Trace walked inside Sneaky Pete’s. It wasn’t crowded. It looked like all regulars.
Pete spotted Trace and nodded to an empty seat next to two men. The bar was set up perfectly. There was room for Trace only.
Trace walked toward the seat, thinking that Pete missed his calling; he could have been a casting director. Both men looked like they would sell their grandmothers to a dog food factory for gambling money. They were both in their thirties and dressed in leisure suits they still thought were in style. One had a heavy black mustache, and the other was bald with bushy sideburns.
Trace sat in the empty stool next to them. He ordered a beer. In the mirror behind the bar, he watched the two men following him come in and look for a seat. The bar was full, so they sat at a table.
Pete brought the beer to Trace.
“Are these the guys?” Trace said quietly.
“The best of the best,” Pete said. Then he looked at his waitress. “Get the table where those two gentlemen just came in.”
“Thanks, Pete,” Trace said.
“Anytime,” Pete said and walked away.
“So what do you want us to do?” The mustache said.
“We’re going to take our drinks and sit at the table next to those two guys that just came in.”
“There’s not going to be any rough stuff, is there?” The bald man said.
“No,” Trace said, “but if something should happen,” Trace said, “take off. Don’t worry about me.”
“That don’t seem right,” the bald man said.
Trace grinned. “I got Pete. But nothing’s going to happen. Those guys are following me and collecting information. I’m not supposed to know they exist.”
“Got it,” the mustache said.
“Here’s what I want you to do,” Trace said. “You are drug traffickers. We don’t mention drugs. We just say cargo or stuff. We negotiate a little. We talk quietly, but loud enough that they can make out what we are talking about. They don’t have to understand every word.”
“How long does this go on?” The mustache said.
“Five or ten minutes,” Trace said. “I’ll give you a nod when to wrap it up.”
“A hundred dollars, right?” The bald man asked.
“Yeah,” Trace said. He grabbed his billfold from his pocket. He pulled out two one-hundred-dollar bills and slid them across the bar to the two men.
Trace turned around and looked at the barroom. There was only one empty table, the one next to the men who followed Trace. He turned back around and smiled at Pete. Trace thought, ‘Not only could he be a good casting director but a set director as well.’
“There’s an empty table,” Trace pointed with the beer in his hand.
They strolled over the the empty table and sat.
Trace leaned in toward the table, and the bald man and the mustache did the same.
“Okay,” Trace said, “let’s hash all of this out.”
They nodded.
“You guys got the goods,” Trace said, “and I got the places to deliver the goods.”
“How do we know that?” The Mustache said.
Trace thought, ‘Perfect.’ And then said, “I’ve spent two months in Vanuatu. I just haven’t been watching the sunsets.”
“So?” The bald man said.
“So?” Trace retorted. “I’ve been setting up an operation. I have contacts.”
“How big is the competition?” The mustache asked.
“Well established,” Trace said, “but with you guys bring to the table, a partnership can be worked out. Something that will be attractive to them or us.”
“How are you going to do that?” The bald man asked.
“I have a friend who has been looking to expand,” Trace says. “He has incredible resources.”
“Do you have a number?” The mustache said. “Our boss will want numbers.”
“If it’s numbers he wants,” Trace said. “I only talk numbers to the boss.”
“He told us if there ain’t no numbers, there ain’t no deal,” the bald man said.
“Well, there’s enough for you two to get a new wardrobe,” Trace said.
“I like what I wear,” the bald man replied indignantly.
“Well,” Trace said, “not to be offensive, but you can’t buy those types of clothes anymore, but you can have them tailor-made.”
“We have to take back a number,” the mustache said.
“That depends on how much stuff you can provide,” Trace said. “I need a number.”
“If I can arrange a partnership with people in Vanuatu,” Trace said, “I can move at least 20 kilos a month.”
“Where?!” The bald man said. “He has to go beyond Vanuatu. There’s not enough noses there for that kind of volume.”
Trace grinned and thought, ‘These guys are good. They have careers in Hollywood. Then again, this may be their real job.’
Then Trace said, “I’ve developed a place in Australia. I can’t tell you anymore.”
“Our boss will want some specifics,” the mustache said.
Trace paused and thought, ‘These guys are too good. They’ve done this before. I’m dealing with experience. This is harder than I thought, but the harder it is for me, the easier the sell is to my friends at the next table.’
“What do you need?” Trace said.
“I can understand why you might not want to tell us where you plan on dropping the goods in Australia,” the bald man said, “but you could be hanging us out to dry. You just might take off with twenty kilos, and the next thing you know, you’re gone with our stuff. That creates a problem, a big problem all the way down the line.”
“You have to understand, I have interests to protect too,” Trace said.
“And we need assurances,” the mustache said.
“What will provide assurances?” Trace said, “And by the way, I can walk away from this. I don’t need the business or the money. I can wait. You guys have to have a pipeline all the time. If it’s squeezed down or shut down, you’re in a hurt. You have a payroll to meet.”
The mustache glanced at the bald man, and a slight grin curled the sides of his mouth.
“Which one of you is the main guy?” Trace said. “I’m not dealing with regular guys. You two are the guys.”
The mustache reached across the table. Trace shook his hand.
“I think we just made a deal,” the mustache said.
“I have a couple of things to take care of in Vanuatu,” Trace said. “Can we meet here two weeks from today, same time?”
“Two weeks,” the mustache said.
Trace stood and nodded to each man. He walked out the door. The cab was waiting for him. He climbed in, and it drove away.
Trace glanced out the back window. A car followed them.
No comments:
Post a Comment