The Racketeer

trouble.
    After we try and fail at small talk, I slide over a crumpled envelope. Inside is a single gold bar. Hassan glances around, but the only customers are young moms and their five-year-olds, along with the other Syrian. He takes the mini-bar into his thick paw, squeezes it, smiles, taps it slightly on the corner of the table, and mumbles, “Wow.” This he manages without the slightest hint of an accent.
    I am amazed at how soothing that simple expression is. I have never thought about the gold being fake, but to have it legitimized by a pro is suddenly refreshing. “You like, huh?” I say stupidly, just trying to get something out.
    “Very nice,” he says, easing the bar into the envelope. I reach over and take it. He asks, “How many?”
    “Let’s say five bars, fifty ounces. Gold closed yesterday at $1,520 an ounce, so—”
    “I know the price of gold,” he interrupts.
    “Of course you do. Do you want to buy five bars?”
    A guy like this never says yes or no. Instead, he mumbles, talks in circles, hedges, and bluffs. He says, “It is possible, and it certainly depends on the price.”
    “What can you offer?” I ask, but not too eagerly. There are other gold dealers left in the Yellow Pages, though I’m running out of time and weary of the cold-calling.
    “Well, that depends, Mr. Baldwin, on several things. One must assume in a situation like this that the gold is of, shall we say, the black-market variety. I don’t know where you got it, and don’t want to know, but there is a reasonable chance it was, shall we say, extracted from its previous owner.”
    “Does it really matter where—”
    “Are you the registered owner of this gold, Mr. Baldwin?” he asks sharply.
    I glance around. “No.”
    “Of course not. Therefore, the black-market discount is 20 percent.” This guy doesn’t need a calculator. “I’ll pay $1,220 an ounce,” he says softly but firmly as he leans forward. His beard partially covers his lips, but his accented words are clear.
    “For five bars?” I ask. “Fifty ounces?”
    “Assuming the other four are of the same quality.”
    “They are identical.”
    “And you have no registration, records, paperwork, nothing, correct, Mr. Baldwin?”
    “That’s right, and I want no records now. A simple deal, gold for cash, no receipts, no paperwork, no videos, nothing. I came and went and vanished in the night.”
    Hassan smiles and offers his right hand. We shake, the dealis done, and we agree to meet at nine the following morning at a deli across the street, one with booths where we can do our counting in private. I leave the ice cream parlor as if I’ve committed a crime and repeat to myself what should be obvious; to wit, it is not against the law to buy and sell gold, at discounted prices or at inflated ones. This is not crack we’re peddling on the street, nor is it inside information from a boardroom. It’s a perfectly legitimate transaction, right?
    Anyone watching Hassan and me would swear they were observing two crooks negotiating a crooked deal. Who could blame them? At this point, I am beyond caring.

    I’m taking risks, but I have no choice. Hassan is a risk, but I need the cash. Getting the gold out of the country will require risks, but leaving it here could mean losing it.
    I spend the next two hours shopping at discount stores. I buy random items such as backgammon sets, small toolboxes, hardback books, and three cheap laptop computers. I haul my goods into a ground-level motel room south of Coral Gables and spend the rest of the night tinkering, packing, and sipping cold beer.
    From the laptops, I remove the hard drives and the batteries, and manage to replace them with three of my little bricks. Inside each hardback, I stuff one mini-bar wrapped in newspaper and aluminum foil, then bind it tightly with duct tape. In the toolboxes, I leave the hammer and screwdrivers, but remove everything else. Four mini-bars fit nicely into each one. The backgammon sets hold two bars without feeling suspicious. Using supplies from FedEx, UPS, and DHL, I carefully package my goods as the hours pass and I’m lost in another world.
    I call Vanessa twice and we replay our days. She’s back in Richmond, doing the same thing I’m doing. We’re both exhausted,physically and mentally, but we encourage each other to keep going. Now is not the time to slow down or get careless.
    At midnight, I finish and admire my handiwork. On the credenza there are a dozen