Chapter 8: St. Dominic

Okay, Duke Arlington. Head Scout for the Royals. Age 43. Southern California — born and raised. Had played right field with the LA Dodgers. I read several Dodgers blogs and columns and recaps. Arlington had been what insiders called a journeyman player. Astonishingly good to make it to the majors; but merely average once he got there.

I went back to my Fount of Sports Knowledge, Pat Hodges. She glanced at her watch — I was back on the $100-per-hour clock.

She sipped Henrietta’s Own, chewed her cigar, and said, “Played right field at Chavez. Good leather, average hitter. Had a two-forty something lifetime average. Lasted eight years in the Big Show. Decent speed, good range. Trouble hitting a curve ball. Most batters do.”

“Personal life?”

“Nothing anyone is chitter-chattering about. But I could ask around.” She got a faraway look for a moment, “Didn’t get along with his black teammates all that well. And, he did have a temper, back in his playing days.”



”Oh?”


“Got tossed a few times for arguing with the ump. Was one of the first ones out of the dugout when a brawl broke out.”

“A brawl?”

“It’s mostly posturing. A few wild swings, rolling around on the ground. Not many of those guys would make it to the second round in a boxing match. Let alone MMA.”

Pat saw the look on my face and explained, “Bare knuckle cage fights.”

“That’s a thing? Never mind. Okay, Arlington was good enough to make it to the majors. And then he stayed in baseball after.”

“A lifer. Cards hired him as a coach for the Springfield Cardinals.”

I said, “Triple-A?” to showcase my insider knowhow.

“Double-A. Let’s move.”

Up out of the booth, out the door, turn left, circle the block.

“Arlington has a good eye for talent. He spotted Simmons and Rodrigues before the Cards’ own scouts.”

“Springfield Cards?”

“No, the mother ship, St. Louis. That caught Chip O’Grady’s eye. He brought Arlington in five, six years ago. Pacific Rim scout, then Latin America, then Assistant Head Scout. Last year he moved Arlington up to general manager of Scouting and Player Development.”

“Head Scout.”

“Yep. Why do you care?”

I trusted Hodges. And not just because I didn’t have much choice. She was my guide through terra incognita.

“I saw Seaver and Arlington having a ... a not-friendly discussion.”

“What about?”

“No idea, but it’s the only off-thing I’ve come up with. I mean other than the betting stuff.”

“I can ask around about Arlington.”

Yes or no? If he’s involved, I couldn’t have word of even a preliminary look-see reach him. On the other hand, Pat Hodges thrived in a shadowy netherworld of insider information. She made her living, and kept her reputation, by piecing together tiny data points of facts, rumors, speculation.

I said, “Keep track of your hours.”

“Long as your checks clear.”

I was paying her from my own business account. And, after working with Gloria Allen out in LA, I was more financially meticulous than ever. Not that Emile Chanson ever commented. He just initialed my expense sheets and I passed them on to Edna, Dragon Lady # 1.

I learned early on not to fall into the trap of equating finding a potential lead with making progress on a case. Douglas ‘Duke’ Arlington may or may not be a person of interest. But he was my ‘maybe’ and I shifted my focus to him.

Working a case like the Royals, I look for a pattern. In order to recognize a variation, an anomaly. That front yard confrontation between Arlington and Seaver might have been innocuous. But the Seavers lived in an insulated world. Nodding acquaintances with their neighbors; what little socializing they did was within the Royals family.

Arlington wasn’t a neighbor; nor was he in their immediate circle of friends.

Over spicy chicken wings at the original Peanut, the one on Main, just south of the Plaza, I sent the Sullivans into the fray. Well, into ... um, snooping around.

“I’m interested in Arlington’s finances. Income, debts. And especially anything involving gambling. Whispers, rumors ... anything.”

Jessie and Jesse wore matching bare-midriff tops. For some reason, it looked good on Jesse. Skinny jeans, gleaming white sneakers. Their faces were smeared with grease from the wings. So was mine. I ordered a second pitcher of Harp and another side of fries. The Peanut had added some fire today.

Duke Arlington lived on the opposite side of the map from Sandy and Caitlin Seaver. East of Kansas City, in Independence. Truman’s home. Handy for The K.

Arlington was single. Again. Twice divorced — first wife in Los Angeles, replacement wife in St. Louis. Monthly alimony payments of $1,400 and $900 respectively. Jesse Sullivan said, “He was making more money as a player than a coach.”

Jessie, “But he’s doing pretty well as Head Scout. Over the years he’s gone from $49,000 up to $176,000 with bonuses.”

Jesse, “As he worked his way up the organization chart. Six years in all.”

Today we were between lunch and dinner services at BEAR’S. Sipping Cáliz de Luz, a nice red from Spain. Veggies and dips.

I said, “Bottom line?”

Jessie, “So-so to okay. Rents his house — $1,400. Car payments are just under $600. Owes a little over $4,000 on MasterCard and Visa.”

Jesse, “No significant cash withdrawals or deposits.”

Jessie, “Owes over nine hundred bucks at Ollie’s Liquors. Probably a boozer.”

Jesse nodded, “Probably.”

Back home from our Alaska saga, the AKA — Also Known As — schemes were still on Walker’s mind. Vanessa alerted me and we called a family meeting. At our beloved kitchen table. Early morning coffee and juice.

I said, “Walker.”

“What would have happened if we’d reported him to the ship? AKA?”

“What, put my hands around my mouth and yell, ‘Hey, ship, there are scams going on!’ Like that?”

“You know what I mean. Tell the money guy, the purser.”

“The pussy?”

“Winter.”

“Okay, let’s be practical. Think tactically. What, exactly, would I tell this purser?”

“Everything AKA is doing ... you know ... poker and the art bidding. And, and, that long con — the widow.”

“And don’t forget the fake accident.”

“Yeah, that too. And the stolen luggage.”

“Okay, let’s take ‘em one by one. Poker. No, wait. First thing you have to realize is that all of AKA’s crew came aboard separately. From different locations. So there’s nothing to tie them to each other.”

“So?”

“So the swindles that involved more than one person ... there’s no way to prove the scammers even know each other. Let alone worked together.”

“Oh.”

“Okay, back to poker. What do I tell this almighty purser? That a 60-year old woman won a lot of money from a guy who voluntarily entered the casino. Sat down at the Hold’em table, anted up, and played — and gambled — every night he was aboard?”

“Uh...”

“And that some of the time AKA was also playing. Did he win, lose? Break even? Did he know the winner? Also, now that I think about it, AKA would probably love to have the cruise line charge him for cheating at the poker table. That’s a lawsuit waiting to be filed.”

“Ah. So what about the lady ... the widow he was hustling?”

“Hello, Mr. Purser. I saw a guy with an elderly woman on his arm. He took her on land tours, out to dinner, dancing to one of the ship’s bands. Probably bought her drinks too. Oh, and I suspect that in a few months, he’ll be fleecing her.”

Walker frowned.

I said, “The accident? The woman with the neck brace. You can bet that a real doctor — one with no apparent AKA connection — diagnosed and treated her. Now how they’ll scam the X-rays in a later insurance lawsuit, I couldn’t say. But I will say that the purser — and everyone else connected with the ship — will want no part of challenging her injuries while she’s on board.”

“Yeah. Fuck.”

“Watch your mouth. What was the other? Oh, the art auction. The purser would be really fired up to learn someone bid on a piece and then got outbid. Dozens of people fall into that category. Happened every day on the cruise.”

“Yeah, yeah, I can see why it’d be ... pretty hopeless to report those things. Too ... vague.”

“Right. Now the one tangible act we saw was stealing luggage at the end of the trip. I suppose I could have charged after that fake bellman, yelling for the cops. Remember we were off the ship then, so it wouldn’t be directly connected to the cruise. Their liability ended when we walked off the gangplank.”

Walker sighed.

“And, if by some miracle, a cop was around, took an interest, and checked out the luggage cart?”

“What?”

“He’d find, or she’d find, a black man in a low-paying job who’d made a mistake. That he had legitimate claim checks for most of the bags.”

“Maybe I’ll become a con man.”

“Right.”

Well, another life lesson for Walker — things aren’t as black and white as they seem. What I didn’t tell him was that AKA had done Daddy a favor a little over ten years ago.

The mayor back then had appointed Homicide Captain Dave Jennings to head up a task force to catch a serial rapist who had graduated to murder during his last break-in.

Daddy had developed a network of ... cooperators over the years. Some gonifs, some jailbird rats, some favor-seekers, some con men. AKA didn’t ply his trade in Kansas City, but he owned some property, passed through a few times a year, knew people who knew people.

Most folks — men and women — who were on the con were resolutely non-violent. Brains rather than brawn. A deck of cards rather than a gun. And they didn’t like being around violent crime. Particularly high-visibility action.

AKA heard a whisper, passed it along to Daddy. It panned out and one more scrote was taken off the books. Did Daddy ever do a return favor for AKA? No idea. If he did, it would have been within Daddy’s own boundaries, his own personal code of ethics.

Which, had been bothering me lately. My own personal ethics, not Daddy’s.

Sometimes, late at night when I’m in bed alone, a visitor comes calling. Not an Avenging Angel, not exactly. But when I think of the shortcuts I’ve taken — snooping someone’s house for example — well, the Conscience of the Justice System murmurs in my guilty ear.

And Ms. Conscience would have a very large discovery motion to file in the court of ... decency.

Too often, what I know and what I can prove are unrelated to each other. And the extra-legal actions I’ve taken add up to a practice of denying a suspect his Constitutional privilege to a fair trial. Some of my transgressions, like sopping up the contents of someone’s laptop, are civil rights violations.

Now, am I able, eventually, to rationalize, to justify, my actions? Of course. I’m human, flawed, far from perfect. I was taking a baddie off the streets ... the end justifies the means ... I’ve saved future innocents from becoming victims.

Yet ... sometimes, late at night, all alone...

Ash didn’t agree with all of my two-part Grayhock plan. But half a loaf...

He called me, “Winter, we’re going to take a pass on the disinformation campaign. But we will donate the NATO ammo.”

“Thank you. The fake ancestry didn’t... ?”

“It could work. Might work. We might try it another time. But our exposure with the ammunition ... especially these days...” With the entire federal intelligence community under scrutiny. If not siege.

“I understand, Ash. What do you need from our end?”

“A coordinator. Someone behind the scenes.”

“Already in place.”

“Who?” Ash wasn’t going to approve a campaign like this without knowing all the players, all the details.

“Emile Chanson. He ... works with Bulldog Bannerman.”

“Bulldog.” Name carried some weight, even back in DC.

“Yes. And Mayor Lynch bought in. He’ll play his part.” Turning down the ammo donation because of its unsavory history. White nationalists.

Ash said, “And you’re staying out of it?”

“Yes. Promised my family.” Fingers weren’t crossed either.

Once he had given me the go-ahead, Ash said, “Deep background. Confidential.”

“Understood.”

“The Bureau is coming under increased scrutiny. Some influential congressmen are sharpening their knives.”

Right-wing antigovernment zealots. Ms. Inside the Beltway. Oops.

“During the last administration — Obama — and the current one, we blew it on domestic terrorism. After 9/11 ... well you know what almost all our focus was on.”

“Islamic jihadists.”

“With good reason. But we basically ignored the growing ranks of domestic terrorists.”

Like Aaron Grayhock.

“Winter, in the last fifteen years, the United States spent almost three trillion dollars on counterterrorism. From 2002 through ... let me see... 2017, Muslim extremists have killed about one hundred people in the US. Right-wing haters — white supremacists and the like — have killed around four hundred in the last ten years. And that’s just an estimate.”

“Why?”

“We, the federal government, we don’t even have a ‘domestic terrorist’ statute. And there’s a law enforcement failure all the way down to the city level to recognize white supremacists as a threat to society.”

“It that why local and state police sometimes just stand there and watch both sides fight it out?”

“Partly. And partly many cops see the antifa side as illegitimate. An out of control mob. A problem.”

“Oh.”

“But it’s even more of a concern here in DC. We simply don’t track hate crimes. We can tell you how many bank robberies there were, but we just don’t keep the stats on domestic terrorists. In 2016, almost ninety percent of the agencies that report to us, showed zero hate-crimes.”

“Is that changing?”

“A little. But we’re not keeping up. These days, the Internet is a boon for both the leftwing nut jobs and the far right. But especially the haters. Militia recruitment and paramilitary training videos are all over. Bomb-making.” He sighed, “Once Obama got the nomination ... things took off. Like, Stormfront drew in over thirty thousand new members after the inauguration.”

“The first major white-nationalist site.”

“Right. And that’s one we do know about. What we don’t know ... well, we don’t even know what we don’t know. Plus there are major civil liberties issues with surveilling social media. There aren’t that many pro-iSIS posters, but there are millions of haters out there. Racists, anti-Semites, homophobes, xenophobes...”

Ash was talking over the phone to me, but it sounded sort of like an internal dialogue with himself at the same time.

“Another concern the FBI has is in-house. Our counterterrorism units see domestic terrorism as a backwater. The glamour, and the advancements, come from international terrorism cases.”

Ash was telling me, without telling me, why he was authorizing the Kansas City operation. One reason, anyway.

Bulldog allowed me to sit in on the one Grayhock meeting that the mayor attended. The two weeks of prep time that involved the J. Edgar office, Sandra Fleming, and Emile Chanson had flown by. It seemed to me that the planning had been rather casual.

But Daddy told me, “They know what they’re doing. This is small potatoes to Emile. And it’s strictly a sidebar issue to the Bureau. If it works, fine. If Grayhock doesn’t bite, or if it goes south ... well, the federal connection will be so tenuous...”

“Deniability.” Like with the long-ago raid on the Gunther compound. No provable link back to Senator Wainwright nor to the FBI.

The mayor of Kansas City — Tom Lynch — was running for governor. He’d win the Democratic primary easily. He’d been a pretty popular mayor and there was no serious opposition. A couple of perennial candidates and one half-hearted write-in. None had a chance.

The general election would be a completely different matter. Tom was running in an increasingly red state. Not so red as Kansas, fucking Kansas, but Missouri was growing more conservative each year. Like a lot of the country that didn’t butt up against one ocean or the other.

So a lot of what the mayor did was filtered through a statewide political lens. He had studied the NATO ammo scenario from every angle. I hadn’t been there, but Bulldog had obviously given it a thumbs-up. If it worked, the anti-supremacist action would play well among suburbanites and other moderates. Some independents too.

The Neo-Nazis and their supporters wouldn’t vote for him in any case. If they even voted.

If my plan got fucked up — and what complicated scheme doesn’t have glitches? — the mayor’s original anti-ammo stance would have been reinforced. Or at least his political team and the generally sympathetic media would spin it that way.

Tom’s parting comment was directed to Emile, “Make it happen.”

Bulldog answered, “We will.”

Left unsaid at every meeting and conversation that I was part of ... the entire operation had been my idea.

Phase One of Operation Ammo went well. The mayor’s local political opponents fell for it. Rushed eagerly into the trap.

Sandra Fleming, representing the Federal Bureau of Investigation, held a well-attended eight o’clock press conference on a sunny Monday morning. With 500 or so stacked cartons containing a quarter of a million cartridges — NATO 5.56 rounds — as the backdrop.

“This ammunition was seized from a Neo-Nazi compound. Haters of democracy, haters of decency, haters of America. We’re pleased to donate these cartridges to the Kansas City Police Department for practice and training.”

Most of the questions were about the white supremacists and Sandra fielded them smoothly.

A small, sort of feel-good story.

Mayor Tom Lynch called his own press gaggle for 3 that afternoon. Plenty of time to make the six o’clock broadcasts. The mayor’s PR people had whispered in enough ears that word spread — something was up.

The mayor stood tall on the steps of City Hall, looking ... well, mayoral. “I thank — the City thanks — the FBI for their generous contribution. They do standup work, day in and day out. Most of us never hear the details of their heroic efforts in keeping this nation safe.”

Just as I was starting to think ‘too thick’, Mayor Lynch pivoted, “But Kansas City will not, can not in good conscience, accept ammunition tainted by its association with Neo-Nazis.”

He ignored the several shouted questions, “I thanked Special Agent in Charge, Sandra Fleming, for her charitable gesture. She and I agreed that Kansas City and the FBI will continue to work in harmony to make our communities the safest we can.”

The online reaction was almost instantaneous.

‘Mayor snubs FBI.’

‘Lynch administration turns back on police.’

‘How many will die when cops run out of ammo?’

The mayor and FBI let the pot boil all day Tuesday. Then held a joint press conference at City Hall on Wednesday. The president of every police organization in Kansas City and Jackson County stood on the steps. In solidarity. The KC Police Officers Association. FOP Lodge 99. Altogether, six independent organizations.

The City message — reinforced by the presence of the police — was clear. Mayor Tom Lynch has been an avid law enforcement supporter from his first day in office. Over both four-year terms, the annual police budget had increased by 37%. The largest of any major US city in a comparable time period.

Four of the six organizations endorsed Mayor Lynch for governor that day. The other two remained — as they had for decades — neutral.

Sandra Fleming expressed understanding and appreciation for the mayor’s stance. “Amnesty For All has agreed to take possession of the NATO cartridges until an agreement is reached with some other police department.”

The money shot: a smiling Sandra Fleming shaking hands with a beaming Tom Lynch.

The footnote: The ammunition would be temporarily stored in a warehouse in the Northland.

In bed with Vanessa, I was cradling her from behind. Both hands on her luscious breasts. I licked the back of her neck, whispered, “I almost lost it with Walker. On our cruise.”

She whispered back, “You mean... ?”

“Yeah, I almost let him. Wanted him to. In the moment.”

“I’m glad you didn’t. For his sake.”

I kissed her again.

She said, “But if you had, we’d have fixed it. Worked it out with Walker.”

I said, “Good thing I’ve been setting aside money for his future therapy bills all these years.”

Vanessa giggled.

Following my phone conversation with Ash, I consulted the Oracle. “Talk to me about criminal justice reform.”

“Front-end or back-end?”

“Huh?”

Gertie stirred her Tanqueray with her middle finger, “Okay Congress and the administration are talking about reform again. May just be lip-service, but at least they’re having Committee meetings.”

“Front-end reform?” Ms. Slow To Catch On.

“Some of both. As usual, the House and Senate aren’t in sync. Democrats, Republicans, Independents, doesn’t matter.”

“Okay.”

“The House is looking at the existing prison population — improving conditions, recidivism rates. The back-end. After they’re already in jail.”

“Well, that’s good, right?”

“Maybe. Depends. But they aren’t addressing draconian sentencing laws, the front-end. Here, the Senate is looking at a more sane approach.”

“Like what?”

“Reducing mandatory sentencing guidelines for some drug crimes. Giving judges more flexibility with nonviolent criminals.”

“Think anything will happen?” I refreshed her drink.


“I’m cynical. Like most folks. But the Fraternal Order of Police is in favor of legislative changes. Also the International Association of Police Chiefs, National District Attorneys Association. And other law enforcement organizations. The system is fucked these days, but maybe something will finally happen.”

Aaron Grayhock allowed Channel 4 an exclusive interview. White Patriots Day was a week from Friday. The television copter filmed around the perimeter of his farm — over a hundred men in paramilitary uniforms were marching, firing at shooting ranges, attending outdoor lectures. Most had brought wives or girlfriends. And children.

Hundreds more would drive to Kansas City from Missouri, Kansas, Iowa, and Nebraska on that Friday. The parade permits — KC, Independence, and Kansas City, Kansas — banned all weapons. That was true for all demonstrations, parades, festivals, but Aaron Grayhock played into it.

“Discrimination. Police state. You can look it up.” Bib overalls, plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Old Testament beard. Wad of tobacco.

Sandra Fleming told Daddy and me, “Grayhock plays the bumpkin, but he’s smart. Cunning. Media-savvy.”

And, Grayhock was a large man; six-three, almost three-hundred pounds. The cute blonde reporter, Cathy Cates, seemed tiny as she held her mic up to him. That massive billboard with a new sign from The Messenger:

‘Freedom Rises — White Patriots Day’. At the bottom, ‘Genesis 4:15’.

Cathy asked him the key question, the planted question, “What do you think about the mayor turning down all that FBI ammunition?”

“It’s not FBI ammo! It was illegally seized from private citizens. You can look it up. Deep State.”

“What sort of turnout are you looking for on Friday?”

“Just a few dozen. God-fearing Americans exercising their God-given rights.”

Sandra said, “He’s playing it down. Wants to make the demonstration seem massive. And spontaneous.”

Then Grayhock seemed to go off script. “I’m not an extremist. Take lynching. It’s illegal and should be.”

Cathy, “Really?”

He nodded that massive head. “I’m not filled with that kind of hate. I’m a segregationist — it’s God’s will and nature’s law. Keep the races separate. Separate but equal.”

“Nature’s law?”

“Negroes should have their own towns. Mexicans too. Like that. Chinks. But we can still work together, do a bit of this, a bit of that.”

Little Cathy stood taller, “Be out of my town by sundown?”

“Race mixing is unnatural. That’s why God gave us different skin colors. It’s nature’s way. You can look it up.”

Someone muttered, “Fucker.” Daddy patted my knee.

Amnesty For All was a recently formed splinter group. Started by the same leftwing factions that wanted to eliminate ICE. Well-intentioned? Maybe. Rational? Not very. Practical? Not in the slightest.

But they leapt at the offer to take possession of the NATO rounds. Free publicity for their nascent organization. Probably just local coverage, but that was better than nothing. And, if they could, they’d destroy every cartridge rather than let it ‘contribute to the unending cycle of violence ravaging our cities’.

Emile played their National Director like a ... well, violin. Mamie Travers would have been an anti-Vietnam protester had she been of age back in the day. But she didn’t dress like a hippie. The Boston native — parents were both professors at Taft University — dressed as if attending a Board meeting. Serious Hilary pantsuit, blouse buttoned to the neck. Flats.

Tortoiseshell glasses, although she didn’t need them. She wanted to project an air of authority; instead the 28-year old looked like a little girl playing dress-up. Earnest, solemn, scholarly. She wasn’t a poster-wielding shouter; Mamie was filled with intellectual rigor and fueled by unflinching righteousness.

Neither the mayor’s office nor the Bureau had had any previous interaction with the solemn, committed young woman. Nor with Amnesty For All. So they would, in theory, have plausible deniability.

Emile drove Mamie Travers across the Broadway Bridge, past Wheeler Airport, through North Kansas City, into what locals called the Northland.

She brought along two young men, a videographer and a publicist. The three of them probably formed a significant portion of the entire LA-based Amnesty For All personnel.

Emile unlocked the single pedestrian door to the smallish warehouse. “Henderson Storage has been family-owned for 37 years. They’ve agreed to store the ammunition for free. It shouldn’t be here that long anyway.”

Mamie, looking at the video camera said, “It should be destroyed. Let the people have their precious guns. See what good that does them without any bullets.”

Her PR guy yawned; a tired old argument.

Emile said, “Security is handled by NorthTown SafeGuards. They drive by every half hour or so.”

Mamie placed her hand on a carton. Still looking at the camera, “How many lives will be lost?”

Emile, staying out of camera range, pointed to the two roll-up doors on the loading dock, “The Hendersons added chain-lock security for the ammo. Usually they only store cleaning products.”

No one asked about alarms. No one noticed the extensive system of hidden video cameras placed inside and out. Covering the front and rear entrances as well as the four streets surrounding Henderson Storage.

Aaron Grayhock hit Henderson Storage on Sunday night, five days before White Patriots Day. The temptation — two pronged — was too much for him to ignore.

> Provide free practice ammo to the four-state visitors. Showing off, knowing word would spread to other compounds around the country. Grayhock was one survivalist whose actions spoke for the cause.

> Liberate property illegally seized by the fucking Feds.

The lookout for our side made the call at 2:14 in the morning to Emile Chanson and Sandra Fleming. “They’re inside.”

Of course it wasn’t Grayhock himself. A driver, four loaders, a two-and-a-half ton truck — Emile called it a deuce and a half. He had told me, “Each case has 25 boxes. 20 cartridges per box.”

I reached for my cell. Calculator. Emile said, “500 cases.” Fifty of them containing a surprise.

Later, at 1300 Summit, I watched the action captured by the interior cameras. The four men were efficient. Formed a line, passing each case from one to the other like a bucket brigade. The driver stacked them in the back of the truck. Eighteen minutes, plenty of time to miss NorthTown SafeGuards. Or for the security guards to miss them.

Sandra Fleming, video in hand, appeared before U. S, District Judge Elmer Hastings at 10 on Monday morning. He’d already been alerted and the search warrant was issued by 10:30. It was good through Thursday, one day before White Patriots Day.

Emile updated Daddy and me, “The FBI will wait to raid Grayhock.”

Daddy nodded, “Exploding dye packs.”

Emile smiled, a small, hard grin.

I said, “Any chance of legal blowbacks? A law suit?”

Daddy glanced at Emile; they both seemed amused. Daddy said, “Sandra and Ash would love for those scumbags to sue. Complaining that stolen goods didn’t meet expectations.”

He thought some more, “And to the FBI this is just a little neighborhood sting. Remember ABSCAM?”

“I think I read about it. Politicians?”

“Right. Compared with other FBI stings this is like a kindergarten kid snatching a ball during recess.”