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| A Money Trail | Started by: Alaric_Malloy on Mar 08, '09 00:21 |
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Alaric casually flipped open the lid to his cigarette and studied its contents as though selecting a fine wine. He removed a cigarette and placed it between his lips, allowing it to flop around as he spoke. This distracted the banker, whose eyes trailed its every movement. Irritated, Alaric snatched the cigarette into a fist and slammed it down onto the counter. I dislike being ignored, Mr Roberts. The banker eyed the firearm that was casually placed within reach of Alaric's right hand and looked again to the mobster that was now impatiently tapping his fingers on the marble. In comparison, Sam Roberts was shorter and heavier than the man, but in reality he was neither short nor heavy. He was average in every way. His life until three months ago had been a solid routine that alternated between his work at the bank and his time at home with his wife and two daughters. It was the casino that had ruined everything. For weeks, his brother-in-law had urged Sam to go with him to the Revolver, Chicago's newest casino that boasted high class jazz acts, dancing girls, and liquor. It was widely rumored that the Revolver had ties to the Mafia, but reports of money won by the lucky quickly overshadowed its uglier side. Finally, Sam reasoned that as a banker, he would have a strategic advantage over the less savvy gamblers in matters of money and he conceded. He underestimated greed. He won several hands before his luck turned sour, but continued to play. When he left that night, he was deep in debt. A better man might have taken it as a lesson learned, but it was too late for Sam--the bug had him. He spent the next week in a daze, thinking of nothing but that night at the Revolver and how he could possibly earn back his money. He formulated a plan and returned to the gambling hall that next Friday. With him, were the valuables from various safety deposit boxes entrusted to him and his bank. They'd work as collateral for poker chips. When he lost again, he pleaded for the return of the jewelry, but it was no use. All at once, he felt an overwhelming rush of despair. He was ruined. His reputation would be destroyed. One more bank would be out of business. What would his customers do when they learned that their possessions had been gambled away? He couldn't go to jail--what would his wife do? What about his children? He sat on the curb of the street with his head cradled in his arms, unsure of how to proceed with life, when a well dressed man cleared his throat abruptly. Sam raised his head with much effort. "I'm sorry. Can I not sit here?" The man's voice was barely audible over the sounds of the city. His soft voice was comforting and familiar in a way. Sam wondered if he they had met previously. "I don't see why not. That's not my business. I'd like to discuss a different matter with you." The man offered to purchase the jewelry from the casino and return it to the bank. Sam could pay off his debt plus accrued interest to him over time without the bank's customers ever knowing. What other choice did he have? Sam accepted, not realizing at the time that the man who had been so kind was an associate in one of Chicago's crime families. It wasn't long before the mob called on him. At first, they simply dropped by the bank unannounced and asked for the money that was owed to them. Soon it became much more than that. They took advantage of his position as the head of the East Chicago Bank, by asking for small favors that were really nothing more than money laundering operations. He hated the entire situation, but he had gotten himself into it. All of this occurred to the banker as Alaric stood before him. "I meant no disrespect..." I really don't care to hear it. The Mafioso's voice was chillingly calm. Unlike the man at the casino, there was nothing in his voice that could be trusted. What I care about, Mr Roberts, is the business that brings me here--to your fine establishment--this afternoon. Roberts tried not to express his dismay at the thought of yet another scheme he would have to facilitate, but his face must have given him away. If you are so uncomfortable in this matter, perhaps you would prefer I pay a visit to Mrs Chandler. I'm certain she'd be most interested to hear how carelessly you handled her diamonds. Alaric was bored with the man. He knew that Roberts inevitably would do what he was asked, but the mobster was tired of needing to twist his wrist. His remark had the desired effect and Alaric allowed himself to be led into a nearby office. The room had a friendlier feel than the large hall they had just left. Three windows against the far wall allowed the warm, afternoon sun to illuminate the room. The office's other lamps were illuminated needlessly and Alaric figured that they probably remained on for the entire business day. The room's focus was an oak desk whose paper pile decorations were probably carefully placed to look as though real business was done here. Alaric had no reason to doubt this, though he certain that the same papers were atop the desk on his last visit. A bronze nameplate proudly boasted, "Samuel Roberts, President." Roberts filled two glasses with gin and handed one to the mobster. They sat across the desk from each other--Alaric helping himself to the banker's chair and immediately lighting the cigarette that he still held in his fist. They drank. It was Roberts who spoke first. "What business is it this week, Mr Malloy?" Sam watched as the Mafioso finished smoking his cigarette and lit another, returning the silver case to his interior jacket pocket. My organization has come across a sum of money. The bills are regrettably sequential and we would like not to be accused of any unsavory dealings, so what I'd like from you, Mr Roberts, is for you to exchange non-sequential bills of various amounts for this money. Let the money sit for a week, then slowly begin to distribute it among your patrons. If the police trace the money back to this institution, you are to tell them that the money has come from a variety of sources. Alaric watched Roberts pass through his usual stages of inner-conflict. This had become a regular part of their dance. At long last, the banker nodded in agreement. The mobster stood, causing Roberts to follow suit. An associate of mine will stop by at nine o'clock tomorrow morning with the funds. As ever, your cooperation is appreciated. Sam shook hands with the man out of formality and watched as he left his office. As soon as Malloy was out of sight, the banker sat again and exhaled. He hadn't realized it, but he had been holding his breath. This business was bad for his health. First thing tomorrow, he promised himself he'd call his doctor. |
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Rudiger rubbed the back of his fingers across the hair on his cheek as he stared himself in the mirror. He turned his head one way, then the other, keeping his eyes locked intently on his reflection, then took the eyeglasses from the side of the washbasin and put them on, tugged at the collar of yesterday's shirt, slept in, and ruffled his already unkempt hair. He gave himself another look-over and smiled. He had it all well figured and planned. The affected gait, altered speech pattern, everything. He would squint, hold his mouth differently, breathe in an irregular pace, no one would know. He took the rumpled coat from the back of the wooden chair and took a slip of paper from the pocket. He read through the account number several times, solidifying it in his memory as he put the coat on, then ripped the paper and tossed it into the wastebasket. He took the wallet from the nightstand and opened it to the falsified identification. A smirk crept onto his face as he tucked the wallet away in his pocket. He'd be ready if challenged. But this was the easy part. He'd been watching ever since he'd heard the buzz from the miscreants that drag themselves through the gutters in every city on the face of God's green earth. There was talk everywhere, it was better than singing telegrams, and it all said the same thing-- there was big money moving in Chicago. Money Rudiger wanted. Money Alaric had. He stepped onto the street and put his hat on his head, angling it to keep the sun from baking his pupils, and rounded the block to the front entrance of the bank. He had been watching everything that happened in the neighborhood since he had rolled into town on a gargantuan wave of hubris. The local crooks seemed to have plenty of interest in the running of this particular branch, and it doesn;t take anyone--not even a Malloy--thirty-five minutes to carry out a simple, legitimate banking transaction, surely. Pardon me. He squeezed himself forcefully between the door frame and the man trying to enter, took a moment to search out a withdrawal slip and injected himself into the logical spot in the queue--third from the front. When it came his turn, or technically that of the lady behind him, he slapped the slip down on the counter and gave the teller the most unsettling smile he could manage. The woman studied the slip, then looked back to him. "There will be a service charge, mister..." She looked at the slip once more to make sure to say the correct name. "...Rourke?" The huckster drew in a sharp breath as he sneered down his nose at the woman. Yes, Rourke, Thomas. That is me, and I don't care because I'm fuck- He rapped his knuckles on the counter to punctuate. -ing RICH. You understand this. "Yes sir, I..." That was not a quest-i-on, I know you understand this, because I say it quite loudly. You may go now, to count my fortune, while I wait here enjoying the complimentary nothing. He emerged, moments later, back onto the street with his spoils. Ducking into a narrow alleyway a few blocks down, he rifled through a few of the ill-gotten bills, poring over serial numbers. It took all his willpower to sustain a cackle as he praised the soft nerve and jittery foresight of a put upon first time criminal who was otherwise a a good and righteous man, a simple banker. The show would go on, it seemed. He stashed the bills into his pants pockets and tossed his stolen eyeglasses into a nearby dumpster. Stepping back onto the sidewalk, he whistled a bright tune as he set his mind to searching out a barber, for a shave and a haircut. |
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| Reply by: Rudiger at Mar 08, '09 01:24 | |
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The phone rang in the adjoining room. Alaric ignored it as he ate his morning eggs and read the paper. He was halfway through the first cigarette of the day and he had no intention of dealing with people until he had smoked two more. The phone continued on in its bright tone for another few moments before going silent. He leafed through the newsprint until he found the obituaries, folded the paper against itself, and laid it flat to read. The ringing began again. Grudgingly, Alaric dropped his fork to the plate with a loud clink, and forced his chair back from the table. He swore that if his eggs were cold when he returned to them, that he'd kill whoever was on the other line. He picked up the phone on its fifth ring. Yes? The voice on the other end was nasally, which annoyed him instantly. Alaric couldn't seem to match it with any of the faces around the headquarters, but there had been a lot of new additions to the family lately. Of course, even if there hadn't been, he probably wouldn't have known this kid anyway. "Mr Malloy?" Alaric confirmed his identity and voice introduced itself as that of Ben... somethingorother. He was too busy adjusting his tie in the mirror to care. Besides, there was no need to waste his memory on someone he'd probably shoot later. "Mr Malloy, there might be a problem. There've been a lot of folks from Detroit showing up in the city over the last few days, and--" Do you mean to tell me that you are calling me at seven in the morning to share a hunch? Ben was quiet on the other line, probably trying to formulate his response. The next time you call me at my home, you had better have more than your suspicions. Alaric replaced the receiver in its cradle and returned to the breakfast table. He couldn't help but think about what was said in the brief conversation. Was Detroit up to something? He couldn't imagine they'd be too thrilled to discover that Chicago had intervined in their heist of a armored vehicle last week, but surely they wouldn't try to recover that money. He picked up his fork and finished his meal. He'd have to make a few phone calls once he reached his office. |
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| Reply by: Alaric_Malloy at Mar 09, '09 21:10 | |
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Blood. Katie said giggling. She laughed in it's face as it leaked from Alaric Malloy's head. It was moving fast across the dark hardwood floors and into the oriental rug that was a few feet away from the body. Miss Murdock turned and looked out the kitchen window. A robin sang it's sweet spring tune on the small tree that stood just outside the window, it's branches filled with buds of soon to be leaves. She gently walked over to the sink and placed the gun down on the counter. After finding a wash cloth, Katie drenched it with warm water and rung it out. Taking the wash cloth with her she took a seat at the kitchen table and leaned down to her open toed black pump. Katie moved the moist cloth over the left side of the shoe and cleaned up all the blood. Setting the wash cloth on the kitchen table she pulled the pack of smokes towards her. Before lighting one up Katie picked up a piece of bacon that was left over from the morning breakfast. She placed the meat into her mouth and chewed, savoring the flavor. With a flick of her wrist flame was on the end of the match, nothing like cigarettes and bacon in the morning. Katie moved from the sunny side table in the kitchen to the counter, picking up her weapon and then to the living room where her purse was. She dropped the gun into her purse without a worry or care, zipped it up and started to look through the book case. After a few minutes she forgot her manners and thanked Mr. Malloy for his wonderful hospitality. She turned toward the body in the middle of the room. Thanks for the breakfast and the smokes Malloy. It was fantastic! She gave a smile and wink to bleeding body and continued to search for what she was looking for. A trusted associate of hers told Katie that Alaric had just come into contact with a very large sum of money. Katie liked Money. Now that Alaric was out of the way she just had to figure out where he had stashed the money. After finding nothing in the living room and the kitchen being spotless, Katie moved to the bedroom and then the bathroom. No luck. The final place she looked was the ice box in his fridge. Aha! She said, as she pulled open the door. A tiny piece of paper was the only thing in there. The only thing on the paper was a name and a number. Who the hell is Shirley_Ackers? Katie said loudly, she slammed shut the door, picked up her purse and walked out of Malloy's home to find the nearest pay phone. |
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| Reply by: KatieMurdock at Mar 15, '09 21:58 | |
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