South by South Bronx by Jr., Abraham Rodriguez Page B

Angeles. Closed a batch last month that used fake Social Security numbers. Unbelievable how banks let this stuff slip. A bunch of others we suspect but can’t touch because there are laws, laws, we have them, don’t we? And the more they protect people, the more these criminals use them to strangle us. We’re onto the bank thing, so now they’re trying to switch tactics. Last week we arrested two individuals using debit cards—individuals, again linked to terrorism—but every petty arrest we make generates a reaction. First, they were setting up accounts openly, with phony Social Security numbers. Expired visas, illegal aliens using debit cards … so we nail some. Now the method starts to change. Now they’re trying to launder the money in, approaching criminal elements who are highly skilled at it. We know they approached the mob.”
    Myers, standing by my desk, now staring at the window as if he had followed my eyes. I had the cigarette in my hand. I had my hand up to my face. To sniff the bouquet.
    â€œIt was the mob that got us onto this thing to begin with. They told us right away. The mob is too patriotic to step into that. But a drug dealer … from the South Bronx? Who would even bother to look in the South Bronx? It’s a shift in tactics. Like an animal that’s aware it’s being hunted. It reacts, it shifts, it has a brain. We call that a conscious coordination of effort.”
    The half-point to my coffee had been reached. The coffee was at the right temperature. Myers, spirited and antsy, walked around the desk. It seemed like he hadn’t gotten to the worst of it yet.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said, my words tasting sluggish. “I’m having a hard time seeing Spook involved in this.”
    â€œI can understand,” he said. “But would you say his business has been so good over the past month that he would be making such a big deposit just coming out of jail?”
    I didn’t want to answer a question like that. My guts were tighter than a Dominican ass in stressed jeans. How didn’t I see something like this? Was I so fucking lazy? So we busted him two months ago, raided some sloppy operation, didn’t get much on him. Nothing that would stick when you have a good lawyer, and Spook had that. His “clean as a whistle” brother David made sure to hook him up every time.
    â€œBut where’s the money from?” I felt testy, grasping for handhold along the ledge.
    â€œYou don’t need to know that,” he said. He was by the window, peering out into the alley. His voice sounded somehow gentle. “Anyway, it’s not your fault.”
    â€œWhy would it be?”
    Myers took his seat again. There was concern creasing his face. “That you didn’t know. You can’t blame yourself.”
    There was just the ticking of the clock. Our eyes met across a strange distance.
    â€œUnless you really do know every last little thing about the people in your files,” he said.
    It was one of those silent moments you replay later.
    â€œNobody could,” I said, hollow.
    Myers gestured toward the flip-pad on my desk, which also came in the envelope.
    â€œMr. Rosario met someone this last visit to prison. His name is Mounir. He’s from Saudi Arabia. We know him pretty well. He’s been especially talkative right now, since he’s scared his old friends are going to kill him. He’s the one who made the connection to Mr. Rosario. Just think: You’re this two-bit drug dealer who just got his ass busted on some shit charge, and here comes this stranger, offering you a chance to launder millions of dollars. What would your attitude be?”
    I wasn’t through rubbing my face shut.
    â€œI would go for it,” I said.
    â€œOkay, this is where it gets worse.” Myers leaned closer. “They’ll probably pay a certain amount for services rendered. Something reasonable for the