"When's this guy going to show up?" Rathbone demanded.
"Hey, take it easy," Jimmy Bartlett said. "You've been awfully antsy lately."
"You're right," David said. "I'm getting impatient. And when you get impatient, you make mistakes. I'll try to slow down. But did we have to meet in a crummy place like this?"
Bartlett shrugged. "He picked it, and at the last minute. Look, the guy is playing a double game. If his agency finds out he's turned sour, he'll draw ten, at least. And if the Colombians even suspect he might be a plant-which he isn't-he's dead meat. So can you blame the guy for being paranoid? He's just meeting us as a personal favor to me. He'll show up-after he's made sure the place isn't staked out."
They were sitting in the bedroom of a motel far west on Atlantic Boulevard. The room smelled of roach spray, and the wheezing air conditioner in the window was no help at all. Bartlett had brought along a bottle of Chivas and a stack of plastic cups. They got a tub of ice cubes from the machine in the lobby, and were working on strong Scotch and waters.
"Before he shows," Jimmy said, "let's talk a little business. That queer twenty you got from Termite
Tommy is a gem. Was a gem. I went to dig it out just before you picked me up, but it wasn't there. Just a pile of confetti."
"I told you," Rathbone said.
"David, this is the greatest invention since sliced bread. The possibilities are staggering. We'll start with a deal I've got coming up in a week or so: a big deposit at the Crescent Bank in Boca."
"Mike Mulligan covering for you?"
"Oh sure; he's true blue. The deposit will run at least a hundred grand. Probably more. I suggest we begin by salting it with thirty thousand of the queer and taking out thirty Gs of genuine bills."
"Whatever you say, Jimmy."
"If it goes okay, we'll increase our take from future deposits. Can you get thirty grand of those color prints from Tommy?"
"In twenties?"
"Better make them fifties and hundreds, half and half. Twenties will be too big a bundle."
"All right. I'll let him know."
"And if Tommy is out of the picture, you'll be able to deal directly with the printer?"
"Absolutely. He-"
But then there was a single knock on the door, and both men stood up. Bartlett put the door on the chain, opened it cautiously, peered out. He saw who it was, closed the door, slipped off the chain, then opened the door wide.
"Hiya, Paul," he said. "Glad you could make it."
The man who entered was tall, broad-shouldered, with a confident grin. His madras sports jacket and linen slacks didn't come off plain pipe racks. He moved smoothly and, before saying a word, walked into the bathroom and out again, opened the closet door and looked in, even went down on one knee to peek under the bed.
He rose, dusting his hands. "No offense," he said to Bartlett, "but I'm alive and mean to stay that way. Who's this?"
"David. He's in the game. Paul, meet David. David, meet Paul."
They nodded. No one shook hands.
"Warm in here," Paul said. "Why don't we all take off our jackets."
"Paul," Bartlett said gently, "we're not wired; take my word for it."
"Sorry," the newcomer said, still grinning. "Force of habit. Hey, Chivas Regal! That's nice."
"Help yourself," David said. He sat on the bed, let the other two men take the spindly armchairs.
"So?" Paul said, taking a gulp of his drink. "What do you want to know?"
"An overall view of the world market," Jimmy Bartlett said. "What's going to happen in the next year. Your opinion, of course. We know you don't have a crystal ball. We just want your informed guess on the future fluctuation of the product price. Cocaine especially."
"Okay," Paul said, "but all this is just between us. Right now there's a product surplus. That should evaporate within three months. Demand will hold steady; supply will contract."
"How do you figure that?" David asked. "Government raids? Interception of shipments?"
Paul laughed. "Forget it," he advised. "Washington claims they stop ten percent at the borders. The truth is, if they're grabbing two percent they're lucky. No, the reason for the coming shortfall is more basic than that. The U.S. is saturated, all markets covered, no possibility of any great expansion. So the cartels are turning to the European Community. What's the market over there right now? Modest for heroin and marijuana, underdeveloped for cocaine. There are a few wealthy snorters, no one is free-basing, and they don't even know about crack. Plus you've got to realize that by 1992, the borders between countries in Western Europe will be a sieve; it'll be no problem at all to move the product. So the cartels' merchandising and sales managers have planned an all-out campaign to flood the whole continent with coke. It's already started in a small way, but eventually the European demand should be as strong or stronger than the American. That has got to mean reduced shipments to the U.S. and higher prices. You asked for an educated guess; that's mine."
"How high do you think it'll go?" David said.
Paul pondered a moment. "Assuming general inflation remains at its present level, I can see a wholesale price increase in the U.S. to 30K a kilo within a year. That may eliminate one social problem because the price has got to be about 10K before it's economically feasible to produce five- and ten-dollar vials of crack. But at the same time the price is rising in the U.S., it'll be reduced dramatically in the European Community. The Colombian marketing experts know there's a two-or three-year wait before a strong consumer demand develops. Cocaine addiction takes that long. Heroin and crack work much faster, of course. But the cartels have the money to invest and the patience to wait for the market to build. And cutting the wholesale price is the quickest way to open up Western Europe, but it'll mean a higher price per kilo in this country. Yes, I think it'll go to thirty grand within a year, and I wouldn't be surprised to see it hit fifty thousand in two or three years as more production goes overseas."
"Paul," Bartlett said, "who knows about this decision to target the European Community for coke? Do the domestic dealers know about it? The retailers?"
"I doubt that," the drug agent said, pouring himself another drink. "They're only interested in today's profits. They know from nothing about long-term planning and international marketing strategies. But the Colombian cartel executives realize they've got to develop worldwide demand if their growth is to maintain its current rate of increase. And after Western Europe, of course, there is always Russia, Japan, China. These men may not be Harvard MBAs, but they recognize the reality of the global economy and their need to expand their international trade. And price manipulation is one way of achieving that."
"Thank you, Paul," Jimmy Bartlett said. "You've given us exactly what we wanted. Can we contact you for an update in a month or so?"
"Whenever you like," Paul said, finishing his drink and rising. "I don't care how you use the information, as long as I'm not named as the source. By the way, this was a freebie, Jimmy. I owed you one for tipping me about that rat from Panama. Now we're even. If you want updates, it'll cost."
"Understood," Bartlett said. "Thanks again."
"Nice meeting you, David," Paul said.
"Nice meeting you, Paul," David said.
After he departed, the door locked and chained, Rathbone and Bartlett mixed a final drink.
"You believe him?" David asked.
"I trust his judgment and inside knowledge of the industry. He deals with some very important men. If he says the kilo price of coke is going to rise in the U.S., then it will. He'd have no reason to con us."
"I'll take your word for it. So we can plan purchases and sales by the Fort Knox Fund on that premise, that prices are going up because of a coming scarcity?"
"I think so. Let's start out on a small scale, wait a month or so, and then see if Paul's predictions are on the money."
"Okay," Rathbone said, "I'll contact Frank Little and set up a meet with his biggest client. We'll try to sell for eighteen to twenty thousand a kilo. How does that sound?"
"About right. Ask for more than twenty, but fight anything lower."
"What quantity?" Rathbone asked.
"How much is in the Fund's kitty right now?"
"About a quarter-mil."
"Then let's try to peddle fifteen kilos. We'll have enough cash from Sid and Mort's mooches before we make the buy."
"Suits me," David said. "How much should we offer on the buy?"
"Say 12K per kilo. We may have to pay more and sell for less. But let's aim for a net of 100 Gs. Now to get back to Termite Tommy … I talked to two professionals, the Corcoran brothers, well qualified to handle our problem. Their price is ten thousand. But they're going to be up in Macon on assignment for a few weeks. I could get the job done cheaper, but I'd feel better if we waited for these men to return from Georgia. They're really the best in the business."
"Ten grand?" Rathbone said. "I thought it would be less."
"Oh hell," Bartlett said, "you can buy a kill for fifty bucks if you want to trust a hophead. Do you? I don't."
"I don't either. You're right; this is not something we want to chisel. All right, we'll wait until the Cor-corans are available. Meanwhile I'll get that thirty thousand in queer from Tommy. Now let's get out of this shithouse."
They rose, finished their drinks, looked around to make certain they were leaving nothing behind.
"Hey," Jimmy Bartlett said, "did I tell you my younger son won a catamaran race off Key West?''
"No kidding?" David Rathbone said. "That's great!"