Copyright 2001 by Morris Rosenthal
"Moonlighting is backbone of the American economy," the Ant lectured his new partner. "If it wasn't for guys like you and me helping out the homeowner, the whole nation would go down the shitter."
"I don't think that Mr. O'Flahthery would be very happy if he knew," John replied mournfully. John Freeder had been pals with the Ant for going on seven years, a feat worthy of the record books. He was one of those guys who had drifted from one set of part time jobs to the next since getting out of high school, occasionally saving enough green to go to one of the profit oriented institutes that ran ads on late night television. He'd tried computer aided drafting, programming, aviation and diesel mechanics, in each case dropping out in disgust after a few months. He not only shared Anthony's love of an illegitimate buck, but also his skill in avoiding prosecution. That was probably the main factor in their ongoing friendship. Neither was naive enough to let the other get him sent to jail.
"No pain, no gain," Anthony threw back the body building credo.
"He looks like the kind of guy who could cause us a lot of pain," the more cautious youth replied. "A whole lot."
"Look," Anthony said as they pulled into the customer's driveway. "I'm not going to tell him, and you're not going to tell him, and Mr. Paycheck here who's getting all of the asbestos removed from his cellar for the bargain basement price of twelve bills doesn't even know who he is." He giggled at his own humor.
"How'd you even find out about this guy, Ant?"
"Same place I found out about PDC. From Red, at the garage. He knows a ton of guys, and they all know about his great antifreeze caper. Some small time landlord finds out he's got to get rid of his lead paint or the asbestos in the cellar, he knows where he'll get a sympathetic ear. This time, Red had something more then commiseration to offer."
"What was that?"
"Us, you idiot. The cheapest quote this guy got before Red gave him my number was thirty-two hundred. We're saving the poor jerk two thousand bucks."
They stopped John's van around the back of the house, and deployed the equipment 'borrowed' from PDC. The landlord met them at the door, and asked "What the hell is all this crap."
Anthony began his bullshit explanation about the containment barriers and negative pressure, and the guy just put up his hand and said, "Whoa there, you don't have to sell me. I know from your price what kind of outfit you are. Just rip the shit down, bag it, and get it the hell out of here. I got a realtor coming at noon."
"Yes sir," they said simultaneously, and finished the whole job in under three hours. The guy counted out twelve hundred dollar bills without blinking.
"You're good boys," he said, "I get anything else, I give you a call, O.K.?"
"Sure thing," Anthony said, "Remember, just between four and ten in the evening. I sort of share the phone."
John backed the van out, and they headed to his place for a victory beer.
John, who had been so nervous a few hours before, had become intoxicated by the sight of the money. "That's the easiest six bills I ever made in my life." He honked the horn six quick times out of sheer joy. "This is the best scam ever."
"Naw," Anthony replied. "The best scam ever is the guys who do this legally. Same as we just did, and they make three times as much."
"I ain't complaining with what I got." John moved his hand towards the center of the steering wheel again, but the Ant reached over and slapped it away.
"Enough with the fucking horn. Now we drink this one beer, and then you chill out until it's dark and you can bring the stuff to Wilkins. You call first, so I can be at the gate waiting, and if you see any other cars around, you just drive on by and call me later. You got it?"
"Yea, for the hundredth time, I got it."
"Hey, swing by my folks place on the way," Anthony directed him, "I told my dad I'd get rid of all the old oil he's got in those plastic quarts."
"Why doesn't he return it to the stores?"
"I try to get him to take the four quarts with him when he goes to buy some, but he's afraid they'll give him a hard time."
"I can't believe you told your old man what you're doing. I'd have thought that he'd be the first guy to turn you in."
"He would too," Anthony said sourly, "Before the Soviet Union fell apart he was always talking about worker's solidarity and world socialism. Now communism's dead and he's retired, he remembers all of a sudden that he's a Catholic. I even tell a joke about maybe cutting a few corners here and there and I get a lecture about hell. Naw, I told him that I know a garage guy who'll take the stuff for free."
"Red?"
"Yeah. He would, too, but I'm not going to bother him with it. Another couple quarts aren't going to make any difference to good old Fourteen building."
"I've been thinking about that, Ant," John said seriously, "And I'm having a hard time seeing how you're going to avoid getting caught. That O'Flahthery looks pretty hard to me. I'd bet he'd dump us both in a river if he thought we could get him in trouble."
"I was waiting for you to say "we", pal. The thing definitely has to come to an end sometime, you're right there. That's why I'm pushing so hard to get side jobs now, while the goose is still cackling. I got O'Flahthery believing that I think his setting up the third shift guard to take the fall in my place could actually work. That's bullshit man. Someone takes all that crap to a lab, they'll figure out where those chemicals are coming from, and it's just a matter of time before they're waving my photograph around in front of the places we do pickups. I don't think that O'Flahthery cares when it ends, he's going to do a disappearing act."
"How can you be so calm about it, Ant." The van pulled up in front of the Bovine residence, and John shut off the ignition. "I mean, it sounds like you're, like we're, fucked."
"Not if all the evidence disappears," Anthony winked, and slid out of the van. John followed him to the shed, where pointed out all the used motor oil. "Could you throw that in the van, dude? I got to get something from the house."
John grumbled, but he fingered the roll of cash in his pocket, and felt better. The plastic quarts were all capped and clean, but they were standing in a row along the wall, and he couldn't see any boxes around to consolidate them. Then he remembered the "Haz Bags" in the van, and went and got a couple. He double-checked the lid on each container before dropping it in the bag, he didn't want oil all over his carpet. Anthony came out of the house as John headed back to the van with a bag over each shoulder. He was carrying a book.
"Why'd you have to waste the bags, man. Those are expensive," Anthony complained.
"I needed something to carry all the friggin oil. We can dump it out and reuse the bags." Anthony appeared mollified, and they climbed into the van. "What's the book Ant."
"It's from my sister's collection. Before she became an aerobics instructor, she wanted to be a revolutionary." Anthony held up the large black book with white lettering. "The Anarchist Cookbook."
"What's that? Recipes that mask the flavor of rat poison?"
"More like how to build a bomb from household cleaning products." Anthony enjoyed showing off his superior knowledge, although he had never actually done more then look at the pictures in the book.
"Cool." John was properly impressed. "When you going to blow the place up."
"I don't know," Anthony replied seriously. "I wish I had an idea what O'Flahthery is planning. All I can do is hope he drops a hint. He likes to brag, some."
"You think he was really with the CIA?"
"Yeah. He's bitter as hell about it too. I guess something happened to screw with his getting a promotion, then next thing he knew they're giving him the heave-ho. He doesn't talk about it like that drunk you're always baiting at the sports bar."
"The one who says he smuggled heroin for the CIA in 'Nam?"
"Yeah. Not that the CIA wouldn't do crap like that. O'Flahthery say that smuggling and lying were about their two biggest occupations. No, it's the way that guy in the bar tells the stories. He can't remember who he was fighting from one week to the next. I swear that after 'Lethal Weapon' was on TV, the guy said he was with 'Shadow Company'. I bet he even believes it himself."
"So what does he talk about?"
"O'Flahthery? About lying, mainly. About how they tried to use guys who weren't American for all the risky stuff, so that we could deny it if they got caught. He told me this one story about this weapons smuggler who claimed he started out as a soldier in the IRA, then got caught by the Polish. It turned out that the guy had lied to the CIA, and he was an American from Boston."
"That's pretty funny, man. Sounds like spies are not very trustworthy people."
"O'Flahthery says that you need to plan out your lies real good ahead of time. So they can stand up to someone checking them out."
John burst out laughing in disbelief. "You let this guy give you a lecture on how to lie. That would be like your dad telling the Pope how to be Catholic."
"Pop has been writing a lot of letters to Rome lately," Anthony joked, a little unsure if the comparison was intended as a compliment. "O'Flahthery knows what he's talking about, though. He's all prepared for if he gets busted to pretend that he's this reporter guy who's been in Russia for the last eight months, and won't be back for another four. He's got ID, he carries fake notes, he's even got an answering machine that answers the guys name in his voice."
"Hey, Ant. Maybe that's the time limit," John suggested.
"I don't know. He could be ready with some other identity for when the guy gets back." Anthony's ears started twitching fiercely, and his chin dropped down to his chest. He was lost deep in thought. John knew that Anthony did his best thinking this way, and drove patiently along, waiting for him to come out of it. "O'Flahthery didn't really sound worried about getting caught," Anthony finally said, speaking slowly, as if he hadn't quite reached any conclusions yet. "He just wanted to avoid actual arrest, getting fingerprinted."
"Nobody wants to get arrested, Ant."
"Not the way he said it, like he wished he could take it back." They were just pulling up to the triple-decker where John lived, and Anthony reached over and gave the horn a triumphant blast. "I got it. He's lying to us too. He isn't Mark O'Flahthery, or maybe there is no such person. That's what makes this whole operation work. When we get caught, he just becomes someone else."
"Someone else with a pile of money," John commented.
"The only way we can protect ourselves from this guy, is to have something on him," Anthony was thinking out loud. "I'll get his fingerprints on something, maybe an old cigarette pack, or a can of beer. We need leverage."
"Uh, Ant. This guy never said anything about, like, killing people, did he?"
"He's a professional," was the confident reply. "He does things that make sense for business. If he knows that we got him, he'll deal."
"Yeah, but what if the finger prints aren't enough. What if the cops find out who he really is, and he still makes bail and takes off?"
"What, you're worried about law enforcement now? I don't want to put the guy in jail. I just want to keep us out." Anthony patted the book. "Plans within plans, my friend. Let's get that beer."
"Wait a second," John grabbed his arm and looked him in the eyes, "Just so that we understand each other, you are going to keep me up to date on what's going on."
"It's covered," Anthony replied.