Interlude 5

Sometimes, Terry missed being a regular criminal.

Obviously that had had its problems too — more violence, more fear of the cops, more competition. And this was unquestionably more interesting, and, so far, more lucrative. And this was the new shit. It was good to be where the action was. He liked action.

But at least in the old days, there wasn’t any fucking confusion. When you sell heroin, everyone understands that crimes are happening. They come to you because they want to buy something illegal, you have the illegal thing, they pay you and everyone knows that they just did something illegal. It’s scary, maybe, but it’s clear.

Now, he had to deal with this asshole, who was trying to sell him some animal parts that were completely legal.

“So what do you think? I’m aware of the value here,” the asshole said. Terry very much doubted that, because anyone who understood the market for Triangle ivory would understand that it was actually completely legal, and actually extremely commonly sold. Someone like that wouldn’t be bothering Terry, and their hands wouldn’t be shaking as they held a suitcase full of pieces.

Of course, dealing with morons had its advantages. Terry picked up what looked like a tusk and pretended like he was concerned someone would oversee them from the street. He considered shutting the blinds conspiratorially, but that seemed like overkill, so he conspicuously looked to both sides before saying, “There’s some quality, sure, but you have to understand the risk I’m taking. I’ve got to keep myself safe, and that’s not cheap.”

The jerk gave a knowing nod, and Terry knew he was set. A few minutes later, he had picked up some miscellaneous ivory at a price that would allow him to walk into a legitimate shop tomorrow and make an effortless profit. There were enough dummies that buying stuff that people thought was illegal was a measurable part of his business.

That was the thing about the Triangle’s black market — everyone knew there should be one, but it wasn’t immediately obvious what it was for. Bermuda didn’t try to charge people a percentage of Triangle imports beyond normal sales tax — an “import” tax would be unmanageable for goods that had no market value, and the government had, in a rare accomplishment, decided to avoid choking the golden goose. But the ships coming in made it seem obvious that there should be a black market. Terry figured nimrods like that guy were probably just so caught up in a narrative where they sold stuff to a shady criminal that actually having contraband was a secondary.

Not to say that there weren’t actually illegal things to do — Terry wasn’t in this just to con losers, although that was fun enough. There were the drugs, but, after serving as Terry’s entryway, they hadn’t remained a major part of the business. Business had been great until someone realized that it wasn’t actually illegal — how could there be a law against some shit someone had just found for the first time ever? And then Bermuda had passed some supposed omnibus ban, but even that was mostly toothless — they couldn’t exactly have dogs ready to smell shit out, could they? And no one could really form a distribution network anyway. So, while there was business there, it was increasingly removed from Terry’s life, focused instead on whoever had connections to dumb kids at clubs.

Much of what was left were things that people didn’t want to have publicly bought or sold, even independent of their nominal legality. Poisons were the classic example there. People found a lot of crazy poisonous snakes and gophers and birds through the Triangle, so supply should have swamped the market. But, if someone had just opened “Poisons R Us”, law enforcement everywhere would have had a lot of questions for whoever shopped there. And what legitimate customer would shop there? If you were trying to kill cockroaches or rats, there were plenty of good options from your regular old Wal-Mart. People who wanted an exotic Triangle poison wanted it for a reason they didn’t want to share, and that’s why they came to Terry. Terry knew Guides who appreciated a chance to sell what they found, and he had the discretion not to ask what anyone wanted anything for.

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And then there was what Terry had been driving towards since he left that dumbo: sales of living shit. That was the one thing Bermuda did strictly enforce. As soon as the Triangle opened, a bunch of scientists started yelling about invasive species or whatever, saying how the wrong like fish or plant could destroy the oceans. But unlike most of the times scientists yelled, someone with money apparently agreed, because Bermuda was clear: anything alive could only be sold to specific registered institutions, like a zoo or a university. No cute Triangle pets. Anyone who didn’t take them seriously would find their Triangle privileged permanently suspended, which was mostly redundant given the length of the jail sentences that were being handed out.

So that was why Terry had his whole biohazard set up in the trunk. He wasn’t exactly running his own zoo, so he had to move living merchandise quickly, but he had some contacts who specialized in longer-term holding for harder to place critters. But he got demands for pets faster than he could fill them: nothing made rich assholes want something more than being told they couldn’t have it. He tried not to sell someone two of the same critter, and so far he hadn’t destroyed any biospheres as far as he was aware.

But, when he got to the empty parking lot where they had agreed to meet, the guy in the yellow baseball cap was just holding a metal box, not some sort of like kangaroo with horns. They both did tough guy nods at each other before the guy asked, “You’re the person Mike mentioned?

“That’s me. So what’s in there?”

“You don’t need to know about that.”

“What, you think this is Deal or No Deal? I’m not buying a fucking mystery box.”

“You’ll buy this one, because it’s free.”

Terry started to back away. “Look, I don’t know what this is —”

“Let me explain. I’ve got a buyer arranged, and he’ll pay me separately. I’m going to give this to you, and tomorrow he’ll contact you to pick it back up and he’ll pay you for your efforts.”

“Why don’t you just give it to him yourself?”

“We’ve never met, and it’s important we keep it that way.”

“Ok, that’s very exciting and clandestine of you all, but I still don’t know what I’m fucking selling.”

“It’s better that you don’t.”

“Look, I don’t do like bloody bioweapons. I’m not equipped to contain that sort of shit.”

“This isn’t anything like that. No danger. Just hold it, sell it, and never speak of this again.’

And so, hours later, Terry was staring at the metal box in his apartment. It wasn’t the kind of offer he could turn down — too much money that was too certain. But it felt weird having some mystery thing in his apartment.

He knew it was beyond dumb to open it. It was dangerous, in many ways he could imagine and more he couldn’t. Worse, it was unprofessional. He was paid for his discretion, and opening something like this was the opposite.

He tried to open it anyway, of course, but it was locked. Hopefully the buyer had the code, or else this was going to be very dumb.

He made the handoff the next day, at an IHOP. The new guy waved at him when he walked in, actually waved, like they were friends. And he ordered a coffee and chatted with the waitress before even starting to talk business. He was on the short side, with a well manicured beard. He smiled when he said, “So it’s in there, yes? All ok overnight?”

“I was told not to open it. I have no idea what’s in there.”

“Truly? Well let me take a peek.” And then the dude just opened it.

Inside the box was a white surface with what looked like moss growing on it. The first thing that Terry noticed was that the moss was there only in certain lines, lines that made right-angle turns in a pattern Terry didn’t recognize. What Terry noticed next was that the moss was still growing, fast enough to see, extending the lines.

And that was the last thing Terry saw before the case snapped shut again. “All looks well!” the man said. And he dropped a duffel bag on the ground between them. “Your work is appreciated, and the bag should have everything you need. Farewell.” And then he drained his coffee and walked off.

Before he could even glance at the bag, the waitress came with his pancakes. As Terry ate them, he reflected again on the nostalgic joys of being a regular criminal.