Andrew Vachss - Flood

One of the passengers started to say something, but gave up as the shrieks and screams of contemporary disco pounded through the cab’s interior from Max’s ghetto blaster. There was no hope of them getting any kind of look at Max-the interior light hadn’t gone on when they’d opened the door, Max had kept his high beams on while picking them up so they couldn’t see through the windshield, and the protective screen of plexiglas between driver and passenger was black with years of nicotine and grime.

Max sped downtown, obviously ignoring several red lights, judging by the occasional gasps of the passengers and the uninterrupted flow of our passage. When he got near the Division Street underpass, he slammed to a stop. There was no action from the backseat, but when Max turned off the cassette player they got the message that this was the place. They got out and the cab was moving again before the back door was closed. We were out of their sight in less than ten seconds, around the corner and heading for the warehouse.

Max pulled the cab in the back, I let myself out of the trunk, and we both covered the cab with one of the tarps we always kept around. You never know what you might have to cover in an emergency.

I set up the meeting table in the side room while Max removed his disguise-he changed into a pair of chinos, sweatshirt, and black leather shoes so thin they could have been ballet slippers. While I sat at the table with the light behind me and waited, Max faded out the side door to bring on the clowns. If they had split the scene, Max wouldn’t bother to look for them. Unless they got out of the area real fast, one of the roving packs of kids would take them quickly enough.

It was about twenty minutes before they came back. Max led them inside to the table, ushering them over to a pair of chairs facing me, then floated over and took the chair to my left.

Two men. One beefy-faced and bulky, close-cropped hair, a thick drinker’s nose, steel-frame glasses. A fringe of whitish hair poked out of the top of a white sportshirt worn outside his pants. Omega chronograph on his left wrist, dial facing out, short, fat hands, flat-cut nails. Expressionless face, piggy eyes. The other, taller with a heavy shock of blond hair parted on the side, suede sportcoat, mobile clean-shaven face, two thin gold chains around his neck, hands clean and well-cared for, a metal case protruding just slightly from his breast pocket.

We looked at each other for a moment or so, then the taller one spoke. “Are you Mr. Burke?”

“Yes.”

“I’m James. This is my associate, Mr. Gunther.”

Gunther leaned forward so I could see his little eyes and clenched one of his hands into a fist. The heavy. “Who’s this?” He pointed a fat finger at Max.

“This is my silent partner.”

“We’re just dealing with you. Nobody else.”

I looked back at him pleasantly. “It’s been a pleasure talking to you. My driver will be happy to take you back to where he picked you up-”

James broke in. “Mr. Burke, you will have to pardon my friend. He’s a soldier, not a businessman. There’s no reason why your partner can’t sit in if you wish.”

I said nothing. Max said nothing. Before James could continue, Gunther spoke up again. “He’s a gook. I don’t like fucking gooks-I saw enough of them. What kind of white man has a gook for a partner?”

“Look, asshole,” I told him, “I’m not buying any master-race stock this week, okay? You got business, talk-you don’t, walk.” I was pleased at the rhyme.

“You do all the talking for the two of you?”

“Yep.”

“What’s the matter with the gook, he don’t talk?”

“He doesn’t do any talking. And so far neither have you.”

James put his hand lightly on his pal’s clenched fist and patted him. A tender gesture. “Mr. Burke, I must again apologize for my friend here. His family was killed by terrorists back home. They were blacks, of course, but we later learned that they had Chinese leadership. You understand…”

“You think my partner was one of the terrorists?”

“Don’t be silly. I just mean-”

“I’m not silly, just confused. Are you people cops, journalists, businessmen, or just a couple of thrill-seeking faggots?”

Gunther was on his feet, opened his mouth to say something, then focused his eyes sufficiently to notice the double-barreled sawed-off I had leveled at his face. He closed his mouth and sat down. James hadn’t moved. I turned the shotgun sideways so they could see it didn’t have a stock. It didn’t have much of a barrel either, just about enough to sheath the shells waiting inside. I moved it lightly from one to the other.

“You call and pressure me until I finally agree to meet with you. I send a cab for you, bring you to this place I had to rent for the evening. You cost my partner and me a lot of time and some money too. Then you come here and talk a lot of garbage-now you want to threaten me too? You have business or not?”

“We have business, Mr. Burke, serious business. Business that could make you a rich man, if you’ll just allow me to speak.”

“Speak. First, you carrying, either of you?”

James said no, but Gunther reached in his pocket and took out a pair of brass knuckles. Laying them on the table in front of me, he said, “That’s all.”

“That’s all?”

Gunther wasn’t finished with his heavy act yet. “That’s all I ever need,” he said, and settled back into silence.

“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.”