Way Past Legal Read Online Free PDF Page B

is done. So the guy goes to someone like Buchanan, says, "I want a hundred and fifty regular and three and a half in cash." Okay? But it costs me a hundred and fifty thousand in legitimate dollars and four hundred thousand dirty ones. Plus, what the hell do I want with a candy store? Buchanan goes out and finds some guy who really does want it, maybe he offers it to the guy for something less than market value, say, four and a half. So, on paper, I bought something for a hundred and fifty grand, turned around and sold it to some other guy for four and a half. What I actually did was launder my money. I get my original hundred and fifty back, plus three hundred thousand more that I can put into the system in any fashion I choose, transforming myself in the process from a crook to a man of substance and independent means. I gotta pay some tax on the capital gain, but hey, I'm a citizen now, right? Buchanan gets a percentage, plus, you can be relatively sure he is screwing everyone involved, but that's not my business, and it beats the hell out of going to jail. It doesn't have to be a candy store, either, it can be anything from Liberian freighters to office buildings, and sometimes the deal can be ferociously complex. The only safe way through something like that is to be totally clear on your own end of it. Here's how much I give you in this form, here's how much I better get back from you in that form. You yield to temptation and get drawn in any further, especially if it has anything to do with real estate, you will get gutted like a fish.
     
     
Buchanan had an office in a suite with a bunch of other lawyers in a building right off Union Square. I don't know if he was partnered in with those other guys or if he was just a carbuncle on their ass. I don't know what any of the other lawyers did. He was in when I called, though, and he agreed to meet me at a coffee shop around the corner from his building. I got there ahead of time, sat in with a bunch of Jamaicans who were hanging on the corner across the street from the place. Buchanan showed up about five minutes late, looking like he always did. He was a pale white guy, always wore a three-piece suit, always, white shirt with French cuffs, tie, shiny shoes. His hands always shook, he sweated like a coolie even in the dead of winter, so much so that the collar of his shirt was always wet. He was deep into the process of drinking himself to death. Too bad. Smart bastard like him, you gotta wonder what he could have been, he didn't have that monkey on his back. I didn't see anybody following him, so after a few more minutes I crossed over.
     
     
I sat down across from him. He didn't offer to shake hands, and neither did I. "Hello, Michael."
     
     
"Mohammed. I heard you were dead."
     
     
"Did you really?"
     
     
"No. I did hear that there is a contract out on you. You and that Puerto Rican gorilla you run with."
     
     
"Wow." That was fast. "No kidding. How much?"
     
     
Buchanan laughed, shook his head. "You want me to find out?"
     
     
"No. I want to do a transaction, just like last time, only bigger. Two million, this time." The number did not impress Buchanan at all.
     
     
"How much time do we have?"
     
     
"I don't know. I'm not staying in town, I'm only in for the day. How much time you think you're going to need?"
     
     
He shrugged. "At least a couple of weeks, maybe more. I might be able to give you details in a few days. Is there someplace I can reach you?"
     
     
"No. I'll call you."
     
     
"All right," he said. He stood to go. No small talk for him. "Try me in about a week. Call me at the office, around ten. Call too early and I won't be there. I'm not always available after noon." He smiled once, a quick mechanical grimace, and he turned and walked out. He must have been getting worse. Last time I dealt with him he didn't start drinking until after five in the afternoon. That's the way alcohol addiction gets you, though, like a beaver working on