Read Online Choke Point by Ridley Pearson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ridley Pearson
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about such a despicable place? I happen to like children. I have seven grandchildren. Did you know that? Four boys, one named for me.”
“Congratulations.” Knox works on the beer, but can’t keep up with Kreiger, who signals for another. “Maybe you could ask around.”
“For you? Anything.” He leans closer. “Hypothetically speaking, what count and cuts are you interested in?”
Knox gives him an overall number and the breakdown in sizes. Kreiger rolls his eyes, exaggerated by the spectacles. He scratches out some numbers onto a napkin. “This number would occupy three-quarters of a full-sized container. You can’t be serious.”
“I take delivery once. If I have to wait a few months before you ship, I can live with that. My experience says that manufacturers like this don’t stay in business all that long. I won’t get the chance for a repeat buy, much less establish regular shipments.”
“No. I would agree.”
“So I’m front-loading inventory. Stocking up.”
“You are looking at”—he refers back to the napkin—“a hundred thousand euros minimum. Cash, you understand?”
“Fifty. And you handle the port costs on this end.”
“You have become a comedian. The act needs work, I’m afraid. Ninety-five.”
“Sixty.”
“Eighty, and it is final. Also, I must check with the supplier first.”
“Seventy-five is my limit.”
“I will look into it.”
Knox writes a phone number on a napkin. He’ll have to remember to swap the SIMs a couple times a day and check for messages. He pushes the napkin back to Kreiger.
“I need to see the work. All three sizes, various dye lots,” Knox says. “You decide the where and when. I am at such an advantage knowing someone like you, only one middleman, not three.”
“Someone like me.” Kreiger hoists his beer stein, and the dull clank that sounds off Knox’s half-empty stein sounds to Knox like a judge’s gavel lowering.
A damp settles over the city, an impenetrable gray mist thick enough to taste. It hovers and swirls but does not dissipate. Grace has waited until evening to catch those heading home from work. By early evening, the market on Ten Katestraat is thick with bodies moving from one tented stall to another. Fruit and vegetable vendors compete by turning their displays into colorful art worthy of still-life photography. Merchants offer athletic clothing, bedding linen, office supplies and kitchenware.
She joins the crush and sets her sights downstream. She is carried in a clot. Manages to reach the edge of the flow and grabs a tent’s corner pole to check her progress. She takes hold, appreciating the diversity of faces. Indian, North African, French, Italian. Yet she’s the only Chinese. She hears Russian, Yiddish, Dutch, English.
“Yes?” The vendor addresses Grace as he punches a calculator. A young woman stands before a variety of vegetables collected onto the portable table.
Grace pulls out the newspaper article and photograph—the young girl’s sullen face appealing to the camera. She shows it to the vendor, whose eyes stick to it before rolling up to find Grace’s.
“She lives around here,” Grace says with authority. “I am looking for her.”
His eyes are angry and deeply suspicious. “Who is next?” he says, calling out to his patrons.
Grace moves back into the thick of the crowd and bullies her way forward, wondering what to make of the look the man gave her. She’s almost certain he knew the newspaper article or recognized the girl from the photograph. This tells her the neighborhood knows about the girl’s story. They expect people like Grace to nose around. They assume her to be police. She must overcome their initial distrust.
She spins fully around once, as if looking back at a missed buying opportunity. Of the hundreds of heads and faces shining in the glare of bare bulbs, one stands out. Grace does not linger on it, but sweeps her gaze past it and alights on a tent across the crowded street.
“Congratulations.” Knox works on the beer, but can’t keep up with Kreiger, who signals for another. “Maybe you could ask around.”
“For you? Anything.” He leans closer. “Hypothetically speaking, what count and cuts are you interested in?”
Knox gives him an overall number and the breakdown in sizes. Kreiger rolls his eyes, exaggerated by the spectacles. He scratches out some numbers onto a napkin. “This number would occupy three-quarters of a full-sized container. You can’t be serious.”
“I take delivery once. If I have to wait a few months before you ship, I can live with that. My experience says that manufacturers like this don’t stay in business all that long. I won’t get the chance for a repeat buy, much less establish regular shipments.”
“No. I would agree.”
“So I’m front-loading inventory. Stocking up.”
“You are looking at”—he refers back to the napkin—“a hundred thousand euros minimum. Cash, you understand?”
“Fifty. And you handle the port costs on this end.”
“You have become a comedian. The act needs work, I’m afraid. Ninety-five.”
“Sixty.”
“Eighty, and it is final. Also, I must check with the supplier first.”
“Seventy-five is my limit.”
“I will look into it.”
Knox writes a phone number on a napkin. He’ll have to remember to swap the SIMs a couple times a day and check for messages. He pushes the napkin back to Kreiger.
“I need to see the work. All three sizes, various dye lots,” Knox says. “You decide the where and when. I am at such an advantage knowing someone like you, only one middleman, not three.”
“Someone like me.” Kreiger hoists his beer stein, and the dull clank that sounds off Knox’s half-empty stein sounds to Knox like a judge’s gavel lowering.
A damp settles over the city, an impenetrable gray mist thick enough to taste. It hovers and swirls but does not dissipate. Grace has waited until evening to catch those heading home from work. By early evening, the market on Ten Katestraat is thick with bodies moving from one tented stall to another. Fruit and vegetable vendors compete by turning their displays into colorful art worthy of still-life photography. Merchants offer athletic clothing, bedding linen, office supplies and kitchenware.
She joins the crush and sets her sights downstream. She is carried in a clot. Manages to reach the edge of the flow and grabs a tent’s corner pole to check her progress. She takes hold, appreciating the diversity of faces. Indian, North African, French, Italian. Yet she’s the only Chinese. She hears Russian, Yiddish, Dutch, English.
“Yes?” The vendor addresses Grace as he punches a calculator. A young woman stands before a variety of vegetables collected onto the portable table.
Grace pulls out the newspaper article and photograph—the young girl’s sullen face appealing to the camera. She shows it to the vendor, whose eyes stick to it before rolling up to find Grace’s.
“She lives around here,” Grace says with authority. “I am looking for her.”
His eyes are angry and deeply suspicious. “Who is next?” he says, calling out to his patrons.
Grace moves back into the thick of the crowd and bullies her way forward, wondering what to make of the look the man gave her. She’s almost certain he knew the newspaper article or recognized the girl from the photograph. This tells her the neighborhood knows about the girl’s story. They expect people like Grace to nose around. They assume her to be police. She must overcome their initial distrust.
She spins fully around once, as if looking back at a missed buying opportunity. Of the hundreds of heads and faces shining in the glare of bare bulbs, one stands out. Grace does not linger on it, but sweeps her gaze past it and alights on a tent across the crowded street.
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