"Tell him he'll get it back when we cross the border." Then they haggled, through Juan. At last they established thirty thousand dollars for the price of the crossing. It was a bargain, Angela thought. He probably had two million dollars' street-value worth of cocaine in the heavy suitcase.
The trip went off without a hitch. Mimi had the car and drove him to the Intercontinental Hotel near the bay. He could afford it.
Juan said he had another client the next day. He guessed it was another dope run.
Dale had frowned. "A little wetback-smuggling don't matter," he said. "But your old man's gonna shit his pants he finds out you're running dope in. That's competition."
"What he doesn't know, won't hurt us. A couple more runs," she said.
* * *
The next day Angela and the pilot took off from Brown Field as usual, only this time he made her handle the dual controls.
"We're going to fly straight and level, and then you're going to work on doing S-turns, just like we should be doing if you're getting your money's worth out of lessons. And in case some border-patrol plane is watching. We've been making too many flights lately. I saw a border-patrol plane warming up when we took off. He's faster than we are, and I'm watching for him."
Angela took the controls, excitement showing on her face as she piloted the small plane.
Five minutes later Ingles took over.
"Okay, our watchbird just left us, we can get to work."
They were late arriving at the pickup point, which was farther along the border this time. The same Colombian was there. His name was Nieto. He was nervous and angry. He told Morales he was being overcharged. Juan translated for Angela.
Angela drew her small automatic and waved it at him.
"Tell the jerk he can walk across and then try to get to his hotel!"
Nieto reacted at once, and it was plain he spoke English.
Angela caught it. "Drop the bag and step back."
The South American laughed at her. She fired once into the dirt between his feet. He stopped laughing and did as she said.
"Open it, Juan. Let's see for sure what he has in his bag."
Morales hesitated, shrugged. He knew this contact was blown. The new top-quality suitcase was locked. He held out his hand for the key, which Nieto gave him.
Inside were stacks of clear plastic half-pound bags of white powder.
"Test it, Dale."
The pilot opened a pocket knife, sliced one of the bags, then licked a finger and tasted the powder. He spit quickly.
"Sure as hell ain't sugar. A-grade coke. I've done a few lines from time to time."
"So, Nieto. You still think you're overpaying?"
Angela turned and was almost too late. Nieto had drawn a six-inch knife as they concentrated on the package. He sliced Juan on the arm and lunged at Angela, the blade racing toward her left breast. The knife was only two feet away. She jerked up the automatic and pulled the trigger four times.
The little gun bucked and the charging Colombian stopped abruptly, as if jerked back by an invisible string. The knife fell from his grasp, a surprised look in his eyes as he fell facedown in the sand.
"What the hell are you doing?" Ingles roared.
"Take out that bag you tested and give it to Juan," Angela ordered the pilot coolly. "Then close up the suitcase and let's get out of here."
She walked to Morales, pulled a scarf off her hair and looked at his arm. It was not a bad cut. She wrapped it tightly with the cloth and tied the ends.
"Gracias."
"Forget it. You know what's in that bag?"
"Sί."
"You know what it's worth?"
Morales shook his head, his eyes gleaming.
"A half pound of coke on the street is worth at least fifteen thousand dollars. Of course you need an outfit to push it and customers who can afford it."
The Mexican coyote smiled. "Do not worry, señorita. I shall find the customers."
"This is our last trip with you, Juan. Bury the Colombian in some gully. Welcome to the rich life."
Ingles was waiting in the plane with the suitcase. He looked at her and shook his head.
"Hell, but you are cool," he said as they took off. "You just made your bones!"
Angela shrugged. "You taught me how to use the gun, remember? He was nothing. He made a big mistake." She looked at the bag in the back seat. "About sixty-five pounds?"
"About. You're talking two million dollars on the street."
"And wholesale?" she asked.
"Half."
"That's still a million dollars! Damn, a hundred percent markup." She paused for a moment. "No time for fun today. We make the meet with the car, stash this in the trunk and don't tell Gemma what it is. I've got to come back with you or they might get wise. Is that border-patrol plane around?"
"Haven't seen one since we left Otay."
"Good, I can see Gemma and her blue Lincoln."
They landed and Gemma was more relieved than curious about no passenger.
"I would have been late for my hair appointment anyway. Do I just leave the suitcase in the car?"
"Yes. And drive carefully," Angela said. "No speeding tickets."
" You two… ah… staying here a while?"
"No, Gemma, I have to get back to town."
"Right. See you tonight."
The little plane worked its way carefully along the gullies and ravines until they climbed higher to get over the last ridge and snake down into the Otay Reservoir area. As they did so, a four-seater plane came up on them from the side, flew even with them a hundred feet away and the pilot picked up his mike and pointed to it.
The radio chattered on the Brown Field frequency.
"Seven-seven-oh-seven, do you read me?"
"Right, I can even see you. What's happening?"
"U.S. Border Patrolman Johnson. I am notifying you of suspicion of illegal activity and request that you proceed directly to Brown Field and land for inspection."
"What if I'm heading for Lindbergh Field?"
"You'll have to divert."
"I don't get it. Just finished a little cross-country with a private student. That against the law?"
"That's what we'll find out."
Ingles hung up the mike and shrugged. "Just hassling us. They can't prove a thing."
"I'm not licensed to carry this.25 auto."
"Yeah. Neither am I."
"I'll crack the door. When our friend is looking the other way, I'll drop the automatic out."
"A small turn toward him should do it. Get ready."
The Cessna turned and the patrol plane veered away from them, heading toward Brown. Angela dropped the murder weapon out the door and relaxed. That one little problem was solved.
When they landed, there were two border-patrol inspectors waiting for them at the taxi strip. The men went over the plane carefully, found the uneaten picnic lunch and shrugged. It took them a half hour to do the work. They did not take off any sheet metal but they made sure none was loose. At last they stood back and let them taxi the plane on to the rental agency.
After turning in the plane, which Manny was now paying for since it was for lessons, Ingles leaned on Angela's 380SL's door.
"I want half," he said.
"No way, Dale. You're a hired hand, not a partner. I'll forget you said that. And don't think you can make points with dad. Who the hell do you think I'm going to sell this coke to?"
She watched the pilot's surprised expression as he jumped out of the way when she gunned the Mercedes.
For just the briefest of moments she thought of how it had felt to kill that man. Actually there had been little feeling. It came too quickly. She knew in a microsecond that she had to shoot, and she simply brought up the weapon and fired to prevent the attacker from killing her. There was no shock, no remorse, no guilt. The bastard had known the odds of three against one. He deserved to die.
She drove up the freeway toward La Jolla. Now the big problem was g
oing to be talking to her father. At first he would not believe them. She had decided all four of the Hard Corps must be there. He would not get so abusive if she had her friends there.
As she drove, Angela fine-tuned her strategy. It had to be done just right, so there could be no way for her father to refuse them. They would split the million four ways. Not bad for a couple of weeks' work.
She stepped on the gas and felt a surge of power as the German roadster responded. She couldn't wait to confront her father with the fruits of her project.
26
The Hard Corps met at the Star of the Sea Room at Anthony's on the wharf, one of the best restaurants in San Diego. Angela had summoned the other Hard Corps members to dinner as her treat at seven. The best corner table had been reserved for them.
Angela wore an elegant black dress, bare over one shoulder and most of the back. It had cost nine hundred dollars and she had worn it only once before tonight. Earlier she had asked Gemma to drive past the main house with the suitcase and Angela had stored it away in a safe place.
Now she lifted the pink champagne in the crystal stemware she had requested.
"A toast!" she said softly, and with feeling. "I propose a toast to the Hard Corps, who are only just beginning!"
They murmured approval and Angela noted that Gemma was not as enthusiastic as she had been. There might be a problem downrange with her.
"Tonight we have an appointment with Mr. Marcello at eight-thirty. I hope none of you has plans because I think you'll want to be in on this. It'll be a fascinating evening for us all."
"What's so hellishly important?" Felicia asked, flipping her shoulder-length hair around so she could see Angela better.
"That's the surprise," Angela said. "And it's good news. We'll reason with Mr. Marcello, and then we'll negotiate with him."
Gemma looked up. "Does this have anything to do with my delivery tonight at your place?"
"Yes, but let's not spoil the surprise."
Only Gemma seemed not to be listening. She stared out the window at the lights across San Diego bay, and at a large sailboat sliding past using the last of the evening breeze. There was definitely a problem with Gemma.
They ate and chattered and talked about trips coming up and trips past, and boyfriends. The dinners came and they ate, and drank more pink champagne.
Promptly at eight o'clock Angela called for the check, gave the waiter two hundred-dollar bills and did not wait for the change.
"Everyone at my place in fifteen minutes," she said, then they all went outside and scattered to their cars. Angela walked down to a no-parking zone, got into her Mercedes and drove home.
She stopped at the Marcello mansion gate and told the guard that she was expecting three girlfriends. She parked and ran to her room to check on the suitcase. It was still there.
She carried it downstairs and hid it in the closet outside of her father's den. Then she walked into the huge living room and stared at the flames in the fireplace. Her father loved a fire. Sometimes she thought he turned up the air-conditioning to make it cool enough to have the fireplace going.
At twenty-five past eight the three girls arrived. Angela met them and they all walked up to the den on the second floor and knocked on the door.
"Come!" a voice called.
Angela let Mimi go in first, then the others and she came in last. She had not told her father there would be four in the group to talk to him. He had expected only her.
"Daddy, you know my three friends." She paused as he said hello to each of them. No kiss on the cheek this time.
"We want to talk to you about something that is extremely important to us, and vital to the operation of the Family business."
"I talk Family business with men, not with four ladies who should be getting themselves married."
Felicia laughed and Manny looked at her coldly.
"Sorry, Mr. Marcello," she said. "It's just that you sound exactly like my own father."
"Daddy," Angela cut in. "We are representing a group within the Family you may not know about. It's been kept a secret from you up to now. We are not competing with you. This group is known as the Hard Corps. That's us. We have decided that since men dominate our lives and the Family structure, we will prove to you that we can make money as well as any of your boys."
"You all should be sent to a goddamned nunnery!"
"I knew he'd say that!" Gemma said and began crying.
Manny hated to see any woman cry. It tore him to pieces. He left his chair behind the big desk and walked over to Gemma. He patted her head, then he put his arms around her.
"Don't cry, Gemma. I'll listen, even if it bores me to death."
"We've been working," Angela continued. "And in the last two weeks, we've done all right. We've earned this." She emptied her big purse on his desk.
"Mr. Marcello," Mimi said. "I know this might not seem like much to you, but we earned it all by ourselves, and none of us got into trouble."
Manny looked at the girls in surprise.
"How much is here? What did you do to earn this?"
"There's seventy-eight thousand dollars in cash. We earned it by starting an airline," Felicia said.
"An airline?"
"Right, we transported passengers," Angela added.
"That's why you wanted Dale Ingles, those damn flying lessons! Ingles will be sorry he ever got involved in this."
"It's not his fault. We threatened him that we'd tell you. And we paid him for his services."
"You ran illegals over the border, right? Important ones who would pay three or four thousand for the ride."
"Five thousand, with two passengers on each trip," Felicia said. "We know how to make money."
"What happens when you get caught?"
"We won't. Today was our last trip."
"Thank God for that. So divide up the money. Go around the world. Have fun, get married. What do you want from me now? Your little game is all over."
"Not quite, daddy." Angela went to the hall, brought in the suitcase and placed it on the floor beside him.
"We bought something today, we'd like to resell it to you. And of course there is room left for you to make a tidy profit."
Manny the Mover, boss of San Diego, snorted contemptuously.
Angela lifted the heavy bag and swung it to the top of her father's desk. She took a key from her purse, unlocked it and swung back the top of the suitcase.
"Sixty-five pounds of high-grade cocaine," she said softly.
"Where in hell did you get…"
Gemma broke in. "That's why we didn't have a passenger today, just his suitcase."
Manny turned to his daughter, his eyes flashing angrily. She had never seen him so furious.
"I don't suppose your passenger just gave you the junk."
"No, I shot him. He's dead."
The other girls gasped. Manny took a step backward. "You killed him?"
"Yes. He came at me with a six-inch blade. Either I died or he did. I made sure it was him."
"Would you let me talk with Angela alone, please," her father said with a chilling calm.
"No!" Angela said vehemently. "This stuff belongs to all four of us. We all talk about it. We're in the coke business for one transaction. The goods are worth two million on the street. We'll sell them to you for one million, cash."
Manny's face was now beet red. He stared at each of them.
Then he sat down in his desk chair and threw his arms wide and roared with laughter.
"You four broads are absolutely the strangest. I worked for ten years to make my first million!"
Angela leaned on the desk in front of him. "Are you buying, or do we distribute this ourselves?"
"Relax, Angelina. You've got a deal. I don't want you rounding up a crew of hustlers for the street. Hell, that could drive me right out of business."
He closed the bag and used the phone to call downstairs.
"I want these goods out of the house. None of that poison
is ever to be in this house!"
"First the checks," Angela said. "Four of them at two hundred fifty thousand each."
"I don't write checks. Why don't we handle that tomorrow at Philmore Industries downtown? Or we can transfer the amounts directly, electronically, to your bank accounts."
"My banker would go into hysterics," Mimi said.
"We'll work it out. Is that okay with you businesspersons?"
They left the room, knowing that they had won a vital battle.
"Shit!" Angela said when they were down the hall. "We won!"
But on the way to Angela's rooms, Gemma burst into tears. They got her calmed down, but she was still shaking.
"I don't know for sure, but I think I'm pregnant," she moaned.
27
Mack Bolan had spent two days in Salt Lake City working out his targets and strategy. His hits were always the result of complete reconnaissance and direct assault.
As far as he could tell there was no real Mafia organization in Salt Lake City. It was undeveloped territory for the Mob. It was a way point, a connecting link in the pipeline that ferried the poison into the east and midwest. Salt Lake City was the fly-out center for the goods in an area where the Feds did not check airports as stringently as they did on the coast.
Salt Lake City is a power unto itself. It is the closest thing to a functioning theocracy in any state in the union. To be "well connected" in Utah means you must be an active Mormon, a giver and a worker for the Kingdom. The Mafia was smart when it picked Salt Lake City as a joint in the pipeline; they made sure they used a local man, a good Mormon who could be turned to their way of thinking in one small aspect — drugs.
They found the man they needed in Dick Blanchard, a well-heeled building contractor who had several aircraft of his own. He also had a sexual appetite for young boys. This fact was detailed and Blanchard was quickly blackmailed into using his construction firm as a cover for the pipeline operation. In return he received a generous amount of money and a safehouse where he could enjoy his aberrant sexual disportments.
Resurrection Day Page 19