Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [61]
“Let’s just start over,” James said. “We have a buyer for certain goods in our home country, and we have a seller of those same goods. What we need is for those goods to reach the buyer, and when they do, there is a handsome commission available to the individual who expedites matters. We understand that you have the means to accomplish this, and we simply want to put that proposition on the table.”
“What goods?”
“Fifteen hundred long arms, about half-divided between Armalites and AK–47s, two thousand rounds for each weapon, five hundred bulletproof jackets, four dozen SAM–7s, some pump-action .12 gauges, and some other miscellaneous items.”
“To where?”
“That’s not important.”
“How do I move them if I don’t know where to?”
“You don’t have to move them, Mr. Burke. That’s the beauty of this. All we want from you is a valid End Use Certificate from your friends in Africa. We’ll do the rest.”
“And the money?”
“Half a million, U.S. Payable anyway you say.”
“What makes you think I can get an End Use Certificate?”
“Mr. Burke, suffice it to say that we are aware of your services to the former Republic of Biafra. We are aware of an exile government now operating in the Ivory Coast and your friendship with that government.”
“I see.”
“It would work like this. We would purchase the goods and stockpile them in this country. You obtain the certificate, valid in the Ivory Coast. How we get the goods from there to our home country is our problem—we simply trade the certificate for the money.”
“Sounds simple.”
“It is simple.”
“And you’d purchase the goods simply on my say-so?”
“Well, of course, we’d have to have a deposit on your end. We’re risking all the goods, and we have people to answer to. But it’s important enough to our cause to take the chance and trust you substantially—”
“How substantially?”
“I don’t follow.”
“How much of a deposit?”
“As you know, ten percent is traditional. But in your case, because of your reputation, we would accept only two percent.”
“Of the total value of the goods?”
“Certainly not, Mr. Burke. We realize that individuals don’t have that kind of cash available. Only two percent of the value of the commission you are to receive for the certificate.”
“So ten thousand?”
“Exactly.”
“So I put up ten thousand, and you put up what?”
“Mr. Burke, we put up title to the goods—in your name or in whatever name you desire. Title to the goods in your name, F.O.B. London. Of course, the goods will never leave the States until you hand us the certificate, but you will have title.”
“So what would prevent me from just selling the goods on my own?”
That was Gunther’s cue to role-play again. He leaned forward. “It wouldn’t be worth it to you.” Picking up the brass knuckles, he rapped them on the table for emphasis.
I sat back like I was thinking about it but then Gunther had to overact again and spoil everything. He looked over at Max. “What’s the matter with the chink? How come he don’t talk?”
James looked pained, as if Gunther were a dangerous madman just barely under control. A good act, but the wrong stage.
“He talks,” I said. “I interpret for him.”
“Oh yeah? That’s real nice. Ask the chink what year this is?”
“What year?”
“Yeah, you know. The gooks all have names for years, right? Like the Year of the Dragon or the Year of the Horse. Ask him what year this is—I got a feeling this is the Year of the Pussy.”
I knew I shouldn’t have made that crack about faggots, but it was obviously too late now. Max looked at Gunther, smiled, tapped his forehead, and shook his head negatively. I was in it anyway by then, so I translated. “He says he knows what year it isn’t.”
“What year is that, wise guy?”
Max repeated his earlier gestures, then reached out onto the table with his hand like he was groping for something, stopped when he found it, and turned his palm over. Then he made a disgusted face, gently turning his palm over again, and shook his head once more.
“He says it’s not the Year of the Maggot,” I told them.
Gunther glared over at Max,