Moon Underfoot (9 page)

Jenkins was known as Levi by everybody, but his momma insisted on calling him by his full name, Leviticus. He was from a wide spot in the road in Monroe County, Mississippi, called Becker Bottom. He perpetrated his illegal activities only on the unsuspecting folks in the surrounding counties—never in his own. It was one of a few codes that he followed. Levi was a two-bit hustler whose initial crimes were mostly scams. His most successful con to date was selling hot tubs and television satellite systems to folks who lived far out in the country. He convinced his unsophisticated victims to make deposits either in cash or by check written to him personally. No spa or dish deliveries were ever made. He had not graduated to violent crime just yet, but he was heading down that path with the allure of drug money—which his half brother, Moon Pie, was blazing.

Like many small-time criminals, he loved to talk about his conquests, embellishing the stories when the truth sounded just as good, maybe even better. Levi Jenkins told so many lies that he could hardly remember the truth.

When the jailers moved Levi into the main population, a huge guy accosted him—the common-law husband to a girl Levi had once dated. The mountain of a man had endured years of being compared to Levi’s two redeeming qualities: he was a big spender, and he was otherwise well gifted. Levi would spend his last cent to impress a date with expensive dinners, movies, concerts, gifts, and flowers. He would also listen to every story and
small detail his date wanted to discuss. This and his other “characteristics” were endearing.

When Levi’s ex-girlfriend’s huge husband saw Levi, all he wanted to do was punch him in the mouth. Levi sensed the danger, but there was no way to retreat. After a few minutes of increasing tension between the two of them with each unanswered threat, Levi finally had to fight. The promise of violence fueled the other prisoners’ enthusiasm as they cheered and jeered from their cells. In short order, Levi had his ass handed to him. He had a bloody nose and a cut under his left eye, and was nearly unconscious from a relentless chokehold before the guards rushed in to stop the one-sided fight.

The guards aggressively and effectively subdued Levi and his huge foe, making sure neither one had any more fight left in him. When Levi tried to stand without permission, an older guard kneed him in the groin, even though it was immediately obvious to everyone that Levi wasn’t going to cause any more problems. Levi’s enormous assailant loved the outcome. While Levi rolled on the nasty jail floor, two suddenly sober University of Alabama fraternity brothers huddled in a corner vowed to never drink again.

The sheriff shouted obscenities at the top of his lungs as he hurriedly entered the jail block, angry that his men had momentarily lost control of the prisoners. When he saw the situation, he knew any lawyer could successfully challenge the guards’ reaction to the fight. He loathed lawyers. His day had just gotten complicated, and the handling of what he assumed to be an irrelevant prisoner had just become a nightmare.

Writhing in intense pain, Levi swore to himself to never be incarcerated again. Grimacing, he obeyed the deputies who pulled him to his feet.

J
AKE SAT AT
his cubicle and allowed the Internet to answer a few questions about Samantha Owens. He felt sneaky doing it, but no one in Jake’s circle of office friends knew her. There wasn’t much information available. She had gone to college at the W in Columbus. She had earned her law degree at Ole Miss and just recently had passed the bar. Her Facebook page was blocked. There really wasn’t much more information available. She wasn’t listed as a member of any law firms in Columbus. That seemed odd.

Jake got his morning started by checking a waterfowl-migration map online and a few select stocks that were anticipating bad news while he waited for eight fifteen to arrive so he could make the call.

“Law office,” a cheery voiced answered after four rings.

“Samantha Owens, please,” Jake stated.

“May I tell her who’s calling?” the cheery voice responded.

“Jake Crosby. I’m a broker with Morgan Keegan.”

“Hold, please.”

Jake refreshed the satellite image page that followed a radio-collared mallard drake that was currently just north of Memphis, heading south.

“This is Samantha Owens,” a similarly cheery voice said, very businesslike. She sounded younger than he was, but it was hard to tell.

Jake paused as he smiled and wondered if she was answering her own phone calls, “Ms. Owens, I’m Jake Crosby. How are you today?”

“I’m well, thank you.”

“Good. I must admit you’re a new name around here.”

“I just moved back to the area,” she responded, careful not to tell too much. She didn’t trust men. “What can I do for you, Mr. Crosby?”

“Yesterday I met with Walter Severson about me helping manage his excess cash reserves and…well, he gave me your name and said his foundation was just getting established and that you could help me.”

“That is correct. He hired me to start a foundation, but it’s not operational yet.”

“I see. He indicated that he had the money but it was all cash. Since we can’t take cash deposits here, I was hoping you could give me an estimated time that you think the foundation would be active.”

“Mr. Crosby—”

“Please call me Jake,” he interrupted.

“And you can call me Sam. Jake, it is going to be at least a week before the foundation’s legally on its feet. We still have a lot to do. Mr. Severson and his friends are retired gentlemen with a lot of free time to dream and wish and hope, but they’re gonna have to let the paperwork catch up to them.”

“I understand. Well, as soon as you can cut checks, I’d appreciate a call so we can get his brokerage account set up.”

“I’ll do that…and…if you know anybody needing an attorney, please remember me,” she shamelessly pleaded. Sam was also relieved to have somebody participating in the foundation who sounded somewhat normal.

“Yes, ma’am,” Jake responded politely. “Somebody around here always needs a good lawyer…and besides, you have such a nice-sounding receptionist.”

Sam blushed and moved the phone to her other ear. “Could you tell?”

“I had an idea.”

Sam laughed at herself and her attempt to impress. “We’re pretty new around here. My actual secretary is a single mom, and there’s a big play at her daughter’s school today.”

“No need to explain or be embarrassed.”

“Thank you. It’s been difficult getting established. Oh, one thing you mentioned—something about cash being a problem.”

“That’s right. We can’t take cash to open an account. As I’m sure you’re aware, financial transactions are no longer private, since banks and brokerage firms now have to comply with what’s called suspicious-activity reports, which basically obligate banks and brokers like me to report transactions that could be considered suspicious or over ten thousand dollars, but for the most part, all financial businesses, even precious-metal dealers, report every transaction over five thousand. It’s a nightmare, and if I don’t report it, I’m the one who gets in serious trouble. Big Brother is watching. At any rate, the tax issues are probably going to be the worst part of it, though.”

“I hadn’t fully considered all that.”

“You need to find a good community banker and tax attorney. They can help.”

“Thank you, Jake. I’ll be in touch.”

“Sure. Just have your secretary call my secretary,” he quipped and heard her laugh.

W
ALTER WASN’T AN
hour into his second shift since the heist when he knew something was amiss. The store associates’ attitudes were notably different. A cashier carefully whispered that the manager had been in meetings all day, and she had heard a rumor that he was going to be fired. Everyone was on their best work behavior. The young, big-breasted, tattooed cashier who the manager had been lusting over was visibly upset. She’d been crying. Walter thought the store hadn’t operated this efficiently since he began working there.
Hell, I might have even done Kroger a favor
, he rationalized.

Walter did feel bad for what he had done to Kroger, even though their business insurance would likely cover the loss. Most people didn’t realize how philanthropic the company was within their respective communities and that they were the number-two retailer in the country. Walter figured that given the right setting, pitched to the right Kroger executive, they probably would donate to his foundation as much as he had stolen, provided the foundation was legit. Right now, however, he didn’t have the time or the life expectancy for legit. If the foundation ever got cash flush, he’d pay back the grocery giant. Kroger had a secret IOU with his foundation. That thought made him smile.

During Walter’s shift, as he helped customers find the correct aisles for products they needed and straightened the blue buggies, he marveled at how his group of old-timers had pulled off the theft. Their plan to steal no more than two-thirds of the cash from the weekend bank deposit had worked for two reasons. First, the deposit initially appeared to be intact, and it would take some time to determine exactly what was missing; and second, the manager had created the perfect opportunity by concentrating on the stripper giving him lap dances in the back office—the private bump and grind necessitating the temporary disabling of the office’s security cameras.

Walter had studied the store’s timing. He knew when and where the money moved, when the dances occurred, and, most importantly, when the security system went down.

As a trusted associate and because of his age, Walter was almost invisible to the other employees. His most valuable attribute was that he was trusted. He could go anywhere without question. Early in his tenure, Walter had ingratiated himself to management by always running errands for the manager and assistant manager and doing odd jobs away from work; consequently, it was not uncommon for him to be around when receipts were tallied.

That busy weekend’s sales receipts, including cash, were piled on the manager’s desk, to be organized and counted, and then picked up by armored truck on Monday. Sunday evenings were prime lap-dance times, since the manager’s wife would be at church. After the stripper slipped out the rear door and the manager went to the restroom, Walter simply walked into the office carrying an empty barbecue-grill box and hurriedly filled it with most of the cash. He carried the box to a concealed space behind several pallets of merchandise, and with a big yellow label, he identified the box as being customer pickup to ensure that no one would attempt to put it back into stock. He then placed the box in the appropriate spot in the hold bin and returned to bagging groceries.

Earlier that morning, Lucille had purchased the last matching grill with cash and then returned it late that night, complaining that it was missing the bottom grate and the handle. As if they had read the script, customer service paged Walter to exchange it, which he did with the one stashed in the back. When he returned to the customer-service counter, Sebastian was pitching a fit about some incomprehensible injustice that completely overwhelmed the manager and the customer-service staff. When the customer-service representative saw that the grill boxes were the same, with Walter holding the receipt, she waved the old woman through without a second glance. The automatic doors opened, and the cash went out.

Walter had almost headed straight to the back to take a blood pressure pill. He could feel his pulse in his ears, which had begun to ring. That didn’t bother him; he hadn’t felt so alive in years, maybe ever. He certainly hadn’t felt this alive since his daughter’s murder.