The Racketeer

ten years, there has not been a serious threat against one. But I’ve heard of a couple, maybe three, who became convinced they had been discovered. They wanted to move, so we swooped in and they vanished, again.”
    For obvious reasons, neither the law library nor the general library at Frostburg offered books on witness protection, so my knowledge is limited. But I know the program has not been perfect. “So no problems whatsoever? That’s hard to believe.”
    “I didn’t say it was perfect. There’s a great story from thirty years ago, a legend in the business. We had a serious Mafia informant who squealed on the family and took down some big bosses, one of the FBI’s biggest grand slams ever. This guy had a bull’s-eye on him you could hit blindfolded. We took him deep, buried him, and a few years passed. He was a postal inspector in a town of fifty thousand, perfect cover, but he was a crook, right? A thug by birth, and it was impossible for him to stay clean. He opened a used-car lot, then another. He got into the pawnshop business, started fencing stolen goods, and eventually found his way into the marijuana trade. We knew who he was, but the FBI did not. When he got indicted, he called his handler to come bail him out of jail. The handler freaked out, as did everyone along the ladder, all the way up to the Director of the FBI. There was a mad scramble to get him out of jail and off to a new location. Jobs were threatened, deals were cut, judges were pleaded with, and they eventually got his charges dismissed. But it was a close call. So don’t start laundering money again.”
    He thinks his last comment is funny. “I’ve never laundered money,” I say without a smile.
    “Sorry.”
    We finish dessert and head for my new home. It’s on the seventh floor of a tower, one of four in a cluster lined up along the beach, with tennis courts and pools scattered below. Pat explains that most of the units are rentals, but a few have permanent residents. I’m here for six months, and then it’s up to me. It’s a one-bedroom unit, furnished, with a kitchen-den combo, nice sofa and chairs, nothing luxurious but not cheap either. After he’s gone, I stand on my small balcony and stare at the moon over the ocean. I breathe the salty air and listen to the waves gently roll ashore.
    Freedom is exhilarating, and indescribable.

    I forgot to close the curtains, and I wake up to a blinding sun. It is my first true morning as a liberated and unwatched person, and I can’t wait to feel sand between my toes. There are a few early birds on the beach, and I hustle down there, my face partially hidden behind a cap and sunglasses. No one notices; no one cares. People who roam aimlessly up and down beaches are lost in their own worlds, and I am quickly getting lost in mine. I have no family, no job, no responsibilities, and no past. Max is starting a brand-new life.
    Pat Surhoff retrieves me around noon, and we have a sandwich for lunch. Then he drives me to the Mayport Naval Station, where I have an appointment with a doctor who knows the code. The surgery is progressing nicely, no complications whatsoever. I’ll return in two weeks for another exam.
    Next, we go to the SunCoast Bank branch near the condo, and as we get close, Pat preps me for what’s coming. He will notgo inside, because it’s important for me to establish the account myself. No one in the bank knows the code; it’s strictly aboveboard. For the time being, Max Baldwin is semiretired, not working, and pondering a move to the area. He wants to open a standard checking account, no frills, and so on, and will put down $1,000 cash as the initial deposit. Once the account is opened, Max will return to the bank and get the proper wiring instructions. Inside the bank, I am routed to the lovely Gretchen Hiler, a fortyish bleached blonde who’s spent far too much time in the sun. She has a small desk in a tight cubicle and no wedding ring. She has no way of knowing that she is the first woman I’ve been truly alone with in over five years. Try as I do, I cannot stop a lot of improper thoughts. Or maybe they’re just natural. Gretchen is a chatterbox, and at this moment so am I. We go through the paperwork quickly, with me proudly giving a real address. I put down a thousand in cash. She fetches some temporary checks and promises more in the mail later. When all business has ended, we keep talking. She gives me her card and is willing to help in any way.