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“Yes, ma’am. Or in a UPS or FedEx box. A million bucks delivered overnight.”

Some of the faces looked incredulous. Most appeared shocked.

Byrth then said, “But a billion is…?”

“A thousand million,” a young man’s voice offered. “Using your ballpark figure, that’d be a pair of stacks two hundred feet high.”

“Right,” Byrth said. “And multiply that by more than twenty-five billion a year. Every year. And it’s not all in hundred-dollar notes. Twenties are common.”

The faces continued to look incredulous and shocked.

“The logistics of moving the money push the bad guys to the point of desperation,” Byrth said. “With so much cash, they smuggle it by truck, car, Greyhound bus. They will even ship it like a Christmas fruitcake via UPS, FedEx, or even the U.S. Postal Service. The drug traffickers drive out to suburbia and find a house with its yard littered with newspapers, indicating the homeowner’s out of town. Then they phone down to their stash house along the border and give them the address. Next day, a box gets delivered, no signature required. The courier just rings the doorbell and drives off. Soon as it’s dark, the traffickers drive back out and collect their package. If they lose a few in the process, it’s just the cost of doing business. Cash gets shipped back the same way.”

“So how is this cash laundered?” the distinguished woman asked.

“With U.S. law requiring that any cash transaction in excess of ten thousand dollars be reported to the U.S. Treasury, it’s a real challenge to move nine billion, let alone twenty-five billion. Year after year.”

“Then how-” she repeated.

Byrth put his right hand to the side of his head, the pinky at the corner of his mouth and the thumb to his ear. “Hello, Western Union?”

He put down his hand. “Not only that, of course. Lots of money moves through electronic transfers and other types of wire remittances. Prepaid Visa gift cards are popular. There’s also the Black Market Peso Exchange; you can guess how that works-the dirty dollars buying clean pesos at a steep premium.”

Matt Payne was writing down “Black Market Peso Exchange” and “FedEx” on a piece of paper. He saw Tony Harris move suddenly.

Harris had felt his cell phone vibrate.

He pulled it from its belt clip and tried to discreetly check its screen.

Both Payne and one of the waitstaff, a male, noticed him. Payne then saw the male walk over and slip what looked like a business card on the table before Harris.

Byrth looked over at it and read:

LEAGUE POLICY:

No Cellular Telephone Conversations Permitted Kindly Turn Off All Such Devices.

Thank You.

Payne rolled his eyes.

He whispered, “I’ve collected enough of those to start a fair-size bonfire.”

Harris showed Payne the screen.

“Shit!” he whispered after he’d read: 1 OF 2 CARS BURNED IN W KENSINGTON WAS CHEVY CARJACKED BY MATT’S SHOOTER.

“Forget getting any fingerprints or blood from that burned hulk,” Payne whispered.

Harris nodded as he put the phone back on his belt clip.

Payne looked back at Byrth.

He was pacing again as he spoke: “And, of course, often they don’t even bother to launder it. They just smuggle bricks of cash across the border. They do it exactly as they brought in the drugs, but, of course, in the opposite direction. Once it’s out of the country, it’s easier to clean. Want to guess how many of those multimillion-dollar high-rise condos on the water from South Beach Miami to West Palm got bought with squeaky-clean pesos?”

And all those Porsches, Payne thought, recalling his car search on the Internet.

Byrth made a face. “I know you’ve heard of the annual list of the world’s richest people published by Forbes magazine.”