When Trevor returned to the Desert, Franklins Assistant had already set up a canopy outside the trailer, with a folding table and two chairs.
On the table sat a pot of iced tea and a small plate of cookies—this was the “highest specification reception” Franklins Assistant could think of.
“When is Walter arriving?” Trevor sat in a chair, legs crossed, peeling an apple with a Hunting knife.
“Three in the afternoon.
He’s bringing a translator and a bodyguard.”
“A bodyguard?” Trevor peeled the apple skin into a complete spiral, holding it up against the sunlight.
“Is he afraid I’ll kill him?”
“Maybe.”
“Then I’ll have to give him a reason.” Trevor tossed the apple peel onto the ground and took a bite of the apple, juice trickling down his chin.
At exactly three in the afternoon, a black SUV appeared at the end of the Desert road.
The car stopped fifty meters from the trailer, the door opened, and first out was a burly man in a black suit—the bodyguard.
Then a young man with glasses—the translator.
Finally, a middle-aged man of medium build wearing a polo shirt stepped out.
Walter.
He didn’t look like a gang leader; he looked more like an entrepreneur who played golf on weekends.
His hair was neatly combed, and he wore a real Rolex—not a fake—on his wrist.
He walked up to Trevor, extended his hand, and said in accented English, “Hello, Mr.
Philips.”
Trevor didn’t shake hands.
He looked down at Walter’s hand as if looking at a strange insect.
“I don’t shake hands.
I don’t trust hands.”
Walter hesitated for a moment, withdrew his hand, and smiled.
“You’re very interesting.”
“Many people say that.
And then they all die.” Trevor pointed to the chair opposite him.
“Sit.”
Walter sat down, the translator standing behind him and the bodyguard five meters away.
Franklins Assistant poked his head out of the trailer, holding a Tape recorder—he wanted to record all the negotiation content in case Walter went back on his word later.
Trevor tossed the apple core onto the ground and got straight to the point: “What do you want?”
“Counterfeits,” Walter said.
“Designer bags, watches, perfumes, clothes.
High-end replicas, Grade A goods—ordinary people can’t tell the difference.
Do you have the channels?”
“I have trucks, warehouses, and a bunch of Mexicans who aren’t afraid to die.
Where do you want the goods shipped?”
Start with the West Coast first, then expand eastward.”
Trevor smiled, a smile that made Walter’s translator reflexively take a step back.
“Do you know what I hate most?” Trevor asked.
“What?”
“Middlemen.
You say you want ‘all of America,’ but you don’t have the channels, the warehouses, or the trucks yourself.
You only have a crate of fakes and a crate of money.
You want me to turn your goods into my channels—so why don’t I just skip you and get the goods directly from your factory in Country C?”
Walter’s smile didn’t change, but his eyes turned cold.
“Because the factory only recognizes me.
If you go to them, they’ll say ‘I don’t know you.'”
“Then I’ll kill them.”
“And then you’ll go to prison.
Because Country C isn’t like America; it’s not that easy to get away with murder.”
Trevor stared at Walter for five seconds, then suddenly burst out laughing.
The laughter echoed in the Desert, scaring away a lizard basking nearby.
“You’ve got some guts.” Trevor wiped away tears of laughter.
“I like people with guts.
Fine, I’ll help you.
But you have to pay half upfront.”
“How much is half?”
“One million.”
Walter pulled a check from his pocket, placed it on the table, and pushed it over.
Trevor glanced at it—one million dollars, a Citibank cashier’s check.
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll take the money and not do the work?”
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll tell the FBI about your business?”
The two locked eyes, sparks flying in the air.
Finally, Trevor picked up the check, folded it, and stuffed it into his pants pocket.
“Where are the goods?”
“Port of Los Santos, Warehouse Three.
Tonight at eight, your truck goes to pick them up.”
“My truck will be there on time.
Don’t let your people be late; if they’re late by a minute, I’ll dump the goods into the sea.”
Walter stood up and straightened his polo shirt collar.
“Pleasure.” Trevor didn’t stand up, just waved his hand like shooing a fly.
Walter left.
The SUV disappeared at the end of the Desert road.
Franklins Assistant came out of the trailer holding the Tape recorder.
“I recorded every word he said.
If he dares to play any tricks, we can use this to blackmail him.”
Trevor handed the check to Franklins Assistant.
“Go check if this check is real.
If it’s real, deposit it into our offshore account.”
“Aren’t you afraid he’ll call the police and say the check was stolen?”
“Call the police for what?
He’s a smuggler of counterfeit goods; calling the police is the same as turning himself in.”
Franklins Assistant nodded, then hesitated for a moment.
“Trevor, there’s something I don’t know if I should say…”
“If you shouldn’t say it, then don’t.”
“But I think you should know.” Franklins Assistant pushed up his glasses.
“That Walter, he might have a connection with people from Country C.”
Trevor frowned.
“What Country C person?”
“The one…
Richard.
The Country C guy around Michael.
Walter and Richard are both from Country C, though one’s from Guangzhou and the other is from who knows where, but if they happen to know each other—”
“No way,” Trevor interrupted him.
“A person like Richard wouldn’t mix with a smuggler like Walter.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Richard has blocked my punch.
Walter didn’t even dare to shake my hand.” Trevor stood up and brushed the dust off himself.
“They’re not the same.”
Franklins Assistant nodded, seemingly understanding, and went back to work.
Trevor stood by the trailer, watching the sunset dye the Desert blood-red.
He thought of Richard’s face—that young man with the bloody nose, whose eyes held no fear, only a certain certainty that said “I know you won’t kill me.”
“Interesting,” Trevor muttered to himself.
“How are there so many weirdos around Michael?”
He shook his head and walked into the trailer.
He still had to arrange for the truck to go to the port tonight; no time for sentiment.