“This compound and your distribution operation… I would like to rent it from you.” Black pressed the cold bottle of swill against his cheek.
“So you can make the chocodiles.”
“Krokodil.” Black corrected him. “Krokodil.”
“Ah yes.” Camacho leaned back in his seat. “Highly addictive and profitable, I hear.”
“Very.” The American smiled. “Very, very lucrative.”
“So I hear. Why do you need me?”
“The DEA has closed down all my labs in the States.” He set the bottle down. The Zima and cheap bourbon weren't sitting well in his stomach. “Vera Cruz is a nice out of the way place for my company to manufacture it.”
“Yes, it is.” Camacho took another drink then wiped his lips on his shirt sleeve, exposing the five hundred thousand dollar watch. Black almost rolled his eyes at that but controlled himself. “DEA has stayed away from my operations. What do you have to offer me?”
“Thirty-seventy split.” Black absently patted his rumbling stomach.
“How do you plan on transporting the chocodile?”
“You have the means, Robert.”
“Yes I do.” He smiled mirthlessly. “To use my compound and the transports I want a forty-sixty split.”
“Forty-sixty?” Black held back a belch. “Does that include security?”
“Of course, my friend, of course. I will have my second, Salazar, in charge of keeping your—or should I say ‘our’—operation safe.”
“I will need to stay on grounds until our operations are wrapped up. There are some issues back in the States that I would rather not be troubled with right now. Do you have any accommodations I can use until then?”
“But of course, Señor Black. Mi casa es su casa. My compound is forty acres. I have plenty of buildings you can occupy besides the cooking area. You are most welcome to stay. I shall enjoy your company when I’m here.”
Black stood up a little woozily, the cheap alcohol rolling in his refined stomach, and extended his hand. Camacho saw the Christopher Columbus on his wrist and smiled widely.
“I see you have the Zenith.” He limply shook Black’s stiff hand. “I chose the Greubel Forsey instead.” Camacho could see the tiniest wince in the corner of Blacks left eye. Good. “Partners, I-an? …I-an?”
Black had momentarily drifted off to his happy place. The millionaire pictured Camacho strapped to his work table as wonderful, soothing muzak played in the background. Black imagined himself skinning the little cartel boss alive. Pleasant warmth suddenly filled his crotch area.
“Partners, Robert.” Black quickly snapped out of his pleasant daydream.
“Good, good.” He raised the Zima and chugged it. Setting the empty bottle down, he burped and grinned. “Sure you do not want another?”
“Yes.” Black forced a smile. “I have had enough.”
“Good enough, my American friend. We should do most excellent in this venture. You now also have divine protection.”
“Divine protection?”
“Yes. Are you a religious man, I-an?”
“I believe in the religion of money.” Black smirked.
“I see.” Camacho made a steeple with his hands and frowned. “Too bad… but that doesn't matter. Every day I pray to Saint Jesús Malverde. He is the patron saint of drug dealers such as you and me. He has been generous to me… he might even be generous to a gringo such as you.”
“I guess we can use all the help we can get,” Black said, dismissing all of the butcher’s mumbo jumbo superstitions with a wave of his hand. Camacho smiled as a knock sounded at his door. The drug lord adjusted his suit coat and called for the person on the other side to come in. A tall, fit looking Mexican in a white suit almost identical to Bob’s stepped inside, pulling a smaller man along with him.
“I-an, this is Salazar. He is my second-in-command and will be the one you will be working with on a daily basis.”
“Señor Black.” The cartel captain nodded as he held on tightly to the man that he had practically drug inside.
“Salazar,” Black said, more interested in the scared looking man in his grip.
“Ramos.” Camacho motioned for Salazar to let go of the man. The cartel officer released his grip and the man stepped away rubbing at his bruised arm. “Good to see you, my friend.”
“El Jefe.” Ramos smiled weakly. “Have I offended you in some way?”
“You have offended my sense of taste. Ramos, what did I tell you about the tres leches cake?” Camacho said rubbing his hand together as he slowly walked toward the frightened chef.
“I… I u… use too m… much vanilla?” Ramos sputtered, clearly scared out of his mind.
“Si, and did I give you a chance to correct your error?” Camacho stopped a foot away from the shaking Ramos.
“I… I…”
“Answer me.” Camacho casually placed his right hand in his slacks pocket.
“Yes, yes you did.” Ramos voice cracked.
“And did you?”
“I tried El Jefe.” The chef dropped his chin to his chest. “I really tried.”
“You tried and failed. You know what failure gets you, Ramos?”
“Demoted?” Ramos said hopefully, still not meeting Camacho’s gaze.
“Si, demoted. I really love cake, Ramos.” Salazar forcefully drove the terrified chef to his knees. The cartel captain held his left hand down on Ramos’ right shoulder, all the while pulling his head back with his right hand. Black was surprised at how fast Camacho drew the switchblade knife out of his pants pocket and sliced off the unlucky chef’s left ear. Ramos screamed in shock and pain as Salazar let go of his head and shoved him to the floor. The American was clearly impressed at the speed and deadly force the drug lord possessed, and filed that knowledge away for future use.
“Well then,” Camacho wiped his blade on Ramos’s back. “Maybe now you will listen to me with your good ear. Get cleaned up and go back to work. You fuck up my mother’s birthday cake and it will be the tigers for you! You hear me?” he yelled into the bloody ear he held in the palm of his hand.
“Si…Si… El Jefe. I’m sorry… I’m sorry!”
“Grab your ear and get the fuck out of here!” Camacho tossed the lump of flesh onto the floor and kicked the bleeding chef in the ass then turned his attention to Black. “I am a forgiving man—something I did not learn from my mama. Once she beat me black and blue and locked me in a closet for a week with just water. My crime was not chewing my food ten times.” Camacho smiled. “I never made that mistake again. My mother is very strict; loving, but strict. She has made me the man I am.” He leaned over the wounded chef. “See, I show you your mistakes and you will not do it again. Si?”
“Si,” Ramos mumbled as he gathered up his ear from off the floor.
“Now, Nacho has some carnitas and American strippers waiting for us in the dining room. Meat and big ol fake titties. Nothing more American, eh?” He stepped over the sobbing chef and moved over to where Black was standing. “Come, my new friend. Let me show you how good I can be to my allies.”
“Right behind you, Robert.” Black smiled; he now knew he could easily outwit the little drug lord.
JUGGS
3 MONTHS LATER
JUGG’S STRIP CLUB,
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
“Well, that went over like a freaking lead balloon,” Baylie Poller said as she leaned across the sticky, strip club table and shouted above the Mötley Crüe song that blared throughout the dimly lit room. Tommy Leeland and Ricky Chambers huddled around the tiny table top trying not to spill their ten dollar beers. A distracted, almost nude, black woman danced listlessly on the small stage. “You didn’t have to shoot the damn guards.”
“Didn’t have to,” Ricky said in his thick British accent. “But I wanted to.” He gave Baylie an evil smile and took a quick swig from the beer bottle. “Aye, taste like piss.”
“You would know what piss taste like,” Leeland, the bi
ggest of the three, said as he rolled the cold bottle around in his hands and glanced nervously around the club. “Baylie’s right, Ricky, we had the armored car handled. You didn’t have to shoot any of those rent-a-cops.”
“They were going for their guns,” the Brit said, ogling the lethargic stripper.
“Jeff had it handled,” Baylie protested.
“Fuck Jeff!” Chambers growled. “Two quick shots and we’re a hundred thousand dollars richer.”
“Keep it down,” Leeland said sternly. “We don’t need any undue attention. We were lucky to get outta there without drawing any heat.”
“Or any money.” Baylie twirled the swizzle stick around in her drink. The song changed and so did the strippers on the stage. A pregnant Asian female started to straddle the slick pole while Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar On Me played in the background.
“Jeff is good for it.” Leeland nervously looked at his watch. “I wish Tanya would hurry up. We need to get our asses across the border.”
“Hey," Ricky slapped Leeland on the arm. “What’s the difference between a dead stripper and a Cadillac?”
“Not now, Ricky,” Leeland grumbled.
“Come on, Tommy. What’s the difference between a dead stripper and a Cadillac?”
Leeland knew the Brit wouldn’t give up so he just gave Chambers a quick shrug and took a pull from his beer bottle.
“I don’t have a Cadillac in my garage!” Ricky let out a big guffaw and slapped the sticky table with his hands, causing their drinks to spill.
“You suck, Ricky.” Baylie grabbed her drink. “What are we waiting on, Tommy?”
“Tanya’s grabbing her last paycheck before we leave. I told her not to worry about it, but she said she worked too hard to just walk away.”
“I bet…,” Baylie said, watching the pregnant stripper grind away on the stained pole.
“Here’s another one,” Ricky said, pleased with himself. “What does a stripper do with her asshole before work?” He grinned widely. “She drops him off at band practice.”
“I like that one.” Baylie nodded.
“What do you call a….”
“Enough, Ricky. Jeeze. One more crack outta ya and I’m gonna drop your ass off over at the Cockpit. They’d love a little Englishman like you.”
“Hey, mate, just having a bit o’ fun.”
“Yeah.” Leeland glowered. “Keep it to yourself.”
“Here comes Tanya,” Baylie said, swirling the melting ice around in her untouched seven and seven. “Maybe we can get the hell out of here now.”
“Not yet,” Leeland said as he saw the attractive brunette making her way quickly to their table.
The big man could see she was holding the right side of her face. Alarmed, he quickly stood up and stepped over to meet her.
“Tanya, baby, you okay?” he asked; his voice thick with concern.
“Let’s go, Tommy,” she said, waving him away.
“Wait.” He gently grabbed her arm, stopping her in her tracks. A few of the men in the sparsely crowded club looked idly over in their direction. “What happened, baby?”
“Nothing. I’m fine, Tommy,” she said, trying to cover her right cheek with her hand. “Let it go, baby.”
“No.” Leeland shook his head. “What happened?”
Tanya sighed and dropped her hand to her hip, exposing the dark bruise on her cheek. The stripper could see the darkness forming behind Tommy’s brown eyes. Leeland quickly scanned the dimly lit bar. Tanya wiped a tear from her right eye then leaned in closer to Leeland. “I went to ask Ray for my last check and the bastard wouldn't give it to me. He said I didn’t give him enough notice so he took my check. Asshole.” She wiped some more tears. “I wasn’t goin’ let him get away with it so he hit me and told me to get the fuck out.”
“It’s okay, baby.” He gave her a hug then waved Baylie over. “Get out to the car. Take Tanya with you. Ricky and I will be right out,” he said calmly.
Baylie nodded as she put her arm around Tanya and started to escort her toward the door. The now former ‘exotic dancer’ looked over her shoulder at Leeland. Tanya could see both men making a beeline for Ray Adams’ office. Part of her wanted Tommy to hurt him real bad and part of her wanted him to just turn around and get in the car with her.
“What the fuck, mate?” Ricky asked as he followed the big man to the rear of the club.
“Asshole’s gonna pay,” Leeland said as he stopped in front of a cheap wooden door marked Manager.
“Oi,” Ricky said, starting to get excited. He reached into the waistband of his slacks and pulled out the snub nose .38.
“Wait,” Tommy said as he knocked casually on the door.
“Yuh?” The door opened a third of the way and a bald headed bouncer peeked out. His eyes grew wide when he saw Leeland. Tommy quickly rammed the door opened with his shoulder, driving baldy into the wall. Leeland pulled the door back then again slammed it into the unprepared bodyguard. The man hit the ground face first as Leeland rushed inside, followed by Ricky.
“What the fuck?” A heavy man sat behind a plywood desk reading a muscle and fitness magazine. He immediately tossed the magazine to the side and tried to get to his feet. Leeland punched him in the throat before he could make it out of his chair. The man let out a gurgle then fell hard to the floor grabbing his throat.
“Shut the door!” Tommy yelled back to Ricky.
“No worries.” Chambers closed the door then kicked the bouncer hard in the face, knocking him unconscious.
“Listen, you fuck.” Leeland knelt down next to the gasping man’s face. “I guess your daddy never taught you not to hit women, Ray. My stepfather used to beat my momma… until I stabbed his ass real good one day. Did two years in juvie for that but it was worth it. He never hit her again. I think guys that beat women do it because they have tiny dicks. What you think, Ray?” He patted the strip club manager on the cheek. “You owe my lady her money, right?” Ray Adams just stared at him and gurgled. “Ray? Answer me, buddy.”
Unable to speak, Adams slowly nodded. Leeland suddenly smelled urine and he looked down to see the manager had pissed himself. Tommy sighed then stood up and glanced over at Chambers, who was going through the drooling bouncers pockets.
“I was going to grab your wallet but, lucky you, seems you pissed all over it. Real nasty, Ray.” He started pulling out the drawers in Adams’ desk until he found what he was looking for. A small strong box had been hidden in the lower drawer. Leeland dropped the cash box on top of the desk and looked back down at Adams. The strip club manager was now wheezing and rolling around in his own urine. “Don’t suppose you didn’t piss all over your keys too did you, Ray?” The man just wheezed and clutched his throat. “Can’t make it easy, can you?” He lifted the box up and smashed it on the desk top until the lid broke off. “Don’t make ‘em like they used to.” He yanked the broken lid off and tossed it at Ray, striking him in the face. “Sorry about that. How much cash you got here?” Leeland grabbed up the rolls of hundreds that were scattered across the desk. “Looks like about five grand.”
“Cheers, mate.” Chambers smiled as he stepped over to Leeland and shoved the bouncer’s wallet in his suit jacket pocket. “What do we have here?”
“Gas money.” Leeland chuckled and tossed Chambers several rolls.
“Nice,” Ricky said, jamming the money rolls into any pocket he could find.
“Well, Ray,”—Tommy grabbed up the last roll and waved it in Adam's face before he placed it in his back pocket—“you should have paid my girl and kept your slimy claws off her.”
“Fu… fuck you, Tommy,” Adams said, finally catching his breath.
“No, Ray.” Leeland drew the .38 out of jean shorts waistband and jammed it into Adams’ mouth. “Fuck you.”
Tommy pulled the trigger and the back of the strip club manager’s head exploded.
“My turn.” Ricky giggled and shot the unconscious bouncer several times in the head with his
.38.
“Enough.” Leeland grabbed Chambers by the forearm. “Time to split. We can make it to the border before anyone notices these fucks are dead meat.”
“Busy day.” Ricky shoved the warm pistol back into his waistband. He pulled the door open and peered out. “We’re clear, mate.”
“Let’s go.” He and Ricky quickly left the establishment as Sympathy for the Devil trailed them ominously from the club's speakers.
BOX OF SLUGS
TRIPLER ARMY MEDICAL CENTER
HONOLULU, HAWAII
Morgan finished brushing his teeth and set the toothbrush on top of the sink. Staring into the bathroom mirror, he saw his reflection was a shaggy mess. Eventually he’d have to shave, but right now it felt good not to. He splashed some cool water across his face and ran a hand over the freshly grown goatee. The sergeant felt and looked more like a civilian then he did before he’d enlisted. The three months of rehabilitation and rest was a nice break from the patrols, shitty Camp Hansen food, and cold showers. He was in Hawaii so he’d been able to get out and enjoy life a little bit and work on getting a tan. Morgan turned off the sink tap then grabbed a towel and dried himself. The sergeant grabbed a Forty-Niners jersey off a hook on the bathroom door and pulled it on. Dressed in the jersey and running shorts, Morgan pushed open the bathroom door and almost walked smack dab into an older man in a black suit. The sergeant stepped back and just missed hitting the bathroom door with his shoulder.
“Careful there, Sergeant,” the man said.
“Startled me for a second,” Morgan said tensely. “Can I help you?” The soldier recognized the man had an obvious air of authority and military bearing about him.
“Sergeant Linwood Morgan?” the sandy-haired man asked.
“You’re not some kind of process server, are you? My ex -wife didn’t send you, did she? I think she’s got everything in the divorce but my cock. Just like when we were married.” The sergeant closed the bathroom door behind him.
Operation Zulu: Dos Page 3