INFAMOUS TRADE by Andrej Koymasky (C) 1998 - 2002 written the 20th of July, 1995 translated by the author English text kindly revised by Jer
USUAL DISCLAIMER
"INFAMOUS TRADE" is a gay story, with some parts containing graphic scenes of sex between males. So, if in your land, religion, family, opinion and so on this is not good for you, it will be better not to read this story. But if you really want, or because YOU don't care, or because you think you really want to read it, please be my welcomed guest.
ELEVENTH
London - December 1988
It was two a.m. when Thomas Bronson, Eddie Walkerdine and the two cutthroats he had hired started to rob the Shepherd Market Deposit Center, .
The depository was a wide windowless room, with a low ceiling, close circuit video system and metal walls lined with safety deposit boxes. To protect the deposit boxes, was a thick metal door almost 10 feet in diameter, furnished with bolts and two locks, one coded and the other on a timer. An alarm system connected the door to UnivSecurCom which was in charge of security for the depository. From a small fortified control room, only a night guard was watching the large control panel of the elaborate alarm system which controlled the entire complex. The depository's owner was a certain Ravi Sunny, a chubby, thirty-six year old Indian born in Calcutta. Before emigrating to England when twenty-five years old, with his thirty-three year old wife, he earned a living as a butcher. In 1980 he divorced his wife, sending her back to her family in Delhi. During that period he started to buy run down buildings in London, a business which in a short time showed to be very lucrative. The depository was the only one of its kind in the area. Situated in the elegant quarter of Mayfair, Shepherd Market was an exclusive little square with small white houses, old shops, pubs and boutiques. The depository was on the first floor of an eighteen century house. The upper floors, were leased to a publicity agency, a jewelry shop and a folk art gallery. Near the depository was a Rolls-Royce distributor and a real estate agency.
Nervously, Thomas entered the depository first. His nostrils were burning because of the sniff of cocaine he needed to find the courage to take part in the robbery.
The alarm system for the entry door to the vault was disconnected during the day, when there was heavy traffic by clients. At night time it was a different matter and the guards controlled the access of anybody who wanted to enter the depository.
A single client, Walkerdine said, would not raise the suspicions of the night guard. For four masked men showing at the entrance door, it would be different. Thomas' task was to tranquilize whoever was inside.
He disguised himself wearing a dark raincoat, leather hat and fake red beard. He wore colored contact lenses, deerskin gloves and had a small suitcase. He cut short his hair after dyeing it red. He showed a faked identity card to the night guard, a forty year old Irishman with a horse face.
Thomas, looking more than respectable, showed his fake identity card, left his thumb print off and typed in the four numbers corresponding to an account number. A number typed in at random for a non existing account, would trigger an alarm so that the guard would not activate the system that opened the door to the vault. But Bernard Muir had provided a number to type in that night. Thomas passed his fake documents through the slit that was next to the side of the massive oak door of the depository, pushing it into the nicotine stained hands of the guard. A few seconds later he disconnected the alarm allowing Thomas to enter.
Thomas drew his .38 Smith & Wesson from his raincoat pocket, pushing it into the guard's back. He did not want to waste time while the guard looked in the depository records for a non existent document. Then he disconnected the internal alarms allowing Walkerdine and the other two men to enter the control center. All three were wearing ski masks, black trousers, thick turtle neck sweaters and surgical gloves. One of the men, with a short stocky neck and knotty fingers, was carrying two suitcases. The other man, with an incredibly long neck, dragged a very large suitcase. Putting down their suitcases, they helped Thomas hold the guard and tie him up. They laid him down on the floor. Then Thomas pulled off his raincoat under which he was wearing a uniform of the depository guards. While he was putting his raincoat on top the file cabinets, he discovered he had a great thirst -- cocaine accelerated his heart beat and now his throat was dry. He was feeling the same excitement he had at the last quarter of a match, when the team was moving like a single man, and seconds fled away while he was dribbling the ball on the ground, conscious that nothing could stop him from hitting the basket.
With his heart beating a hundred times a minute, he observed Walkerdine working on the guard. After pulling out a lighter from his pocket, the English man lit it. Meanwhile one of the other men pulled out a square bottle from one of the suitcases. One of those used for orange juice. He poured its content on the uniform of the night guard who was trembling and pleading for help in a whisper. The smell of gasoline filled the small room.
"If you don't answer my questions, you're a dead man. First question -- where is the connection box?" Walkerdine asked.
In reality, he already knew the answer. He'd learned it from Muir's notes; but to protect him, the information had to come from the night guard. The man, scared to death, had difficulties trying to talk correctly. His words were blocked by the thought of how much his life had shown to be just one continuous run of bad luck. There was no possibility of night robberies, those of the company assured. Fucking bastards! The open access to the depository, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, was necessary. This made the difference between the depository and normal banks, even if often there were nights when no clients came. The majority of the guards preferred the day shift and spent their nights with their families.
From the control room floor he watched the lighter held by the crazy man was slowly advancing toward him, "Downstairs, the connection box is downstairs. But you first have to enter the vault."
"Good. Now I need three more things from you. I want you to turn off the alarms to the vault and open the door to the hall where the safe-deposit boxes are. Then I want you to disconnect all the alarms in the floor and ceiling. And finally, you have to tell me what code had been set for tonight."
"What code?"
Walkerdine seized the guard's neck and put the lighter to his nose, "Listen, prick-head! Try to untie your tongue or I'll roast you. Any safe-deposit box company calls at least two or three times each night to check that everything is all right. When they call, you can say a password to tell them all is right, or you say a code password to signal them there are problems. So, for the last time, tell us the fucking code for tonight!"
"When they call, somebody asks 'Is the new salary okay?'. If there are no problems I have to answer 'twelve percent is good'. But if there are problems, I have to say, 'six percent is not enough, I want more!'. Then the other answers saying we have to accept what our union decided and he cuts and gives the alarm. There is nothing more, I swear."
"Stand up, handsome. And I hope you told the truth."
Shocked, the guard disconnected the alarms, was dragged downstairs in front of the vault's door where he was tightly tied allowing him only one free hand to answer the telephone. The three men entered the vault, opened their suitcases, taking hammers, chisels and bolt cutters. When they whistled, Thomas went downstairs with his small suitcase -- he had only to take the content of Rowland's safe-deposit box. In his continuous search for money Thomas had several times pilfered Rowland's wallet or trousers. He had found his ID card for the depository and knew his safe-deposit box was number 212. Walkerdine opened it for him in a few seconds. Thomas rapidly emptied its content in his small suitcase. Then went upstairs, satisfied, while the men were starting to break all the box locks, one after the other. While he transferred Rowland's goods in his small suitcase, he noticed there were many, really many bundles of dollars and his heart started to beats faster. Then some boxes, possibly with jewels, and some black covered pocket diaries. He took everything. He would check it out later, calmly; what they contained, and he would count the money. For the moment, he was just happy he could remove all the good things belonging to the stingy Rowland. He was just amazed that he kept such a large sum of money in the box and that he didn't deposit it in the bank, but so much the better for him. His share of the robbery would be higher than anticipated. Yes, so much the better!
While Thomas was in the control room, he snapped his fingers -- he understood where from all that money came from and why he didn't keep it in a bank -- Rowland was stealing money from the Assistance Foundation, stealing it from the needy children -- well, in that case, he could go to hell. It was not stealing to keep the stolen goods away from a theft.
From the control room Thomas watched the other three men who were emptying into their suitcases a real gold mine. The three men were working rapidly and in silence -- money, jewels, precious collections and bonds ended in their large suitcases. Anything else was discarded -- pornographic pictures, wigs, personal documents, keys, diaries, baby's shoes, the urn with a deceased ashes, lace underwear and also drugs.
The plan between Thomas and Joe Lo Casio, New York Mafia boss with whom he had contacts, said that he would fence everything and transformed it into good, clean money. On the same morning the three suitcases would be sent by plane to New York, on the same flight Thomas would take. At the NY airport, Lo Casio men would make the three suitcases disappear before passing customs. Meanwhile the loading documents would be counterfeited to make it appear that the three suitcases were never loaded on that plane. Thomas would go to his hotel where Rowena was waiting for him, and would wait for the contact from Lo Casio. Walkerdine would arrive the next day to be paid.
He would give a quarter of it to Thomas and would go back to London with the remaining clean money to share with the other two men.
As luck would have it, Rowland was leaving for New York on business. Good luck. Thomas couldn't imagine meeting him in New York, but if it happened, hell, the last thing that worried him was his relationship with the Englishman. Now Thomas could think only of Rowena and Andres, his two beloved and lovers. The people he most loved in the world. He was doing this robbery only for their safety and welfare. He promised Andres freedom and he wanted to give both of them a new life, a serene existence. Rowena wanted to open a beauty salon and now they would have no problems. And he would get rid of Rowland forever.
In the control room Thomas passed his time smoking one cigarette after the other, fantasizing about the way he could spend all that money. He forgot about Rowland's pocketed diaries. For the moment he was way too excited to be able to read anything. He would look at them during the flight.
Through the bullet-proof glass, he watched the rain heavily falling on Shepherd Market Place. The storm would end soon, or at least so he hoped. Elsewhere there could be problems flying from Heathrow. He had to hurry to leave. He looked at the three men, wet with sweat, who were finishing pilfering all that gold and other goods -- it had to be worth a dizzy sum!
Walkerdine raised his eyes towards him, "We are almost done, soon it will be dawn. Come change your clothes, you should leave for the airport soon."
"We did it! My god, we did it!" Thomas said, his fists tight, letting out a long breath.
"I'd really say so. We're all tired. We had to leave behind some interesting items, but such is life. I prefer to leave the hold while God seems still on our side."
"Right, right! So we will meet in twelve hours, agreed?"
"Sure. Say Hi to Rowena for me. You two love birds deserve a good vacation now. I thank you for everything Thomas. Without you, this robbery would have been practically impossible. Muir was dying to be fucked by you. And also for your contacts in New York. You have been fantastic, from the start to the end. You're really a great guy, Thomas Bronson. Now your part is almost over -- we should not make your New York friends wait. Have a good journey and kiss Rowena in my behalf, please. Oh, take this for the taxi." Walkerdine said handing him some ten pounds bank notes.
Thomas changed his clothes and rapidly left the Institute, going to look for a taxi.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
New York - 6:00 a.m.
With a shudder Thomas leaned against the door of the hotel room in Central Park West, holding Rowena tightly to himself. He had just arrived from Kennedy airport and was still wearing the raincoat and leather hat. They passionately kissed. But his mind was miles away. His red rimmed eyes leaned on the girl with an almost mad glance.
He whispered her name saying, "Hold me tight... tight!"
She complied, leaning her body against his chest, waiting for him to tell how last night went.
In a quiet voice, the young man explained to her, "The robbery went smooth. The suitcases are on the way as planned. It is just that... something happened." He raised his arms so that she could see what he had in his hands, "Rowland's diaries. They were in his safe-deposit box and I took them just out of curiosity. I thought they were a kind of personal diary. I read them all during the long flight and, I must confess, I'm literally terrorized. Rowland is involved in an infamous trade." Thomas said, agitated.
Rowena looked at him worriedly and whispered, "Tell me."
"He is in business with people that I would never have anything to do with. People out of my league. People who would kill me if they knew that I have these diaries."
"Good Lord! What kind of business?"
"Rowland launders dirty money for those people through his foundation for the poor children. For clients coming from Europe, America, Asia and Africa. But it's worse than that. Rowland sells kids to some of them. He sells fucking sexual slaves to whoever is able to buy them! The kids he is presumed to assist, do you understand? He sells them so that those rich filthy bastards can fuck the kids as they please, do you understand?"
"You're joking!?"
Thomas opened one of the diaries, "It's all here, in black and white. Names, prices, the kind of kid those bastards like best. The foundation is nothing but a cursed cover up. Rowland uses it to recycle money and to recruit the kids to sell. That man doesn't deserve living. Look for yourself, just glance at these disgusting pages."
A few minutes later, a totally shocked Rowena returned the diary to Thomas, "Good Lord, what can we do now?"
"I don't know. I only know we have to fly the farthest possible place from that man. I don't even want to see his face from a distance. He arrives here today, to direct an auction to sell children. It's written on the last page. He has two accomplices here, a French brain-squeezer and an American, a detective. Jeez, everything is here, in black and white!"
Rowena took his hand and led him to one of the twin beds near the window looking down on Central Park, twenty floors below. "Now rest for a while, Love. Just sleep, then we'll discuss what we have to do."
"Those of the Lo Casio Family have to call to confirm the arrival of the suitcases. I have to prepare a meeting with Walkerdine, who is coming in twelve hours. My God, I don't even feel hungry -- those diaries killed my appetite."
"All right, no food, but at least rest a while until the telephone call from the Lo Casio comes, I'll wake you up.
"Wake me up also if Walkerdine calls."
"Does he now about the diaries?"
"No, or else he would have kept them for himself to use them in one way or another, I'm sure, greedy as he is. With these he could blackmail half the world. The fact is that it would be better not to meddle with some people. It would be better, yes, it would be better,"
"Pull off your clothes and lie down, now. I'll call you when the telephone rings."
Thomas woke up by himself three hours later. Rowena, sitting at the other end of the room, was watching TV, with the audio lowered. Still dazed from the flight and jet lag, he yawned and brushed his eyes before focusing the program that the girl was watching. It was CNN news,
"Nobody called?"
"No calls. The robbery made the news, you know?"
"What did they say?"
"That you're rich. According to Scotland Yard, you gentlemen left with more than a hundred sixty millions dollars. Rather more than less, as it seems for the moment they got only sixty per cent of the reports. Somebody seems hesitant to report everything he hid in that place. The reporter said that possibly it is sixty more, and that makes two hundred twenty. Taking out the part for recycling, it had to remain at least forty millions of dollars. Were you aware?"
Thomas massaged his temples, agape, "Jeez, and the eight that were in Rowland's box... Even too many, my head is whirling..."
He was looking for a cigarette on the night table, when the telephone rang. A second after the first ring, Thomas picked up the receiver pushing it against his ear, while holding it tight with both hands. His heart started to drum in his chest.
"Thomas Bronson?"
It was a male voice, a Brooklyn macaroni who possibly thought he had the looks of Al Pacino and the voice of De Niro.
"Yes, that's me. Who's this?"
"Are you an idiot or what? Don't you know who you are talking to?"
"Stop it, prick-head! I have no time for this bullshit. Hang up."
"For me you have time, cock-sucker. I am with the Lo Casio. Will you tell me what games you are playing?"
"Games? I can't understand."
"Then try to understand this, piece of shit. No suitcases arrived. We checked the plane. We checked the office in charge of commercial flights, we went over the documents with a fine tooth comb. We called one of our men at Heathrow -- those suitcases never were loaded on any fucking plane."
Closing his eyes, Thomas said, "No, it can't be, it's not possible."
"Now I'll tell you what's not possible. You can't fuck us in the ass and get away with it. This is something that's not possible. For such a joke, you played with us, you are on the list of the turds, do you understand? Admittedly Lo Casio doesn't decide to put you in the list of the extincts!" the voice said and threw down the receiver.
CONTINUES IN CHAPTER TWELFTH
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