Danger Beyond Intrigue: Volume One

by H. L. Valdez

  “Information exchange is key in this business,” the Chief noted. “Write up your field report as an Informational Overview of Regional Narcotics Activities.”

  "I’ll send you a copy,” Marco suggested, staring at the Chief as the phone rang again. “I think it's time for me to leave," he said, as Wikens rose to answer the telephone.

  "Okay Mr. Madrid,” replied the Chief standing, extending his arm to shake hands. “Write the report. It’s an audit trail.”

  "Chief!" Wikens interrupted, covering the phone with his hand, and holding the receiver over his head.

  "Nice talking to you Mr. Madrid," the Chief said, walking around the desk.

  “Thanks for your time,” Marco suggested, walking away from the window and suddenly noticing old pictures obscured by plants.

  “I’ll show you to the door,” Wikens said discreetly.

  "By the way, I couldn't help noticing the memorabilia corner," Marco said with an interested smile, wandering to the private corner.

  "Yes, but...I'm sure those old photos are way before your time," the Gurkha leader replied, trying to steer Marco away from the photographs.

  "Who's this?" Marco asked, picking up a small gold-framed photo.

  "That's the Chief," Mr. Wikens snickered, turning to assess what the Chief was doing.

  "No gray hair or weight problem in this picture," Marco whispered.

  "Nature can be cruel, can't it?" Wikins snipped, glancing at the Chief as Marco set the picture beside other worn frames. Unexpectedly, his stomach became queasy, wrenching in a knot. His throat became tight. Swallowing, then coughing to mask his feelings, he picked up an old photograph of his father; the same photograph as in his Uncle’s bedroom.

  "Who are these people Mr. Wikens?" He asked quietly.

  “Maybe some International Treaty Cooperative Alliance, I don't know. They're before my time," he answered, extending his arm toward the door.

  "I see," Marco replied. “Goodbye Dad. Goodbye Mr. Moriguchi," he whispered, setting the photo down. Walking to the door was like leaving his father behind.

  "What did you say?" The Gurkha asked, walking in front of him glancing at the Chief, absorbed in conversation."

  “I said maybe we’d see each other again," as the tightness in his stomach wrenched in response to a reality that he couldn’t deny. A reality his heart couldn’t let go.

  "Nice meeting you Mr. Madrid," the polite Gurkha Officer said, extending his hand in a gesture of cooperation and good will. "You have a tough job. Maybe I can provide information. I’ll help if I can. Stay in touch."

  "Thanks Captain. I'm sure we'll meet again," Marco said, then looked over at the Chief and nodded goodbye. The Chief, still on the telephone, winked good-bye staring at Marco. Marco looked into the chief's eyes observing his curious stare. The Chief stared down at the carpeted floor and began recalling a night in December 1949.

  "You don't belong in Hong Kong," Detective Larry Liang screamed to Special Agent Louis Madrid and Detective Moriguchi as they sat handcuffed to wooden chairs. “You’re the problem!”

  “You’re a dirty cop and Triad member!” Detective Madrid shouted.

  “You’re a sell out and a traitor!” Detective Moriguchi accused.

  “You’re both in the way. You're obstacles to my progress," Liang shouted, fiercely striking them with a thick hard rubber hose while circling the chairs. Both policemen had been in the chairs for two days and were saturated in sweat and bodily waste. Triad guards took turns pouring cold water over the delirious men as they sat agonizing.

  “Tell me what you know!” Detective Liang yelled, punching their bloodied, discolored faces, a blend of black, blue, red, and yellow hues. “Who is your informant in Hong Kong?” He yelled, pushing them over onto the concrete floor and forcing them to kneel.

  “You get nothing from us!” Moriguchi shouted, spitting blood at Liang.

  “You maggot!’ shouted Liang, then began beating him with the thicker rubber hose.

  “Leave him alone you asshole!” Detective Madrid shouted.

  “I’ll teach you!” Liang yelled, whipping Madrid mercilessly.

  “You ain’t no cop, you’re a hood,” Madrid garbled.

  “Who did you meet in Hong Kong?” Liang shouted angrily.

  “I was humping your mother in a whore house,” Detective Moriguchi replied, smiling faintly behind his swollen and bleeding face.

  “You piece of shit!” Liang shouted, drawing his .38, shooting Detective Moriguchi in the left thigh.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” Moriguchi grimaced in pain, squirming on the floor.

  “You’ll pay for that, you prick,” Detective Madrid promised.

  “You refuse to talk? You’ll pay for that too!” Liang yelled uncontrollably, shaking his pistol.

  “I’ll come back from the dead for you!” Madrid shouted.

  “Put them in burlap bags; you know what to do,” Liang ordered as the Triad members began stuffing them inside thick brown bags, and started beating them with bamboo sticks until their front teeth fell out.

  "You don't gain a thing by killing us," Detective Madrid shouted with his final breath.

  "Chinese! Your time to die is coming!" Detective Moriguchi screamed, "I curse your souls to an agonizing death!" he screamed. Larry Liang stared at the burlap sacks with ambitious indifference, shooting each detective then gesturing to the Triad members to continue shooting.

  Returning to the present, the Chief watched Marco leave the room, feeling haunted by his presence. A nightmare had returned he believed, watching the door close behind Detective Madrid, recalling the night he killed the detectives. An eerie uneasy feeling invaded his soul. The central karmic rod anchoring his connection to life forces was about to dissolve. Chief Liang was witnessing the beginning of his end, the unfolding and ending of his life. A karmic debt was about to be settled.

  "Thanks again," Marco said shaking hands with Capt. Wikens. The Gurkha had a large rope burn scar crossing the palm of his hand and his rough muscular hands and calloused fingers were strengthened from years of karate training. Looking at each other with respect of the other's zeal toward justice, Marco loosened his grip then turned, walking away in silence. Walking past the elevator, breathing deep in sadness, he bolted through the exit door, and began walking down to the first floor deep in sorrow. Emotionally depleted, each step was more difficult than the last. Trembling, a sense of grief surrounded him thinking of the picture. Each step created a supernatural sense of unconscious familiarity. With eyes welling, Marco felt alone and empty.

  "Come on; gain your composure,” he mumbled. “Put this behind you. Just get to the airport and leave. Prepare for the Japan training. Stay focused,” he encouraged himself walking down the stairs, while sighing and taking deep breaths, aware that he had stumbled upon a historical clue to his father's death.

  “Just step on the stone as it appears,” he garbled, psyching himself up, then kicked the exit door open entering a bustling, noisy, chaotic street cluttered with people, neon lights, double-decker busses, cars, taxis, and food vendors. Walking past brightly lit jewelry stores, shotgun and machine gun wielding security guards scrutinized him. Gripping and cocking their weapons, they watched Marco wiping tears from his face, whispering affirmations from deep within his soul.

  “I will not rest until I know the truth,” he shouted with clenched fists punching the night sky, while standing in front of a traditional Chinese herbal pharmacy. Leaning against the window, he gawked at dried snakes, seahorses, animal by-products, snake parts, and rhinoceros horns. Bending over, anxiety vomiting was overcoming him while anxious jewelry store security guards stared at him, as he began zigzagging back to a jewelry store. Feeling queasy, he turned around and began shuffling awkwardly back to the pharmacy. Leaning against the window staring at a large jar with a pig fetus soaking in formaldehyde, he began dry heaving.

  “I need a hug,” he garbled, turning to the guards, staggering toward the jewelry stores, wiping vomit
particles from his jacket as he walked.

  “Peace, you asshole!” a chiseled faced angry guard shouted, as Marco approached.

  “Keep moving butt-head!” yelled another agitated guard, handing his weapon to a chubby guard, while cautiously moving toward Marco, watching him vomit on himself.

  “You drunken bum. I’m coming after you!” Another muscular guard shouted, handing his weapon to the same cherubic guard, then began adjusting his black gloves.

  “You gotta clean that shit up!” A hefty built guard yelled, handing his weapon to the same stocky guard.

  “Eat that vomit! Take it back!” Another rugged guard ordered, handing his weapon to the same rotund guard, cautiously approaching Marco.

  “Stay alert! He could be a decoy for a holdup!” The plump guard yelled. “Just move him out of the way! He’s a nut case! He needs a shrink! I’ll call the nut house!” The out of shape guard shouted, his arms laden with weapons.

  “Call an ambulance for this asshole!” A well-conditioned guard ordered.

  “Have you had a hug today?” Marco asked the fast approaching guards.

  “Fuck you!” A guard replied, taking a swing at Marco.

  The Hotel

  30 June 1964. Los Angeles, California. On the radio, news accounts about the Vietnam War escalating are being broadcast with body-count figures. President Johnson is calling for an end to poverty and racial discrimination. Count Basie is performing at the Hollywood Bowl. Frank Zappa is introducing jazz into rock with the Mothers of Invention at the Los Angeles Music Center for the Performing Arts. Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte is playing in West Hollywood theaters. Dave Brubeck is making an exclusive one-night appearance at the Beverly Hills Hotel in the Polo Lounge. Sasha Nakamura and Nick Nogales are preparing to attend the performance in the plush outdoor patio garden while staying in the $4,300 a night Presidential Suite, one of twenty-one private and secluded bungalows. Amid twelve acres of lush sub-tropical landscaping, the mission style hotel gave Sasha and Nick the seclusion their souls needed for emotional and sexual replenishment. Both had long-term careers in criminal and sexual variance. For them, reducing stress was important. During the week, they shared a shaped pattern of sexual arousal that retreated into sexual fulfillment and heated sexual activity. Both wanted their lust to last, but their final moments were here. Sasha was returning to Asia to meet Gina Leung, the main recruiter and enforcer for the Leung Triad family, one of the largest Chinese syndicates in Hong Kong.

  From poppy cultivation in the Golden Triangle to the final sale of heroin in the street, Sasha had risen from courier, and shortly would be initiated into the inner circle and elevated to the rank of Kobun, one step below boss. She worked for the Oyabun, or boss, of the Yamaguchi-gumi, who in turn oversaw the Inagawa-kai and Sumiyoshi-Rengo-kai, and together formed the three largest crime syndicates in Japan known as the Three Designated Groups. Her crime syndicate in Japan had over 730 affiliated groups and 20,000 members. She represented a massive production, distribution and sales effort carried out over thousands of miles using people in different countries. She managed organizations and the expertise of hundreds of specialists in all aspects of drug trafficking. In Asia, Sasha had established refueling points for smugglers; she knew all the safe havens, the transshipment points, stopovers, and staging areas for heroin. Let it Be Me, by Betty Everett and Jerry Butler was playing on the radio as Sasha stepped out of the Jacuzzi. Adjusting her thick terry cloth bathrobe, her eyes dilated, and the veins in her neck were throbbing. Beads of sweat gathered on her forehead as she ambled past the marble and granite fireplace, while drying herself. Leaning on the piano, she poked her index finger into a mound of pure white crystalline cocaine, and then began licking the alkaloid off her finger.

  “You gonna share that?” Nick asked

  “Ain’t enough to share.”

  “Let me judge that.”

  “Sounds dangerous,” she replied, walking toward the canopied bed.

  “I like it that way.”

  “We’ll see,” she answered, tilting her head, easing onto the bed, kissing her long-time boyfriend. Lying on the bed, she surrendered to his desire as he enjoyed his liberties with her. Nick possessed an amazing vitality and was sexually obsessed with Sasha. He was lean, handsome, and smart. His family ruled an underworld drug cartel in Mexico, controlling thousands of acres of sinsemillan plants, coca, and poppy farms. Stimulated to chills, Nick rolled his moist finger on a cocaine filled plate sitting on the night stand, then rubbed the inside of his mouth with the narcotic returning her French kiss, spreading the deadly habit-forming white crystals inside her mouth.

  “Let’s take a mini-break,” she suggested, adjusting her bathrobe, staring at Nick’s naked slender torso while he began combing his hair. In the sound proofed candle lit room, Sasha started brushing her hair, and adjusting herself on silk throw pillows.

  “So, what will you do first when you arrive in Japan?” He asked, pulling up his underwear, avoiding eye contact.

  “I need to carry out Orei-mairi; it’s a call of revenge by Japanese gangsters on a person to settle old scores.”

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  “I like it that way,” she answered, brushing her hair.

  “What happened?” He asked, snooping into her business.

  “Stealing. I hate thieves. Someone stole heroin from me. Also, I need to regulate and realign fractionalized elements in the subordinate groups,” she said, setting the Fuller brush down, and opening a bottle of ruby red nail polish.

  “Sounds like you’re closing ranks.” He answered, nodding.

  “I have to stay paranoid. With global drug realignments going on and untrustworthy alliances, surviving becomes the real acid test. What about you? What will you do?”

  “I’ll be testing some potent pure black tar heroin. It’s crudely processed and inexpensive. One pound of black tar could earn us $500,000.”

  “Not bad, not bad. Any other lab developments?”

  “I’m trying to convince my family to accept synthetic heroin…or Fentanyl,” he replied, putting on his socks. “It’s eighty times more powerful than morphine.”

  “Why?” she asked, re-touching certain nails.

  “Fentanyl could bypass the restrictions of the controlled substance law. If a pharmaceutical narcotic of natural origin could be modified into an analog opiate form, then mass-produced, it could be sold in volume at higher prices, distributed easier, and pass through customs unrestrained.”

  “You’re half-right,” she said, with polite verbal opposition, blowing on a wet nail.

  “How about you?” he asked, guardedly.

  “Next month, we’ll start distributing the euphoric and addictive crystal amphetamine, or ice, in Los Angeles,” she said, focusing on accurately painting a nail.

  “Wow, that’s big,” he pondered, putting on his trousers, with a sullen look.

  “I’m into pleasure.” She replied, sensing an air of jealousy.

  “My family is also trying to make new alliances. We need to gain entry into the Japanese drug market, but we’re having difficulty penetrating the rigid pyramidal structure of Japanese organized crime.”

  “Wonder why?”

  “You know why,” he said, putting on a white shirt.

  “I still have to reaffirm my alliances with the Chinese crime group, the 14-K, and the Bamboo Gang who are using the Philippines as a way station for smuggling heroin from Laos and Thailand,” she said, carefully applying polish to a nail, glancing up.

  “Can you help us crack the market?” he asked in a shaky voice, clearing his throat.

  "I love you, Nick. Keep it simple," she whispered, blowing the nail. “No.”

  "Then return safely to me," he answered with a fake smile, leaning over, kissing her cheek.

  "We'll always be together," she said, her head titled, evaluating Nick and tightening the bottle cap.

  "I'll always be yours," he said guarded, as his body raced with sexual energy. Sasha fe
lt secure in Nick's presence, hazily dreaming of their future. His worries soared with the unknown and unpredictable outcomes of her trip as he stood buttoning his starched shirt. However, this time it would be different: it had special meaning…it was a steppingstone to higher organizational responsibility. He knew that Japanese bosses formed a quasi-blood relationship, and the bosses of subordinate groups became the bosses of the upper groups. All funds flowed from subordinate to superior.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked, pouring red wine into a crystal glass.

  “Stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?” she asked, sniffing the wine.

  “I know you’ll be providing forty-percent of the Western United States with heroin. I just wanted to wiggle in somehow,” he mentioned again, then gulped tequila from the bottle.

  “Nick, years ago my father and his best friend paved the way for my success by establishing ties between Hong Kong drug traffickers, money-launderers, and sources of heroin in Thailand. This is a family business,” she stated, sipping her wine.

  “I mean, I just feel left out. Large numbers of heroin trafficking ventures throughout the world are being financed and controlled from Hong Kong. It’s the financial center for Southeast Asia's drug trafficking,” he said, taking a swig of tequila from the bottle.

  “Nick, I’m looking forward to being a key player in the worldwide expansion of illicit narcotics. I’m filled with happiness and hope…my vision is within reach. I paid my dues. The men respect me. The Oyabun groomed me. But now, performance has to exceed bloodlines, friendship…even love.”

  "I was hoping we could do business," he suggested, knowing that Sasha did not make careless errors or take unnecessary risks. She was aware of the advantages of insulating her boss from those who carried out the risk-taking activities involved in their business.

  "No business tonight," she said. "Just love each other. Tonight is for making love," she crooned, keeping her loyalties divided. She loved Nick, but her home and office was Tokyo, Japan.

  "What else are you thinking?”

  "Missing you. This is our last night together for a while," he whispered.