by H. L. Valdez
“How do you like being black-mailed?” Mimo chuckled.
“Don’t get wise, bubble eyes,” Rita warned, as the drugs in her system was causing the neurotransmitters in her brain to release excessive amounts of dopamine, creating a euphoric state.
“Corn bread face is more like it,” Justin chuckled, smiling at Rita.
“All right, at ease, slow things down,” the Admiral interrupted, holding his smoldering pipe, walking to the head of the table, sensing the group’s emotional gravity. Mimo gazed down at Spanky as he growled, returning his stare.
“Globally we are paralyzed by disagreement. Truth has no path, no tomorrow," the Admiral said, looking at the group, attempting to meet their psychological safety needs. "Your task is not rewarding. Your reward must be found in the process of doing your work. I won’t lie; we have an incomplete identification of the issues. You could fall into a cycle in which tension and violence escalate quickly,” he said honestly, returning the empty stares of the group. “The problem is the answer. Understanding the problem dissolves the problem. There’s no easy answer to complex issues. The current situation is charged with emotional content and tension. You must do your best,” he encouraged with strategic insight, then pointed to Danny.
“Thank you Admiral,” Danny said earnestly, standing before the group. “Listen folks, we need to work as a team. International law enforcement efforts have resulted in 800 Mafioso being arrested. This is an irreplaceable loss in leadership. As a result, a major feud has broken out. Recently, eighteen major Mafioso and minor soldiers were murdered. American mafia’s twenty-four regional groups are under reorganization. This means Chinese syndicates in Hong Kong and Corsican groups in Marseille, France, and Indochina now play a key role in the importation of America's heroin supply."
“I only hope we're making a mistake in the right direction,” Rita suggested, sipping coffee, reflecting on the moment. “So, after this assignment, I’m free to go, no legal stuff around my neck? And I walk away, right?” Rita questioned.
“Just play ball. And winner takes all?” Justin sniffed.
“That’s right. You both will have a new start," Danny assured them.
“What’s the time limit?” Justin asked curiously, looking at Rita, then Danny.
“Between eighteen and twenty-four months.”
“What’s the primary mission?” Justin asked.
“Catch the bad guys.” Danny answered.
“So, after eighteen months, I’m free?” Rita asked.
"You’re locked in. But, don’t be surprised if your tour is extended past your rotation dates,” Velvet stated, looking at her intensely.
“Oh, okay, I won’t be surprised.” Rita replied sarcastically, as her brain was releasing high doses of adrenaline as her anxiety increased, and her focus intensified. She began tweaking exhibiting hyperactive behavior, as her hands became fidgety, she began scratching her arms, and tapping her feet.
“Who’s this gal?” Justin whispered, looking to Velvet.
“She’s the devil’s daughter,” Rita whispered, tapping the desk with both hands, and tapping her feet.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” Justin balked. “I couldn’t figure it out.”
“Any questions or comments?” Velvet asked, staring at Justin.
“How are we going to find the unifying organization for these groups, and their decision makers?” Justin asked smirking, then turned to Rita, winking at her.
“We start with the splinter groups. They are largely undisciplined and have limited funds and leadership,” Danny suggested, putting on his reading glasses.
“But the groups also act as a support network, and they have hundreds of soldiers and couriers constantly working the streets,” Butch added.
“You need an inform-and-perform approach, a balance of cognitive and physical stimulation,” Danny concluded rationally, as Mimo stared at him, chewing a sandwich.
“I never heard of that before,” Justin grumbled, shaking his head.
“I’m a Marine, not a cop," Primo stated flatly. "I don’t like this idea -- too many loose ends. It sounds too unwieldy,” he voiced, sipping his scotch.
“Too many uncontrollable variables for you?” Mimo asked, making the quote signs with his finger.
“The only thing standing between you and me is fear and common sense,” Primo replied, staring hard at Mimo.
“Here’s the X,” Mimo replied, crossing his chest with his finger. “Jump when you’re ready.”
“Who is this Jiffy Pop mother fffuc…?” Rita mumbled to Justin, in her hyper active state.
“Knock it off!” the Admiral ordered abruptly, cutting Rita off, as Mimo and Primo glared at each other in a macho standoff.
“OK, let’s refocus,” Danny suggested seriously, rising from his chair and walking to the wall map. “Opium, morphine, and heroin are being smuggled across international frontiers. Last year, 800 tons of raw opium was harvested in the Golden Triangle,” he stated frowning, circling the area with his finger. “Armed ethnic tribes have been growing opium for hundreds of years. Recently, a raw kilogram of heroin was selling for $50.00. Now, prices are $600.00 a raw kilogram. Which means ten kilograms of raw opium when refined into one kilogram of pure heroin is worth more than $1 million when diluted with other substances.”
“Everyone has to eat. Live and let live,” Rita blurted with indifference, shrugging her shoulders.
“Hunger knows no morality," Velvet answered, looking intensely at Rita. "Sometimes its justified violence. But terrorism is the enemy of all people," she said firmly.
“The streets never stop talking," Justin responded adamantly. "How long do you think we’ll last out there?"
“If you can’t do the job, maybe you should go somewhere safe,” Mimo replied with a clenched fist, revealing several warts on his knuckles. Justin stared into Mimo’s brown eyes and in what seemed an eternity.
“You beaner asshole,” Justin remarked.
“You can write home and tell your mother a beaner kicked your ass.” He replied, stroking his thick mustache.
“I said knock it off. Secure that language, Commander Fortune,” Admiral Starr ordered.
“Who is this guy?” Justin whispered to Rita.
“He’s da boogie man,” she whispered, making the quote sign with her fingers. “I’ve got a gun if you need it.”
“Knock it off,” Butch warned. “We need order and discipline to survive here.”
“Listen guys,” Velvet said firmly, as everyone began readjusting their attitudes, squirming in their seats. “South Vietnam, Thailand, and Japan are the major transshipment points for Golden Triangle narcotics heading for Europe and America. Members of South Vietnam's government may be in the top zone of a four-tiered heroin-pushing pyramid. Currently, a fairly disciplined power struggle among Vietnamese bureaucrats is underway.”
"This is bullshit," Rita blurted disrespectfully, tweaking, removing her aviator glasses, leaning back in her seat, and folding her arms. “Uggh.”
"This mission kicks a knot in my ass, I don't like this crap," Justin said angrily, shaking his head in disgust. “Fricking Government; I’m a pilot.”
“At ease, you two,” the Admiral warned angrily, and then started whispering to the Commands Master Chief who began taking notes, and shaking his head.
“This is unsat for me," Primo said infuriated, sipping his scotch.
"I didn't expect folks to like the assignment," Danny quipped, removing his glasses. "I understand your resistance, but American diplomats, senior military advisors, and secret agents have been involved in narcotics trafficking at different levels in different countries. This means a wide involvement in complicity, condoning drug involvement, transporting opium and heroin. Besides, the President has signed an Executive Order to fight transnational criminal groups." Danny said, pausing to study the group’s somber faces. “There is no easy way. What’s your reaction, Butch?”
“Like you said, there is no easy way.
But, we’re breaking new ground here. We’re developing a new strategy to fight international underworld narcotic smuggling cartels. A major problem for us is that Japan has liberalized the legal restrictions on foreign currency. We’re not only chasing criminals, but their funds as well,” Butch said, leaning back in his chair. “Japanese organized crime groups live by their wits. They are corrupt and callous. They are soldiers of fortune, well disciplined, and have strict rules,” he said with fierce conviction, as the group observed his emotional sway, listening intently, trying to put a layer of understanding on top of their gut feelings. Butch looked down for a moment as Danny watched the psychological gravity of the group shift as they tried to collectively adjust, and find their new equilibrium. Admiral Starr stood up, puffing his pipe, deep in thought.
“Anything else?” Rita asked, putting on her aviator glasses with her eyes dilating, and floating in an altered state of consciousness. “Besides being involuntary extended?” she said, dejected with her new station in life. “I was going into private practice in Hollywood,” she added, glum faced.
“The ripple effect of this operation could affect your grandchildren,” the Admiral stated somberly, while walking around the table, puffing on his pipe. “What we expect from you is knowledge, comprehension, application, analysis, synthesis, and evaluation. The United States is in a deep emotional depression. We’re not here to debate if we are to cooperate in reinforcing stability in the world," he said looking at each participant, with twenty-one colorful campaign ribbons, a special warfare badge (SEAL Badge) and gold pilot wings accentuating his crisp uniform.
“But sir, who are we? What are we?” Primo interrupted.
“You are the Emergency Crisis Response Team. Adjust to that fact. Accept it. Embrace it. Be it,” he encouraged them, stopping at the head of the table. Drawing on his pipe, he paused, staring at them with poised leadership.
“If I may sir, with all due respect. I’m concerned about the team’s composition,” Primo stated.
“You're not here by default or chance. I know everyone will have a great breadth of success and achievement,” the Admiral stated confidently. “We all have a lot to ponder. Let’s take a break,” he stated, turning to leave the room with the Commands Master Chief. The group sat motionless, clarifying their feelings and opinions from fact. Trying to separate what was real from what was imagined while digesting the psychodynamics of their impending mission.
“Take a break,” the Admiral suggested, turning around attentively surveying the group as they sat motionless. “Eat something! Get up and move around.” He ordered the pensive team, and then entered the busy passageway.
“Get up and move around,” Rita snickered.
“I’d like to get up and kick Mimo’s ass,” Justin mumbled, staring at him.
“You hold him, and I’ll pistol-whip em’,” she said, as they laughed. Mimo, sipping coffee, stared indignantly at the group, then began making notes on the back of the handouts. Velvet gathered her documents while scrutinizing the mood of the team. Butch smiled and patted Spanky as the prey oriented, sesame colored dog with a strong hunting drive, then began sniffing around the cabin.
“Penny for your thoughts, Danny.” Primo suggested sipping his scotch, as Danny stood in silent contemplation cutting the edge of his cigar, preparing to smoke.
“Bring your drink outside. Let’s talk on the fantail while I enjoy my cigar.” Danny suggested, as Butch looked over at Velvet, wondering if he should start talking with her.
San Diego, California
7 July 1964. San Diego, California. In a small run down restaurant in Logan Heights, the Mexican district of San Diego, Nick Nogales, the main money launderer for the Nogales family, sat in a worn wooden booth across from Armondo Monterey, his trusted enforcer and bodyguard. Armondo sat with a blank expression, running his fingers over several initials carved into the tattered wooden table. Armondo, a dark-skinned taciturn man, with long black hair combed back into a D.A., puffed on a Chesterfield cigarette, then stared at Nick.
“Que paso, amigo?” Nick asked, forking through his breakfast of chorizo, eggs, beans, rice, and flour tortillas. Mondo sat pensively staring at Nick. From the kitchen portal window, the wrinkle-faced, gray haired, overweight cook was peering at her only customers while cooking tortillas and beans. Steadily chewing his chorizo and eggs, Nick watched Mondo inhaling the strong aromatic scent of fresh beans being pan cooked in lard and bacon grease.
"This meeting is important for our future, Nick."
"Maybe," he answered, tearing a warm tortilla in half, then into quarters.
"What's your plan?" Armondo asked, tapping cocaine into his strong Mexican coffee from a small glass vial.
"I don't know," he answered, chewing his food.
"These Colombians need a pipeline to Asia and we're it," Armondo suggested, carefully tapping 25mg of cocaine into his coffee. "They need us," Armondo insisted, stirring the coffee then licking the spoon.
"Traffickers seek alliances," Nick answered, raising a bottle of Corona beer to his lips. "But, they don't need us," he said, turning up his lip, shaking his head no. "The Colombians are successful business people. Now they're shifting from marijuana to cocaine at a fast pace," he said, pointing the beer bottle at Mondo, then guzzled the mild beer as Tu Solo Tu played over the radio. Both men were silent. Armondo sipped his spiked coffee, and then inhaled deeply on his unfiltered cigarette then exhaled looking up at a calendar of a matador holding a red cape in front of an angry bull. Nick added more chili sauce and peppers to his eggs.
"Well there you go," Armondo said, slapping the table's edge with two fingers as the old woman suspiciously peered at the two dangerous men, adjusting her hair net. She knew who they were, and what they represented.
“I don’t understand,” Nick countered, spreading butter on the warm tortilla.
"The Colombians will need different production and transportation requirements," Armondo stated, sipping his powerful coffee. Setting his cup down, he inhaled deeply on his cigarette. Both men were silent as Nick spooned chili sauce over his eggs. Sipping his coffee, Armondo rested his spoon within a deeply carved set of LMV initials on the table, and then continued sipping his coffee. As his heart rate and blood pressure increased, Armando’s opiate receptor sites deep within his brain were rapidly releasing and depleting dopamine molecules. Exhaling the excess smoke from his lungs, his muscles tensed as his veins constricted in response to the nicotine. The cocaine was blocking the reabsorption of the dopamine molecules in his brain and disrupting the balance of his central nervous system while the nicotine was increasing the dopamine levels in his brain. With a new sense of heightened concentration, confidence, increased euphoria, and a sense of pleasure, Armondo looked up at Nick, with an illegal smile.
"And that's where we come in," Armondo said, confidently, looking up at Jesus Christ hanging from a wooden cross on the wall, while making the sign of the cross.
"Cocaine stabilizes cash flow," Nick answered, wrapping torn slices of tortilla around the chili soaked eggs. "Twenty kilos can easily earn a million, but with the Colombians, the best we can hope for is a transitory marriage -- a compromise, sort of."
"It's time for an agreement," Armondo proclaimed, as his muscles tensed and his brain rapidly metabolized dopamine, excreting it before it could be recycled naturally. "A feud has broken out with the La Cosa Nostra. The families are changing," he said, finishing his coffee. Puffing on his cigarette, his physiological responses and acuity were shifting as the reward pathways in his brain were creating a false sense of encouragement and confidence; life's problems seemed to disappear, as his blood pressure increased. Tilting the cup, Mondo swiped the inside with his finger sweeping up remaining cocaine particles, and then licked his finger while mild coronary artery spasms were occurring, weakening his heart.
"No agreements. I don't think so," Nick said, turning to see if anyone was listening. His dark eyes met the old woman's brown eyes. "Come on, let's go. It's 6:3
0 already," he said, looking at his watch, and stuffing his mouth with eggs. Standing, he threw a hundred-dollar bill on the table. Armondo threw down twenty dollars, then snuffed out his cigarette in the silver metal ashtray.
"Mondo, you shouldn’t be taking that stuff. You're a businessman, not a junkie," he said, as eggs and tortilla bits flew out of his mouth.
"Hey, it’s me. I'm cool with it," he replied, quickly walking in front of Nick and holding up his hand for him to stop. Confidently, Armondo performed a security check, cautiously nudging the wooden screen door open with the pointed tip of his brown shiny shoe. Stopping in the doorway and checking the street, he wiped his sunglasses with the edge of his brown shirt. Being erratic and ill natured made Armondo helpful yet dangerous. His unpredictability made him a lethal weapon. Opening the screen door while putting on his sunglasses, Armondo pulled a revolver from his back holster, and surveyed the street while motioning with his pistol for Nick to move forward.
"Muchas gracias vieja!" Nick shouted to the cook, passing the battered wooden picnic tables in the center of the beaten down restaurant with cracked concrete floors.
"Por nada," the old lady shouted, stirring the beans, and avoiding his eyes. Nick departed cautiously, and then vigilantly scrutinized the street before opening the door of the British racing green Austin Healey 3000 two-door roadster with wire wheels.
"Start early, always start early," Nick suggested, easing into the thick padded black leather seat of the rugged two-seater sports car. Armondo started the 150 horsepower engine with twin SU carburetors with a vibrating whoosh as Nick put on a San Diego Padres baseball cap, then opened the walnut veneer glove compartment, pulling out a snub nosed .44 special pistol with walnut grips, a gift from Sasha.
“So tell me, what else do the Colombians want?” Armondo asked, adjusting his seat belt.
“The Colombians want to export heroin,” Nick said, opening the chamber of the revolver and checking the five rounds. "But our family will open Japan's cocaine and heroin market from the West, not the Colombians," he stated confidently, snapping the cylinder shut. "Let's move," he ordered, as they rumbled off in a roar in the cool morning, under cloudy skies. The powerful Healey reverberated through the "Heights," through downtown, Harbor Drive, Point Loma, then finally to the beach route starting from Sunset Cliffs. With the top down, Nick watched surfers ride the high tides of early morning as Armondo inhaled the clean ocean breeze. Both men were snapping their fingers listening to Heat Wave blaring on the radio sung by Martha and the Vandellas, as they rode through Ocean Beach, Mission Beach, Pacific Beach, and Bird Rock on their way to La Jolla Shores.