It was raining outside of Puffy’s. No surprise. It had been raining all over the city for the last four days. When it slowed to a sprinkle, people pretended the sun was out, closed their umbrella and acted like they were dry. Except for Ron Guerriero. He was hardly wet at all, sitting ina car in a parking lot on the east side of Worth Street, watching the corner of Hudson and Harrison.
Ron had been there for about four days, passing the time with Harold. Happy actually. harold was the given name, picked by his parents after some British prime minister in order to give him a chance to to ge ahead. So here was Harold sitting in a car with rain pouring outside watching a street corner. Hardly a parent’s idea of a success story.
This was the corner where Tony Cavaliere was waiting for the latest hustler in New York City who was trying to make it quick and easy. he stiff had been moving fake money, not bad stuff, but clearly not good enough to fool any unersover cop, seasoned hooker, grisly bartender or counterfeit agent, of which Tony was.
For about seven weeks the word ringing in the ears of Ron and his squads was that there were some new 50s coming in. Good quality, of course. Source unknown, of course. They had grabbed several in Boston, some more in Philadelphia, Baltimore and Miami but no one was talking.
The bills looked sharp and clean and Ulysses Grant never looked more handsome. The rag paper wa the real stuff, complete with the red and blue security fibers, and the Great Seal of the U.S. was in perfect detail.
But the serial numbers had only two sets and the ink of the fronts of the bill was different from the real juice. From what Happy’s trained eye had told Ron when some samples had arrive, the bills had been washed. It was a modern day version of spinning straw into gold: in this cases, it was turning one dollar bills into fifties. Martha Washington would be very miffed to fund that her gentleman husband was reappearing as a rouge.
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