In the nineties I covered a Chicago-area press conference held to announce a successful drug raid. Back-slapping officials took turns making statements at a lectern next to a table bearing the usual assortment of guns and knives. The drugs were elsewhere, but the display included a shrink-wrapped pile of cash about the size of my Sony Trinitron. A half-million, I think.
For months afterward all of my job-escape fantasies involved stumbling upon shrink-wrapped money. Hiking in the woods, say. Or in the trunk of the Rent-a-Wrecks I was fond of.
Both scenarios were plausible. Narco pilots were known to heave bundled money from Cessna windows if being pursued, and Rent-a-Wreck was notorious for barely cleaning its returned cars. I once picked up a dented Corsica and the passenger side floor was covered with M&Ms. Hard to overlook, one would think, against dirty blue carpet.
Psychologically, the shrink-wrap was key. If I had found an envelope or bank deposit bag stuffed with money, I would have felt duty-bound to look for the owner. But shrink-wrapped cash is tainted cash, and fair game.
Alas, the closest I ever came was a twenty-dollar bill used as a bookmark in a library copy of “London Fields.”
