Bruce Wagner - Memorial

AT midnight, they drove to Morongo in relative silence, with Laxmi, her face gone puffy, snorting and snuffling. They sat in the hotel parking structure before leaving the Benz 500 cocoon. She told Chess what she saw.

Maurie’s eyes were open but didn’t “track.” When she leaned over he seemed to focus, but couldn’t, and didn’t try to speak. His eyes welled up but Laxmi said she wasn’t sure if that was related to anything. She wiped them with a Kleenex. “The ducts might just have been leaking”— Chester, he looked so awful! Then she said she thought for a second that he may have been looking at her and asking for help…trapped in his body…Oh! Oh God! Oh God!—

Chess heard himself say, No, involuntarily.

He didn’t want to hear any more.

They went to the suite but couldn’t find his wallet. Laxmi said she’d go down and get everything from the locker. Chess said the place was closed and they could do it in the morning. She started to cry again. She said that while they were waiting in the ER she read an article about a 35 year old African elephant called Wankie who died after being transferred, over the objections of animal rights people, from the San Diego Zoo to Salt Lake City. The article said she “collapsed in a metal crate somewhere in Nebraska”—the 3rd elephant to die after being moved from the Wild Animal Park. Laxmi sobbed, screaming about how Wankie’s last hours were spent surrounded by 20 zoo workers and vets as she rested in a sling and they massaged her legs, warming the helpless animal with water.

“Then they executed her!” she said, almost gleefully, her face crushed and distorted, the grin fractured and perverse.

Chess was stoned — on top of the pills, they smoked a roughly rolled joint right when they got to the room — and before he knew it, Laxmi stripped off her clothes. He thought she was going to take a shower but instead she began to unbuckle his belt. They shagged on the shag, abrading themselves.

He split the cicada, mounted the tortoise, fluttered the phoenix, and monkey-attacked—

In praising unions of the left hand, the Chandogya Upanishad says that the woman’s call is the prelude, lying beside her the invocation, penetrating her sex the offertory, and ejaculation the final hymn.

RUDDY Marone was a lot like his name. His silver hair and polite, cowboy demeanor reminded her of the movie star Jeff Chandler. She told him so, and Marj thought he’d probably never heard that. There weren’t too many people left who remembered Jeff Chandler.

Agent Marone said that the FBI, in cooperation with “LAPD Fraud,” had been tracking “ ‘Mr Weyerhauser’ and his gang” for well over 10 months. (Of course Weyerhauser was an AKA.) He told her she hadn’t been the 1st victim of the Blind Sisters lottery scam and probably wouldn’t be the last, bluntly adding that he wasn’t sure how much, if any, of her “funds” could be recovered. He was still confident they “had a pretty good shot” because the “noose was tightening on Mr Weyerhauser and his merry band of thieves.”

Bonita Billingsley — another alias — was part of the group, and Marj found herself strangely fascinated. Malone showed her a book of deglamorized mugshots, photos taken from earlier arrests in different states. They looked like common criminals. They had “played this game before,” he said, and were good at it. Over the next few days, the agent got a wealth of details from Marjorie about the gang’s MO. She showed him the ornate check that had been issued to her, Lucas’s business card (she still called him that; couldn’t help herself), and the various papers she had signed, papers with personal information the agent said had actually given them open access to her banking accounts. The old woman wanted to know about the original draft she had made, for more than $11,000. It was written to the State of New York — how could they have cashed it? He told her they probably hadn’t, and that it was “bait.” For them, it bought their trust and at the same time “gave them further insight to your liquidity.” Malone assured that he had already been in touch with the folks at Wells Fargo. She was finally able to tell him about the shopping trip with Bonita and the fiasco at Spago. She felt so ashamed, but it was good to be able to talk to someone. He had heard it all before yet retained his sympathy and compassion. He said that his mother was around her age.

The scenario she described was basically the same they employed with other victims. One thing puzzled him, though. Usually, “Mr Weyerhauser, et al” pressed their “marks” for more money — if the well hadn’t run dry, they’d find a way to “dip their bucket.” In Marjorie’s case, it seemed the gang stopped short, which seemed “irregular.” They were outrageously bold, almost recklessly so, and in the agent’s experience, grew bolder upon sensing the law closing in — almost a way of tweaking their noses at Marone and his men.

“Aside from the big check you wrote, did he ask for any more monies?”

“I don’t think so.”

She was confused. Which check was he talking about?

“The one for $565,000.”

That just didn’t sound right. Could it have been so much?

She blanched, feeling the fool again. He picked up on that, handing her the glass of water that sat on the table.

“I know this is difficult, Mrs Herlihy. But I think you should consider yourself lucky. Most of the time these people prefer wire transfers — the money is then laundered overseas. They have electronic mail-drops where nothing can be traced. This particular group of individuals is off the charts in their degree of sophistication. Very creative. And they clearly enjoy their work! That’s why I’m so anxious to get my hands on them — I enjoy my work as well, and they’re going to find out just how much, believe me. Now, it’s fairly unusual that our ‘Mr Weyerhauser’ didn’t become more aggressive about getting a hold of the remainder. (And believe me, they knew exactly what you had, to the penny.) They call that the ‘reload.’ That’s the parlance. And that they didn’t, I think, shows a fair measure of desperation — which is good. But not so good in terms of our catching up with them. I’m worried that they’ve skipped town; maybe even the country. I haven’t put all the pieces together, but one of our main concerns is that he may have learned we were getting extremely close to an arrest. In that case, our ‘Mr Weyerhauser’ may have sped things up a bit. Cut his losses, so to speak. But, I want to stress, compared to some of the other marks I’ve spoken to — and remember, these are well-educated people, just like yourself — you, Mrs Herlihy, are one of the lucky ones.”

“I don’t feel very lucky!” she said, with a gracious smile.

“I didn’t mean that to sound the way it did. And I shouldn’t have said ‘mark.’ It’s a lousy word.”

“Oh, that’s all right!”

“Is there anything I can do, to help you out? I mean, aside from finding the sonofabitch, pardon my French.”

“Well…I haven’t told my daughter yet. I’ve been wanting to call, but I’m just — so— embarrassed.”

“What’s your daughter’s name?”

“Joan. She’s an architect.”

“Would you like my professional opinion, Mrs Herlihy?”

“Yes!”

“I think you should call her. I think you could use all the help and support that’s available, and much of that will come from family. Your daughter is going to have a measure of sophistication and… objectivity —and believe me she is going to want to help — that’s what family is for. You need to know that what happened to you happens to thousands of good people each year. It’s pandemic. And you have to remember it’s the other guys who are bad. You didn’t do anything wrong, Mrs Herlihy. All you did was hope, and trust. So: make the call. Don’t leave your daughter out of this, you can’t afford to — and I don’t mean financially.” He stood. “And not to worry. We’ll catch these guys.”