Paper or Plastic

by Mackey Chandler

  "Just a suggestion," Roger spoke up. "If you are down in the lobby or going out the hall here and hear or see anyone that seems odd or wrong to you, make a note of the details and tell Mr. Koszicki. If you can sneak a picture on your phone for us that would be nice too. If the same person shows up several times, maybe they are looking us over."

  "Rog, why don’t you walk them up and show them the shed? I hope it doesn’t offend you, but we’d rather not show you the interior. Martee and I need to go make some calls."

  "This is something that I got here in the city," Josh showed Martee when the room was clear. He removed a battery powered fogger from a plastic shopping bag he’d left on the shelf and started going around the room spraying with it. There was no odor at all. "It’s something new. It will ruin any DNA testing they try to perform from wipes or sweepings from the room. It doesn’t destroy or alter the actual material left behind, but the smallest trace really screws up the reactions they need to make the test work in the lab. It degrades and you have to renew it every week."

  "With all your laws, can that be legal?" Martee asked.

  "It’s so new they haven’t had time to outlaw it," he assured her.

  They stowed the sprayer in his luggage and headed down the hall to their suite. Roger was back from the roof in minutes, checking the new rooms out almost as intently as Martee.

  "I’m going to call the concierge now and tell them we need the limo we asked for us in about a half hour guys." Josh warned them. "He suggested we use the service elevator, when I mentioned we had boxes and asked for a van, so he’ll send a man up to help us. If both shifts of our guys will stay around and help, it should go fast. I don’t think he wanted anyone running a hand cart through his fancy lobby. I can’t say as I blame him. That means we’ll load in the commercial zone behind the building where they take deliveries."

  The suite was decorated much like the one they left. The chairs were bigger and there was a love seat besides a sofa. There was more extensive use of marble and some art on the wall that was not by starving artists.

  "What can we get done in a half day?" Martee wanted to know. "The morning is pretty well used up and I’m going to be ready for some lunch pretty soon."

  "And we’ve been sitting inside, when you’d like to be out seeing the city too, right?" Rog asked.

  "Well sure. It’s nice here, but I’d love to ride around and see everything."

  "I agree," Josh piped up. "Let’s stop somewhere and get some carry out for all of us. Then I have the address of some strong box storage units from the directory. We can drop off everything but the samples you sorted out, Rog and one case of platinum. I don’t think we’ll have time to go through renting more than two places today, but we can rent a couple more tomorrow and split those caches again. I want to see how a dealer reacts to one box before I try to move more. A case is about five thousand ounces. I’m not sure what the local market can absorb and want to go slow."

  * * *

  Their hired security man, Ono, steered them to a deli he personally recommended. After they rejected sending him, in and the driver refused to let anyone take the van around the block Josh went in with a hastily written list. He got a sandwich and pickle for everyone and a carrier of drinks. Just to make sure, he ordered two extra sandwiches in case somebody didn’t like theirs. The corned beef was piled so high on his, he had to open it up and eat some before it would fit in his mouth.

  Martee had never had Russian dressing before, or a serious kosher pickle. She ended up eating half her corned beef, half his pastrami and half of the tongue and chopped liver extras he had grabbed. She would have probably eaten more, but it was gone, because Ono turned out to be a truly frightening eating machine. If he asked, "Are you done with that?" the only safe response was to jerk back any body parts between him and the food. Otherwise one risked a fork stabbed in the back of the hand. With a little training, though, Martee might catch up. She was after all distracted, playing the tourist.

  Nothing could be much more boring than standing and filling out the forms to rent a storage strongbox. In their case more like a closet. At the first place Josh and Martee went in. At the second place Roger went in alone. Martee had seen enough of this Earth custom.

  These were not banks with safe deposit boxes, nor the bigger, less-secure places that people rented for household goods. They were the sort of place where people who had jewelry worth millions left it, rather than trust it to a safe and security system at home. Or where a dealer in rare stamps or antiquities could economically keep his stock under armed guard, twenty-four hours a day. One was pleasant in décor, located in a commercial building. It had pleasant green carpets with little pale yellow diamonds in it and nice furniture.

  The other looked like a prison, freestanding with bare concrete, steel doors and visible armed guards. It was more expensive, but it also allowed them to pull inside to unload.

  With only one box of platinum in the back Josh directed the driver to 300 Canal Street. "Not to hurt your feelings Josh, but that suit looks more like something a used car salesman would be wearing, than a precious metals trader. How about allowing Martee and I to do this one?

  "Whatever. As I said, that’s one of your skills. Go to it."

  The facility had a nice entry. The door was wide and glass, so it didn’t look high security all dark and boxy. But he still had to press the intercom button beside the door and announce himself and his appointment, to get buzzed in. Martee had never been through that sort of door, so when the receptionist actuated the solenoid latch with a mechanical raspberry, she gave a startled twitch.

  Inside, it looked very much like a bank in the better part of town, without the teller windows but with nice indirect lighting. The web site said they dealt in coins, but there were no display cases. They must be so high-class, that whatever you wanted to see was brought out to a desk and displayed to you.

  There was a fancy reception desk that was made of stacked giant boomerang shapes, pointed at the entry, with the computer screen hidden from their side. Everything of granite and brushed stainless. It looked like what he would have envisioned a starship bridge looking like, before he met Martee.

  When you turned around, there were two armed guards seated in little alcoves, on either side of the entry. But you couldn’t see them until you were past them. That told him several things about the firm right there. They thought things through and they didn’t torture the help by making them stand an entire shift needlessly.

  "I have an appointment with Mr. Green, for three-thirty," he repeated to the young man. Maybe I should have sent in Josh, he thought. The fellow had side locks and a black suit that he suspected marked him as Orthodox. No name tag either, which probably meant he was not hired help. Then when he looked down at the computer screen, he had the smallest little yarmulke Roger had ever seen. He wondered if he had to glue in on. He was glad Martee had put on one of her most conservative and modest outfits.

  "Yes, you are a little early, but he isn’t with anyone. I’ll ask if he can see you now. May I tell him your associate’s name?"

  "Martee," he said and then stumbled. She wasn’t an entertainer known by a single name and this wasn’t a social call. "Martee deTrishal," he improvised. He was very aware of her looking at him out of the corner of his eye. He looked over all wary and was relieved to see she looked amused. She was taking this better than when he’d decided to rename her Martha, at Keith’s.

  "Mr. Green is free," the nice young man told them when he came back. He turned without inviting them to follow, but Roger took it as an invitation.

  Mr. Green had a nice office, but like all the others he saw it had no door. In fact, it had another opening to the rear. It had glass walls front and rear and solid on the sides. The thing Roger noticed, was that once they sat down, none of the other offices were visible from their seat.

  "Mr. McGregor," he acknowledged him with a nod. "Mr. Koszicki wasn’t sure if it would be you or he, visiting today," Green said
, from behind his desk. "I didn’t know you would have another associate. Ms. deTrishal," he inclined his head, "a pleasure to meet you." He didn’t offer his hand, but was so personable it was hard to notice, much less take offence.

  "You may meet him yet," Roger explained. "He’s out at our car. We just got into town and the driver is just a hired man who came with the car and our security is new today. He felt it best to stay with them for the moment. We three are the only principals however. Equal partners, so you understand."

  "Ah – you’re from out of town. Well I can understand his caution. People hear all the worst stories about the City, yet those sort of unpleasant things are honestly rare. On the plus side you can do any sort of business here, that can be done anywhere in the world. But I sound like a one man Chamber of Commerce don’t I?" he said, with a self depreciating little smile. "What can we do for you?"

  "We have some platinum in bullion bars, but it doesn’t carry any refiner’s marks or identification you’d recognize. They are not in exact weights either. It’s quite pure though, somewhat better than laboratory grade, so we’re not talking scrap that will have to be processed."

  "We’d like to deposit a good sized sample with you. We have some bars in the car. And after you do an assay and determine what kind of a discount you need off spot to process it, you can wire the funds into one of our accounts. If we’re both pleased with how that goes, then you can assume we’ll be doing some more business."

  "We usually just have people mail such items registered mail and we process them and send a check or ship goods back if they want payment in kind. I hope you didn’t go to all the trouble to travel, just for this. We do business internationally without ever meeting most of our customers."

  "Oh no, we have other business in town. Martee here wants to do some shopping. For that matter Josh – that’s Mr. Koszicki and I plan on having some suits and things made tomorrow too. But since we’re here we thought it would be nice to meet who we’re dealing with and as I said, then hopefully we’ll continue doing business."

  "Certainly, what you described is pretty much what our standard acceptance contract says already. Why don’t you have your partner bring the items in? I’ll have them run in the back and weighed and we’ll give you a receipt."

  If you want I’ll have one of our security people go out and offer to watch your vehicle while he’s inside."

  "No, that’s ok. Once he brings the sample in, our security will be enough for the car. I’ll give him a buzz." Rog pulled out his cell phone and punched the call button on the first address. "Josh, we’re set here. Bring the bars in and we’ll be down the road with a receipt in our hand in no time." He slipped it back in his jacket.

  Mr. Green got the most peculiar look on his face when the receptionist showed Josh in. He was pushing a bright red hand cart, with puffy pneumatic tires. The wood box on the dolly was about the size of a heavy truck battery. He didn’t say anything while Josh took a powered screwdriver out of his back pocket and took four drywall screws out of the lid. The box was packed right to the lid with bars, separated with thin wood strips so you could get your fingers around them to get them out. They looked like a stack of metallic hoagie buns.

  "Do you have an approximation…" Green started and stalled.

  "Weight?" Roger asked with studied indifference. "Oh five thousand – Troy ounces of course - give or take a bit. We’ll trust your scale, whatever it is though," he emphasized.

  "That’s – uh – that’s…"

  "Seventeen million, six hundred - fifty - five thousand, three hundred and twenty one dollars. Give or take a bit." The receptionist parroted Rog with a grin. "That is at New York spot, about twenty minutes ago. I haven’t checked since."

  "Excuse my nephew Gil," Green asked them. "He’s a talent," he said tapping his temple like he could as easily mean crazy too. "This is more than I had anticipated," he admitted.

  "Is it more than you care to deal with?" Roger asked worried. "If you have somebody else you’d rather recommend…" he suggested.

  "Oh, no." he corrected quickly. "We’re happy for the business. I can see why you wouldn’t send it registered mail. That must have sounded silly to you. We have relationships with other dealers to spread it around. I just have to call in one of the senior partners. We’ll have to immediately take new positions in the commodity markets, to minimize our risks holding this large a lot and put it in proper storage…You do know there is such a thing as an armored car service?" he said sternly.

  The young man muttered something in a different language and Josh roared with laughter.

  "What?" Roger asked, never liking being left outside.

  "The kid, Gil, says in Yiddish I’m a… "he hesitated looking at Martee – "Fornicating Crazy Polack. To soften it for the lady."

  Mr. Green looked horrified.

  "Well they’re smart people. It couldn’t take them long to figure that out," Roger said, not at all offended.

  "Indeed," Mr. Green said, appraising the hat Joshua was wearing indoors. "I will only be surprised if you don’t surprise us again."

  When the senior partner joined them, they were suddenly important enough to have their hands shaken, except Martee, whose hand the old gentleman took, but bowed over so deep Roger was scared he was going to kiss it. Heaven alone knew what she would have thought of that. A coffee service suddenly appeared on a cart and both Josh and Roger noted to each other later that the receptionist stayed with them the rest of their appointment. The kid had a lot of pull for a door keeper.

  "The only small glitch was they declared their usual contract was not suitable for this. Josh agreed, but insisted that it fit on one sheet of paper in plain English. When they objected, he simply pointed out they were not tied to any final weight, they were open to assign any discount off spot they needed and they hadn’t been saddled with any set period to settle the funds. "We trust you to treat us right. If you are going to cheat us, you have all the tools you need already. If that happens we simply don’t come back here and go to your rivals for our business in the future."

  "We want to narrow everything down for just that reason," the senior partner explained. We want to be sure if we follow all the terms exactly, you won’t be able to be unhappy with us."

  "Hey, we trust you to be honest. Trust us to be reasonable."

  They went back to the hotel with a receipt for five thousand, eight-one, point two six Troy ounces of platinum, on a one page contract.

  They never did have time to go shopping.

  Chapter 20

  The next morning while Roger worked out for his back and Martee let the shower pulse at her, Josh called the Israeli Consulate. He wasn’t sure how to present himself, but he decided to speak Hebrew from the start. He was worried two days was short notice, but he had no problem at all getting an appointment with the Commerce Aide, for Wednesday the day after tomorrow at 1:00pm.

  They didn’t even ask if he was an Israeli, or had other citizenship. But they had asked what industry he was in. "Also we have an armed guard that is a local police officer because of our goods," Josh explained. "Is it any problem for him to accompany us into your building?"

  "No, but he’ll have to wait for you in our lobby, outside our security perimeter," she explained. "We’ll take care of your security inside adequately," she assured him.

  "Is there somewhere to sit and be comfortable?" Josh asked. "Otherwise I’ll have him go back to the car and wait for a call. We really try to treat our help with respect," he explained.

  "Yes, there is a lounge and there’s even a restroom if he knows to ask and the receptionist can have a coffee or water brought out for him."

  That taken care of, he waited for his partners to rise. They would have breakfast in the security guys’ suite and see what Robert had in mind for shopping.

  He amused himself by checking the video recording of the ‘Guard Room’ as he thought of it, after they had left yesterday. The off shift agents had hung around a few minutes, to
discuss their impressions of the new bosses.

  "What do you think?" Harris asked. "Are these legitimate diamond merchants, or are they running some kind of scam?"

  "You always think everybody is running a scam." Steve said. "If your brother-in-law asked you over to watch a game, you’d think it was a scam."

  "Hell, if you knew my family…If my brother-in-law asked me over and wasted a free beer on me, I could guarantee he was up to no good."

  Anderson held up a finger to get the floor – "If they were long standing diamond merchants, they would have their own security and be familiar with things they obviously are not. They don’t look or sound the part. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t new diamond merchants breaking into the trade, as unlikely as that is. If they were con artists, they would have their own fake security, in on the action. They must have the goods, or they wouldn’t be spending the money to protect them."

  "I can tell you one thing," Steve Coontz told them. "I helped roll some of those cases down to the limo and they sure as hell didn’t have chocolate chip cookies in them. The tires on my hand cart were bulging out from the weight."

  "You know, most people from the sticks, who ask for an armed guard, first thing they do is ask to see your gun," Anderson said. "I brace myself for it, because it irritates the hell out of me. I feel like they are going to critique what I carry, or see if it’s kept clean to their satisfaction, like it’s some sort of inspection. These guys didn’t care. I think they cared more about having a sworn officer, because if he calls on the phone for backup, he knows what to say and who to ask for to get action. But as far as our pistols – I think they’ve seen one before."

  "I’d sure like to know what’s in that weird blind on the roof," Harris confessed. "Damn thing looks more like a futuristic four hole porta-crapper, than a comm shack. And it looks like it had to be dropped by a helicopter instead of assembled there, the way it’s rounded and on funny little legs. I could probably get somebody from the Port Authority to loan me a portable freight scanner, to do a sweep on it and image the inside."