There are some circles of humanity which often romanticize the banter that goes into a barter arrangement. I'm not talking about haggling, the fine art of trying to squeeze the buyer out of as much money as he can possibly go, but the standard exchange between two parties when the sum in question has already been agreed upon and for some reason the two persons involved blather on about some subject which has nothing to do with the current situation. Weather, I believe, is frequently involved. In this sewer of the nefaste, Yuri always found it more useful to get in and get out. Plausible deniability, the less time people had to see you there, the more likely you weren't there. So as two consenting adults do when they both know exactly what they want, an abbreviated tango commenced. Yuri found the bench in the darkened booth. There was eye contact. The Russian reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. The wiry waif placed and envelope on the table. The piece of paper soon lay next to it. Different hands soon began pulling the objects back to their respective side of the table. Yuri stood. "It's always better when they don't talk" he thought, as he lit a cigarette and promptly left the bar.
The beauty of the modern day black market transaction is that the logistical concerns when dealing in physical money are no longer a hinderance to a less-than reputable enterprise. Since electronic banking was introduced into the mix, one didn't have to cart around a convoy of vehicles to close a multimillion dollar deal. Even the need for verifying the amount was lost. Even if someone did try to cross you, there was always the old way dealing with it, the cold muzzle of a Tokarov to the base of the skull and a little pressure on the trigger. So thus the modern day illegal businessman conducted his affairs, quick and cleanly, like ripping off a band aid. Not that you could find a band aid in a place like that.
Upon once again entering an atmosphere that could at least resemble something able to support life, Yuri pulled out the envelope and opened it. Pier 42. Container 104657. The docks, how cliché. Unfortunately when moving a great deal of merchandise under the nose of government law enforcement agecies, it was best to try and put something a great concern among the plethora of rank and file. Like hiding a diamond in a crate of broken glass. The problem is sometimes when you reach into the crate to get that elusive treasue, the shards tear into your flesh......with guard dogs. All the films you see of people going to the docks and calmly picking up their illegal goods from containers is a farce. To get something from a place like that without hassle requires documents. And Yuri wasn't exactly in the document carrying business, more like throw drug laced meat over the fence business. This was the one moment where he wished he was in the Phillipines, twenty bucks and some wire cutters and he would have convinced some local degenerates to have a luau, with dog as the protein for the meal.
The Russian got in the back seat of the Nissan and gave the driver the envelope. Freaking right hand drive cars, hard to get used to even if you aren't driving. The car took off, and the blackberry became the center of attention. "Love Okinawa, gonna pick up some excellent sushi fresh off the boat. -Y" was the message that was sent out. Used to be there had to be a voice or a computer actually attached to that sort of communication, but with technology advancing the way it has, burying status updates in billions of emails was easy. He looked at the bleak atmosphere, passing the poorer neighborhoods of the town. He tried to think of that town near the base where he completed his training....but to no avail. The towns gave their soul to support the base, but there would never be enough to get most beyond just scraping by. He was snapped out of his daydream when the car lurched to a stop by the docks. Time to go to work.
I was at : 4244 NW 76 Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,
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