Abundance

by Fine, Michael;

  In Providence everyone and their brother is an AA and a BA and a PhD. Or a JD from Suffolk or New England School of Law. Thanks be to God Thomas knew cars. Before long, he learned to fix cars, and to do that you had to learn how to take cars apart. It didn’t take much to learn how to take hot cars apart fast, and from there he built his little empire. Small-small empire. Big enough to be good and to be getting rich. Small enough that no one saw and no one had come after him. Yet.

  The ships come from Lebanon. They fly Liberian or Panamanian flags. They carry raw materials—lumber or salt from Egypt, China, Chile, or Canada, concrete from China, Canada, Columbia, Mexico, and Korea. Manufactured goods and clothing from China, Bangladesh, the Dominican Republic, or Honduras. The ships left empty unless Thomas filled them, so the haulage was cheap and he filled them with anything he could mark up. Room for 750 cars, or fewer cars and a couple of hundred bales of old clothes. He did okay with old clothes, which gullible American people thought they were giving to the poor. He bought them for pennies a pound. They could be sold anywhere in Africa for ten times what he paid.

  The old clothes covered his overhead. He made his money on the cars. Thomas spent his days collecting those cars, buying them at auction or processing the cars that came in from his boys on the street—cars with catalytic converters that had burned out, cars off lease, high mileage cars from dealerships that weren’t worth fixing up to sell, cars that came in with bad steering columns, their driver’s side door locks and the ignition locks popped.

  The profit margin was lower on the cars he bought legally, but they gave him paperwork cover for all the rest. The legal cars were parked at the pier, a thousand or two thousand cars all parked together at the port in a big lot that no one could see from the road, back behind the yards that stored chlorine, salt, scrap metal, and cement. The cars were far from the street but close enough to the pier that you could start them up and drive them right onto the ship when the ship was in and the ramp was down.

  The hot cars, where the real money is, were stashed in a number of places—some in his garage off Broad Street, some hidden in plain sight in the used car lots of South Providence, Olneyville, the West End, Elmwood, and Washington Park—the places poor people lived and no one ever thought to look for cars that had been lifted. They were stashed one or two in each little used car lot so the stupid state police couldn’t see the pattern if they happened on one or two in a chop shop raid. Still, no car was more than a mile or so from the port—and all the cars were close enough that the boys could load them in one night, after the sun was down.

  The red RAV pulled in off the street one Monday afternoon in July. The boy was a country boy, still a little green, thinking he was still somebody, having ravaged the streets like boys and girls do back home. He came by once or twice a week.

  Business was good. Thomas gave $2,500 for a good Japanese or German car—a Prelude or an Integra or an Acura, and $3,000 for any Mercedes or a BMW that he could part out. You can get $3,000 for the engine, $2,000 for the transmission, $1,000 for the air bags, and $1,000 for the catalytic converter, and that’s even before you take the body apart; so there is probably $10,000 clear in each one, after you pay the boys and after you figure in the time of the chop—but they have good security systems and are hard for the boys to get their hands on. He paid $2,000 for a late model American SUV or truck—easy to get, easy to take apart, but parts bring less, because there are plenty of wrecks around. He paid $1,500 for anything that was a four-wheel drive. The four-wheel drives all went on the boat and he could make out good with them—$500 to the shipping, $200 to people at home. They were going for $7,500 to $10,000 right off the boat in Monrovia—even the old ones—all bought up by one penny-ante warlord or another—so he cleared a little less for each one, but there was less work and no risk. Warehouse them until the boat comes in, drive them over at night, run them right on deck, and the job is done.

  Terrance drove into the one open garage bay. Thomas stood up at his desk behind the office window when he saw the boy drive in. Each four-wheeler was ten thousand dollars and a beautiful little sight to behold. Thomas raised his fat eyebrows. It would be boat night soon. He needed a little extra from this boy. This boy would do more if he wanted his copper. He would come when he was called back and drive with the others when the boat came. There were seven hundred vehicles to move, so he needed fifty drivers, all his boys and then some, all hands on deck. They’d load seven hundred cars in twelve hours.

  Thomas opened the office door as the country boy opened the door of the RAV.

  “Ga ca,” Terrance said. This is a good car.

  “Maybe ga ca. Plenty-plenty ca na,” Thomas said. Maybe it’s good. I have plenty of cars now.

  “Coppa?” Terrance asked. Pay me now.

  Thomas pulled a thick wad of folded bills from his pocket, and counted out seven hundreds and handed them to Terrance.

  “Sma-sma coppa,” Terrance said. The money is too little.

  “You drive two days,” Thomas said.” All boys drive two days. Rest of the money in the then. No room here for this car. Take it to the port. Boy there will drive you back.”

  Terrance scowled. The big Congoman watched the boy as Terrence got into the car, shaking with disgust, and as Terrance slammed the car door and backed the RAV into the street.

  That boy will come back when I need him, Thomas thought. He wants his money. They all want their money. That’s all they want.

  I once flew above the earth, taking whatever I wanted, Terrance thought as he drove away. I don’t have to eat this Congoman’s shit.

  Terrance drove and he drove and he drove, circling the neighborhood, turning it over again and again in his mind. I want my money now, Terrance thought. I go back.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Thomas Johnson, Carl Goldman, Terrance Evans-Smith, and William Levin. Providence, Rhode Island. July 18, 2003

  THE BOY WAS TOLD TO TAKE CAR TO THE PIER, AND THEN RIDE BACK. THE BOY WAS NOT told to bring the car back.

  The car, a red RAV, pulled into the garage. The boy sat in the car, summoning his courage. A beat-up green Subaru pulled in behind the RAV.

  A white man with a beard and a thin black man jumped out of the Subaru. The boy was sitting in the RAV. The white man and the thin black man didn’t look like cops. Not packing or carrying from what Thomas could see.

  Thomas stood up, grabbed the baseball bat he left next to the door for emergencies and walked through the door of his office. The boy was looking at him, at Thomas, eyes simmering. The boy wasn’t looking at the men in the Subaru. Terrance opened the door of the RAV slowly.

  The white man wore a flowery shirt and looked uncertain. White people, in Thomas’s experience, were impossible to read. They were meaningless, disorganized, and confusing. But then they bring the world down on your head when you least expect it.

  It was the black man who came around the front of the Subaru and stood up square.

  “Not your car,” Carl said to the boy in the RAV.

  Thomas wrapped his right hand around the handle of the baseball bat.

  “Who you?” Thomas said to Carl.

  Terrance got out of the RAV, closed the door and stood with his back to the car. “Shit Terrance, don’t you ever quit?” Levin said.

  Carl heard Thomas’s question and made his accent at the same time. He looked at Terrance.

  “Who you?” Carl said.

  “De ro,” Terrance said. “I’ yaw wais’ ma’ ti, I weh sureleh blow yaw mouf o wais yaw fa.” I’m a badass. You are a waste of my time. I will surely slam your mouth and lay waste to your face.

  “He’s a kid who’s in over his head,” Levin said.

  “Ma ca,” Carl said. “Wa na trouble. Wa ca. Ma ca.” My car. I don’t want any trouble. I just want my car back.

  Then, looking at Thomas, Carl said, “Who are you?”

  Terrance saw the Congoman’s face change when Carl flipped back to American English. Whoever this thin black
man was and wherever he was from, he knew to stand up.

  “Bidness ma,” Thomas said. “Who da?” he was looking at Levin.

  Terrance saw a white man, and then he saw the doctor who sewed his face, gave him shit, and then came to his house to talk him into going to school. One Congoman asking him to eat shit. One black man acting in charge. One white man doctor who had no idea which way was up. This was one place Terrance didn’t want to be.

  “Worry about me,” Carl said. “Tell me about the car.”

  “Who wants to know?” Thomas said.

  “It’s not your car,” Levin said.

  “No?” Thomas said, and turned to Terrance.

  “Where you from?” Carl said.

  “From Sinkor. Before, Congotown. He’ twent-two yea,” Thomas said. I’ve lived here 22 years.

  “That my car. It rental. Need to come back,” Carl said. He looked around the shop again. He let his eyes and then his head move, so the other could see him looking.

  There was a long pause as Carl processed where he was, what he saw, and sorted out who was who.

  “You move cars?” Carl asked.

  “Ay budniss ma,” Thomas said. I’m a business man.

  “You ship cars?”

  “Export bidniss,” Thomas said.

  “Where cars go?”

  “Whe ca se,” Thomas said. Where there are buyers for cars.

  “Go to Africa?”

  “Go whe buy ca. Libya, Tunisia, Morocco, Sierra Leone, Ghana, Nigeria, Liberia, Ivory Coast …” Thomas said. The cars go to wherever there are buyers.

  “By ship?”

  “Na drive,” Thomas said. You don’t drive cars to Africa.

  Another long pause. What the hell is Carl thinking? Levin wondered. Let’s get your car back and get out of here. This can turn ugly fast. What Terrance is going to do is run away, but I know where to find him. The big guy with the baseball bat is a wild card.

  Cover blown, Terrance thought. Ma knows now or will. More shit. That Levin man has a one-track mind. Get in school. Get you in ESL classes in Providence, and get you a GED. Just like the church people. Show up here, sign up there, and you get a ticket to heaven. Levin didn’t have a clue. But the black guy who looks like a professor knows his shit. All Terrance wanted was to be out of there and get his life back.

  “When boat come?” Carl said.

  “Boat soon,” Thomas said.

  “You get me on the boat? You get me to Liberia? To Buchanan?” Carl said.

  Carl’s crazy, Levin thought. He thinking about a boat? We need to get that RAV back, and then get the hell out of here. He’s going to get us both killed. I should have stayed in the restaurant when that damn car alarm went off. Now I’m in way over my head. I’m a doctor. Not a cop.

  “Who sa ga Liberia?” Thomas said. Who said the boat goes to Liberia?

  “Liberia is in Africa last time I checked,” Carl said. “And I’m pretty sure you know people there.”

  “That boat car bidness. Not cruise ship,” Thomas said.

  Liberia. Buchanan. The boat goes home, Terrance thought. In all the time he had put cars on the boat for Thomas, Terrance had never thought about where the boat goes. There it was. The boat goes to Liberia. The boat goes home. That skinny black guy figured it out. That skinny black guy badass.

  Holy shit, Levin thought. Carl’s got himself a way to get back to Liberia. A door that had been closed and locked suddenly opened.

  “You get this man on your boat,” Levin said.

  “Boat go Monrovia. Na Buchanan,” Thomas said. “What you wa go Buchanan for? Liberia crazy. Buchanan crazy-crazy now. Money good. But drop cars Monrovia and get out quick-quick.” The boat goes to Monrovia, not Buchanan. Why would you want to go to Buchanan now? Things are crazy in Liberia. More crazy in Buchanan. We ship cars to Monrovia, because there is good money in it. We drop them in Monrovia and get out quickly so no one gets hurt.

  “Better no one knows what you do here,” Levin said. “You know who I am?”

  Going to Liberia can’t work, unless it does, Levin thought. You get there. You look and you listen and you wheel and deal. Chance favors the prepared mind.

  “Put the RAV on the boat with me,” Carl said. “I’ll get myself to Buchanan.”

  So you can drive from Monrovia to Buchanan, Levin thought. Where Julia is. Give the man his due. Julia, Levin thought, he’s going to come find you. This Carl has balls.

  Woo hoo! Terrance thought. Boat go to Monrovia! That skinny guy a badass!

  “You dead meat in Liberia alone,” Thomas said. “Big big trouble for me when you get yourself killed.”

  “Bigger trouble for you now if he stays here,” Levin said.

  Thomas paused, weighing the odds.

  “I need men to run cars when boat come,” Thomas said, in American. “Run cars, maybe we put you on boat. Load for twelve hours. Then sail. Why you wa go Liberia for?”

  Woo hoo! Terrance thought. Ride that boat! Drive that boat! Back home quick-quick! Be wild in the streets again! Invisible! Invincible! That skinny guy with Dr. Levin a badass!

  “The U.S. Marines pulled me out of Buchanan. I left something behind. Something I need to go back and get,” Carl said.

  “Something or someone?” Thomas said.

  “Not your problem,” Carl said. “I want on that boat, with the RAV, and I want to be in Buchanan yesterday.”

  “Good luck with that,” Thomas said. “You got an army?”

  “I got an attitude,” Carl said. “That should be plenty. What’s it gonna take to get me and this vehicle on that boat?”

  “Give me $7,500 for my trouble and we good,” Thomas said. “This boy needs his piece. And I need mine.”

  “Five,” Carl said. “I got five. Five and no trouble from us. I need a car to drive for two days, so I can get around after I report this one stolen.”

  Thomas paused again, a businessman’s pause. Carl waited.

  “Six.” Thomas said.

  “Done,” Carl said. “When boat?”

  “Two days. We load cars all night. Boat sails when loaded. Come ready.”

  Carl looked from man to man. I’ve got two days to report the car stolen, round up cash and supplies, and then I’m good, he thought.

  “Everybody good?” Carl said.

  Carl looked at Terrance to see if there was going to be more trouble from him.

  Terrance looked Carl up and down. Carl talked American talk. He talked some Kreyol. He dressed good. But he was a badass in his soul. He looked at Levin, who wasn’t any kind of badass at all. Crazy-crazy people. There is a boat and it goes home. In two days! “I drive wi you. I sail with boat,” Terrance said. “Me Buchanan. I get you Buchanan. Tha on you own. Another five.”

  Thomas raised his eyebrows, but the rest of his face and body didn’t move.

  Neither father nor lover. My life is done, Levin thought, and it was all for nothing. This Carl is the real thing. Julia deserves a real life, even if I’m not the man to give it to her. If you have to dance in the apocalypse, you might as well be dancing with people you love.

  “Two,” Levin said to Terrance. “I’m in for two. Two if you stay in Buchanan. Five if you come back home with us when we’re done and try school.”

  “Three na,” Terrance said. “Fo mo i ba. I mi ba.” Three now. Four more if I come back. If I come back.

  “Done,” Levine said. “My dime,” he said to Carl. “I got a little money stashed away for emergencies. Which this is. And I’m in. I’m coming too,” he said. “Better to die on your feet than live on your knees.”

  Thomas lowered the baseball bat. But he didn’t put it down.

  Carl had a car, and he had a crew.

  “Two days. You got three drivers,” Carl said. “Watch out, Liberia, we’re coming.”

  “Ain’t no mountain high enough,” Levin sang, “ain’t no ocean wide enough, to keep me from getting to you.”

  “To keep me from getting to you,” Carl sang back.<
br />
  Terrance shook his head. Dr. Levin and the skinny black dude were crazy-crazy.

  But he’d be home soon, and invincible again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Terrance Evans-Smith, Carl Goldman, and William Levin. Monrovia Port, Monrovia, Liberia. August 15, 2003

  ON THE MORNING OF FRIDAY, AUGUST 15, 2003, THE 4,400-TON FREIGHTER BRIGHT Moments steamed into the Freeport of Monrovia, captained by a Liberian pilot of Scottish birth who had come aboard just beyond the breakwater where the Bright Moments lay at anchor, awaiting a pilot and anchorage while the complex political situation in the Republic of Liberia sorted itself out. The Bright Moments had visited ports in Nigeria, Ghana, and Ivory Coast before arriving in Monrovia. Carl hadn’t slept during the voyage. He spent his days searching the shortwave and, when there was a satellite link, checking the internet for news and his nights pacing back and forth on the deck, even when the weather was lousy and the ship was tossed around by the surf.

  Four days before, Charles Taylor, president of the Republic of Liberia, stood in front of stained red curtains at the Mansion, the supposedly haunted presidential palace of Liberia, with the presidents of South Africa, Mozambique, and Ghana. Those men had come, Taylor said, to give the proceedings an air of importance, but he knew and they knew they had come to ease Taylor out of power, because no one believed that he would actually resign and leave the country, but he couldn’t back down once the other presidents were there.

  Taylor compared himself to Jesus Christ, handed the green presidential sash to Moses Blah, his vice president and an ally from the days they trained together in guerilla warfare in Libya, and then he was helicoptered off to the Robertsfield Airport. Nigerian troops and U.S. security people in plain clothes escorted him through territory held by MODEL, the Movement for Democracy in Liberia, which at that moment held the airport and most of the south and east of the country, to the extent anyone ever holds territory in Liberia. At the airport he was put on Nigeria 001, the personal plane of Olusẹgun Obasanjo, once a military dictator and at that moment the elected president of Nigeria, and flown to Abuja, Nigeria, with all three presidents in tow, and was welcomed by President Obasanjo, with all the pomp and circumstance befitting a head of state. Taylor would live in splendor for three years in a private compound in Calabar, Nigeria, under virtual house arrest while Nigeria provided him with immunity from arrest by the international criminal court.