“So now I’m a salesman,” Leyden said to Seminsky. “The deal stinks,” he said as if by ritual.
Both men were fairly muscled, Seminsky more so. Although the ex-cop had gotten a lot of his in the gym like his friend, his gait and movement suggested he got his through use. Leyden’s didn’t, as befitting a personal-trainer-type pretty boy.
Seminsky was dark, but his friend was blond and blue-eyed: crescent-moon-faced in profile. They were on their way to visit the girls at the Chatty Catty. It had taken some adjustment to get Seminsky used to it; he was more prone towards a nondescript bar, one where the testosterone on the air meant a fight was two steps from the surface. That was more his kind of dive. The Chatty Catty was a techno-neon type of club, with tables far away from each other and the girls looking kinda cheerleadery instead of knowing. An ex-high-school football player, it bothered him a little – in a way that catcalls from cop-haters didn’t. Still, the girls there were nice. They didn’t sneer at a fellow if he behaved.
“Well, Dorian, I have to admit it stinks in a way I don’t smell. The guy’s legit, and those Spanish people often feel safe if the gold’s in their casa. Fellow’s a straight arrow, even pays his taxes. Strange for a corporate lawyer.”
Looking out the window from the now-old red Mercedes C350, which had been part of his friend’s act when much newer, the ex-cop continued: “He made most of his money in deals his friends let him into: venture capital. I guess that’s his crook. Turns out, he really was robbed. Insurance guy I know was talking about it.”
He turned back to his friend, idly. “One of his plays is an upscale jewellery store, if that’s of any help.”
Leyden felt something like a crook while waiting in line for the TSA frisk. In keeping with his persona, which he was mentally practicing as the long line advanced, he was sporting eight different tungsten rings on every finger except for his thumbs. His clothes were casual, and he had taken care to make his look a little sleazy. Instead of the huge bar, which was now in its own small crate like all of the rest, he had a much smaller bar as a showpiece.
When he got to the head of the line, the TSA officer perfunctorily asked him to put any metal objects in the tray before being body-scanned. In keeping with his exhibitionist persona, Leyden didn’t opt out.
The perfunctoriness disappeared when eight rings clattered into the tray. “Tungsten; it’s the future” he explained to the officer who clearly didn’t want to hear. So, he fastened it.
Until the female baggage inspector pulled her colleague aside. Now, both of them were interested.
“What’s in the bag?”
“Tungsten,” Leyden said in the tone of a door-to-door salesman who was let in. “Jewellery, ma’am. It’s perfect!”
He handed over the ticket the TSA guard now asked for. The destination got his bored look replaced by something more alert. Leyden invisibly prepared for the rest of his spiel.
“The Cayman Islands – that’s a tax haven,” the frisker said slowly. The complaints from the passenger just behind his station, he ignored. “Why would you be going there?” Going to his computer, he whipped up the roster.
“And you’ve got eleven heavy suckers in your freight….” All of them were rectangular bucking bars, and not the more common cylinders. “Business…”
Now, he moved his somewhat padded clean-shaven face over to this blond guy. His eyes had beaded up. Like an actor hearing the cue, Leyden launched into his spiel.
“Tungsten’s unbreakable; it says ‘class’. It makes for a great ring: people are lovin’ it here. You’ve got the desk, you can look it up.
“There’s lots of rich folks in Grand Cayman.” Leyden held out his right had as he continued his act. “Rich folks spend money, and they spread it around." Now, his right forearm was rotating. "That means lots of not-so-rich folks around ‘em.” His arm waved back at the cattle line. “Why keep up with the snooters when we all can have a glamour that’s our own? Tungsten’s smart and self-confident –“
“Hold it,” the officer said, now bored again.
Looking up from her somewhat corpulent frame, the frisker's partner added, “You do realize there are regulations there. Not anyone can start a business.”
That was his cue to look flustered, which Leyden managed by remembering the time he was caught in the middle of a beach tryst. “Well, I thought with the no tax –“
She smiled to herself; her partner snorted. “Enjoy your vacation, bud. ‘Cause that’s all it’s going to be.”
As he left, his frisker looked over to the baggage inspector and snorted again. “Business. Guy thinks he’s Vince Offer.”
The trip to Georgetown in Grand Cayman done, Leyden sailed back to his decrepit office with the $50,000 fully earned. The delivery was easy; men were there in the airport to relieve him of his eleven-crate burden. In keeping with his persona, he had stayed in the capitol for a full week; he had succesfully insisted on it as being necessary for his cover. Not been asked to do anything, he hung around and enjoyed himself – to the tune of a few thousand dollars. Taken somewhat aback at Leyden’s counter-offer of a hundred grand, when he had started with $10,000, Ibañez had made it very clear that only the hotel would be paid for. Everything else was up to the detective.
The Marriott hadn’t been that classy, but pretty-boy Ike didn’t care when the beach was around. The taxi drive down the Esterly Tibbets Highway had put him in the mood for some action, as fantasies replaced the view. Once on the beach, he had romanced a few honeys and even got a couple of night scores right in the sand. They weren’t disturbed. Not knowing that he was himself being played, he imagined that he had gotten into the bikini of a rich man’s daughter (or ‘daughter’). He really had had relations with an executive assistant.
Fantasy undisturbed, he had his war story for Seminsky and the boys at the Chatty Catty. Tanned and rested, he opened up his regular E-mail and then his secure service.
The only one in the securitized mail was from the address of Rolón Ibañez.
“Since you have served well, I must explain what you were really doing.
“I and my wife are now somewhere in the Grand Cayman. My children have elected to stay, but they are young and still optimists. I lack their patriotism, having had it beaten out of me by increasing incursions into the lives of honest citizens. Those who prey upon the honest do not know that honest men can lie too, and can be forgiven if they revert to habitual tuthfulness. Since my subterfuge was for escape, I have no need to lie anymore. As for the tax revenue I ‘stole’, natural law begs to differ. If the maxim ‘all peasants are thieves’ reaches my ears, all I will hear is ‘all subjects defend their property.’ I do not apologize for lacking the predatory instinct” – for some reason, Leyden remembered the guy’s plumpness at that moment – “that would make me el número uno in a mundo va mal.
“I must congratulate you in sensing your role was not as it seemed. Those eleven bars you smuggled were tungsten – on the outside. They were hollowed and micro-welded back together, buffed with care, and covered with a very thin layer of liquid tungsten on the sides with the welds to hide what remained of them. The man who did it for me, an old friend, was a real craftsman. He made them look solid. Inside those bars was my gold, sadly melted to prevent rattling.
“I can say that my wife joined me in the lie. She ‘admitted’ to the insurance company that she had left the safe open, thus invalidating our claim. Despite what will be said, we do not steal. She lied to prevent us from doing so.
“Thankfully, my investments make for an income that meets the residency requirements so long as they are not confiscated. I expect them to be so, as we are renouncing our citizenships. My gold will enable me to start afresh if possible, and retire comfortably if not. Unfortunately, it only leaves me with enough resources to take care of my family should it be necessary.
“Again, I thank you for helping save me and my family. Sadly, there is little need for private detectives here. Should you wish to describe yourself as a security professional, I would be honoured to help you secure a work permit here.
“Yours,
“Rolón Ibañez, Esq.”
“Howzabout that,” Seminsky commented as he sat down in Leyden’s client chair. “The guy bugged out. That was his crook.”
In the eyes of United States law, Ibañez was one. U.S. law demanded he report any overseas asset transfers; he didn’t. U.S. law demanded he treat his gold as sold, even though none had been. He didn’t do so.
Looking at his friend, Seminsky quietly barked, “Hey Dorian! Getting squishy?”
“Naw,” Leyden hedged, “but I was just wondering…you ever do security?”
Momentarily looking perplexed, Seminsky asked if Leyden had another job for him.
“Not exactly; more of a career change…”
Easing into the subject, he and his bud fleshed it out. The trouble was in the saving, and the very noticeable absence from their usual haunts it would entail…
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