The Art of Making Money - Jason Kersten [88]
Just before they left, Art placed another call to his dad.
“I’m coming, Pops,” he told Senior. “I’ll be there in three weeks.”
12
SONNY
It is the same for all men. None of us can escape this shadow of the father, even if that shadow fills us with fear, even if it has no name or face. To be worthy of that man, to prove something to that man, to exorcise the memory of that man from every corner of our life—however it affects us, the shadow of that man cannot be denied.
—KENT NERBURN, U.S. THEOLOGIAN AND AUTHOR, Letters to My Son, 1994
In one of the photographs Natalie saved from the summer of 2001, she, Art, and Alex stand smiling at the railing on the edge of the Grand Canyon—the most universally American and wholesome family photo it’s possible to take. Only when you know that it was taken with a disposable camera bought right there at a Grand Canyon gift shop for a fake hundred-dollar bill does the impression shift. Then the moment and even the wide canyon itself seem stolen and swiped out of time. But no matter how much you remind yourself that the whole experience is predicated and floating on felony, ultimately the family togetherness of the image prevails.
They hit the Southwest hard, slamming malls in Albuquerque, Tucson, and Phoenix. In between cities the theme became “Billy the Kid,” as Art kept an eye out for any diversion where the outlaw had a history. By the time they got to Billy’s grave at Fort Sumner he’d decided that the Kid was a spiritual cousin. “He was a guy from the inner city. His father died when he was eight. His stepfather was no good, dragged him and his mother around the country. He ended up getting swept into crime as a teenager trying to survive.”
That little Alex was being swept along on a crime wave, accompanying his mom and Art into malls, was a thought that nagged at both of them. “I didn’t like that he was there while we were doing this stuff,” says Natalie, “but I believed, or told myself, that this was our last run, and he was having fun, seeing the world.” By now counterfeiting was their way of life, second nature, and they were long past that first step into any life of crime—the denial of the consequences it might have on themselves or others. The conventional definition of crime is an act that violates the laws of a society, but it would not be less accurate to say that it is an outcome of acting almost completely in the present tense.
Art hadn’t even thought about how he’d get to Alaska by the time they reached Seattle. Once he was there, it occurred to him that buying a plane ticket meant presenting his ID, which would then be entered into a database. His name was almost certainly flagged, which meant that the Secret Service would immediately know not only his location, but also where he was headed. He doubted his father would appreciate the extra company of a surveillance crew. For a moment, he thought about backing out.
Drawing on her experience as a ticket agent at DFW, Natalie devised a nifty tactic to avoid Art having to show ID. With Alex at her side, she bought three tickets to Anchorage, explaining that they were for herself and her two kids—one of whom hadn’t yet arrived at the airport. She and Alex then checked in, receiving color-coded stickers on their boarding passes indicating that they’d already shown their IDs. She handed Art one of the checked passes, then checked Alex in again at a separate window with the third ticket. Nine-eleven was still four long months away, and in that wondrous world before, all three strolled through security and onto the plane.
ART WAS A BALL OF nerves on the flight to Anchorage. Even though he’d talked with his father several