know other middlemen, men looking for contractors to hire for their missions. Often, I meet directly with these merchants, like with Archibald Grant in the warehouse when he handed me the briefcase that changed my life. The middlemen like to eyeball me, see me for themselves, measure me, the way old ladies pick up and shake cantaloupes in the produce section of the grocery. Pooley always said five minutes in a room with me would be enough to shatter any illusions of cheating me, of holding back anything but my promised fee. I hope that is still true.
I drive down Flamingo, heading west toward Sum-merlin, until I reach a neighborhood inappropriately named “Wooded Acres.” Every house is built exactly the same way, a cookie-cutter paradise, a sea of beige stucco and rusty Spanish tile. Each house is adorned with a lawn the size of a postage stamp. The only “woods” in the neighborhood are the scrawny palm trees inconsistently spotting the yards.
The nice thing about Vegas suburbs is that discretion is part of the milieu, built into the environment. Everyone seems to walk around with eyes downcast, avoiding direct contact with neighbors. It’s like the heat and the barrenness of the landscape have infected the hearts of those who live in the desert. Or maybe too many people are involved in too many impolite occupations.
I park my car at the curb outside of a one-story house marked by the number 506. I’ve been here before, twice actually, under different circumstances. But this time is a first for me. This time, I’m looking for help.
The door opens before I knock, and a small Indian man fills the void. He is dark, balding, and has ears too big for his face. Although he is small, he is compact, muscular, like a pit bull. His name is Max, and his voice is raspy.
“Columbus . . .”
“Max.”
“Mr. Ryan is not expecting you.”
“I need his help.”
This causes Max to pause, blink a few times involuntarily. He waits for more.
“Can I come in?”
“Depends on the kind of help you’re looking for, I s’pose.”
“My fence is dead.”
That’s all Max needs to hear. He opens the door further and I step inside the foyer. Immediately, two large men frisk me, each with the same dark skin as Max. They could be his sons, or nephews, as they have the same balding pattern on top of their heads. I am directed to a chair next to the door, and I take a seat and wait. The two men stay on my right and left as Max heads away, bare feet shuffling silently over the marble floor. I keep my gaze steady on a spot on the wall five feet away. It is humbling asking a man for help, and I want the right measure of supplication on my face when I greet him.
He makes me wait, a signal he is the person in power in this situation. He wants me to know he recognizes the advantage. But I don’t fidget, or cough, or straighten my legs. I just sit in the chair and stare steadily at that spot on the wall. My two bookends want to speak to me, are looking for an opening to chat me up, but I give them nothing. After half an hour, Max returns to the foyer. “Mr. Ryan will see you in his office.”
A large window overlooking an immaculately landscaped back yard frames the office. A half-clothed woman reclines on a leather sofa pushed up against one wall; I cannot tell if she is awake, asleep, or bored. Ryan sits in a chair, watching a flat-screen television mounted on the wall above the girl. The volume is off, but the screen is alive with graphics showing what the markets are doing all over the world. He is wearing only a swim-suit, though he is not wet.
“How can I help you?” he says without taking his eyes off the screen.
“Pooley is dead.”
“So Max tells me.”
“I’m looking for one thing.”
“Yes?”
“Information.”
“What are you willing to exchange for this one thing?”
“I’ll owe you a favor.”
For the first time, Ryan shifts his eyes to me and I feel the full weight of his stare. He measures me, considering. The girl on the sofa stirs, but I don’t look, don’t drop my eyes; rather I hold Ryan’s eyes steadily, like they are connected to mine by a string. He is a man who deals in commodities, and I am dangling a big carrot.
“I take it the information is difficult to come by, considering the payment you’re offering.”
“I don’t offer it lightly.”
“I understand. What do you need to know?”
“In Carson City, a bag man is going to be looking to dispose of and replace a Beretta 92F nine-millimeter handgun. I need to know the supplier he will approach to make the exchange.”
He tosses these words over in his mind, calculating. “You got a beef with this bag man?”
“Like I said, Pooley is dead.”
“I see.”
He moves over to the sofa and pats the girl on her exposed hip. Without speaking, she gets up, stretches, and heads out of the room, long legs cutting a swath in front of me until she is gone. He takes her forfeited spot on the couch and sits down heavily, facing me.
“Now I understand. It is not that the information is difficult. It is that the information would be imprudent for me to give.”
“I find that prudence is relative in our line of work.”
This forces a dry laugh from him. “I agree with you. Here are my terms. Instead of owing me a favor, I wish you to work for me when your current assignment is finished. Permanently. I will be your new fence.”
“With what arrangement?”
“The same you had with Pooley. No more.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been looking to downsize, and you are what the Russians refer to in this business as a Silver Bear. Have you heard this term?”
I shake my head.
“You’ve never defaulted on a job. You take a full slate without resting, and you fetch top dollar on the open market. A Silver Bear. I can carry you as my only partner and I’ll make more than I’ve ever made in my life. And I’ve made quite a bit.”
“You caught me off guard.”
“Well, to use your words, I don’t offer it lightly.”
“Then I’ll make you this promise. In exchange for the name of this supplier, I will agree to
Ryan smiles broadly. “It would be imprudent.”
I join him with a smile of my own as respect passes between us like we’re exchanging currency.
“And you wouldn’t be a Silver Bear if you answered me any other way.”
“You’re probably right.”
He stands and folds his arms across his chest.
“Okay, Columbus. I agree to your revised terms. Go to a pay phone on the corner of Desert Inn Road and Paradise. There’s a strip mall there with a phone on the north end of it, outside a 7-Eleven. I’ll have the name for you by the time you get there.”
CARSON City is an uninteresting capital located where Interstates 50 and 395 collide. It is a tiny town, its only purpose to serve its neighbors Reno and Lake Tahoe and the skiers who frequent Squaw Valley and Diamond Peak and Heavenly. It looks like an afterthought, like a little brother making do with the family’s hand-me-down clothes. The buildings are old and pitiful.
I take the Interstate into town and head south, past a mall and a cemetery, until I find the exit for Colorado Street. I’m looking for an industrial park, a concrete slab with no windows, one of those blights on the landscape
