody grinned this time. “Okay. But we’ll need some front people for this one. Little tougher to buy an S&L.”
“Our guy inside will get a piece, and he’ll come up with three or four names. We put up all the money and he’ll run it for us. You’ll do the legal work, of course.”