[center][b]Jock Sturgeon Part I: The Mark[/b][/center] [b]Lost Haven Financial District 11:19 AM[/b] I want you to picture the most sleaziest stockbroker you can imagine. Have you got an image? Is he a guy with slicked back hair, one of those orange tans, and a suit that costs more than what you make in a year? If that's what's in your head, then you know exactly what Sean Dunmoore looks like. And like that proverbial sleazeball stockbroker, Dunmoore has no conscience and no morals. His company, SD Securities, is one of the top dogs when it comes to trading and investing in Lost Haven. SD Securities has been investigated by the FBI and SEC for everything from wire fraud to ponzi schemes. Every time he's walked away unscathed, the Teflon Trader among one of his many nicknames. He is without a doubt one of the smartest and most corrupt white collar crooks in the country. Which is why he's the perfect mark. "This all sounds very risky, Mr... Blomkamp, was it?" "Yes," I said in my best South African accent. "It is risky, Mr. Dunmoore, but the payout would be exponential." I didn't raise my voice or even let excitement creep into it. Jackob Blomkamp, Vice President of International Trade and Development for Afrikaans Tool and Mining, was not a man who got excited very often. He was too professional for that. With my crisp suit, bulky glasses, and fake mustache I looked every bit the part of upper corporate management with the personality to match. Dunmoore rubbed his chin and leaned back in his chair. Behind him was the cityscape of Lost Haven, spread out beneath him like feudal kingdom. "So these diamonds your company has in backstock, why can't they just sell them through legitimate means?" "Ahh, Mr. Dunmoore," I said with a clucking tongue. Like a parent gently scolding an ignorant child. "You are not very familiar with the international diamond market. A small cabal of companies control import and export laws, only so many diamonds can be shipped out of producing countries every year. They do this to keep the supply down and the costs up. What we would be doing in effect is--" "Diamond smuggling," Dunmoore said with a smirk. "That's crass, sir," I said with a hint of annoyance in my voice. "We are simply liquidating our assets and transferring them to another company." "Illegally moving a product out of a country and into another, that sounds like the textbook definition of smuggling to me." I threw my hands up. "Call it what you will. As it currently stands, our company is cash poor but asset rich. The diamond market here in the United States is ripe for making profits. It is much more stable here that is in Africa. We are waiting for a coup to overthrow the president. If that were to happen, then trading would come a standstill and all our surplus would be stuck in South Africa. We need to get them out the country as soon as possible. From the comforts of Lost Haven, we could quietly sell our diamonds in peace. But to do that, we need money to arrange the export of our reserves to the United States." "Why me?" asked Dunmoore. "Why not someone with experience in the precious jewels market?" "Because, people who know diamonds also know the diamonds laws. And like I said earlier, the market is a very small one. Word would get around fast. You are an outsider, one who has no qualms about... regulations." "Those are just accusations," he said with a finger pointed at me. "Nothing has ever been proven." "Regardless, you know opportunity when you see it. For an initial investment of two hundred thousand American dollars, I am prepared to offer you twenty-five percent of proceeds from all diamond sales we conduct after they are safely here in America. Furthermore, you would own five percent Afrikaans Tool and Mining." Dunmoore looked at me for a long moment. He pressed his fingers together and closed his eyes before answering. "Thirty percent of proceeds, and I own ten percent of the company." "I...," I hesitated. It was something Blomkamp would do. "I am not authorized for that deal. Shall I... speak with my board of directors tonight and call on you tomorrow? I feel like they will accept, but I need their final approval." Dunmoore nodded slowly. "Very well. Let's have lunch. I'll have my secretary call you tomorrow morning and let you know where and when." "That is...," I wiped sweat from my brow. The suit was wool, too thick for the weather outside and indoors. But that was part of it. Jacob Blomkamp had a penchant for flop sweat. "I will have an answer by then." Dunmoore stood and we shook hands. "Hopefully the one I want to hear." "Me too, sir," I said as we walked towards the door. "Me too." ---- [b]Little Ulster 4:30 PM[/b] My lip still itched like hell from the fake mustache. I learned the hard way once that you have to shave completely before applying those things. When the need for a quick change is called for, it rips your stubble and half your damn lip off. I scratched it as I walked around the general clutter that was my apartment. To an outsider, I would look like a transvestite hoarder. Clothing of all bodies sizes, makes, and even genders were strewn across the room on hangers along with makeup, wigs, and false mustaches. Books on every topic from US naval history to home and gardening were crammed on the wall mounted shelves. The books, clothes, and makeup were all part of my job. Tools of the trade if you will. To be a good grifter you have to be able to become the person you're pretending to be. I walked through the clutter towards my discarded Blomkamp disguise and a book on the history of African diamond mining. To some grifters all these props and research are considered a crutch, but I need it. Today I couldn't have just be Jock Sturgeon pretending to be a South African mining executive. I had to be a South African mining executive Jackob Blomkamp and think and react like him. Grifting is the most intense form of acting you will find. Every time you preform the stakes are so high. Entire fortunes and even your own life is dependent upon your performance, so you have to be the best. I'm like Daniel-Day Lewis.... If, you know, Daniel Day-Lewis stole shit. A loud pounding on the door snapped me out of my reverie. "Who is it?" I yelled. "A guy who is really fucking good and kicking down doors, Sturgeon. Open up." I walked to the door and looked through the peephole. Shit. The Stafford twins were standing at my door. Short and thin Johnny Stafford, with his shock of gray hair and pale skin, looked nothing like dark skinned and tall Jimmy Stafford. Their boss hired them only because their names matched and he got a kick out of seeing them together. one of my shoes had more intelligence than the Stafford twins put together. "Mister Sturgeon, he no here," I said in my best Hispanic maid voice. "Fuck you, Sturgeon," said Jimmy. Johnny laughed and added. "We know you're in there. So get your cleaning lady to open up." See what I mean? "Okay, fellas," I said as I opened the door. "Ya caught me. Now what is this ab--" Jimmy grabbed me by scruff of my neck and yanked me from the threshold of the apartment. "The Ambulance Chaser requests your presents," said Johnny. "I think you mean presence," I said as the two took turns pushing me down the hall towards the stairs. They led me down the stairs towards the front door. Through the walls I could rock and roll music from Gingy's pub. Gingy was nice enough to let me live above her place. She could have lived in the apartment any time but didn't like to. She said she spent enough time at work that she needed to get the hell out sometimes. The twins hustled me out into the street and into an idling town car. Sitting in the backseat was the Ambulance Chaser himself in a slick suit with pinstripes and gelled hair that was combed to try to hide the fact that it was rapidly thinning. He winked at me and patted the seat beside him. "Jock, my boy." If you live in the Lost Haven area and have a TV then you know exactly who Percy Fitzwaller is. His ads always ran late at night and in the middle of the afternoon. They were goofy as hell, with real life testimonials from people who Fitzwaller had represented in personal injury various lawsuits. The commercials always ended with Fitzwaller holding an umbrella as computer generated dollar bills rained down from above while a logo beneath him had his phone number and the logo of "Fitzwaller $how$ You Dollar$!" When he wasn't busy suing over hot cups of coffee and cars with bad brakes, Fitzwaller took up his second occupation of criminal fixer. With a vast network of runners and go-betweens, Fitzwaller could arrange things from simple theft to arson to even murder for hire. His nickname of the Ambulance Chaser was a bit on the nose, but Fitzwaller seemed to really enjoy it. And he made enough profit at fixing to afford the Stafford twins. Although, admittedly, they weren't exactly top shelf muscle. "What's the occasion, Fitzwaller? Trying to find out if me or a love one as been affected by mesothelioma?" "Funny," Fitzwaller said with a sniffle. "I'm here representing my... other business." "Well, I'm flattered, but I've got a game running right now and I can't steal--" "It's not that," he hissed. "And if it were, I wouldn't be approaching you directly. I had my network for that." My eyebrow raised at the change from present to past tense. "Had?" I asked. "Shit," he said with a sigh. "That's what this is about. My network of cut outs and go-betweens. I had a list of them and they were stolen." "Wait a minute... you're telling me you actually wrote down who you employed to carry out your work for you? I thought you were a lawyer. Since when is it smart to keep notes on a criminal conspiracy." "You don't understand," he snapped. "I... the last few months I've had trouble remembering everyone. It's... I'm getting old. There, I said it. I got so many people I use to approach people it gets hard to remember. So I had a guide of sorts. I kept it in my office safe. Well last night someone broke into that safe and took all my notes. My list of the networks for every job I contracted out for the last six months." No witty comment from me. Not at that time. The way Fitzwaller's system worked made it foolproof. If he got contracted to, let's say, burn a business down, then he would approach someone beneath him and hand them a stuffed manila envelope. Inside that envelope was a name of the next person in the chain and a smaller envelope that that person would hand off to said person. It went that way until it got to the arsonist at the bottom. Serious crimes were always six or seven people deep, insulating Fitzwaller and his client as much as humanely possible. If someone had a list of the chains, then it would be the easiest thing in the world to roll it up from the bottom down and haul them all in for felony conspiracy. "Yeah," said Fitzwaller as he saw the look in my eyes. "That's how serious it is. I need those papers back. I need you to get them back for me. Ten grand up front to do the job, a bonus to follow upon the speedy return of the papers." "Perce," I said softly. "I wouldn't even know where to begin..." "You still a burglar?" "Only if I'm desperate or nostalgic... or desperately nostalgic." "So you got friends in that world still. Start there." Fitzwaller reached into his jacket and pulled out a stuffed white envelope he handed to me. "Ten grand. Find those documents." "What if I can't find them." Something close to a smile crept on his face. "Or I send the twins after you. And what's left after their through I'll feed to my dogs." "Wait... are you saying their gonna eat me?" "Get out the car, smartass," growled Fitzwaller. "And get to goddamn work." ---- [b]Lost Haven Financial District 7:14 PM[/b] Sean Dunmoore sat in the darkness of his office lost in thought. He was the only one left in the office. The people who worked for him knew the drill by now. He was always first one in and last one to leave every day. The rest of the financial world had plenty to say about his business practices, but none of them could talk about his work ethic or his devotion to the job. All day long he had been consumed by his meeting from this morning. He kept thinking about that strange white skinned African man with his proposal. He'd heard of some crazy schemes over the years, but nothing like this It was like something out of a movie. South African diamond smuggling. Any minute now he expected James Bond to burst through the door. Still, something about the whole thing seemed sketchy. Well, sketchy apart from the acknowledgement that the scheme involved breaking several national and international laws. He know so little about Blomkamp and his company... whatever it was called, he had the man's card somewhere. He looked it up online and found a bare bones web page announcing that Afrikaans Tool and Mining was indeed a company in South Africa, but nothing else existed on them. Sean leaned forward and picked his phone up off the hook. He looked through his rolodex until he found the number he wanted and dialed it. "Al? Hey it's Sean Dunmoore up in Lost Haven. Yeah, it's been awhile. Are you still in DC working for the Department of Commerce? Right, good to hear it. Look, I need a favor when you get in the office tomorrow morning. I want to know what you guys have on record for this company called Afrikaans Tool and Mining. Yeah. I can spell it for you, you got something to write with? Yeah." If these guys were as international as Blomkamp claimed to be, the US government would certainly have a file on them. And if they didn't? Well, then he would know for sure that this plan that sounded too good to be true really was.