Read Online A Pure Double Cross by John Knoerle - Free Book Online

of time and manpower to chart this course. They’ve invested a lot of money and prestige.”
    Was this a question? The Schooler encouraged me with his eyebrows. I riddled it out aloud.
    â€œLet’s see, the
Cleveland Press
is raising the roof about the heartless thieves who stole Christmas, the Cleveland PD is red-faced and cheesed off and…and if the feds call a halt right now the Fulton Road Mob makes off with sixty grand and the FBI is left holding the bag.”
    â€œWhich means...?”
    I liked the stern father confessor better. At least I didn’t have to answer all these bloody questions. “It means that, uhh, we do nothing and wait for the feds to come around.”
    The Schooler inclined his head ever so slightly. “Would you like your money now?”
    What a question.
    The Schooler climbed to his feet. I resigned myself to another blindfolded ride to an abandoned factory but he returned a minute later carrying a fat pigskin satchel that he deposited at my feet, saying, “Thirty-two thousand six hundred and forty dollars.”
    I opened the satchel. The cash was neatly stacked and rubber-banded. It was more money than I had ever seen. But where the hell was I going to put it?
    â€œCount it,” said The Schooler.
    â€œNo need,” I replied cheerily. “You’re an honest crook.”
    The Schooler liked that. Leastwise he cracked a smile for the first time that afternoon.
    â€œYou’ll want a cab,” he said and went to make the call.
    A tiny alarm bell sounded, barely tinkled, in the lower chambers of my skull. Something to do with The Schooler keeping a big wad of hot cash under his own roof. But I paidthat tiny bell no mind. I was too busy zippering up my fat pigskin satchel.
    I picked it up and looked around for Lizabeth. A faint wisp of perfumed cigarette smoke was the only trace of her.
    A yellow cab was waiting at the curb when I bounded down the steps of the Moreland Courts, my fat pigskin satchel in hand. I scanned the four corners for a late model black Buick and climbed in the back seat. The hackie lowered the flag and asked me where to.
    â€œEast.”
    We set sail down Shaker Boulevard. I kept my eyes peeled for a bank. Some discreet Shaker Heights’ establishment that would welcome a well-dressed young man with a fat pigskin satchel and no questions asked.
    They say all good things come to those who wait but they, in my experience, are full of shit. There had to be a way to move the ball down the field. The FBI wasn’t going to approve a big deal payroll heist so long as hothead Jimmy was in the picture. And the Fulton Road Mob wasn’t going to bench Jimmy on my say so. Not yet anyway.
    We passed a bank. I let the hackie drive another three blocks. “I need you to hang a U-turn at the next intersection,” I said. “And use your turn signal.”
    No cars slowed, no cars followed. “Slow down a bit.”
    I looked out the back window. “Now speed up and turn right at the next street.” I saw no sign of Jimmy’s Buick, no sign of a plaster. “Stop here.”
    I paid the fare, gave the hackie a fat tip and lugged my pigskin satchel across Shaker Boulevard and into National City Bank to inquire about a safe deposit box.

Chapter Twelve
    I tried to sneak out of Mrs. Brennan’s rooming house the next morning, almost made it too. I was two steps down the stoop when I heard,
“Mister
Schroeder.” My rent was paid in full, I was free, white and twenty-one. I could have continued on my way without a backward look. But I stopped short, the back of my neck all prickly.
    â€œWhat is it Mrs. Brennan?”
    â€œTurn around now.” I did so. “Where’s the rest of your ear? And your roughneck friend, come to mention?”
    â€œMrs. Brennan, listen, I…”
    â€œ
You
listen, boyo, I run a respectable rooming house.”
    â€œI understand that.”
    â€œDo you