drove perfectly. The last five hours wouldn't end. I had to suck down these big, big breaths every inch of the way. What if I got busted now, with the money in my hands? The Texas plates were a long, long way from home. I could still easily get pulled over.
But I didn't get pulled over. I coasted up to my mother's house in the night, and Kate opened the front door as I did. She touched her finger to her lips when I walked in. "Everyone's sleeping," she whispered.
We tiptoed through the house to our room. Kate locked the door behind us. I looked at my baby asleep in her crib. I set the shoebox down on the bed.
I opened the lid.
There was the money.
I fell on my knees and pumped my fists. I let out a long and silent "Yeeeeeeeessssssss!" Kate and I leapt into each other's arms. Then we threw the money all around us in the room.
3 The Dark Mule
T HREE AND A HALF months later, I had a new career. I was a full-time drug mule. I'd done the run six times, always dropping off weight in Tallahassee, Sacramento, and Austin. Kate and I had nearly $175,000 in dirty drug money sitting in two anonymous safe-deposit boxes the size of microwave ovens at the Florida Vault Depository. Gone were the days when we'd kept $25,000 in a shoebox hidden under a pile of clothes in the dryer in the little house across town from my mother's that we'd since rented, another $25,000 in a plastic grocery bag under the pots and pans in the dishwasher. Safe-deposit boxes at banks were out of the question because you had to give them personal information to get one. Then I found the Vault Depository online.
It was in downtown Sarasota, five blocks south of the city jail, in a solid concrete building with a luxury antiques shop on the ground level. The entrance to the Vault was under a discreet awning on the side, like the doorway to a private club. First you were locked in a small vestibule facing a bulletproof glass window. When you punched in your secret code on a keypad, the guard behind the window looked up your account in his file. He'd pass you the sign-in sheet through the slot; you'd mark an X, a squiggle, whatever you liked; and he'd buzz you in through a thick metal door.
The guard's name was Dukeâit said so on the plate beneath his badge. He was burly and balding in a neat uniform, always polite, always kept the conversation on the weather. "Former law enforcement?" I'd asked him immediately. He'd shaken his head and said, "Nope." He never once asked me who I was or what I did for a living. He'd give a cookie to Romana that she'd grab tightly in her little fist, tell me how much she'd grown since the last time he had seen her. She was six months old now, a happy, baldheaded kid. Did he ever want to know my name, I sometimes asked Duke. He'd just shrug at me and say, "I'd only forget it."
The Vault wasn't a busy place; no one else was ever there. Inside, Duke would walk me down a carpeted hallway, lined with framed oil paintings of thoroughbred racehorses, and let me in through a last metal door. In the steel-lined vault itself, I'd put my keys in the slots of my boxes, Duke would put his in beside mine, the little metal doors would swing open, and he'd leave me alone with whatever it was I had.
What I had was cash, hundreds of bundles of tens and twenties folded in half and secured with a rubber band, each bundle a thousand dollars. I'd put one heavy box on the rolling cart they had there, then the other box, lift Romana in her car seat onto the cart, and wheel us into the counting room like we were going grocery shopping. I called it the counting room because I liked to count my money in it, but it was really just a small room with a locking door where the clients could have privacy with their things. It was always silent and peaceful inside the Vault, no more so than in that little room. Duke had told me when I'd first checked the place out that they'd put so much reinforced concrete into the building, it would survive a category 5
But I didn't get pulled over. I coasted up to my mother's house in the night, and Kate opened the front door as I did. She touched her finger to her lips when I walked in. "Everyone's sleeping," she whispered.
We tiptoed through the house to our room. Kate locked the door behind us. I looked at my baby asleep in her crib. I set the shoebox down on the bed.
I opened the lid.
There was the money.
I fell on my knees and pumped my fists. I let out a long and silent "Yeeeeeeeessssssss!" Kate and I leapt into each other's arms. Then we threw the money all around us in the room.
3 The Dark Mule
T HREE AND A HALF months later, I had a new career. I was a full-time drug mule. I'd done the run six times, always dropping off weight in Tallahassee, Sacramento, and Austin. Kate and I had nearly $175,000 in dirty drug money sitting in two anonymous safe-deposit boxes the size of microwave ovens at the Florida Vault Depository. Gone were the days when we'd kept $25,000 in a shoebox hidden under a pile of clothes in the dryer in the little house across town from my mother's that we'd since rented, another $25,000 in a plastic grocery bag under the pots and pans in the dishwasher. Safe-deposit boxes at banks were out of the question because you had to give them personal information to get one. Then I found the Vault Depository online.
It was in downtown Sarasota, five blocks south of the city jail, in a solid concrete building with a luxury antiques shop on the ground level. The entrance to the Vault was under a discreet awning on the side, like the doorway to a private club. First you were locked in a small vestibule facing a bulletproof glass window. When you punched in your secret code on a keypad, the guard behind the window looked up your account in his file. He'd pass you the sign-in sheet through the slot; you'd mark an X, a squiggle, whatever you liked; and he'd buzz you in through a thick metal door.
The guard's name was Dukeâit said so on the plate beneath his badge. He was burly and balding in a neat uniform, always polite, always kept the conversation on the weather. "Former law enforcement?" I'd asked him immediately. He'd shaken his head and said, "Nope." He never once asked me who I was or what I did for a living. He'd give a cookie to Romana that she'd grab tightly in her little fist, tell me how much she'd grown since the last time he had seen her. She was six months old now, a happy, baldheaded kid. Did he ever want to know my name, I sometimes asked Duke. He'd just shrug at me and say, "I'd only forget it."
The Vault wasn't a busy place; no one else was ever there. Inside, Duke would walk me down a carpeted hallway, lined with framed oil paintings of thoroughbred racehorses, and let me in through a last metal door. In the steel-lined vault itself, I'd put my keys in the slots of my boxes, Duke would put his in beside mine, the little metal doors would swing open, and he'd leave me alone with whatever it was I had.
What I had was cash, hundreds of bundles of tens and twenties folded in half and secured with a rubber band, each bundle a thousand dollars. I'd put one heavy box on the rolling cart they had there, then the other box, lift Romana in her car seat onto the cart, and wheel us into the counting room like we were going grocery shopping. I called it the counting room because I liked to count my money in it, but it was really just a small room with a locking door where the clients could have privacy with their things. It was always silent and peaceful inside the Vault, no more so than in that little room. Duke had told me when I'd first checked the place out that they'd put so much reinforced concrete into the building, it would survive a category 5
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