Big Easy Bonanza

right this time.”
    “We all make mistakes, Casey.”
    “Gimme a break, Freddie. We’re supposed to be professionals. You can’t hold yourself up as a professional and say things like ‘We all make mistakes.’”
    Freddie looked glum.
    “We all make mistakes,” mimicked Casey. “For Christ’s sake, let’s get out of here.”
    “I really am sorry.”
    Casey put his hand on Freddie’s wrist. “I forgive you. Everybody forgives you. Just concentrate a little more in the future.”
    Freddie said he would do that.
    After they left, Ali called Monique on the phone. He told her about Casey’s and Freddie’s visit and the parts of their conversation he had overheard.
    “Those are the same fucks who killed Darryl,” she said.
    * * *
    Tubby crossed over the Interstate on the Broad Street overpass and drove back to his house. The route took him past the Wembley tie plant, which always reminded him to check his own for gravy spots. Damn! What a stupid place to wear a fifty-dollar piece of silk. He parked and climbed into the boat. The bag was where he had left it. That was a small surprise considering it was in an unlocked compartment on a boat sitting outdoors in a quasi-major American city. Tubby had been half hoping it would be gone and he would be relieved of the responsibility of deciding what to do with it. Maybe, he thought, the fact that the money was still there was an omen he should keep it.
    After checking to see that the bag was still full, he counted out some of the cash and stuck it in his pocket. He zipped the bag up and tossed it in the trunk of his car. The day was going from extremely hot to extremely hot and muggy, so he switched on the air-conditioning as high as it would go. Then he drove to a bank branch in his neighborhood. Inside, after waiting a minute for another customer to conclude her business, he presented himself to a young woman seated at a desk whose name was Miss Bates, Assistant Manager, according to her plastic nameplate.
    “I’d like to open an account,” he told her.
    “Do you already have one with us?” She smiled.
    Tubby said he did not, though he had always meant to have one.
    “How much do you plan to open it for?” she asked.
    “One hundred thousand dollars,” Tubby said. He had formed a plan to open accounts of this size at every bank in town.
    “Oh my, my,” Miss Bates exclaimed. “You realize, of course, that it may take a week to ten days before your funds are available to write checks on, depending on where the bank your check is drawn on is located.”
    “I plan to deposit cash.”
    Miss Bates looked disturbed. “There’s a form we need you to fill out in that case. We have to report to the IRS any cash transactions over ten thousand dollars.” She rustled around in her desk. “I’m sorry. I’ll have to get one in the back. I won’t be a minute. You can be filling out the account agreement.”
    Tubby was on the street in seconds, mopping sweat from behind his ears with his handkerchief, an uncomfortable bulge still in his pocket. He wished he had a female confidante. They were much better at this kind of thing than he was.
    From a pay phone outside a Burger King, Tubby called his friend, Jerry Molideau, a financial advisor whose talent was to impress well-heeled businessmen and help them shield their valuable assets from creditors, the tax man, and spouses. He sent business to Tubby, and vice versa.
    He got past the secretary, and Jerry came on the line. They said hello.
    “A guy just asked me a question, Jerry. I don’t want to look dumb, so I thought I’d better call someone who knows the answer.”
    “Okay, shoot.”
    “My guy’s got a couple of hundred thousand dollars, and he wants to put it where no one can find it. Any advice?”
    “Sure. Open a Chinese restaurant and put all your cash receipts in your pocket. But seriously, that’s an interesting question, and I’d be glad to talk it over in person. On the telephone my best suggestions are to bury it in a tin can in his backyard, or buy Krugerrands and stick them in a safe-deposit box.”
    “Have you ever heard of a rule where you have to report big cash transactions to the IRS?”
    “Sure. If he buys his Krugerrands from a legitimate dealer, the dealer has to report all cash sales above ten thousand dollars to the government, just like a bank.”
    “Do dealers actually do that?”
    “Most do. Your average jeweler or boat salesman is marginally more afraid of the IRS than