“Of course you can,” I say, though I’m unsure exactly how to reclaim our daughter. Is it like a coat-check system? Do nurses give claim tickets every time they take your baby to the nursery? Or is retrieval conducted on the honor system, whereby you ask a nurse for your baby, and it’s magically delivered to you?
Tully steps into the room carrying a grease-stained paper lunch sack I assume holds a sandwich, condiments, maybe a bag of corn chips he may or may not share with Belinda. Something’s different about him, a businesslike courteousness that’s inconsistent with the image I formed of him yesterday. The clothes he wears today—a button-down white shirt and gray slacks—seem plucked from a different closet than the one that supplied yesterday’s dungarees and sweatshirt. He slaps me on the back and, straightening his gray-and-green-striped necktie, asks, “Hey, can I talk to you about something in the hallway?”
“You bet.”
There’s a bounce to Tully’s step as I follow him to the hallway. Rather than steering us to the comfy couches in the waiting area, he stops at a trash can across the nurses’ station. Mothers with their babies stroll around us. Tully drums his fingers against the glossy white wall. Though I have no doubt he could tell an entertaining story or two, he gazes at me as if he’s got weightier matters in mind.
“So what do you want to talk to me about?”
“I didn’t want to talk in front of the womenfolk. You know how they get.” No one is anywhere near us, but Tully looks over his shoulder as if to make sure we’re alone. “Now that we’re family, I need your help.”
Laurel’s warning about Tully being dangerous comes back to me. Something about his slippery grin, his cosmetically too-bright smile makes me think he’s about to ask something horrible of me. “Uh. Sure, Tully. What’s up?”
“Tull. With you and me, the name’s Tull. With everyone else, Tully.” He crosses his fingers together the way people do when hoping for luck, yet with him, it’s like he’s signifying the formation of a pact between us. “I respect you. You know what I mean? So I want you to call me Tull. Okay?”
“Sure, Tull. That’s mighty fine of you. Thanks.”
He nods, slaps my back, gauges my reaction. “Say, can I trust you? I can trust you, right?”
“Trust me: I’ve got nothing but Laurel and Anne Elise’s interests in my heart.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m not talking about them. I’m talking about me. What I’m asking is”—again he crosses his fingers—“now that we’re family, you’re going to be upfront, totally honest with me. I mean, you’re not some jack-off who’s going to piss me off something stupid, are you?”
“Tull. With you—especially with you—I’ll be upfront. Count on that. Seriously. You can trust me. Lots of people do. I make my living helping rich people park their money into solid wealth generators. If I ever screwed any of them, I’d be in jail by now. So you can trust me.”
Tully sucks down a breath of air. “Here’s the thing: I do all right making money—at least lately—but I’ve got zero investment smarts. So here’s where you come in: since you help rich people with their investments, help me with mine too. Okay?”
I feared this was going to happen—being hit up for free investment advice—but, frankly, I’m afraid of what he might do if I decline to help him. “Tull, what kind of investments do you want to make?”
Tully looks me in the eye. “The kind of investments that make money. Got it?”
“Tull. Please. You need to be more specific. Stocks, bonds, mutual funds, equity agreements, commodities, real estate—what are you comfortable with?” I ask.
Tully blinks, taps his fingers to the wall. A baby wails not far from where we stand, and Tully asks me to repeat myself. He’s what people in my profession would call a rube, but I’m not going to take advantage of him.
“Tull. You’re a smart man. Investments aren’t like horse races. You don’t just waltz up to the pari-mutuel window, slap down your money, and five minutes later when the race is over, collect your winnings. Even with a solid short-term investment, your money won’t be accessible for six to twelve months.”
“That long? Months?” Tully grimaces. “Can I just give you the money and let you take care of everything?”
“How much money are we talking about?”
Tully hands me his oil-stained paper lunch sack with a solemnity that makes me suspect there’s more than a ham sandwich inside. Holding the bag, my hands shake. He locks his eyes on me, and instantly I know a terrible secret of some kind lies within the bag.
“Go ahead. Open it.”
I peek inside. The bag is stuffed with hundred-dollar bills. Thousands of dollars’ worth of honest-to-goodness Benjamins. “Holy shit.”
Tully beams with pride. “Now you see why I wanted to talk to you in private?” The money smells like motor oil and battery acid, smells I’ve never associated before with currency. Every single note is covered with grease or discolored with caustic chemical substances. “I’ve been keeping it in my toolbox at the garage, earning zero interest on it, so I know you can do better than that.”
I’ve never seen so much cash stuffed into a bag before. “Are you a drug dealer or something?”
Tully’s eyes flare open. “It’s not nice to question a man’s livelihood. If we’re going to be doing business, I don’t need you asking questions. Got it?”
It takes me a moment to gather my wits and utter an apology. “Tull, I swear, I’ve never seen so much cash before in one spot. I’ve handled checks for millions of dollars, but it doesn’t have the same effect, you know? I mean, man, what I’m saying is that you’ve done real well for yourself.”
Again, Tully beams. “I have, haven’t I? You going to tell Laurel how well I’m doing?”
“Totally your call,” I respond, thinking this might be a trick question designed to test my loyalties. “I understand if you wish to keep this to yourself, but I’m sure Laurel would appreciate knowing how successful you’ve become.”
“Sure. What the hell. Let her know her old man is doing good. She’ll treat me with more respect this way.”
“That’s the ticket.”
“So you’re going to help me,” Tully says, tossing me the bag. “I want you to take this money and make me more money. Invest it like you think it needs to be invested. There’s something like ten thousand dollars in there, and I can probably get you some more fairly soon. Okay?”
What Tully’s asking—to parlay this bundle of undocumented under-the-table cash into bona fide fungible assets—is the textbook definition of money laundering, a violation of countless federal SEC statutes that could land my butt in jail, but it’s my suspicion that federal watchdogs are more adept at flagging multimillion-dollar laundering schemes than the small-potatoes ten-or fifteen-thousand-dollar stuff.
We head back into Laurel’s room, where Laurel and Belinda still chat about earrings, but though Laurel’s been awake for only an hour, she can barely stay awake. I’m about to disobey Laurel and fetch a doctor but am beaten to the punch when Lois Belcher, the lactation consultant, arrives. Immediately, she asks if Laurel’s all right. Has she been breathing well? Is she feverish? Does it still hurt around her episiotomy? To each question, Laurel shrugs, deepening Lois Belcher’s concern. She asks me how long Laurel’s been like this, and I tell her the truth: “Ever since giving birth, frankly.”
“You should’ve told someone she’s been like this,” Lois Belcher says. Until this moment, I haven’t seen her so cross. The astonishment I’d been feeling over Tully’s bag of dirty money dissipates. I tell Lois Belcher I suggested as much to Laurel, but Laurel told me not to bother anyone, which doesn’t impress the lactation consultant. She bends over and presses a button on the panel at the side of Laurel’s bed, summoning doctors.