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Driving back to the office, the middle-aged woman remained at her desk, occupied with her work.
Tom invited the guest to sit before casually grabbing an old backpack. He emptied its contents, handed it to Henry, and said, "Use this to carry your money—you can keep the backpack."
Henry looked puzzled. "Why switch?"
Tom replied, "When bank customers withdraw cash, the bank often gives them a special bag. Carrying one of those signals, 'I've got money—come rob me.'"
Henry frowned. "Is the bank in league with criminals?"
Tom shook his head. "No, it's not corruption. It's just that whoever carries that bag is a prime target. Only clueless beginners would use it."
He leaned forward. "George vouched for you. I don't want you robbed on your way out—that'd be my fault."
Henry understood. He didn't transfer the money; he stuffed the conspicuous bank-issued bag into the backpack Tom offered. Its appearance didn't matter now—only discretion did.
When he finished, Tom tapped the table. "Now that you've withdrawn the money, let's talk business. My fee for handling the paperwork and procedures is two thousand."
Henry's eyes widened. "Two thousand! That's cheaper than I expected. These are real documents, right—not fakes?"
Tom smiled knowingly. "Believe me, real documents cost less than fakes. Most people can't get them—not because they're expensive, but because they don't know who to ask or how to get them.
"The law creates opportunities for those who understand it. Walk the right path, and you don't have to waste money. Unfortunately, few share what they know—after all, who's obligated to help others for free?"
He leaned in and said softly, "They say the path to money is written in criminal law—or maybe it's wrong. Wrong because illegal money is profitable, sure—but it comes at a price: fear of being caught.
"And right within a certain context—unless you're playing a high-stakes game, that money is insignificant. Could an average person rob a bank and walk away with a hundred million without being chased by the police? No way."
Henry nodded, unfazed. He'd heard enough to understand the stakes. Better to stay unnoticed than make waves.
"Let's move on," Tom said. "What can I help you with?"
Henry took a deep breath. "Are there car rental companies here? I'd like to rent a car."
Tom shook his head. "Not in town. You'd have to go near Hooper Bay Airport to find private rental services. Why not buy a car instead? Rental is for tourists—and expensive."
Henry admitted, "I plan to try my luck in Hollywood after crab season."
Tom chuckled. "Dreaming big, huh?"
Henry nodded. "Maybe I'm chasing fame. Or just want to see the world. I won't stay long. Buying then selling a car feels like a hassle."
Tom nodded in understanding. "If you listen to one piece of advice from me, buy the car. Without a bank account, you don't want to walk through airport security with that bag."
He pointed to the old backpack.
"The ferry's a better option than the airport. You can drive your car onto it and have it wherever you land. Saves time and hassle."
Henry raised an eyebrow. "Airport security's an issue for domestic flights, too?"
Tom shrugged. "You never know how authorities use their power. Smart people avoid trouble. The ferry's simple—buy a ticket, drive on, then drive off at your destination. Even carrying explosives—you just don't detonate them on board."
He paused. "The only downside is it takes longer. If that's a problem for you—fine. But that's my advice."
Henry mulled it over. "Alright, then—help me buy a car. Or tell me where I can find a used‑car lot."
Tom grinned. "What do you need?"
"Four wheels—and runs on gasoline," Henry answered.
Tom laughed and tossed a car key to him. "The used‑car lots here sell junk. You should take this."
Henry frowned at the key before glancing at Tom.
Tom continued, "That's a Cadillac DeVille—a '65 classic. Who wouldn't want this? And there's a benefit."
Henry, unimpressed, asked, "What benefit?"
Tom leaned in. "Look at the license plate. Patrol officers on the road won't stop you. If they do, just say old Tom is handling the paperwork. They'll leave you alone."
Henry accepted the key in silence.
Tom leaned back, folding his arms. "Anything else I can help with?"
Henry shook his head. "No, that's everything."
Tom smiled, satisfied—perhaps from handing over his old Cadillac, or simply because the consultation had paid off handsomely.
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