Stuffed

by Brian M. Wiprud

  And the bridge over the Connecticut—why drop my dead stuff there? It was over a hundred miles away from Bermuda. But at night, it was probably pretty desolate and they had little chance of being spotted.

  And how did they find me in Manhattan, after all? Perhaps the business card I gave that shopkeeper Gunderson? The yellow pages? Both possible, but anybody could put my pin in the map that way.

  And if they were the ones?

  Well, I could roust Angie and we could pile back into the Lincoln and make for the interstate. But maybe they were waiting for us down the road, the pavement littered with carpet tacks. I’d end up stooped behind the car, gripping a car jack in the glow of the red taillights, my back to the dark forest. Then where would we be? Alone on a desolate country road, at the mercy of insane killer clowns from another planet? I’d seen that kind of thing in way too many horror pics.

  I decided to stay where there were lights and phones and an innkeeper who probably had her twelve-gauge side-by-side loaded and at the ready in case the local cocktail set had one too many cosmos and decided to trash the place.

  I went into the bar and asked for a second cabin, farthest from Cabin #1, which Bret’s pals had seen me sign for.

  The barmaid eyed me, and I shrugged.

  “We have these awful fights.”

  Her eyebrows went up, and I went out with the key to Cabin #9. Jostling Angie from her slumber, I said the barmaid had mistakenly given us Cabin #1, the hut with the rat, and that we should move to the cabin on the far end if we didn’t cotton to bedding with scaly-tailed vermin. Angie wiped the Sandman from her eyes and swiftly gathered her belongings and relocated to the new cabin without too much protest. I left the Lincoln at Cabin #1, told Angie the Late Nite Show was about to come on, and excused myself to the bar.

  Was I convinced they were really coming back for a little midnight slice n’ dice? All I could be sure of was my bristling neck hair—that and my determination to protect Angie. Of course, the logical move would have been to tell Angie what I saw and suggest we vamoose. Not that she would have gone, mind you. Knowing Angie, she would have wanted to help me set the trap.

  If I sound a little like a man with suspenders and a belt, I think I have a right to add duct tape to the mix. During my stint with Pete Durban, my feel for impending danger was sharpened, as was my fear of getting caught with my pants down.

  Gallbladders. I almost got killed because of bear gallbladders, if you can believe it. Therein lies a tale.

  Chapter 8

  I didn’t used to get into trouble. But I can tell you how and when mortal danger entered my life, and it can be summed up in the word Smiler.

  It was a couple of years ago. A taxidermist I know in Wyoming, named Sinclair Jones, specializes in bear mounts, and over the years he’d accumulated a bunch of bear gallbladders in his freezer. Seems he wasn’t getting a very good price for them and had heard they sold for considerably more in New York’s Chinatown. Did I have any connections? Said he was looking for at least ten but hopefully as much as fifteen dollars a gram for them. A ten percent commission would be my reward. At the time I didn’t know much about the trade of bear parts. So I asked Pete Durban, my seemingly mild-mannered ecological control agent at the time, if it was legit for me to broker them.

  He frowned. “On a federal level, it is for now. In New York, yes. Where are the bladders coming from?”

  “Wyoming.”

  “That’s legal too. Both states allow the sale of both resident and nonresident bear parts. But there are thirty-two states where it’s completely illegal. So be careful.”

  “Be careful? Gallbladders?” Pete hadn’t yet lured me into any of his Wild West antics at that juncture in our relationship.

  He tried to smile. “You ever seen a bear gallbladder? A North American black-bear bladder looks like a prune, weights about twenty to thirty grams. Asian bear bladders are bigger, up to sixty grams. Little ones, like from cubs, at ten grams are cheapies. But they all look like prunes of different sizes, and there’s no telling where they come from.”

  “Ah. So the legal ones from black bears are mixed in with the illegal ones. . . .”

  “Right. And nobody can keep track of it, so nobody does and so a lot of the wrong people are involved. So just remember what I said.”

  What he didn’t tell me was that what makes bears’ bladders so valuable is that they are the only natural source for tauroursodeoxycholic acid (UDCA), a substance more commonly known as bile. Bear bile has been used for centuries by practitioners of traditional Chinese medicine to treat everything from menstrual cramps to lymphoma. Does it work? Western medicine is much more tentative about its benefits and synthesizes an artificial form of cow bile to treat cirrhosis and dissolve gallstones. The Chinese have realized the limits of the harvesting from the wild and have actually developed farms of over seven thousand captive Asian bears raised specifically for their wonderful, lovely, scrumptious bile. I scream, you scream, we all scream for bile! If you don’t believe me, look it up.

  In Chinatown, I had an importer named Chuck Woo who sometimes got me gazelle pelts. His shop was your classic Mott Street denizen, replete with all manner of Chinese and other imported exotica like coconut carvings, miniature fountains, freeze-dried display piranhas, fertility dolls, Indonesian skull beads, Javan shadow puppets, Turkish water pipes, Mali masks, and Mexican Día de los Muertos paraphernalia. He was also the largest New York importer of Ecuadorian Jivaro shrunken heads, hand-crafted by Jivaro Indians from goat skin with the same attention to detail as if they were the noggins of rival tribesmen.

  I dropped in on Chuck shortly after my talk with Pete, and Chuck was his usual bubbly if somewhat profane self.

  “Garf! You old fuckar! Come in! I haf many pelts for you, you fuckar!”

  “Hiya, Chuck.” I pumped his hand, never having bothered to tell him that it wasn’t exactly kosher to go around calling people fuckar. I didn’t know him that well and so always figured someone close to him would get around to breaking the news. And I can see how he came to use the word so casually—from the example set by everyday American vernacular.

  “You want Dutch water, you big fuckar? Yes, let us make Dutch water!” A bottle of Johnnie Walker Red appeared in one hand, two tumblers in the other. I don’t like scotch, but found a glass in my hand just the same. Never could figure out whether he was an alcoholic just looking for an excuse to dip his bill or whether this was some kind of custom. But whenever I visited him, I always had to gird myself for some “Dutch water,” his peculiar name for scotch. I kept swirling it, hoping to make the vile amber liquid evaporate faster.

  So after he showed me some pelts and I dumped the scotch in a potted plant, I finally got around to my question.

  “Chuck, my friend, you have the very best pelts. I only buy from you, the best.” He beamed and I continued. “But I don’t have any buyers for pelts today. I come to you, my friend, because I have something to sell.”

  His eyes went shifty on me. I don’t think he knew quite how to make the transition from friendly seller to shrewd buyer. They were two distinctly different people, one accommodating and the other a son of a bitch.

  “Chuck, a friend has some bear gallbladders, and he wants to sell them.”

  He was motionless.

  “I understand there are people in Chinatown who will buy them. Do you know someone who buys bear gallbladders?”

  A word or two of Chinese fell absently from his lips before he said, “Garf, I am fuzzled by your inquiry. I will see if anybody wants these worthless items and can make them go away for you.” He took my glass. “Come back, my friend, in an hour.”

  When I came back, the CLOSED sign was in the door. As I turned away, the door suddenly opened.

  “Garf, come in, bastard!”

  I edged past the smiling Chuck and found myself in front of two frowning Chinese men in shiny Hong Kong suits. I tensed reflexively when I heard Chuck throw the bolt on the front door. My neck hairs
didn’t stand up—they didn’t know any better yet.

  One of the suits tried to smile, but clearly he was out of practice. “We can help you dispose of the bladders.” He had a pinky ring, gold cuff links, sideburns, and a pompadour. His glasses were tinted and had oversize black frames that put Philip Johnson to shame. I don’t know shoes, but his loafers looked expensive and had a gold clasp. Yeah, this guy was the one in charge, all right. His pal was the heavy.

  “Are you a buyer or broker?”

  “Buyer.” Smiler took a step forward. “We must see the product. Do you have it?”

  “I have this one.” I pulled a Styrofoam box from my shoulder bag and opened it. Wisps of fog cleared to reveal what looked for all the world like a small dog doo nestled in dry ice. Not exactly the unveiling of the Mona Lisa. “I can get more in a few days.”

  Smiler held out a hand, and I intuitively began to sweat. I had a sense he wouldn’t give it back, so instead of handing it over, I stepped closer so he could see it more closely. He produced a mini flashlight and a jeweler’s loupe and set upon a close examination.

  I heard a metallic snap and saw his compadre holding a switchblade. I froze.

  Smiler took the knife and poked the turd until he got a small sample from one end. He deposited the sample into a plastic vial.

  “If it is as it seems,” Smiler began, trading glances with Chuck and his compadre, “and of consistent quality and size, we will pay you ten dollars a gram. That is our top price.”

  “Twenty-five for those over thirty grams. Fifteen for those over twenty grams.” Who the hell said that? Yikes! It was me. A dealer’s reflex, even though the ten a gram met my supplier’s asking price.

  “These are only American bladders.” Smiler tried smiling again but failed miserably. “I said, top price.”

  I snapped the foam box shut and tucked the turd back into my bag. Dealing is dealing, the world over, whether it’s for a moose head, Chiclets, or gallbladders: You never accept the first offer. These guys were crafty, and they were lowballing me—just as I would if I were they.

  “Nice meeting you.” I smiled, but sweat was drenching my back. I turned to go and Chuck stepped into my path.

  “Garf, how many do you haf?”

  I glanced back at the two suits. “Sixty-eight. Including this one. All plump and greasy. No dinks in the lot. And they’re all over thirty grams.”

  The three Chinese exchanged glances.

  “Look,” I said amiably, “I know you men may be strapped for cash. It’s okay, really. I’ll find someone who will pay the twenty-five, who won’t be inconvenienced by this transaction.”

  Smiler almost rolled his eyes. Instead, he slowly unwrapped a stick of Fruit Stripe gum, slid it into his mouth, and chewed for a moment. “Bring all sixty-eight back here on Saturday. We will pay you your twenty-five. But only for those over thirty grams.”

  “Works for me,” I said, as Chuck opened the door. I left, trying not to walk faster than normal. There it was, fifty thousand smackaroos doing the hula in my brain, all for a couple hours’ work. Who could resist?

  Two afternoons later, I was at a corner table at the Red Dragon dim sum palace. If you’ve never been to one of these places, they’re refreshingly different from Bob’s Family Restaurant. I imagine it’s like attending a Chinese wedding banquet. This one was decked out in gold wallpaper and adorned with scroll paintings of red dragons and paper lanterns strung from one end of the ceiling to the other. Dim sum is usually enjoyed in the afternoon, and this place was bustling. Just the same, nobody seemed to pay any attention as Smiler weighed his bladders and I counted my cash. After about forty minutes, I was closing a picnic basket chockablock with wads of twenties thick as egg rolls. Smiler and his heavy hefted their coolers of frozen dog poo and slipped out a nearby fire exit. Done deal. Hula hula!

  Now, in my line of work, I often withdraw and deposit fairly large sums of cash, and the bank officers know me and the peculiarities of my business. In fact, I give a five percent discount to anybody paying cash. Sound stupid dealing with so much cash? Well, what’s stupider are bounced checks. What’s stupider is paying a vig to MasterCard. What’s stupider is “invoicing” where they pay you a year or two after the sale, or hiring collection agencies to try to strangle your money out of someone, or never getting paid at all. But I know that deposits over $10K are scrutinized by the FBI. So I guess I was overly insouciant when I waltzed into my friendly neighborhood bank with $52,700 in a wicker picnic basket. Maybe if I’d brought it in a Halliburton attaché I wouldn’t have been scrutinized.

  They were polite, too polite. I should have guessed they were stalling until the cops arrived. This, of course, is where I met my pal Walker, and where we grew so fond of each other. Even though I didn’t know Pete Durban that well at the time, I felt he knew I was basically on the up-and-up, so I gave him a call and was gratified when he came right down to the bank to vouch for me.

  But then he asked to speak to me in private. He showed me a fuzzy telephoto picture of two Asian men walking on a Chinatown street.

  “Know these two guys?”

  It was Smiler and Compadre. “You must know I do.”

  He smiled. “When you called me about the bladders, I figured you might be dealing with them. We’ve had them under surveillance for some time—slippery characters. This one is named Park.” He pointed to Smiler. “He’s the head honcho. We want him. Garth, the department will vouch for you on this business with the cash, but we want a favor.”

  I shrugged. “Sure, Pete.”

  “Great.” He slapped me on the knee and stood up.

  “Uh, Pete? What’s the favor?”

  “How about I come over to your place tonight and explain it over some of Angie’s goulash soup?”

  “How do you know about—”

  He grinned. “We have our sources.”

  A week later I found myself in the back of a dark police van at 1:00 A.M. on a lonely industrial stretch of Peck Slip, a wharfside street in lower Manhattan. Microphones had been threaded into my jacket lapels and a camera was lodged in my belt buckle. Angie was there with Pete, several technicians, and a bunch of flickering, humming, and blinking surveillance gear. I was sweating up a storm. All I needed was a soil sampler and parachute and NASA could have shot me into space for a Mars landing. One day I’m just minding my own business, paying bills, making a living, doing the day-to-day, and the next I’m being made into an underworld probe.

  “A favor,” I muttered, wiping my brow with a bandanna.

  Pete patted me on the shoulder, but I was looking at Angie. “It’s nothing to worry about, Garth.”

  “Oh, really?” I squinted. “Then how come you have a bulletproof vest on?”

  “Purely routine. Like flossing.”

  “Like flossing?” I snorted. “With bullets?”

  Angie put a hand on my arm. “They’ve got police all around, Garth, and we’ll be listening the whole time, isn’t that right?”

  “Right,” Pete chimed in.

  “Wait a second,” I said, shaking Angie by the shoulders. “Aren’t you supposed to be the one who says Garth, this is too dangerous. Please, I’m too young to be a widow. And then I say, Angie, someone has to stop these villains.”

  “If it uncovers a chop shop, someone does have to stop them. And you already dealt with them once, so they’ll trust you. Pete wouldn’t have asked you if it were really dangerous.”

  I sighed heavily, my chest tight with anxiety and microphones. “Angie, I really wish you hadn’t come along.” Pete got a stern glance from me. “I have a bad feeling about all this.”

  “Don’t look at me.” Pete held his palms up. “She said she’d only let you do it if she could come along to make sure we kept you safe.”

  I’d been hearing nothing but the words chop shop all week. Most of these places are overseas, in certain Asian countries where they have tacit protection from the local government just as they would if they were processing drug
s. Periodically, they attempt to establish one in the U.S., if for no other reason than they have less bribes to pay, fewer middlemen, better quality assurance, and more inventory control. The valuable parts range from pelts and organs to horns and claws. Big cats usually constitute a large proportion of these animals, everything from servals to Siberian tigers. Penises and testes of these cats are highly sought after, but so are assorted other organs such as brains, paws, claws, and various glands. All of them are used in traditional Asian medicine to treat everything from impotence to bad luck. You’d think Viagra and Match.com would have made this stuff like a lozenge for the flu. Go figure. The United States has a huge Asian customer base that will pay top dollar for what amount to cherry Sucrets.

  But bears were more plentiful and in demand at the time, not only for their gallbladders but for their paws. There were rumors that a single serving of bear-paw soup in South Korea could go for $1,400. I wondered if that came with oyster crackers. And it was Pete and Fish and Wildlife’s belief that Smiler & Co. were primarily in the business of moving a lot of bear parts, far more than they could account for legally. The feds aimed to shut them down, and I was the chump who had to stick his neck out and take a look around.

  Would taking down a single chop shop stymie the entire trade? Well, one less sure wouldn’t hurt. So did I want to help out? Yes. But I’d watched too many movies to think wearing a wire wasn’t without considerable risk. I was having flash-forwards of Smiler ripping the mike from my jacket, strapping me to a saw table, and flicking the switch. The buzzing blade heading for my midsection, I’d say: “So, Park, I guess you expect me to talk?” Him replying: “No, Mr. Carson, I expect you to die.” Next thing I’m soup with oyster crackers, probably at two bucks a bowl. Causes lapses in judgment.