A Simple Misunderstanding



  A SIMPLE MISUNDERSTANDING

  by Richard Quinn

  Copyright 2011 Richard Quinn

  License Notes

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Paul O'Shaughnessy sat alone at the bar in the Hotel Tequendama, nursing a watered down scotch and studying the scene in the mirror behind the bottles. The bar was quiet at that time of the afternoon, no more than a dozen customers, which was just the way Paul liked it. He could see everybody walking in, and more important, they could see him. Couldn't miss him. At six foot six, wearing his white linen suit and his cream colored Panama hat, he dominated the bar like the Lord of the Tropical Expatriates, which was exactly the image he was striving for.

  He pulled his stack of business cards out of the inside pocket of his jacket and fanned them out in front of him like a poker hand. He was already down to half a dozen, and if he didn't find a sucker soon, he'd have to pack it in and figure out a whole new scam. He absentmindedly stroked his moustache with a forefinger while he stared at the cards, searching for some hidden flaw.

  Printed gold on white in neat block lettering they read:

  PAUL O'SHAUGHNESSY

  BUSINESS AGENT/TRAVEL CONSULTANT

  CALLE 25 NO. 13-62 SUITE 211

  TEL. 412-835 BOGOTÁ, COLOMBIA

  Calle 25 #13-62 was the address of the Los Cojones, a dilapidated hotel in Bogotá's red light district that had been Paul's home for the last eight weeks. Hardly the kind of place where you'd expect to find a business agent, but then Paul was hardly a business agent, much less a travel consultant. He liked to consider himself more of a Creative Financial Administrator. The F.B.I. considered him a thief, and that's what was written under his picture, which was prominently on display in several thousand Post Offices back in the United States. A simple misunderstanding, according to Paul. The phony stocks he'd been selling were for a public utility that he planned to construct, just as soon as his real estate development company drained the swamp and put up a few houses. It was all right there between the lines of his brochure for "Beautiful Everglade Acres". Problem was, he was understaffed, and hadn't gotten around to buying the swamp, or establishing the development company. Details, details. And anyway, that was all in the past.

  These days, he was a little less ambitious, doing the best he could manage under the circumstances. He was trying to find a traveling businessman dumb enough to give him a job, or at the very least hire him as a tour guide. The way things stood, he couldn't even afford to pay up his bill at the Los Cojones.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Paul spotted a potential client entering the bar. Strolling through the door from the lobby was a middle aged gringo with an expensive dark blue suit, gray hair, and a neatly trimmed goatee. The red jacketed waiter offered the man a table, which he declined in a nasal voice just loud enough for Paul to overhear. "A New Yorker," Paul concluded from the accent.

  The New Yorker noticed Paul staring at him, and he stared right back. When their eyes met, Paul nodded his head in greeting, and the man walked over and sat down on an adjacent stool.

  "Double martini," he told the bartender. "And that means two olives!" Paul swirled his scotch and looked away, doing his best to appear disinterested.

  "You an American?" the man asked.

  "Excuse me?" said Paul, feigning surprise. "American? Sure, I'm an American. Why do you ask?"

  "Just curious," said the man. "It's just that you looked so at home, sitting there. Like you've been here a long time."

  "Oh, I have, sir. I've spent a good part of my life in Colombia."

  "That's very interesting. What line of work are you in?"

  This guy was made to order, thought Paul. He drained his glass and ordered another scotch, then dug out one of his business cards and handed it over.

  "Paul O'Shaughnessy," the man intoned. "You know, I had a feeling you might be Irish. And a business agent. What sort of business, if you don't mind my asking?"

  "Any sort," said Paul. "I represent a variety of foreign firms here in Bogotá. Saves them the trouble of establishing branch offices."

  "Very impressive," said the man, taking a long pull on his martini. He plucked out an olive with his fingers, slurped out the pimento, and dropped the olive back in his glass. "I've been looking for a trustworthy American who knows Bogotá well. I have a rather delicate bit of business to transact, and I need some advice. May I call at your office tomorrow?"

  "Tomorrow?" said Paul. "Well, let me see. I, ah. Hmm. I probably won't be at my office most of the day, but maybe I could meet you here at the hotel, Mr. . .?"

  "Rosenbloom. Maury Rosenbloom. And certainly. Why don't you meet me for lunch, say at 1:00?"

  "That would be fine," said Paul.

  The next day, Paul met Rosenbloom in the lobby and they took a taxi to a fancy Swiss restaurant on Carrera 7, a place called the Chalet Geneva. The waiter brought them a bottle of overpriced Chilean burgundy, and while they sipped it, Maury got down to business. He leaned forward conspiratorially and put his head close to Paul's, speaking in a low voice that was barely audible over the clink of silverware and the drone of conversation from the surrounding tables.

  "I'm a very forthright person, Mr. O'Shaughnessy, and I hope it won't offend you if I come straight to the point. I'm a gem dealer in New York, and I'm here to buy a quantity of emeralds. As you're undoubtedly aware, the stones are in short supply on the legitimate market because of all the recent trouble at the mines. That forces me to turn to the black market, and that's where I need help. I'd like to find a reputable dealer in black market emeralds. If you know such a person, I'm willing to pay you to act as my intermediary."

  Paul's brain shifted into high gear. Emeralds! Big money! This was going to be a good one, but how could he milk it to maximum advantage? Finding gems shouldn't be too tough. The day he'd taken a walk down Calle 14, he was accosted by a dozen different seedy characters, all trying to sell him hot emeralds. He could shop around down there and locate the cheapest source, then double the asking price to Rosenbloom. And if he could convince him that the job was dangerous, he could squeeze him for an extra fat commission as well.

  Paul frowned theatrically and toyed with his wine glass. "You know, you're really asking a lot, Mr. Rosenbloom. People get hurt in the back street emerald business. People get shot and stabbed and chopped up for fish bait. I like to think of myself as a gentleman, and it's definitely not a game for gentlemen."

  "I'll make it worth your while," Rosenbloom said anxiously. "I know there's a bit of risk. That's why I'm asking for your assistance."

  "It's more than just a bit of risk," Paul countered. "It's a very heavy risk. You'll have to persuade me."

  "I have $100,000 to spend," said Maury. "If you can bring me the right quality merchandise at the right price, I'll give you 10% off the top."

  "Make it 20%, and I'll think about it."

  "You're not making this easy for me, Mr. O'Shaughnessy. But all right. I'll accept that. When you locate some emeralds, bring them to my hotel. I'll check them out, and if they're acceptable, I'll buy them on the spot. I have the money in cash, right here in the hotel safe."

  "Excellent," said Paul. That would make things even easier than he'd figured. He raised a toast, "To a successful venture! I'll see what I can come up with, and I'll be in touch."

  Paul was floating on air. A hundred thousand bucks, and if he played it right, he'd be pocketing half of it, maybe even more.

  Since he didn't have the first clue what he was doing, his first move was to tour the legitimate jewelry stores, trying to get a feel for the business and a notion of the current price range. Only then did he chance heading down to the black market emerald district, located just below the heart of Bogotá,
on the infamous Calle 14.

  The day was overcast, like most days in the Colombian capital, and a chilly breeze made Paul shiver as he stepped out of the taxi. The street was crowded with all sorts of people bustling along, bundled in their ruanas--striped woolen ponchos, the local version of an overcoat. To all outward appearances it was an ordinary street, lined with ordinary shops, cafes, and apartment buildings. What set it apart were the men who used the Calle as their place of business, dangerous sharp featured men, dressed in suits, with briefcases chained to their wrists and pistols stuck in their waistbands. They clustered together in small, unobtrusive groups, casually swapping thick bundles of cold, hard cash for tissue wrapped packets of cold, green fire.

  Paul had no trouble finding them. All he had to do was walk down the street, and they found him. He spoke to several, playing it coy, finally settling on one man in particular who seemed more confidant than the rest.

  "Is there something special that you're looking for?" he asked Paul. "I have some very nice stones. Excellent prices." He produced a packet from an inside pocket, unfolded the paper and cupped it carefully in his palm, revealing a sparkling pile of square cut, bright green crystals.

  "How much?" asked Paul, stopping to take a closer look.

  "Two thousand U.S. dollars per carat, if you want the best."

  Two thousand per carat was too high to give him his margin, and Paul was sure he could do better. "Too much," he replied, tipping his hat and walking away.

  The man hurried after him and called out, "Wait, Señor! Make an offer!"

  Paul stopped again. "Four hundred."

  "Ay, Señor! You want to rob a poor man? Look at these stones. Beautiful! Precioso! Twelve hundred dollars per carat." He thrust the packet under Paul's nose, holding it at an angle so the gems would catch the light.

  Paul examined them very carefully, using a jeweler's loupe and a big pair of tweezers. He'd learned enough to recognize the characteristics that make an emerald valuable: dark green color, clarity, and brilliance. These stones seemed to have it all, and twelve hundred per carat was relatively cheap. He offered eight hundred.

  "You're a thief!" said the man. "One thousand."

  "Okay," said Paul. "Maybe we can do some business."

  The Colombian grinned, revealing numerous missing teeth. "How many emeralds do you want to buy?"

  Paul made a quick calculation. If he skimmed half of Rosenbloom's $100,000, he'd have $50,000 left to spend, less his 20% commission, $40,000. At $1,000 per carat, that meant he could buy. . . "Forty carats."

  The dealer, whose name was Alfonso Robles, assured him that forty carats would be “no problema”. Paul explained that he was making the purchase on behalf of a client, and persuaded Alfonso to meet him at the Hotel Tequendama with the stones.

  A couple of hours later, in Rosenbloom's hotel room, Alfonso spread out a pile of gems on a swatch of black velvet, and Maury examined them for himself. After several minutes of poking and peering he grunted, nodded, and agreed to buy the lot. Alfonso was overjoyed, and more than a little amazed. The stones he'd brought were from the same lot he’d offered Paul on the street, and they were actually almost worthless. Technically, they weren't even emeralds! They were cheap, colorless beryl crystals from Brazil that had been precisely sawn along two refractive planes, and then neatly glued back together with an ultra thin layer of special green cement. They had the look of emeralds, the same weight, the same specific gravity, and, to all appearances, the same highly prized color. A true expert could easily spot the difference, but, remarkably, neither of the two gringos seemed to be experts, and the deal went off without a hitch.

  Maury got his gems, forty carats worth of lovely green stones, and sped for home on the first available flight. Alfonso got his money, all in brand new hundred dollar bills, and prudently left town to lay low for awhile. Paul pocketed $60,000, also in brand new hundreds, and went out to buy a good time.

  He walked into the office of a black market money changer and attempted to exchange a few of the hundreds for Colombian pesos. The money changer checked the bills, and called in his two assistants. The assistants took Paul into the back room and beat the bejeezus out of him. Then they relieved him of his entire bankroll, and threw him out in the street. The money, unfortunately, was as counterfeit as the gems.

  A bruised but wiser Paul O'Shaughnessy sat at the bar in the Hotel Tequendama, furtively counting his business cards. Only five left, now. He'd have to be a little more careful with those--you just never knew who you could trust anymore. He looked up at his reflection in the mirror, and gave himself a wink.

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