Marching Powder

This week’s new flash is a Thanksgiving crime caper.

Marching Powder

Ernie needed to move ten kilos of China White, street value $2 mill, give or take. And he needed to do it fast. That junk needed to be humped across the Hudson for street distribution, pronto. The DEA knew he had it. Not knew in the “can get a warrant” sense but knew as in just God-damned knew it. They camped outside the Galileo Club where he had it stashed and waited to stop or follow any vehicle or heavily laden pedestrian exiting therefrom. There was no such egress as far as they could see.

As his predicament lingered, late November beckoned, and Ernie’s thoughts turned to his crew. The boys had worked hard all year and deserved a treat. Maybe he could kill two birds with one stone, he thought, and get this stuff delivered. Otherwise, there would be nothing but coal in his stocking this year. And maybe a bullet.

Ernie contacted his cousin Frazz who worked at Macy’s. Frazz had been there a long time. So long that he qualified for the plum assignment of inflating and escorting the balloons for the famous annual turkey day parade. Ernie finagled some gift cards for his crew as a reward for stalwart service and talked a little business with his cuz.

A couple days hence, ten of Ernie’s lieutenants exited the club, one at a time, all eventually headed for the world’s most famous department store. Apparently to do some shopping. Nothing unusual to the observing Feds whose wire had picked up chatter about the gift certificates. As the guys were clad for the season in bulky overcoats, nobody could notice that each had secreted under his parka a valuable two-pound brick of smack.  

Thanksgiving came and went, and the drug police had yet to see any sign of suspicious movement from Ernie’s headquarters. Until they received a frantic call from their colleagues across the river. The Jersey division was reporting that their informant told a tale of a $2 million heroin shipment recently received into and moved quickly onto the street from a warehouse in Newark. A Macy’s warehouse. Per the report, the space is only accessed during one two-day period each year. To retrieve and then return the balloons from the parade. Which is why it was not among the usual storage spaces being watched. It looked like there would be little to be thankful for this season for the hoodwinked narcotics surveillance squad while they passed the stuffing and cranberry.

Ernie stopped by the Herald Square landmark with the kids to see Saint Nick and to thank his cousin. And pay him his considerable share.

“Who’d have thought it, Ern.”

“Any trouble?”

“Nah. Easy to bring the stuff with me uptown to the inflation site, hidden among all the pumps and sandbags we use to hold down the inflated balloons. We pump ‘em up the night before and watch overnight. After everyone else went to sleep, I slipped away. To check for leaks I would say if caught. Lifted the flap and slid in the packages. Didn’t show a bit. 20 pounds doesn’t move the needle on a balloon that size.”

“The Pillsbury Doughboy?”

“Yeah, I wanted to choose one of the older ones, less popular. Spider-Man or Sponge Bob would have drawn more attention. Plus, old Pop-n-Fresh is the right color for hiding clear bags of white powder. So, your goods hitched a ride in the sky all the way down Broadway. Right in front of God and Al Roker and everyone else.”

“And then safe and sound back into the Garden State warehouse after you let the air out. An easy break-in for my associates after that. Not a location on anyone’s radar.”

“Easy as taking candy from a baby. Nose candy.”

“That’s cocaine, Frazz. Anyway, we pulled it off, but I think I’m out of the drug biz after this. Too stressful. Agents buzzing like flies. One broken bag and the Doughboy’s leaking flour all over the parade grounds. I’ll find some other racket.”

“How you gonna quit?”

“How else, on a day we are still plowing through Thanksgiving leftovers.” Ernie laughed counting out the hundos. “Cold turkey.”