Showing posts with label escapeartist. Show all posts
Showing posts with label escapeartist. Show all posts
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Escape Artist
Ike Leyden, private detective, wasn't a solid citizen. He not being able to go legit, his assignments got dirty. His latest job involved him helping out a genuinely solid citizen, though one with unusual ideas, to get some important packages to the Cayman Islands. The deal was dirty, Leyden was sure, but he couldn't quite put his finger on the filth...
The Gig
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.
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.
The Show
“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…
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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