The Good Cop

The exchange started with nothing more sinister than an ad on Craigslist.

It was a posting created by an outfit that called itself Red Dot Enterprises and placed in the jobs section of the Hampton Roads Craigslist, under the heading of security. The link said, simply, “Security Guard Wanted.” The following came one click later:

Competitive pay for limited duration work.

No experience necessary.

No HS diploma or GED needed.

Must be able to pass criminal background check.

Must have own vehicle.

Current State of Virginia concealed carry permit required.

To John Bristow, it sounded like a good deal. He was an ex-marine who had kept keep his nose clean and an avid hunter who had gotten a carry permit shortly after mustering out of the service years earlier.

Most of all, he had child support, a landlord who was getting tired of partial payments, and a car that was being held together by rust and duct tape. He needed a job. Any job would do. He had been laid off during the depths of the Great Recession four years earlier and none of the employment he had found since that time had come close to replacing his previous income. The tips at T.G.I. Friday’s just weren’t that good.

So he answered the ad from Red Dot Enterprises, clicking on the “Reply to” link supplied. He wrote a note, saying he met all the qualifications. He heard back quickly.

Soon, there was an exchange of phone calls, always from blocked numbers. Bristow could guess it was something shady. He talked to a guy who even sounded shady on the phone, a black guy from up north who asked a lot of questions but gave few answers.

Bristow learned it was more of a onetime assignment than a steady job. But the money was good. And easy. The guy on the phone seemed mostly concerned about Bristow’s discretion, and kept reminding him he couldn’t discuss the work he would do-not with his wife, his girlfriend, his priest, or his rabbi. No one.

Bristow asked right away: Was Red Dot Enterprises involved in drugs? Because he wasn’t interested in doing anything with drugs. He wasn’t some junkie, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to work for some scumbag dealer.

No, he was told. No drugs.

So what was it? When the guy finally got around to saying it, Bristow was relieved. It wasn’t drugs. Or trafficking in whores or illegals or any of the other possibilities Bristow had been pondering.

It was just guns. They wanted him to buy some guns. They were going to pay him for the guns, pay him generously for his time, and then leave him alone. It was one day’s work-less than that, actually. Yet it would pay him better than a month of working nights at Friday’s.

Was he helping to arm an insurrection against the federal government? Procure firearms for ex-cons who couldn’t buy their own? Enable some massive shooting spree? Bristow didn’t particularly care.

Whatever someone did with those guns, that wasn’t on him.