A petty thief accidentally steals millions belonging to a mobster.
Approx. 1,629 words
©2003 by W. E. Lopez
Frankie Del Amo pulled his jacket tightly around him as he snuggled against the early morning chill. Eighty miles south-west of Baton Rouge, the night air in the hours between midnight and dawn was scarcely above freezing this March morning. Frankie wished he were still in his warm hotel room, holding Lisa close to him, but that would have been suicide. Tony the Shadow, Frankie’s bookie knew about Lisa and the hotel room. Tony’s muscle would have found him and strongly suggested Frankie pay up the six-grand gambling debt he owed. Frankie appeared to have a glamorous life, but it was all flash. In addition to the six grand he owed Tony, he owed two G’s to Sam the Shark, and another two to Jersey Benny. Frankie understood he could not stay one jump ahead of that crowd for long and had hopped a fast freight headed west.
Near Lafayette the freight pulled onto a siding while a military train, laden with troops, tanks and other war equipment, over took and passed them. The rail-road bulls began giving the freight train a thorough inspection as it idled on the siding and Frankie judged it a good time to make himself scarce. He spent the entire day walking, with an occasional lift from a farm truck, and by evening found himself just south of Delcambre. Frankie spotted a hobo jungle where other gentlemen of the highway congregated for the night but chose to give them a wide berth. Anyone could choose to turn him in, hoping for a reward from the bookies looking for him. Welcher’s could not be allowed to get away for long.
Pickings had been slim since the Great Depression. Wealthy families had sold or pawned most everything of value they owned, and whatever loot Frankie had acquired brought very little cash when fenced. Since the start of the war, business had slowly picked up, cash was flowing again, but none of it seemed to stick to Frankie’s fingers. All he needed was a small score to get out of the hole he’d fallen into, and he could rise to the top again. Trying to duck the many creditors on his tail, Frankie even tried joining the Navy, but had flunked the physical with a less than perfect heart.
Overhead, the Louisiana sky was crystal clear. The lack of cloud cover allowed heat to escape from the surface of the Earth and the night chilled Frankie to the core. Fortunately there was no wind blowing, for even a slight wind-chill factor might have caused him to succumb to hypothermia and death. With the lack of wind, heavy moisture from the nearby gulf coast lay in patches of ground fog which chilled him even more. Frankie thought about freezing to death. It might not be so bad, not nearly as bad as what Tony, Sammy, or Benny had in mind for him. With a great force of will, Frankie drove the shivers from his body and decided to accept whatever fate lay in store for him.
The groaning of a truck engine and flash of headlights on the dirt road only yards away pulled him from his reverie. “Christ,” he thought, “even in the middle of dying a fellow can’t get a little peace and quiet.” He ducked low while the truck passed, and hoped to remain unseen.
From his memory of a visit to this area a few years back, Frankie tried to recall what lay down that dirt road and why a large delivery truck would be headed in that direction during the middle of the night. Unless there had been new construction since the start of the war, all Frankie could remember was a small bait shack and fishing camp.
Frankie decided now might not be the best time for him to die. Certainly that truck was headed for something, but what could it be? Since the repeal of prohibition a dozen years before, it couldn’t be smuggled booze. There was no money in that. Untaxed booze from Arkansas or Tennessee? Not very likely. Moonshine would be headed north where the larger population centers would be bursting with a demand and cash to satisfy a thirst.
Frankie decided to dog-trot at a safe distance behind the truck. The exertion would keep him from freezing and he might score a few bucks. He trotted and walked, trotted and walked another mile until he saw the brake lights of the truck flare and then go out. Wherever it had been headed, apparently it had arrived. Frankie slowed to a walk and took to the woods which paralleled the road.
Dimly he heard voices, but couldn’t make them out. It wasn’t that the voices were too soft, it was a foreign language. Polish? Swedish? Frankie had traveled a little in Pennsylvania and Wisconsin, but it didn’t sound the same.
German! That’s what the men were speaking!
Four men from a small rubber boat were bringing crates ashore and turning them over to the men from the truck to load into the back. As Frankie watched, six crates were loaded, and then the rubber boat disappeared into the darkness to return half an hour later with more crates.
What could be in the crates? Munitions? Explosives? Were the Germans landing supplies to begin a fifth-column resistance movement against the government? Could there be Americans, or German nationals who would commit sabotage against their nation at war?
While Frankie watched, six more crates were unloaded from the rubber boat and loaded into the delivery truck. Then, with much back slapping and jocularity, the two groups split up; the four sailors in dark wool back to their rubber boat heading into the blackness at sea and the two teamsters back to their truck. The engine cranked slowly and then roared to life. The driver turned the truck around and began heading out the way he had come in.
As the truck slowly passed him in the darkness, Frankie grabbed hold of the tailgate and swung up and into the truck. Whatever was happening, he was a part of it now!
Frankie dare not risk lighting a match to see what was in the crates. Instead, he pulled a switchblade from his pocket and carefully pried open the nearest crate. When one of the slats came away he stuck in a hand, expecting to feel the cold iron of rifles, hand grenades, or worse.
He gasped with astonishment when his fingers found packets of cold cash! There could be thousands, hundreds of thousands, even millions of dollars in these crates! Frankie’s problems were over for sure!
Quickly he dragged the nearest crate to the tail-gate and pushed it out of the truck. Immediately he followed that with another, and then another. As the last crate landed in the dirt, Frankie jumped out himself. Fortunately the road was rough and the truck was driving with its lights on low to avoid detection. The very slow speed prevented Frankie from being injured as he toppled to the ground.
Hurriedly he grabbed two of the crates by their rope handles and dragged them into the woods in case the truck turned around and came back. He marched down the road and grabbed two more. By the time he had stacked all twelve crates in a pile, safely fifty yards away from the dirt road, Frankie was thoroughly exhausted and drenched with perspiration from his labor. In the east, the first tinges of pink colored the horizon and sunrise would not be far behind.
The night air had not warmed appreciably and Frankie’s sweat-drenched clothing now chilled him more. He flailed his arms against his side in hopes the exercise would still his chattering teeth. It didn’t.
Frankie took stock of his situation. He had twelve crates of fresh money; five, ten, and twenty dollar bills. He was wealthier than he had ever dreamed! He could bury his loot, taking enough to pay back the mobsters he owed, and return to collect his fortune. He and Lisa would rent a truck and drive to California where they could live like royalty!
Or would they?
Why would the Nazi’s be smuggling millions of dollars into America? And what would they do to him when that truck got further down the road and the henchmen discovered the missing crates?
“It’s queer,” Frankie decided, “phony money.” The Nazi’s had all the resources needed to produce very high quality counterfeit currency. They were attacking the US economy, trying to undermine confidence in paper money! It was an insidious and underhanded way to induce fear and mistrust in the population and lower the production and services provided by workers. As powerful as the US might be, this sort of warfare could cripple production and support for GI’s in Europe, as well as alliances and aid to other European allies.
Frankie suddenly realized he had committed the biggest blunder of all! He had stolen millions from the biggest mobster in the world! Worse, he couldn’t even give it back because the Nazi’s would not want their scheme made public before the currency had been distributed!
Frankie knew Tony, Sam, and Benny would be rough on him, perhaps even kill him, but he was as certain as he knew the sun was rising that the Nazi’s would make him wish he had never been born. Suddenly Frankie became aware the millions of dollars stacked before him would not lead to a life of ease and comfort. Instead, it meant a horrible, agonizing death.
Well, if he was going to die anyway, there was no need of him freezing to death. Frankie reached into his pocket and pulled out a paper book of matches from The Latin-Quarter Hotel. Soon, he would be very warm indeed.
* * *
The Germans did have a secret plot to counterfeit millions of five-pound notes and distribute them within the British economy, for exactly the reasons given above. The plot failed, however, and the British were able to destroy the money before it could be distributed.
I searched the Internet as much as possible, but was unable to learn if there were ever any plans or attempts by the Nazi’s to distribute counterfeit currency in America.