Piece Of Cake

THE PIECE OF CAKE

Jack Green was my idea of a financial wizard. Every scheme he told me about turned out a winner. We bought shares in BP when everyone said it was a disaster and look at them now! He tipped me about Russian Steel conglomerates before the newspapers got hold of them, so I knew he had a gift for information or some secret insider to tip him the wink.

Jack lived high and enjoyed the good things like hard liquor and expensive women. I admit I got my share of the pickings too, when I shadowed his choices and sold when he sold.

Two weeks ago, he had the biggest idea of all.

"Sam" he said "This is a piece of cake---we'll never get a chance like this in another million years.
"What's the idea?"
"Ink" he said "just ink -y' know the stuff you put in your printer"
"Come off it"
"No I'm deadly-I've a man in the Ukraine who has a lorry load of top stuff and needs to shift it pronto."

He puzzled me a bit, because I thought Jack was into shares and the like, not merchandise.
"How come we get an offer like this?" I queried
"It's simple" says he "comes down to who you know and who's got the credit, it's a fair shake."
It was tempting, no cash upfront but pay into a Swiss account on delivery in UK. All we had to do was find a buyer this end and the job was done.

Funny thing, but Sharon's dad had a warehouse business in Essex and he dealt in Office Supplies. She's not exactly my Missus but next best thing and I know the old man well.
"Oh Sam" she burbles "you can't ask me dad to underwrite the job."
"Yes we can"
So we did. The deal struck him as a blinder since he didn't have to pay a penny before delivery and he could check the goods sharpish.
I told Jack and he grinned.
"But" I said "We can't check on the load and the driver."
"Yes we can"

So we set off in my Vogue to find our way to Ukraine.
It was a good way east beyond Germany and the sat nav went U/S once we passed Slovenia, but we arrived in Kiev at about midnight on the second day. No Hiltons here or even a Travel Lodge, so we kipped down in the Rover for a few hours. In the morning I felt a bit gloomy
"Jack -do you reckon we can find the load in this dump."
"Yes we can"
So we rang the mobile number he had and after one or two tries he spoke to some face with info about the lorry.
"Here we go" he burbled "Get the motor fired up we're on our way."

For once, the directions seemed kosher. We were directed to a lorry park about 5 miles outside the town. Standing at the drive-in was the biggest man I'd ever seen. He was as wide as a door and about seven feet high. No city type he.
Jack said "Can we see the Merchandise?"
"Yes we can." Said the giant and he led us to a twelve wheeler standing behind the caff. Jumping up on the tail I opened a few boxes.
Big relief for me to read Huwlet Pakard on the side of the cartons plus others printed Epsone etc. I cut open a few and could see printer cartridges so I gave Jack the nod and we jumped down. Kirov, the mighty mountain took us for a meal to celebrate the deal. Camels' balls or something similar I reckon, so not appreciated. He insisted we should spend the week end sharing the joys of the war zone which he called home.
"Is custom in Ukraine -you no leave now" he implored.
"Yes we can" and we jumped in the motor and gunned down to the mega truck with no more chat, tipped the driver and set off.

We followed the mighty truck through the motorways of Europe, mostly blinded by the muck or dust thrown up by its enormous wheels. The driver never stopped until he got to Calais. He either had an iron bladder or a collection of large bottles in the back of his cab. We were near spark out by the time we got to the Terminal. We had a drink and a smoke and followed the truck as it approached the French Customs.
A blue uniform jumped up and pulled open the tailgate. He was in there for quite a while and when he came out I saw he was getting stroppy with the driver. Before I could do or say anything the plonker was pointing at us and pushing the officer in our direction.
"Jack" I said "we can't dodge this one"
"Yes we can" and he was out of the Vogue in trice, running like a greyhound.
Coming round to my side, the cocky French type put his foot against my door and touched his cap. "Mesewer" he says all smooth and polite "can you show me the documents for this load?"
I said "You've no right to stop me -this is a Common Market, my son and I've got my rights. You can't look at the load."
He smiled and a nasty glint crept into his eye.
"Yes we can" he said.