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Authors: Darcy O'Brien
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thousand,” Lester finally announced. “She was right, there’s a little more than I thought. Actually they’re paying four hundred twenty-five thousand, can you believe it? Plus automobiles.”
Lester said that he was worried about fingerprints on the money. Some of it was old, 1970s series, and mildewed. He didn’t know that this was Acker money, of course, there was no way he could know that, but it would be better not to take chances. He would have to wash it.
“You mean launder it?” Lillian asked.
“No, for now, what I need to do is wash it.”
He took the money into the bathroom and began wiping it, bill by bill, with a facecloth wrung out with soap and warm water. It was mostly in hundreds, but there were fifties, too, and a scattering of twenties. With a glass of whiskey beside him, he worked at his washing steadily for hours, calling for fresh facecloths, meticulously wiping both sides of each bill. Around midnight he was done. He scrubbed his hands with surgical thoroughness, as if to rid himself of some contaminant.
He wondered at himself. What was he getting himself into? But itseemed impossible to stop now. What was he going to do, return the money, saying sorry, I’ve changed my mind? It would be dangerous on the road tomorrow. These people would stop at nothing. The way they fought among themselves, some of them might come after him. There might be others out there who had not been caught. Who knew how many murders they had already committed? He decided he needed a bodyguard.
The sack of money clutched in his hand, limping from the pain in his hip, Lester lurched into the street. He made his way to the house next door to his own and banged on the door. A light came on. Someone asked who it was at that hour. Lester called out his name. A man peered through a window and opened up.
“Griff, I’ve got a problem.”
“Lester. Christ, have a drink.”
Somewhere in his early sixties, Houston J. Griffin was a big old boy the size of a linebacker. Divorced and retired, he was originally from Eastern Kentucky; he now lived in Georgia and came down to Okeechobee for the fishing. Lester pushed past him and dumped the money out onto the middle of the living room floor. He told Griffin that this was only part of a fee he had collected. His client was charged with murder. Lester was afraid that some of the cohorts were trying to take the money back. He needed help in bringing it to Kentucky. He would pay Griffin whatever he demanded to make the trip.
Griffin said he would do it for expenses plus one of Lester’s Black Angus bulls.
They did not get an early start. In the morning, Lester strolled around the neighborhood flashing wads of bills, boasting that he had just landed one of the biggest cases of his life. A stranger might have thought him deranged, the way he pranced and poured talk of riches into every ear; those who knew him understood it as typical Lester Burns behavior, if somewhat more grandiose than usual. Around Lester, you always felt within reach of a fortune. You wanted to touch him, hoping his magic was catching.
They set off in tandem, Lester riding with Lillian, Griffin following in his white LTD with the money stashed in the trunk in a blue plaid gym bag. Keeping to the speed limit, they figured it might take twenty hours or more up the length of Florida, through Georgia and Tennessee to the shores of Lake Cumberland.
Lester held the Uzi in his lap and checked out every car thatpassed. His thoughts were of this gang of thieves. Epperson seemed to be their leader. Lester had not had much contact with the others, but he had the impression that Hodge was the most dangerous, Bartley a wimp who yet might be capable of anything if cornered. Together they were an arrogant bunch who brought to mind the James boys or the Dalton gang, tearing around the country. They had been on quite a spree, there was no doubt of that.
As for the women, Bartley’s girlfriend was staying out of sight
Lester said that he was worried about fingerprints on the money. Some of it was old, 1970s series, and mildewed. He didn’t know that this was Acker money, of course, there was no way he could know that, but it would be better not to take chances. He would have to wash it.
“You mean launder it?” Lillian asked.
“No, for now, what I need to do is wash it.”
He took the money into the bathroom and began wiping it, bill by bill, with a facecloth wrung out with soap and warm water. It was mostly in hundreds, but there were fifties, too, and a scattering of twenties. With a glass of whiskey beside him, he worked at his washing steadily for hours, calling for fresh facecloths, meticulously wiping both sides of each bill. Around midnight he was done. He scrubbed his hands with surgical thoroughness, as if to rid himself of some contaminant.
He wondered at himself. What was he getting himself into? But itseemed impossible to stop now. What was he going to do, return the money, saying sorry, I’ve changed my mind? It would be dangerous on the road tomorrow. These people would stop at nothing. The way they fought among themselves, some of them might come after him. There might be others out there who had not been caught. Who knew how many murders they had already committed? He decided he needed a bodyguard.
The sack of money clutched in his hand, limping from the pain in his hip, Lester lurched into the street. He made his way to the house next door to his own and banged on the door. A light came on. Someone asked who it was at that hour. Lester called out his name. A man peered through a window and opened up.
“Griff, I’ve got a problem.”
“Lester. Christ, have a drink.”
Somewhere in his early sixties, Houston J. Griffin was a big old boy the size of a linebacker. Divorced and retired, he was originally from Eastern Kentucky; he now lived in Georgia and came down to Okeechobee for the fishing. Lester pushed past him and dumped the money out onto the middle of the living room floor. He told Griffin that this was only part of a fee he had collected. His client was charged with murder. Lester was afraid that some of the cohorts were trying to take the money back. He needed help in bringing it to Kentucky. He would pay Griffin whatever he demanded to make the trip.
Griffin said he would do it for expenses plus one of Lester’s Black Angus bulls.
They did not get an early start. In the morning, Lester strolled around the neighborhood flashing wads of bills, boasting that he had just landed one of the biggest cases of his life. A stranger might have thought him deranged, the way he pranced and poured talk of riches into every ear; those who knew him understood it as typical Lester Burns behavior, if somewhat more grandiose than usual. Around Lester, you always felt within reach of a fortune. You wanted to touch him, hoping his magic was catching.
They set off in tandem, Lester riding with Lillian, Griffin following in his white LTD with the money stashed in the trunk in a blue plaid gym bag. Keeping to the speed limit, they figured it might take twenty hours or more up the length of Florida, through Georgia and Tennessee to the shores of Lake Cumberland.
Lester held the Uzi in his lap and checked out every car thatpassed. His thoughts were of this gang of thieves. Epperson seemed to be their leader. Lester had not had much contact with the others, but he had the impression that Hodge was the most dangerous, Bartley a wimp who yet might be capable of anything if cornered. Together they were an arrogant bunch who brought to mind the James boys or the Dalton gang, tearing around the country. They had been on quite a spree, there was no doubt of that.
As for the women, Bartley’s girlfriend was staying out of sight
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