The Moneybox

There were three things Steve Lesko feared about flying.

           The first was crashing. Steve was aware of the statistics and knew that he had a better chance of getting killed crossing the street, especially since he lived in Ft. Lauderdale, pedestrian fatality capital of America. But instinct took over reason, and he felt his testicles creep up every time he saw the Assume Crash Position instructions in the in-flight magazine.

           The second thing Steve feared was that the flight attendants would run out of alcohol before they maneuvered the beverage cart to the middle of the coach section. On the hundreds of flights Steve had made, this had never happened and he hadn't heard of it happening to any one else, but there had to be a first time and Steve didn't want it to involve him.

          The third thing Steve feared most about flying was bumping into someone he'd ripped off.

          Statistically the odds were long, but every week they grew shorter and Steve knew that it was only a matter of time before someone on the wrong end of an elaborate Ponzi scheme or the holder of twenty thousand shares of stock in a non-existent silver mine sat down next to him on a cross-country flight. He had changed enough since his teens to stop worrying about victims from his ‘three card Monte' days, and his new goatee and brush cut would probably throw off any suckers who helped finance his short-con years. What Steve had to worry about – what was on his mind every time he got on a plane – was meeting up with a big money chump. And since the best marks were the middle management types who flew coach while billing their company for first class seats, it wasn't that difficult to imagine.

           He'd been a bit player in the elaborate Big Store cons, where entire floors of empty office space were transformed overnight into high-finance brokerage firms. The set-up man would have him running around in the background with stacks of files or assign him to play a part in the F.B.I. team that raided the firm to end the con. He was too young and too green to be trusted as the inside man, walking the mark through the con, or even as a rope, making that tentative first contact. But he had learned from the best back then – H. Zachary Richardson out of New York, The Maple Leaf Kid, Tobago Ralph, Mr. Ten Percent – and he'd been able to apply those skills to a few short cons along the way.

           And some of those cons were so smooth Steve was sure the mark still hadn't realized he'd been taken. When he and Top-Floor Todd were working the West Coast, they'd end any big money con with some back alley crakle-bladder, leaving the mark thinking he'd been an accessory to a murder. Most of the time it was Steve on the ground, gushing cow's blood from a half dozen bullet holes. If one of these marks spotted him they'd probably faint.

           Todd retired, buying a hotel in Thailand, and no one was running the Big Store anymore, not with so much opportunity in on-line scams. Steve had to specialize in lone wolf operations, pulling in a fixer now and then to handle the local pay-offs to the mob and the police. Working alone meant he didn't have to share, but it put him in constant contact with the mark, giving even the most dim-witted chump a chance to memorize his face.

           But the odds against an old mark spotting him were still high enough that when Steve noticed a passenger in the aisle looking at him, he didn't panic. He glanced up at the man – who would fit the type if it wasn't for the designer suit – but the man quickly spun around and returned to his seat in first class. Steve didn't think about the incident until later, when he stood up to let the window seat passenger by and noticed the first class passenger looking back at him. But again, as soon as he saw Steve looking his way, the man turned around. Forty minutes later, when he glanced up from his magazine to one of the twenty monitors showing The Mighty Ducks: Part 6, Steve spotted the man across the plane, trying to hide himself behind the first class curtain. They made eye contact above the heads of the middle row passengers and for a second they locked onto each other, both racing through their mental data banks of names and faces. The sudden way that the man's mouth dropped open indicated that he had made the connection first. He shook his head slightly to break the hold and yanked the first class curtain closed.

           Steve felt his mouth go dry as he fought to remember the face. Fifty-ish. Balding. Overweight. Jesus, that was ninety-five percent of his marks. Wire rim glasses, puffy cheeks and a sweaty pink face. Down to forty percent. Gray suit, white shirt, conservative blue tie. Back up to eighty percent. And a tie bar.

          There was a time when everyone wore a tie bar. But not now. Tie bars said old fashioned and old fashioned said out of work. Nobody with brains wore them. But the Cleveland Moneybox man did. It came back to Steve in one huge lump.

          Earl Hapke from Cleveland. Three years ago he fell hard for an updated version of the Moneybox scam. Forty thousand bucks. Not Steve's biggest score, but his biggest that year. He ran it alone, but there were unusual expenses for that one. Small stuff like the laptop and the hotel room were to be expected, but he had to buy the CD and the trick printer from Big Ears Eric before Big Ears made the headlines, hacking into Citibank. That CD put Steve back eight grand. It didn't cut too much into profits but Steve preferred operations without the high-tech gadgets he didn't understand. He only ran the Moneybox a few times that summer. Earl Hapke was his best score in that game.

          The trick, like all cons, is to pick a mark who is slightly dishonest. A guy on the up and up wouldn't want any part of an operation like the Moneybox and a real crook would see it for what it was. You needed a guy that was just a little bit shady, the type who cheats on his taxes, fudges expense accounts, cuts side deals with distributors and who, with a few drinks in him, brags about it. A guy who wasn't half as slick as he thought he was, a guy who had just enough unearned success to make him hungry for a whole lot more. You needed a guy like Earl Hapke from Cleveland.

           Hapke was in plastics and Steve met him in a hotel bar in Phoenix. He had cut Hapke away from the rest of the convention herd when he sensed Hapke was the kind of man he could do business with. He roped Hapke in with a tale about a stolen government computer program and high tech counterfeiting. There was enough truth to the story, and enough recent coverage on 20-20 and Nightline, to make it sound plausible. By the time he demonstrated the program up in his suite, printing out Hapke a perfect fifty-dollar bill from his laptop and laser printer, Hapke was begging to be hog-tied and branded.

          “Only problem is the paper,” the script ran, “I need sixty thousand to buy some authentic paper to do the printing. I only had that one last piece left.” He sent Hapke away with the fifty, telling him to take it to a bank and have it checked. Steve was certain Hapke would be back the next afternoon, eager to buy in. And why not? That was a real fifty. But the fancy program and dummy printer made it appear that Steve had created it right there in his room.

          And sure enough, Hapke showed up after lunch. They talked for an hour before Steve allowed the conversation to turn back to the needed paper, Hapke just about bouncing out of his chair by that point. Steve played the role of the hesitant investor, sorry he ever got good old Earl into this at all. Nonsense, Earl said on cue, he wanted to be part of it. They settled on a split – Hapke would front forty grand to Steve's twenty. Steve would take the money and fly to Denver to pick up the paper. They put the computer and the CD in a safety deposit box and Hapke kept the only key. “Give me ten days to get the paper and drive back here,” the last page of the script ran. “If something happens, if I get caught, you get to keep the computer program for yourself.”

          Ten days later, as Steve lounged by the pool at his Ft. Lauderdale home, he didn't even think about Hapke.

          Steve remembered Earl Hapke. And Steve was sure old Earl had remembered him, too.

But why would Earl be trying to hide? It was Steve who should be sneaking a glimpse of Earl, not the other way around. The more Steve thought about it, the stranger it seemed. You'd think a guy who was burned for forty large would make a production about spotting the thief. Steve had nightmares where marks had him similarly trapped. They'd stand over him, huge fingers in his face, and pronounce some grisly verdict that would snap him awake, covered in cold sweat. But here he was, just as trapped, and the mark was trying to hide from *him*. It just didn't make sense.

            Besides the tie-bar, Hapke was wearing a suit that ran at least five grand, and he was sitting in first class while Steve was folded into coach. Something was wrong here. Steve kept one eye on the first class cabin the rest of the flight. His other great fear for this flight – that they'd run out of alcohol – proved baseless and he doubled up his consumption, and he thought about Earl Hapke from Cleveland.

           When they landed at Chicago, Steve rushed through the airport to catch up with the flight's first class passengers, already picking up their luggage at their special kiosk. He watched as Hapke looked over his shoulder every few steps and jumped when someone accidentally bumped into him or his drag-behind suitcase. Steve mingled in with a group of conventioneers and worked his way across the baggage claim area in time to see a Hapke hand his suitcase to a uniformed chauffeur from the Sofitel hotel. Hapke was a Motel-6 kind of guy and here he was, being met by a driver from Chicago's premier hotel.

          Steve caught a cab to the Sofitel but waited outside until he was sure Hapke had checked in before catching a second cab to a cheaper hotel about a mile away. Hapke was hiding something, Steve thought as the cab pulled out on to East Chestnut Street, but what would he have to hide? All he had was a cheap, knock-off laptop, a worthless computer program and a dummied-up printer. He couldn't call the cops, couldn't turn in Steve without implicating himself. Counterfeiting wasn't the kind of crime the Feds ignored. No, Hapke wouldn't go to the Feds – he lacked the imagination, he was too vanilla. Steve remembered how predictable Earl was, how Earl never missed his row of Manhattans at happy hour.

         It was time he and old Earl got reacquainted.

          Hapke was easy to spot. He'd taken over a small table in the back of the bar and was sitting alone, drink in his hands, elbows on his knees, looking down at his shoes. Steve ordered a whiskey at the bar, draped his coat over his right hand and angled over to where Hapke was sitting. He stood in front of Earl's table, smiling, and waited for Earl to look up.

         “Hello, Earl,” Steve said as he sipped his drink, pointing his coat-covered hand at Hapke. “Mind if I have a seat?”

           To anyone who would have glanced over to that dark corner of the room, it would have looked like an out of town businessman had just spotted an old chum and stopped by to say hello. The look on Earl's face said something different, something about guns hidden under coats and hardened criminals exacting revenge.

         " Mr. Ryan,” Hapke said, using the name Steve had told him two years ago. “I …didn't expect to see you again.”

          Steve sat down, noticing Earl's eyes follow his coat and empty right hand under the table. Steve took his time, adjusting his drink on his wet napkin, before he looked up at Earl.

Earl hadn't changed much. His hair was thinner – if that was possible – and his broad forehead and heavy jowls still glistened like a Christmas ham when he sweat, which was what he was doing now. His glasses started to slide down his nose and Earl pushed them back up with his forefinger, jarring his head back with the impact. Steve waited. He knew Earl would tell him everything he wanted to know.

          “Mr. Ryan,” Hapke said.

          “Call me Dave,” Steve said, interrupting Hapke, making him sweat even more.

          “Mr. Ryan – Dave – I don't know what to say. I'm sorry, but I really had no other option.”

           “There's always options,” Steve said, trying to make sense of what Hapke was saying. “Why don't you tell me your side of the story?”

           Hapke waved over a waitress, ordered another Manhattan, and waited for her to leave before he started. “I waited the ten days like we agreed, but there was no word from you. Nothing. I figured that you had been arrested or something like that,” he waved his hand to imply thousands of possibilities. “And you're the one that told me that the computer and the program would be mine.” Earl looked across at Steve, but Steve just stared back, forcing Hapke to continue.

           “It took a while but things worked out,” Hapke said. “I had to get new partners, I couldn't do it alone. I guess that was my mistake.”

          “Depends on the partners,” Steve said. “If you can trust them, nobody gets hurt.” The way he hit the words trust and hurt sent Hapke a clear message.

         “Well it doesn't make a difference now,” Hapke said as he picked up his drink.   “According to my partners, it's all over anyway.”

        “What's over?” Steve said.

        “That money machine. I just got off the phone with my partners. I'm about to loose it.”

        “That thing still printing money for you, Earl?” Steve said as he smiled, but he knew the answer. It never printed. It was all fancy graphics and scanned images of the money, the real bills in place and ready to ‘print out' from the dummy printer.

         “It didn't work,” Hapke said. “But then a friend of mine tweaked the program.”

The waitress returned with his drink. Hapke signed for it and waited for her to leave before he continued.

         “I couldn't get it to print out the fifties. I could alter the serial numbers on the screen, just like we did in your room, but they wouldn't print. A neighbor of mine, a Pakistani guy, real computer wiz, he took a look at the CD. Do you know anything about computer programming?”

         Steve shook his head.

         “No? Well, me neither. This Pakistani guy – name's Sikander – he's amazing. You recall a news story about year ago about some computer break-in at the Treasury Department?”

Steve didn't, but then he seldom watched the news, even when one of his scams was the subject of it. “You gonna tell me this Sikander's that guy?”

          “I'm not sure one way or the other, but he knows things about government computers and the Treasury Department that he shouldn't know. He's got it all on his computers, big suckers, you should see them. Anyway, he looked at that CD we had. He says he can't crack the whole code but he can alter bits and pieces. He messed with it for a month, spent a couple grand on more computer stuff. Anyway, the up-shot is we get the thing to print – high quality stuff, too. Here, take a look.” Hapke reached in his coat pocket and handed Steve a dollar bill.

“Check out the details, the fine lines behind Washington's head, the even spacing of the serial numbers. It's quality stuff. The printer even fakes the micro-fibers. And that's just plain paper, too.”

          Steve looked the bill over carefully. The paper felt a little stiff, but so did most new bills. The saw-tooth points on the Treasury seal were crisp and distinct, the web of lines along the border were sharp. The portrait – the hardest thing to fake – looked perfect.

         “This is alright, I guess,” Steve said. Actually it was amazing, but he wasn't going to admit that to Hapke. “What's the big bills look like?”

         “That's the thing,” Hapke said, smiling now. “It won't print anything bigger than a one.”

         “That doesn't make sense.”

         “Tell me about it. Sikander says that's just the way the program is structured. He showed me these computer printouts – long strings of numbers and letters and symbols – don't mean a thing to me but he says that's why it only works with ones. The printer has to pull the paper back and forth a half dozen times, and it's so slow it'll drive you nuts, but it works. At best we can print two thousand bucks a day. And you can't copy the CD, either. Sikander says that there's stuff in the original files that gets all jumbled when you try to duplicate it.”

          Steve looked at the dollar bill in his hand. As far as he knew, no one ever tried to counterfeit ones – the expense ruled out anything smaller than a twenty and most of the big paper boys wouldn't bother with anything less than a fifty. No one would bother with a counterfeit one.

          So no one would suspect a counterfeit one.

         “Looks like you two have a nice little racket,” Steve said as he plotted a way in on the action. Two grand a day was still two grand a day, and Steve wanted all of it. “You wouldn't have anything if it wasn't for me. I want in.”

          “Look Dave, it's not that easy. If it was up to me, sure, but things have gotten all screwy. That phone call? It was Sikander. He wants to sell the machine.”

           “Sell? What the hell for? You can print whatever you need.”

           “You'd think so, but turns out Sikander is part of some Free Kashmir group. Him and his buddies are all riled up over this land up in India. I've seen pictures. Why anybody would care about it is beyond me. But they want to free it, what ever that means. They're probably one of those rebel groups you hear about. And I've known this guy for what, ten years? Go figure. Anyway, the computer is too slow for them. The folks back home have a big push planned for the spring and they need cash now to buy the weapons. Sikander says he'll sell me his half for three hundred thousand. Cash. And no ones.”

          “So take what you printed, exchange the ones for big bills, and buy the computer from him.”

         “I wish I ran into you a few months ago. You got common sense. Me? I'm an idiot. I blow through the money as fast as we print it. Fancy clothes, vacations, cars. I won't tell you what I spend on the women I meet. And Vegas? Geeze, I've been an idiot.”

        “So you don't have any cash left at all?”

        “A couple thousand. And to think last week I'd spend that on one tie bar…”

        “Tell me more about this Sikander guy. He work alone?”

        “He did at first, at least that's what I thought. Now he's got a roomful of Pakis with him all the time. I'm pretty sure they got guns, too. They talk about them enough. That and their precious Kashmir.”

        That ruled out an armed approach. Steve liked being the only person in the room with a gun. Odds of not getting shot were a lot better that way. He could try a moneybag switch, flash a stack of the real stuff and leave them with a pile of newspaper clippings, but foreigners were the worst people to pull any fancy tricks on. Nervous already when they were dealing with money, they watched every dollar. Most locals were so cavalier with cash that he could make the switch while they watched.

        “How do you know he hasn't run off with the machine already? Cut you out completely?”

         Hapke looked over the top of his wire rim glasses. “I've known Sikander for years. He might be a counterfeiter, hell he may even be a terrorist, but his word is good.”

        “Is this Sikander guy staying at this hotel?”

        “What? And risk the possibility that he may actually enjoy himself? No, him and his buddies all live in his house in Cleveland. Ten of them. And it's not a big house, either.”

       “And you say it's gotta be cash?”

       “And no ones,” Hapke said, draining his drink and motioning for another.

       Steve crunched some numbers in his head. Even with what he had in that Cayman Islands account he'd still have to come up with about a hundred, maybe one-twenty. It would be tricky moving the money without attracting attention, but it could be done. Or he could place a call to a certain number here in Chicago and have the money by morning. He had dealt with them before and they were all right. Fifty percent interest and thirty days to pay, just don't miss the deadline. He'd have to run a couple of quick cons to make the payment, and he could print with that computer all day long. It would be cutting it close, but he could work it. But first he'd get what he could out of Hapke, probably only enough to cover expenses. Better than nothing, which was what Hapke was going to get. He'd keep old Earl waiting at the hotel for his return, just like last time. He set down his glass on the table and cleared his throat. Showtime.

      “Listen, Earl, here's what we're gonna do…”

       It was a perfect neighborhood to hide in. Row after row of nondescript houses, each with the required SUV in the driveway and gas grill out back, and everybody staying out of their neighbor's business.

       Steve had watched the house for most of the day. From the sidewalk he could see movement through the curtains, but couldn't tell how many people were inside. Dave Ryan was booked on a flight back to Chicago at nine. Steve Lesko would be flying to Dallas at eight. Given the traffic at the airport, it was time to make the deal.

       Earl Hapke had all of five thousand left in his bank account and eight hundred – all in ones – in his hotel, and Steve got Earl to hand over most of it. On the floor of the rental car, three hundred thousand dollars sat neatly stacked in a Chicago Bulls gym bag. “Consider the bag our special gift to you for choosing us as your loan sharks,” the man had joked when he delivered the bag to Steve's hotel room. Naturally there was no paperwork, no signatures, just a phone call to ensure that everything had gone smoothly. Service with a smile. Steve knew that if he didn't pay back the money on time, they'd take the gym bag back. It would give them someplace to put his head.

       He parked the car in front of the house, grabbed the gym bag, walked up the driveway and rang the bell by the side door. He was expecting to be greeted by a bearded man in a turban and a wall of unidentifiable cooking smells, but instead was met by a clean-shaven twenty-something and the faint smell of pizza.

       “You must be Dave. Come on in, I'll get Sikander. Can I get you something, a Coke, a beer…?”

       Steve shook his head and looked around the room. The furniture seemed new, but was that boxy, durable stuff you see at rental places. A TV sat on a milk crate in the corner, a Hindi movie playing to an empty room. Unframed posters on the walls showed mountain scenes of pristine lakes and dramatic waterfalls. He assumed this was the Kashmir they were intent on freeing. He could hear voices coming from different parts of the house, talking loudly in a language he couldn't identify. There was a low, electric hum to the place, hinting at the computer systems filling other rooms.

       “Where is Mr. Hapke?” A tall man, this one with a close-cropped beard, appeared from one of the back rooms. “I had hoped he would be here for this as well.”

        “That didn't work out,” Steve said. “But he said he had talked to you and everything was arranged.”

          The man looked at Steve for a half a minute before answering. “Yes, he called. Forgive me if I appear disappointed, it's just that I have known Mr. Hapke for years and prefer doing business with him.”

        “Me too,” Steve said, looking the man in the eyes. “But I'm sure we can work things out just fine.”

          It took thirty minutes to count and recount the money. Other men, some with beards, some without, came in to recheck the count and to scrutinize random bills. The young man who answered the door rolled out a cart with a laptop and printer. There were cables running from a shoebox-sized block of gray plastic, complete with a small digital screen, to the laptop, which appeared to be pieced together from a dozen different computers.

         “Don't let the size frighten you,” Sikander said. The entire system fits in this bag.” He lifted a black carry-on from the lower shelf of the cart. “I don't know about you, but Mr. Hapke does not know much about computers. Therefore I programmed in a step-by-step procedural. It's not fancy, but I'm sure you two will have no problem with the system.”

         “Fire it up,” Steve said. “I want to see it print.”

         Sikander and the other men exchanged glances. “Is this necessary? Mr. Hapke and I have known each other for years. He knows how to reach me if there is a problem.”

         “You counted the money, didn't you? Besides, I need a few bucks for gas.”

          After a long pause, Sikander stood up. “I assure you there is no need. But fine, have it your way. Alston,” he said to the young man, “walk Mr. Ryan through the program. If you'll excuse me, I'd like to contact Mr. Hapke and tell him you have picked up the machine.” Sikander returned to one of the back rooms and the incoherent conversations in other parts of the house picked up where they had left off.

         Despite the complex layout, and the fact that he still had trouble working an ATM, Steve found that the computer was easy to operate. Alston insisted that Steve run the computer himself. “It'll be up to you to teach Earl, so you might as well get the experience,” he said. It took twenty minutes to prepare the bill and another five for it to print. Steve watched as the dollar-sized paper was pulled back and forth through the printer, appearing on the left edge of the printer, then the right, then the middle and back again, each pass adding another layer of color and detail. Alston walked over and turned up the volume on the Hindi movie. A screenful of singers performed complex line dances in an open field that suddenly became a city street. The high-pitched singing harmonized with the buzz of the printer. Hapke watched as the street scene changed to another field scene, then a movie set scene, then a big finish on board a luxury yacht. Indian cinema high-art.

        A single beep indicated the printing was done. The ink dried instantly, Alston explained, as he started the shut down process. Steve lifted the bill from the output tray. It felt warm and smelt of burnt paper. He pulled an old one from his wallet to compare. The fine webbing along the border was identical, the portrait of Washington looked as lifelike on the copy as it did on the real bill. The overall color seemed slightly darker but Steve assumed it was because the old bill had faded.

        “It's not perfect, you know,” Alston said as he slid each component into the bag. “You'd need a pretty decent magnifying glass to see it, but I could show you dozens of flaws.”

        “It'll do just fine,” Steve said as Sikander reentered the room.

       “Mr. Hapke will meet you at the airport in Chicago,” he said. “He said he can't wait to see you again.”

        And I'm going to do my best to make sure that never happens, Steve said to himself.                They didn't shake hands but Sikander watched from the door as Steve got in his rental car and pulled away.

        The hotel in Dallas was located next to the airport. The same soundproofing that deadened the 3 a.m. takeoffs muffled the computer. Steve had no trouble reassembling the system and he followed the same instructions Alston had shown him earlier that night in Chicago. The first bill would take the longest, Alston had said, but then the others would start printing in half the time. Steve hit the final ‘enter' and listened as the printer began to hum.

       The edge of the bill peeped out from the printer. The color was off, but Steve recalled how each pass would darken the tones. The webbing appeared next but there were lines missing in the design, especially around the large number one in the upper corner. Steve tried to remember how many passes it took to get the right depth, but all he recalled from the printing was some catchy Hindi rhythm. The seal looked good and the signature seemed right, but no serial numbers appeared on this pass. The portrait oval started printing, and Steve pulled up a chair to watch as the most critical section of the bill emerged.