The office was small and shabby, as befitting the man. There was something about Ike Leyden that said he wasn’t reputable enough for the big cases. Perhaps it was his digs. Ike enjoyed life, in his own way. In addition to his rented office, he had an apartment instead of a house; both were untidy. Both put him far away from the upwardly mobile. Were he frugal, his real estate choices would be understandable. He wasn’t.
There are two kinds of private detectives in the world. The first comes into the field with enough connections to make for a thriving business; they can afford to play it respectable. The second had the skills and desire but lacked something else. Yes, there were broken cops and others with pasts – but for some, what was lacking was a sound business plan. In more cases than are mentioned, the lack was simple undercapitalization. Too little money to wait for the clean cases, too little reputational capital to secure them quickly. Those boys, like filings to a magnet, wound up doing the dirty jobs. One idealist, who wanted to be a detective since he was a boy, had to settle for an angle that used his innocence to keep the office open. He had specialized in divorce cases with an unaffiliated partner. After a quick trial learn at the gym, he went into the “personal training” field. His job was to get rid of the wives of successful men besotted by midlife crises. An innocent visage and a cultivated sunny nature led to compromising positions in easily vidcammed locations. Thus compromised, wifey got a much lower settlement than she otherwise would have. The last few cases he took, before he himself was permanently compromised, were on a handsome commission basis. As befitting someone firmly nestled in the second category, his street name was “Dorian Grey.”
That young man was Ike Leyden himself several years ago. His unaffiliated partner was the former Sgt. Seminsky. Seminsky had been bumped off because of a certain vidcam that went viral. Although he hadn’t really meant to hurt the guy, his death wasn’t that easy to explain afterwards. A true wacko, diagnosed schizophrenic, he turned out to be the estranged son of someone that Seminsky and his boys would normally extend a lot of leeway to. Not having checked beforehand, Seminsky had been the fall guy. The police union was powerful, but not powerful enough for him. Adding to his woes was the fact that he had a habit of letting money run through his fingers. Leyden, being young and innocent at first, had been a boon companion. They were longstanding friends, both being in the position of having to pay plenty for the finer things in life.
The client Leyden was waiting for was pre-screened by Seminsky, who was actually quite good at doing so. Side fee paid, Ike and his friend would have enough to go to the “Chatty Catty” strip club and lay down enough to keep their lappies happy. His friend regularly reciprocated by sending Leyden Dorian Grey cases.
Things copacetic, Ike waited for the score. Strangely, the guy was legitimate. No lawsuits, no rumours about dirty deals, no divorce, nothing. The guy was a bit of a kook, a genteel anarchist type, but that didn’t matter much. His profile suggested he didn’t know what a militia was, and these days there were lots of genteel anarchist types around. Even in government. Seminsky had loved that last bit, being attracted to fallen-angel stories like a magnet to filings.
But his leaning wasn’t enough to detract from a profile as a legitimate businessman. This Rolón Ibañez had no embarrassments, no real reason to seek someone like Leyden.
The fellow was mid-sized, almost bald on top, and plump. Well suited, with a soft case bag that was oddly heavy, he heaved in and sat down. The case bag was triangular in profile, made of cloth, zippered on top and was noticeably unexpensive; what would be nondescript in an ordinary fellow stood out like a funny hat on a rich guy. He was obviously an amateur, someone new to the world of intrigue. Leyden and Seminsky would have a good time joshing about him, because he was a nut.
Yep, an anarchist-type nut. Like many of them, Ibañez was a self-appointed teacher. He laid great stock on some fellow named Jesús Huerta de Soto Ballester, who was the greatest thing since George Washington to this guy. The poor little rich guy would have been inclined to hate taxes anyway; everyone complains about taxes. Leydon and Seminsky certainly did. The girls did. The manager of the Chatty Catty did. There was nothing wrong with a good gripe.
But why could it mean that the entire banking system was crooked? “You yourself know that people with upstanding reputations in this time are in fact opportunistic and unscrupulous,” Ibañez said as his spiel continued. Shuffling through his memory, Leyden hit it. The congressman and his now-ex-wife. Yeah, that must have been the referral.
After his piece was finally said, the detective asked his new client: “So what brings you to me?”
The mystery of the heavy vinyl bag Ibañez had brought with him was now explained. Rolling his stomach fat as he struggled to get the contents out of the bag, he struggled out a dark grey bar and heaved it onto Leyden’s nondescript cheap desk. The bar was only a little more than eight inches long by about five wide, and somewhere around three deep. Thinking the guy must be weak, Leyden held a single hand out for it and was surprised by its weight. Now struggling himself, he levered himself over his desk and tried to haul up more than sixty pounds of metal. Not getting that far, he left it be.
Ibañez smiled as he saw the detective fooled by the size. “This is tungsten,” he explained, “in the form of a bucking bar. It is standard size. The ten I will be asking you to ship, plus this one, are the same size.”
Leyden looked at it. “And you want me to…”
“Ship it, to the Cayman Islands.”
Leyden turned to his desktop, performed a quick search, and found that he was being asked to smuggle in hunks of metal worth only about four thousand. Four grand? From this guy?
“I don’t understand why you want me in the picture,” Leyden replied politely.
Ibañez sighed. “I am a rich man who has been stolen from. People such as myself do not take care of such things in person.”
Now standing straight in his chair, he explained further. “I want you to listen carefully.” Sensing seriousness from a practical man, Leyden did so.
“I am investing in an opportunity. There are many rich people like me in Grand Cayman, but there are also many poor. Poor people want to feel glamorous too. So, I am going to supply that need through jewellery made of this metal.
“At least, I will try to,” he concluded with the self-confidence of an experienced businessman. “There is a market that I believe is unmet.”
Reaching into his tailored dark suit, Ibañez pulled out a sheet with pictures of rings on it. “These are made of tungsten. Do you see?”
Leyden nodded, but too many questions were unanswered. The fellow was loaded enough to rate residency in Grand Cayman, but going the business route was damned expensive. Doing so on what seemed to be a lark didn’t fit the profile of someone with proven business smarts.
And why a private detective? Why not one of his servants? If what this Ibañez was laying on him was true, Leyden was the wrong man for the right job.
Sensing hesitation, the business man explained further. “I was robbed,” he added heavily as a slump returned to his back. “The gold, I kept in my house. It was insured, but I think it was done by someone I used to trust.”
Now, alarm bells were ringing in Leyden’s head. Gold in Ibañez’s home? Just sitting there in the basement? Rich guys like him use bullion storage. It wasn’t cheap, but it was much, much safer than sticking it in a wall safe or something like that. If a guy dressed like that, he wasn’t penny wise and pound foolish. What was really going on?
No, that wasn’t it. He said “insured.” Now, the picture made less even sense. Insurance must be more expensive than storage fees. What did he do with it - throw it around in his backyard with his kids?
Nothing made sense…so this Ibañez must be feeding him a cover story. Now relaxed, Leyden listened pleasantly to the story. Pleasantly, because the tatters in Ibañez’s tale were going to make for a counter-offer that was way above the offer.
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