Will Staeger - Public Enemy

“Ah, shit,” El Oso Blanco said, the laughs crashing from his larynx like southern California surf. “Ah, puta mierda…!”

Finally the laughing surf retreated. As it did, so too did the pressure from the hand on Cooper’s head. The hands that had been holding his arms against his back released too, and soon he was lying unrestrained on the carpet. Realizing that Borrego must have given his security team some kind of gesture ordering his release, Cooper turned on his side to get a look at the security men and saw, to his consternation and embarrassment, the nature of the army that had just subdued him: there stood looking down at him only one man, a behemoth with a wafer-thin waist who looked more velociraptor than human despite his half-decent suit and not-inexpensive wingtips.

Cued by another unseen gesture, the velociraptor stepped away from Cooper and retreated to a place against the wall beside the double doors. He clasped his hands in front of his groin.

“That was funny,” Borrego said. “Funny.” As Cooper worked his legs around and sat upright on the floor, he could see Borrego smiling over the tub at him. “So again,” he said, “who the hell are you, what the fuck do you want, and what or who is it that’s poisoning the mine?”

Cooper checked his lips for blood but they were dry-rug-burn dry. He started slowly, mainly because his numb lips had some trouble mouthing the words.

“A trail of bodies has begun to turn up in the wake of a shipment of gold artifacts,” he said. “The artifact shipment would be the same load of boxes you checked aboard the good ship Seahawk in La Guaira. One note you may find equally discouraging is that the artifacts themselves were destroyed too. Or at least sunk to the bottom of the Caribbean.”

Borrego, who had begun eating again, shrugged.

“That’d be one of the reasons they call it the black market,” he said. “Involves some risk.”

“I’m assuming you’d be one of the bodies now too-especially considering how easy it is to get past your security detail-”-Cooper flipped a look in the direction of the velociraptor-bodyguard as he said this, hoping for a reaction but earning none-“except, by my best guess, whoever’s leaving the trail of bodies doesn’t know you’re the one holding the luggage tags.”

The Polar Bear made a humph sound. “They’d be right,” he said. “I’m not. At least not anymore.”

Cooper stood, sort of bending at the hip in hopes of readjusting his spine as he did it. No such luck-there remained a sharp pain in one of the meaty muscles in his lower back. He pulled himself into one of the chairs that faced Borrego’s big desk while he thought aloud through what Borrego had meant.

“You’re not holding…you didn’t check the bags, you mean.”

“Right. I sold ’em.”

“Funny,” Cooper said, “so did I.”

“No surprise there-so did somebody else before me. That’s how it works,” Borrego said. “I don’t even get the prime cut. And while antiquities are a passion of mine, I’m into them as a margin guy. You know-buy very low, sell not quite so low. Little or no risk-get in, get out.”

Borrego stopped eating just long enough to grin, and Cooper saw that the Polar Bear had sharp teeth that looked almost brown against his white skin and whiter suit.

“Except for the fact that I usually pluck a few of ’em for myself before getting all the way out,” he said.

“Well, that’s something else we’ve got in common. What about the two idiot gunslingers you required the shipper to take along for the ride to Naples? If you didn’t check the bags for a colleague of yours to retrieve on the other side, what do you care about protecting the merchandise?”

“Idiots is right. But while our conversation thus far is chippy and neat, I’d like you to answer my other questions now,” Borrego said.

Cooper considered this.

“You mean, ‘Who the fuck am I,’ and, ‘What the hell do I want?’”

Borrego thrust him a thumbs-up over the top of the bucket.

“I’ve got a few made-up names I can pick from,” Cooper said, “but the one most people use is Cooper. And I’m not one hundred percent positive what the hell I want, but if you are the middleman you claim to be, there are two questions I’ve got for you. I’d like to know the names of the people you sold the shipment to, and the names of the people you bought it from.”

“You know what I’d like to know?” Borrego said. “I’d like to know why you didn’t just give me a call. Slip past my secretary that way. I usually even call back.”

“I’m old-fashioned.”

“Meaning you like to discuss such things in person.”

“Sometimes.”

“Or you just prefer to be a pain in the ass, in hopes it’ll get you somewhere the phone call wouldn’t.”

“Come on,” Cooper said, “why the gunslingers?”

El Oso Blanco shook his massive head.

“You tell me, ‘Cooper,’” he said. “The guns came at the behest of the buyer. Stupid and unnecessary, no matter what you’re shipping. Unless you’re running dope, the U.S. task forces don’t give a shit what you’re shipping. Might get a little sticky from all the red tape if you’re caught, but those boys think they’re fighting a war, and they don’t have time for anything but the front lines. I advised the buyers as much, but I was paid what I asked to get, and the goodies were out of my hands the instant the wire transfer landed. I knew they wanted the gunslingers, so I worked that into the shipping terms in advance. That’s what they wanted, so that’s what they got.”

“As it turns out,” Cooper said, “that shipment was worth quite a lot of money.”

“Oh, I know what it was worth. It was obviously worth quite a lot of trouble too.”

“You know what happened with the Coast Guard?”

“Sure.” Borrego pointed with his fork at the computer screen on the desk. “‘Coast Guard Guns Down Smugglers at Sea,’ or something to that effect.”

“You get a call from the buyers once the story broke?”

“I wouldn’t get that call directly anyway, but no.”

“You find that surprising?”

“That I didn’t get a call?” Borrego shrugged. “Mildly.”

“Who’d you sell to?”

Borrego began packing up the remains of his meal. “Considering that you’ve come and alerted me to the ‘string of bodies,’ as you put it, I’d be happy to break protocol and give you a name. He isn’t the buyer, of course. Only another middleman. A fence. But unless he’s relocated already, which is something he frequently does, you can find him in Naples.”

Food and silverware pushed aside, Borrego removed the napkin from around his neck, pulled a pen from a drawer, wrote something on a Post-it, and held the Post-it across the desk for Cooper to take.

“Should be able to reach him here.”

Cooper leaned in and took the Post-it.

“Appreciate the help.”

“Appreciate the warning.”

“What about the source?” Cooper said.

“You know, Señor Cooper, you are one greedy bastard.”

“Selfish too,” Cooper said. “Also angry.”

There came that brownish-yellow grin again. It faded, though, and the Polar Bear said, “No cigar there, campañero.”

“Why not?”

“Only way this artifact-acquisition system works is to retain the anonymity of the seller. I’ve got people out there-South and Central America, Africa, China-do my buying for me. And when they buy, they do it on a no-questions-asked basis. We pay close to the lowest price, but you always know you’ll never be ratted out by the Polar Bear.”

He grinned again, pleased at this declaration of his reputation.

Cooper thought for a moment. “You know where your people bought it, though,” he said. “Geographically speaking. And I imagine telling me that wouldn’t be ‘ratting out’ on your suppliers.”