He sat, opened the top of the backpack, pretended to be searching for something within, and held it so that the man could see the bills.
In response, Mayberry opened the lid of the briefcase and showed him the coins.
No gun.
The Maple Leafs were in pockets of clear plastic sheets, ten to a sheet in two rows of five, stacked ten deep. Santos could tell at a glance they were real. Faking such things was possible, but these were not fakes. To be sure, he said, “May I?”
Mayberry nodded. It seemed to Santos that the man’s head would fall off, it bobbed so hard.
Santos removed one coin and felt it. It was real enough. He tucked it back into its pocket and closed the briefcase.
Pedestrians streamed by, unaware of the transaction taking place.
“It would probably not be a good idea to count here, but if you wish, you may take it into the bathroom over there and do so.” He handed Mayberry the backpack.
“I, uh…”
“It would be no problem. You could leave the coins with me for security, and your sister can watch to make sure I don’t run off.”
Mayberry gasped.
Santos glanced over at Sundress in time to see her jump as if stung by a bee.
He smiled.
“How could you know that?” Mayberry said.
Santos shrugged, a lazy gesture.
“I — there’s no need to count it. I’m sure it is all there.”
Indeed, it was, but the man was a fool to trust him. In fact, Santos knew he could take the coins, and the backpack, and walk away, and Mr. Mayberry — or whatever his real name was — would do nothing to stop him. He could hardly call the police if there was some taint to the gold, and he could not physically stop him. But Santos was an honest man. He was saving twenty-five percent on the value of the Maple Leafs, a bargain. He was no thief.
“Very well, then. Our transaction is concluded, no? Enjoy the day.”
With that Santos stood and walked away with the briefcase.
All his business should be so easy. But just to be safe, he would take his time getting back to his automobile, and he would make sure he wasn’t followed. He had another backpack in the car’s trunk, and he would transfer the coins to it — just in case. Perhaps Mr. Yellow Shorts was not a terrified amateur at all, but some kind of wonderful actor and criminal genius. Perhaps he might have put a tracking device into the briefcase to allow some… more violent confederates to follow along to relieve Santos of his gold elsewhere?
In which instance, the footpads would find themselves following a delivery truck, or wondering why their target had taken refuge in a garbage bin…
He smiled at the thought. If pressed, he would bet all the gold in the case against a dime that this imagining was not so. Still, it paid to be cautious when carrying a couple of kilos of gold around, no? Men had been killed for much, much less.
He went into a shop and found an exit in the back with a bar across the door that said an emergency buzzer would sound if the door was opened. He pushed the door open and stepped out into the warm sunshine. A short ways down was another entrance into the mall. He walked there and went back into the building.
He had heard that there were supposed to be a couple of good Brazilian restaurants in Fort Lauderdale. Perhaps he could get a real caipirinha, heavy on the lime and light on the vodka, maybe some churrasco steak or chicken and even some torta de banana? He had not had good banana pie since he had been in the U.S.
He would ask the car’s computer where to find such a restaurant. With the money he had saved on the coins — at least ten thousand U.S., for sure — he certainly could afford to indulge himself in some real food for a change…
Ah. Life was good.
17
John Howard walked down the long hall to his office, oddly glad to be here.
Tyrone was out of danger, and home, and Howard felt as if he could go back to work without worry. Julio had had an adventure, breaking up an extortionist’s operation, and Gridley and crew had been working hard on the latest net assaults.
Fortunately, he hadn’t missed much.
He’d had a couple of long talks with his son. One of the perks of having a teenager confined to bed and depending on you for everything he couldn’t reach was that he was forced to talk to you now and then, if for no other reason save to ask for his laptop computer, more DVDs for his video player, or another soft drink or glass of iced tea. The boy drank like he was trying to set a record for most liquid downed. Had three piss jars by his bed full most of the time.
Tyrone had asked about work, and Howard had given him what was available for public consumption, plus a little more. After all, his son was a computer whiz who had once helped Jay Gridley track down one of their miscreants.
When they had gotten to Jay’s theory about CyberNation maybe being somehow responsible, and the prevailing attitude as to where CyberNation could go and what it could do to itself when it got there, Howard had gotten an earful.
“You’re wrong. These people are on the right track.”
“A bunch of thieves? Putting copyrighted or trademarked stuff out without paying for it?”
“It’s not theft, Dad. Knowledge should be free. If you’re some poor backwoods family in Kuala Lumpur or somewhere and there’s a way of growing rice that doubles your harvest, shouldn’t they know about it?”
Howard had shrugged. “I can see that, but—”
“That’s an easy one. Same thing for drugs. Suppose you run a Third World country, and half your population has a deadly disease, and the formula for a drug that will cure it is available, shouldn’t you be able to get it, make the stuff, and cure your citizens? The big drug companies say no, you have to buy it from them.”
“There’s two sides to that argument, son. The big drug company maybe spent millions creating and developing that formula. Years of work and testing, getting government approval. So you’re saying that they should just give it away for free?”
“No. I’m saying that they are making huge profits, so why shouldn’t they be willing to cut some slack to sick people who will die because they can’t afford it? Doesn’t the end of saving lives justify the means here?”
Howard said, “But if you extend that logic, there might not be any profits. If they have to give away their stuff for free to everybody who can’t afford it, they go bust, and then no new cures are developed. Nobody gets a haircut if the barbershop is out of business.”
“You’re twisting what I’m saying.”
“No, I’m telling you that in our world, there ain’t no such thing as a free lunch. Somebody somewhere always pays for it, that’s how it works. Yes, maybe some rich company could afford to make less profit to benefit others, but when you start drawing that line for them, you’re forcing people into communism. That’s a bad system.”
Tyrone, sprawled on the bed and unable to escape, crossed his arms over his chest. “You don’t understand.”
“So educate me.”
Tyrone scooted up a little. Like his mother, he had to use his hands to talk, so the tight body language went away. He said, “All right. Look at CyberNation. They are offering international citizenship. You join up, pay them, and you get connected to the world. You can get a college degree, find any information that’s available, and they’ll even offer you a kind of social security. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, except that it’s a castle in the sky, son. You can’t live on-line. No matter how many hours of the day you’re plugged in, you still have to have a physical location somewhere. You can roam the planet in virtual reality, but your butt will be in a chair in Washington or Texas or Sierra Leone.”