There are two kinds of people in the game.
Those who talk. And those make someone talk.
Those who talk. And those make someone talk.
Confession Bullshit by Jaap Boekestein
You
know that bullshit from the movies? One guy takes another guy to a remote spot,
pulls out a gun, and makes the other fuck confess he has killed his brother,
mother, or poodle. It’s fucking bullshit. You just pull out a gun and waste the
other guy. No confession. You know he
has done it, only he doesn't know you know.
Of
course, you first have to find the fucker. Call me. I will.
Mr.
Hanzen called me after someone burgled his home. Got in and took a bunch of
stuff that wasn't locked up: some jewelry, the television, that kind of crap. He
also wrecked Mr. Hanzen's humidor.
Those
cigars were Mr. Hanzen's pride and joy. He had some rare ones. The burglar
didn't care, just smashed it open. I reckon it was just plain stupidity.
The
police came around, but it amounted to a small heap of nothing. There was no
insurance, as usual. People like Mr. Hanzen don't do insurance.
I
got a list of the missing stuff with pictures of the jewelry. Lucky me.
Forget
the television, laptop, camera, and hardware. You can check every damn pawnshop,
and fence, in the city and drown in old tech shit. Nowadays most of it is sold
online anyway.
I
sent Cassy the pictures of the jewelry and the list of hardware. She would keep a digital eye out for
the goods. I was going to do the old-fashioned walk-and-talk.
Now,
ninety percent of the burglars are junkies supporting their habits. The fucker I
was looking for was one of them. No professional would have burgled Mr. Hanzen,
and a professional would have known the humidor’s worth. So, I had to find me a
junkie. A stupid one, which didn't narrow the field down much.
Rocks
can end up in a few places in this town, directly or indirectly. Picture this:
the junkie sells his shit to his usual fence, who is basically only one grade
above cockroach level.
“I
got this shit,” the junkie says, showing off the rocks. “I want a million.”
“Hell
no. I’ll give you a c-note.”
Haggle,
haggle. The junkie takes the money and parts with the goodies. Now, it’s time
for a fix.
That
fence doesn't move rocks. He does all kind of appliances, but rocks. . . No, that
is a specialized market. Like art and guns. But the fence does know someone who
does.
As
I said, only a few people handle rocks. I know them all, and they know me.
I
drive around and do my spiel, mentioning Mr. Hanzen, which sparks their willingness
to cooperate. They know Mr. Hanzen. They don't want to cross Mr. Hanzen. Rat
out some second-rate dealer? Or make a little profit while having to look over
their shoulder the rest of their life? I mention there's a small reward for the
right information. It always helps.
This
takes me the whole day. I check in with Cassy. No news.
I
get a call during dinner. The rocks have shown up with a name.
I
set Cassy to collect the rocks.
I
pay one Willy Langdon a visit. I don't know Willy Langdon, but we get to know
each other. I explain the facts of life. He is a business man, I understand. He
has earned his money with the rocks, which is fine by me. I explain I’m not the
tax collector, I just need a name. I don't say why. I don't mention Mr.
Hanzen's name, but I mention mine. Maybe he wants to check me out with a few of
his contacts.
Willy
does. Willy looks at me. His contacts know me. Know about me. “What's
in it for me?” Willy asks, trying to stay cool. Little beads of sweat gleam on
his high forehead.
“My
gratitude. And a clean conscience,” I say.
Willy
thinks about it. He thinks about what his contacts told him about me.
I
get a name.
I
pick up the rock with Cassy, drive to Mr. Hanzen, and tell him the story. I
tell him I know who robbed him.
Mr.
Hanzen nods.
I
get paid by an underling. And...
I ain't saying nothing more, Einstein. Figure it out for yourself.
I don't do confession bullshit.
I ain't saying nothing more, Einstein. Figure it out for yourself.
I don't do confession bullshit.
