Page 53 of Mob Princess

Was the lock on it to keep homeless people or animals out? We shine our flashlights into it. The interior doesn’t seem wide enough to match the exterior size. Filled with boxes or crates, it wouldn’t be so noticeable. I step inside, flicking my wrist to move my flashlight over all the surfaces. Something catches my eye when my beam hits a black space. The rest of the container is reflecting the light from the metal siding.

I inch closer until I can point the flashlight into the nook. It’s barely wider than the width of my palm, but I spotted it. I pull on the siding, making the hole larger. Interesting.

I turn toward the door and flicker my flashlight three times. Shane knows that means to approach. Luke’s brother, John, comes with him. I point the light into the hole again. I reach inside and grasp the first bundle I touch. As I pull my arm out, Shane whispers what I’m wondering.

“Real or counterfeit?”

“I can’t tell yet.” I put the end of my flashlight—which I disinfect after every use and keep in a case—between my teeth as I thumb the stack of bills I’m holding.

There’re hundred-euro bills flapping in the air. It’s a full strap, so ten-thousand. I reach into the hole again and start pulling out more. I hand the euros to Shane and the yen to John. I pull out ten straps of euros, which makes a bundle. We squat, so I can stack the money as I grab it. When I lean as far in as I can to get a better look, there have to be at least five bundles worth of just euros. I gather more stacks of yen, adding pounds sterling, rupees, pesos, and rubles.

I pull a ruble loose, and Shane and John shine their lights on it from behind when I raise it between us. I shine my light from the front. I can’t be certain beyond a reasonable doubt because of the shite lighting, but it looks real. I repeat the same thing, pulling a bill from the center of the strap. Fake. I do this over again with the euros, and it’s the same thing. The tops and bottoms are real, but the centers are fake.

“Am.” Time.

Peter’s voice fills my ear. We have nothing to carry the bills in right now, and we’ll move away from the container and vehicles. We can come back for it later. My brother and friend toss the money back in after I’ve dropped mine into the hole. I push the siding back to roughly where it was. We hurry but remain light on our feet, not wanting our footsteps to echo.

As I step out, I hear a car roll over a pothole. I know where it is. Luke pulls a padlock from one of his pouches. He shuts the door and fastens our lock through the holes. If we don’t make it over here before someone else, they’ll need bolt cutters like we did.

With our rifles slung across our backs and at least one pistol in hand—safety off, silencer on—we fan out enough to move through the shadows. The vehicle’s a Mercedes G Wagon. It comes to a stop, and a man gets out of the front passenger side. We all know the type. We’ve all been the type. Big, dressed in black, and intimidating. I’m certain this is Schlossberg’s car. A German in a German car. Both are completely reliable. I glance at my watch. It’s exactly eight o’clock.

When we’re within three hundred feet, we wait. It’s only a couple minutes later that a Cadillac Escalade pulls up and circles around to face the Mercedes. I slide one strap of the backpack I’m wearing off my shoulder. I ease the zipper open and retrieve the parabolic microphone and headphones. I flip the switch and point it toward the conversation I’m about to fully eavesdrop on. I put the left padded side to my ear and hold the headphones like I’m some music exec in a cheesy movie.

“Mr. O’Malley.” A heavy German accent flows into my ear.

“Mr. Schlossberg. Thank you for meeting me here.”

“Not exactly the Michelin star restaurants where I usually conduct business. But that’s because you’re hiding.”

“And you’re right here with me.” Testy. Testy.

“I’m not the one worried about being found.”

“You should be, Schlossberg. The O’Rourkes might want my head on a pike, but you’ll get drawn and quartered right alongside me if they find out you’re part of this deal.”

“Then let’s skip the pleasantries.”

Ewan raises his hand in the air, and a truck drives forward. I glance over at Shane, who has his NVGs on like the rest of the men. They’re difficult to wear while using the headphones, so I can’t see as clearly as they can. I still see plenty. While no one’s talking or moving between the Boston Irish and the German delegations, Shane pulls his own backpack around to reach inside. He pulls out a camera with a high-speed telephoto lens. He silently snaps photos while Nate holds up his phone to record whatever it can see. There will be no refuting the evidence since I’m also recording the audio.

“Here you go.”

Ewan unlocks the roll top door and pushes up to reveal the entire truck is filled with what looks like brand new sofas still covered in clear wrap. He hoists himself into the truck and pulls a knife. He cuts a slit in the wrapping of the sofa closest to the door. He tugs out the seat cushion, then unzips the back. Holding both edges of the fabric, he tips it upside down, allowing a cascade of marijuana bricks to land in front of Schlossberg.

It's Schlossberg’s turn to pull out a knife. We’re a regular ol’ Boy Scout den. Always prepared. He sticks his blade into the package, wiggling it enough to get it in without ripping the cling wrap open. He pulls out the knife and uses his thumb and forefinger to pinch some of the contents. He brings it to his nose as he rubs the pads of his fingers together. He signals one of his own men to come forward.

The guy pulls out his phone and taps the screen a couple times. He steps closer, practically shoulder checking Ewan out of the way. He puts his phone on the edge of the truck bed along with a testing gadget before he takes the brick of marijuana from Schlossberg. I know what he’s doing without needing my NVGs or a zoom lens. He’s going to test the THC, CBD, and CBN. He draws his own sample from the open package using tweezers. He puts the flowers in the gadget and starts the analysis through the app on his phone. It’s going to take three to five minutes to get the results.

This is the tedious part. It’s not like you’re friends with your buyer. You’re not chatting about the weather or where you’re spending the Fourth of July. You’re not reminiscing about bygone days. You’re trying to tell if they’re going to screw you over more than you intend to screw them over. You’re making sure none of your men get trigger-happy. That always makes for a bad night.

Our guys, Shane, and I remain still as the minutes drag. These exchanges are never as exciting as the movies make them seem. At least we have these commercial tests now. It’s not like in the olden days where your tester had to smoke a joint to tell how good the stuff was.

My mic catches a soft ping, and the German quality assurance officer picks up his phone. His finger slides up and down the screen before he gives a decisive nod and hands the phone to his superior. Schlossberg appears satisfied because he waves another guy over. He accepts the envelope his guard hands him and opens it for Ewan to see.

Ewan doesn’t hesitate to pull the bills out and flip through them. He does exactly the same thing I did when I examined the money I found. He doesn’t go through every bill, but he goes through plenty.

For fuck’s sake, hurry the fuck up. It’s not like it matters at this point. You’re going to be giving it back in the morning. There’s no way Herr Schlossberg will let you keep a single speck of it once the pot doesn’t show up. With his German efficiency, the money’ll be back in his Swiss account before you can say eins, zwei, drei.

One, two, three. He’ll snatch that money back from Ewan so fast it’ll give the shit bird whiplash.

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