by Joe Field
“Sounds terrible,” I said, waiting to see if he would say more.
“Yeah, brother. Plus, my girlfriend just dumped me. I also got into a fight up at Palmer’s Tavern. Had to spend the night in the local jail for that one. My parole officer chewed me out good, too.”
“Dang, Ricky, sounds like you’ve been through the ringer.”
“Yeah, but that’s life. How are things going for you?”
I hesitated to respond because my life was pretty much the opposite of Ricky’s in every way. I decided it would be better for our rapport if I downplayed things on my end a bit.
“Just trying to make ends meet,” I said. This was true enough – if I didn’t break a big story for MPR, my job could be through. “Do you think I could take you up on that free slice of pizza you were posting about on Facebook?”
“You bet. I have to get these ovens started first; why don’t you follow me in and I’ll give you the behind-the-scenes tour before the lunch crowd shuffles in.”
“Sounds like a great idea, Ricky. it’s never too early to eat Sammy’s Pizza.”
***
I followed Ricky into the back of the restaurant, feeling like a VIP getting a special look at the kitchen in the original Sammy’s. One of the waitresses came in a few minutes later to get the tables ready for the day. The ovens quickly filled the kitchen with intense heat. Sure enough, Ricky was donning a hair and beard net. He wrapped a white pizza apron that appeared to have years of grease and cheese baked into it around his belly. He slid a couple of pizzas in the oven, then directed me out into the restaurant to a corner booth.
His sleeves were rolled up now, and I could see he had a new tattoo on his inner left arm that said The Dark Side of the Moon in cursive letters.
“Nice tattoo, when did you get that?”
He glanced at it. “I got it about a year ago. That is my favorite Pink Floyd album of all time. When you’re high listening to that album, it’s a trip. A real trip.”
“Yeah, I can only imagine.” I paused, then decided to just dive in. “So, I know you are short on time, and I want to be upfront with you. We were good buddies back in college, but I know I haven’t seen you in a while. The reason I stopped by today is that I’m a reporter now for MPR down in Saint Paul. I just started working on a story, and I was hoping you could point me in the right direction. You have a lot of things going on in your life right now, and I know that. I will not be offended if you tell me to leave you be.”
Ricky waved off my comments. “Don’t be silly, we go way back! I’d love to help you with your story. Congrats, both on the position and the move down to the big city. I can’t believe you can stand living down there, though.” He leaned back in the booth. “But go ahead; ask me anything.”
“It’s kind of personal. Would it be better if we had this conversation at your place after your shift?”
“I’m actually busy later. Let’s just chat now.”
“Okay, Ricky, so I know you’ve had some trouble in the past with drugs. I also know you are tied-in deep with some networks—”
“Woah, are you going to use my name in this story?” Ricky looked startled.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to use your name or anything you say in my report. I just need some help here. I need you to educate me.”
“All right, brother, but don’t go quoting me or I’m in big trouble.”
“No need to worry, this story has nothing to do with you. I just need some information to get me started.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Have you heard about a new drug out on the streets called Brown Sugar?”
Ricky leaned in close to me. “Brother, how do you, of all people, know about Brown Sugar?”
Score, just what I had hoped for. “I heard someone mention it the other day and was curious.”
“Listen, brother. I’ll tell you what I know, but you have to make sure this doesn’t get back to me.”
“The last thing I want is for your safety to be in jeopardy. I’ll do everything I can to protect you.”
Ricky glanced over his shoulder, then lowered his voice as he talked. “Okay. So, Brown Sugar is the label for some of the purest heroin being sold on the market right now. I’ve heard the opium is being shipped in from Mexico. From there, the drugs make their way into Minnesota. How they get here, I’m not sure. I do know the primary supplier and top dealer in Minnesota is a guy out of Minneapolis. He goes by Smokey.”
“Smokey, like a nickname?” I asked.
“Yes, I guess he looks like Smokey the Bear or something. I don’t know his real name. Anyway, one of Smokey’s guys came up to Hibbing a few weeks ago. He was a massive human being who went by the name Tank. I would describe him as the black version of Paul Bunyan, if you know what I mean. Except he didn’t have a cute blue ox named Babe, and he is more likely to cut a man in half than a pine tree.”
I nodded.
“Hard to miss that guy. He looked as huge as this restaurant. He was asking around at Palmers about local dealers who may be able sell the Brown Sugar up here. Someone mentioned my name, and I met the black Paul Bunyan himself. He was scary as hell. He could have crushed me with one punch. Anyway, I told him I was on parole now trying to lay low. He told me not to worry about the cops, and said they could be dealt with. He just wanted my network and access into the entire Iron Range area.”
“What did you tell him?”
“What could I say in that situation?” Ricky frowned. “I was trapped! Of course I agreed to do it for him. These guys are no joke; you either work with them or they put you in the ground.”
“Have you gone to the police?”
“Are you kidding me? Brother, that would be like signing my death wish.”
“Okay, good point. Say, do you have any of the Brown Sugar on you? I’d like to see what it looks like.”
“Let me go pull out those pizzas first – then I’ll see about getting you that free slice, and possibly something else.”
Ricky came back a few minutes later with a slice of pizza on a plate. He set it on the table, and at the same time smoothly slid me a small brown packet. I held it under the table while I read the label: Brown Sugar.
“How much are these selling for?” I asked.
“Twenty bucks a pop, brother. It’s twice as expensive as the stuff we used to get, but the high from it is way better. It’s still way cheaper than buying synthetic drugs like OxyContin, which can go for two or three times that price on the streets.”
“Thanks for the information. You are a knowledgeable man.”
“Comes with painful experience.”
“Hey, can I take this one off your hands?”
“Brother, I thought you didn’t use stuff like this?”
“I don’t. I just want it as reference in case I need it for the story.”
“Okay, brother, but you didn’t get it from me.”
“All right, thanks.” I quickly slipped it into my pocket. Then I pulled out my wallet and handed Ricky the only bill I had – a fifty.
“What’s this for?”
“The slice of pizza.” I winked.
“The ‘pizza’ only costs twenty,” he replied.
“I’m not about to ask you to make change – just keep the rest as a tip for excellent service.”
He nodded, then took the bill and shoved it into his pocket. “You better eat that slice while it’s still hot.”
I picked up the slice of pizza and took a bite. Delicious. “Ricky, can you tell me anything else about Smokey? Do you know anything else about him?”
“I can tell you two things. One, Tank drove a brand new black Cadillac Escalade up here. It stuck out big time. It must have belonged to Smokey, though, because it had Minnesota vanity plates that spelled out DABEAR. You know, like ‘Smokey the Bear’. Second, they hardly use phones or email. They usually just show up in person when they want something.”
Just as he finished talking, the waitress called out fo
r him to get the next round of pizzas out of the oven for the opening buffet rush. She pointed to a line forming outside the front door.
“I’ve got to go.”
“All right, sounds good. Mind if I bring my fiancée by for lunch? I’d love to introduce her to you.”
“That would be fantastic!”
***
Soojin and I enjoyed a delicious Sammy’s lunch buffet together when she showed up later. I had about six pieces of pizza too many, but once you start eating Sammy’s, it’s difficult to stop. At the end of lunch, Ricky came back out from the kitchen to say hello.
“Ricky, I’d like to introduce you to my fiancée, Soojin Kim.”
“Pleased to meet you, Ricky.” Soojin extended her hand.
“The pleasure is all mine.” Ricky shook her outstretched hand. “Stick around for a while, and I can share some funny Cooper Smith fraternity stories from our college days.”
“That’s quite all right,” I said. “We need to get back on our bikes to burn off some of this pizza. Thanks so much for your time, and for the information. You were a huge help. Please, let me know if you need anything from me. Do not hesitate to call.” I handed him a business card.
Ricky took the card and studied it. “Impressive.” He looked back up. “Watch your back, brother. This is a dangerous world to be poking your nose into.”
“Same to you, Ricky. Be safe.”
As we biked out of Hibbing, I couldn’t stop thinking about what Ricky had told me. Although I knew he had connections to the drug world, I hadn’t expected him to be so close to the front lines of the Brown Sugar epidemic. I had a bad feeling his troubles were only just beginning.
Chapter 4
Saint Paul, MN
As Wellstone lumbered south on I-35 toward Saint Paul, I was deep in thought. My meeting with Ricky gave me a good starting point for the story. Earlier in the drive, I talked with Soojin about the conversation I had with him; even though he was out of prison, my meeting with him had saddened me. It made me nervous to think of Smokey looking over his shoulder. Ricky was clearly in a tough situation – possibly life-threatening.
As we drove in silence, I thought back to how I had grinded through job after low-paying job in local news in Duluth. After college, the only place that would hire me was Kool 101.7, an oldies station. That was about as far from the news as you could get in radio. In the three short months I worked there, I listened to Buddy Holly’s “Peggy Sue” so many times I think I could sing it backward still today.
I then found a position with WDIO’s Eyewitness News on the local Duluth television subscription plan. Except I wasn’t working the news there, either – I was working “Eyewitness Sports,” covering local high school sports. I’ll never forget the time I returned to my high school, East High, to cover a varsity football game. I saw parents I still knew from when I played there years before. They smiled and greeted me warmly at the game, but I could just hear them thinking, Wow, looks like this guy didn’t make it too far from home. I lasted only four months at WDIO, then I quit.
I had the pearly white teeth, but I knew I lacked the face for television, so I returned to where my true passion was – radio. I scored a position as a reporter for KDAL 610 AM in Duluth, a local news, weather, and sports station. This time I was there to cover the actual news. I actively went out in the community and gave the people of Duluth the news they deserved. After two years of hard work, I received a call back from an application I submitted to MPR.
I worried about my longevity at MPR, and wasn’t sure what I would do if I was cut. All I knew was I didn’t want to go back to making $7.50 an hour listening to Buddy Holly sing about Peggy Sue, nor did I want to cover my alma mater’s football games. And as much as I loved Duluth, I wanted to chase bigger stories. I longed to chase people like Smokey. It was my calling.
“You know…” Soojin broke the silence. “If you convinced Ricky to work with you and the authorities, you may just be able to get him out of this jam.”
“How so?”
“Ricky’s a low-level drug dealer, but he has access to Smokey’s network. I’m sure the authorities would be quite interested in this connection.”
“Oh, yeah. The hard part will be to convince Ricky to come on board. He would need upfront assurances for both his safety and immunity.”
“I think his cooperation is realistic, given his situation.”
“Good point. First, let me call Junior and see if he can get me some more information on Smokey.”
***
Junior answered my call just as we entered Saint Paul. “What’s going on, Coop? Please don’t tell me you’re in a ditch somewhere on the interstate. Mom’s making tater-tot hot dish tonight, and I plan to head straight there after my shift to eat it while it’s hot.”
“Hey, super trooper. Nothing like that, but I do need your help.”
“What can I do you for?”
“Can you run a license plate and two nicknames for me please?”
“What am I looking for?”
“I have a tip on a potential drug dealer’s license plate, and nicknames of two people affiliated with the vehicle. If you could provide me the full background story on the owner of the vehicle, and anything you can find on those nicknames, I would greatly appreciate it.”
“Is this related to the Brown Sugar drug you were talking about the other day?”
“Yes, and one of my old college buddies is roped into it. I just want to know how much trouble he could actually be in.”
“How much are you willing to pay for this?” asked Junior.
“Pay?”
“Yes, how much will you pay for each trace?”
“Well, I guess—”
“I’m just messing with you, baby brother. What do you have for me?”
I provided the license plate and nicknames that Ricky gave me. I was hoping Junior could figure out the vehicle’s owner based on what I had. He said it was a slow Sunday at work and he promised to call me back with the results by the end of the day as long as it didn’t cut into his hot dish time.
***
I kissed Soojin and dropped her off at the apartment she shared with two other women in the heart of downtown Saint Paul on Fourth Street. I lived just up the road in a one-bedroom apartment at the intersection of Selby Avenue and Dale Street, right across from the Mississippi Market Co-op.
People often asked why we didn’t live together to save money. We were both raised in the church and wanted to marry first before sharing a place. Plus, I was afraid of what Soojin’s father would do to me if he found out we were living together. Soojin grew up in a non-denominational Christian church, and I was an Irish Catholic. Given our slightly different religious backgrounds, we decided to get married at the James J. Hill Center in downtown Saint Paul. Soojin knew several board members for the Center, and was able to reserve it for a reasonable price for both our wedding and the reception.
I parked Wellstone and went up to my tiny, dismal apartment. It was in a musty old brick building, smelled of mold, and had serious ventilation problems. The walls were painted white, and nothing hung on them. I had a few functional pieces of IKEA furniture, including a collapsible kitchen table, two foldable chairs, a single couch, and a twin bed. My apartment was something like the intersection of how a Spartan lives and a psych ward looks.
I threw my bags down and turned on my iMac. I wanted to check my work email and get ready for the week ahead. Pending an early morning meeting and approval from my managing editor, Bill Anderson, I would be busy all week laying the groundwork for my biggest story to date.
I opened up my browser and saw that I was already logged into Facebook. I normally ignore my Facebook feed, but a posting for a planned memorial in Hibbing caught my eye. Several of my friends had commented on the story. I clicked into it.
Local Pizza Worker Found Dead in Park.
A lump rose in my throat. The article read:
A 25-year-old male named Richard Johnson
from Hibbing, Minnesota was found dead this morning in Bennett Park. The victim had two gunshot wounds to the chest. Johnson was last seen at midnight in the nearby Palmer Tavern. The motives for the shooting are unclear, but authorities say he was on parole for several drug charges and may have been connected to dangerous drug networks. Johnson had been working at Sammy’s Pizza as part of his parole requirements. Authorities say they will provide further details once they become available.
I felt sick to my stomach. Ricky and I had had lunch thirty hours before, and now he was dead. I rubbed my forehead as I felt a migraine coming on. My phone rang, and I jumped. It was Junior.
“Junior, something bad happened,” I croaked.
“What is it?”
“Remember I told you I met an old friend yesterday in Hibbing? He was the one tied to this drug network I’m researching.”
“Yeah, what happened?”
“He was found dead this morning in a park.”
“That’s terrible. Was it a drug overdose?”
“He was shot twice in the chest.”
“Are you serious? Who shot him?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I have a pretty good idea who it might be. Did you finish tracing that license plate and nicknames I gave you?”
“Yes, but I should warn you: You may be getting a visit really soon from some DEA agents.”
“Wait, what?” I asked. “Why?”
“I ran the information you provided me in the National Crime Information Center database. I got a hit on Smokey’s nickname and looked at his NCIC record. It must have triggered an alert with DEA, because within minutes of looking at the record they called me. Apparently he is tied to some big case DEA is working right now. They wouldn’t give me details, but asked a lot of questions about why I was searching for him. They pressed me hard, Coop, and I had to tell them about you. They asked for your address and phone number and said they would be visiting you really soon. I suspect with this new Ricky development they could be there anytime.”