by H. L. Valdez
"By the way, one of my guys told me that Colombians used Mexicans to smuggle cocaine across the border," Armondo informed him.
"The competition is going to be tough,” Nick replied. “My father told me the Colombians are developing multiple cells in more cities."
"But we don't have to compete with their drug business,” Armondo said, lighting another cigarette with his heart racing in response to the cocaine.
“We just stick to black tar heroin; that's our specialty,” Nick suggested, exchanging glances with Armondo whose mood was constantly shifting.
“Keep it simple! That’s it!" Mondo said, who was born in poverty, illegitimate, and raised in a boys’ home and foster homes. He was innovatively cunning, developing a psychological readiness to cope with life. Street smart at an early age, he became aware of the connection between poverty, despair, and hopelessness. The foster homes sharpened his independent living skills; he wasn't reluctant to face any problem head on and deal with it on the spot. Rising above his childhood to become a good leader, he knew how to appeal to men and to make them willing participants in Nick's drug operations. Armondo instilled in men the conviction to carry on, no matter what; he accepted no compromises. Possessing self-confidence, he demanded performance, and stood his ground. The life tax Armondo paid for his psychological hardening skills was that, he didn't show compassion. He was in above average physical condition; a fight with Armondo was literally a promised trip through hell. His place was with the performers.
"You know, Mondo, my family has thousands of acres of Sinsemilla in Zacatecas, Durango and Chihuahua. Part of our problem is protecting our interests from corrupt Federales and officials in the Mexican Attorney General's Office," Nick said, admiring the Pacific Ocean’s white caps, and bobbing swells. "My father knows about the sustained systematic conspiracy involving the Colombians and various cocaine cowboys from Mexican government agencies, the police, and the Army," he said, as Mondo down shifted into second gear, maneuvering the sharp curves on Oceanfront Boulevard leading to the exclusive resort town of La Jolla.
"Well, we just do what we do," Armondo answered, scanning the multi-million dollar condominiums of La Jolla Cove overlooking the vast ocean, and majestic horizon line.
"But what can we do?" he asked, watching immense waves crashing into the tide pools and apertures of the rocky cliffs creating salt-water fans spewing high into the air.
"We work our territory, that's what we do," Nick replied, pushing his jaw with his hand, cracking his neck.
"If that's the case, an example has to be made," Mondo said, glancing at Nick.
"Stop next to that beige van," Nick directed, pointing to a vehicle parked at the end of Coast Boulevard. "Bring the binoculars; let's wait inside that life guard tower. We should have a good vantage point from there," he suggested, as Armondo dutifully maneuvered the Healy to a stop on a slope near the end of the street.
"All right," Armondo replied, pulling the emergency brake.
“Be quick,” Nick suggested, opening the door, surveying the area, and hastening his way to the lifeguard tower. From under the seat, Armondo pulled out a fourteen inch Elite Forces Bowie knife with a quarter inch thick blade. In a natural sequence, he quickly re-loaded nine rounds into a spare magazine clip for his Beretta Model 86 .380 caliber double action automatic.
After an hour of crouching inside the lifeguard tower waiting for events to unfold, Nick was ready for action. Armondo was becoming agitated and restless as the effects of his cocaine coffee were wearing off.
"I don't like what I'm sensing. I don't like it," Nick said, assessing the area through binoculars.
"It’ll be alright. Don't worry," Armondo answered, irritated, as his mood was shifting from euphoria to anger. He was becoming depressed and impatient, while watching the three-story Cove Motel surrounded by tall royal palm trees.
"Here they are," Nick said suddenly, observing two pickup trucks passing slowly in front of the hotel.
"Things should pop soon," Armondo replied, watching the trucks, and the hotel.
"I see movement from the second floor," Nick whispered excitedly. "He has binoculars, get down," he said, crouching in the corner. Nick checked his weapon, clicking the safety off. Beads of sweat covered Armondo's forehead; perspiration soaked his shirt. Repeatedly licking his lips and then swallowing, Armondo was trying in vain to generate saliva to quench his thirst, and alleviate his cottonmouth symptoms.
"I’ll be damned,” Armondo grumbled, angry with himself for not carrying a stick of gum.
“What is it?” Nick grinned.
"I'm an idiot," he pronounced, pulling his massive knife from its sheath, and stabbing the wooden floor. Mumbling with self-aggrandizement, his anger was spinning higher and higher while becoming more lethal and uncontrollable. Each minute of anger was being replaced with rage. Rage was turning into hate, and hate into revenge.
"Someone is going to die," he mumbled. "This is my territory."
"They have two trucks parked at opposite ends of the street," Nick shouted, distracting Armondo from his self-absorption.
"They're going to run surveillance from the trucks," Nick said anxiously. "We have no idea who these guys are or what they really want."
"Let's get into action, I can't sit here any longer," Armondo said impatiently. "You get to the second floor, I'll take care of the trucks," he snapped, peering through the small window of the orange lifeguard tower.
“Here’s a stick of Juicy Fruit,” Nick said, laughing.
“You chili-choker, you knew I was suffering,” he said, quickly unwrapping the yellow-gummed paper of the sweet juicy gum.
"Wait, wait," Nick said excitedly. "Look, a sightseeing bus is moving this way. Now's our chance, let's go!"
The tour bus stopped near the public restrooms as senior citizens began stepping out of the luxury coach, taking pictures, and using the facilities. Rushing, Armondo crouched behind parked cars, making his way to the tour bus, then hopped into the coach and took a straw sun hat from the front seat. Leaving the bus, he strolled near the light blue pickup truck and saw the driver loading a Browning BPS 12-gauge shotgun in the front seat. The sun was in the driver's eyes as Armondo snaked his way to the rear of the truck. Moving cautiously, his body was canted to make himself a smaller target until the final step brought him directly behind the driver. In one fell graceful movement, Armondo reached through the open window and thrust the fourteen-inch razor sharp knife into the driver's neck, then neatly ran the edge down his throat, severing his carotid artery. When he withdrew the knife, blood spurted profusely as he wiped the blade on the dying man's shirt then walked away, unruffled, to the next truck.
Nick stood in front of the apartment, pressing his left ear against the door, listening to someone talking. Switching to his right ear, he pressed it firmly against the door straining to hear any clue of danger. Backing away from the door, he quickly turned around, wary of an ambush. Anxious, and pulsating with suspicion, he banged his knuckles against the thick green wooden door. Withdrawing his pistol, he checked that the safety was off, then holstered the weapon. Preparing himself for the confrontation he repeatedly inhaled deeply. After a few moments, a heavyset man with thick black eyebrows opened the door. As an intermediary, or horse, the 50-year old Colombian stood in the doorway, his large stomach protruding from under his loose fitting white embroidered shirt. The two men faced each other in silence. After stoic moments of machismo, both men stood leaking testosterone, determining a pecking order, and the ego boundaries of their manliness.
"I'm Chavez," the horse said, dripping with perspiration.
"I'm Nick," he replied, keeping his arms at his side.
"I think you're early?" Chavez said smiling, revealing a gold-capped upper front tooth.
"Should I come back?”
"Of course not, please come in," Chavez said politely, opening the door wider. Nick stayed on the alert maintaining steady eye contact with the courier.
"You know, Ni
ck, Colombia is perfect for growing coca or poppies," he said, smirking maliciously. "The climate and geography are right, and the soil is especially fertile. Fertility plays a major role in quality," he noted smoothly, as both men cautiously moved around the room in a large circle, wary of each other’s actions.
“How much cocaine can you produce in a year?" Nick asked, watching Chavez pour thick Colombian supremo coffee into two white porcelain espresso cups.
"We can produce 500 to 900 hundred tons a year," he answered, handing Nick the coffee, and exposing his diamond-encrusted bracelet.
"Not good enough," Nick quipped nervously.
"Hey, you can sell one kilogram of cocaine for about $17, 000," Chavez said, grinning.
"I can sell a kilo gram of high-quality heroin for nearly $150,000 -- that's about ten times more lucrative than cocaine," Nick answered sharply, accepting the strong odorous coffee while looking at the diamond ring on the Colombian's pinky finger.
"In that case, we estimate a half-hectare field will yield heroin worth $400,000," Chavez said with authority. "But we can also plant 35,000 hectares of opium poppies in sixteen of Colombia's thirty-two states," he added, sipping the acidic coffee.
"What do you need with me?" Nick asked, watching his eyes shift from left-to-right, then sipped the bitter, yet flavorful coffee.
"I want to be honest, Nick. We see Japan and the Pacific region as the next cocaine and heroin market. We know you have Asian connections," he said in a supportive tone, raising the coffee cup to his lips, maintaining eye contact.
“Yakuza gangsters run the business. It’s a tough market,” Nick replied staring into his eyes.
"We know, but our family hopes that as heroin and cocaine use widens in Japan, Asia, Hawaii, and the West Coast, that Yakuza groups will develop strong ties with our cartels."
"What's my take in all this?" Nick asked, as Chavez set his coffee on the window ledge then reached for two golf bags stuffed with heroin.
"A small token, but more to come," Chavez said, scratching his earwax with his chunky pinky finger. "We'll also throw in a monthly retainer and a quarterly bonus."
"This is peanuts," Nick said. "I don't need this action."
"Let's make a deal, Nick,” he said, walking toward the window, "Maybe you would enjoy Colombia?" he suggested, pulling out a white handkerchief, blowing his nose. Nick took that action as a signal, and set his coffee on the green glass tabletop. With his adrenalin running wild, and all his senses on full alert, Nick stood waiting for something to happen, listening, watching, attentive, fearful.
"You know, this is a dirty business," Chavez said in a lofty manner, standing at the large bay window. "Very dirty."
"I know," Nick said, in a boyish manner revealing a man-child quality that made him so appealing to Sasha.
"Look, I can supply you with pure cocaine," Chavez suggested, staring out the window.
"What's your price?"
"$100,000 a kilogram."
"Not good enough."
"Look, you sell a bag of 100 milligrams and mix it with sugar, powered milk, or starch, who cares?" He said grinning, shrugging his shoulders, and exposing his glaring gold tooth.
"Is that how you do business?" Nick asked, pushing his jaw with his hand, cracking his neck.
"Come on; just increase the bulk of the material to a 99-to-1 ratio. It’s fine. Do what you want." Chavez said, turning toward the window.
"I don't think the Yakuza would appreciate being sold cocaine that is less than five percent pure.” Nick replied easing his pistol out of the holster.
"Well okay then, we'll sell you cocaine at 85 percent purity levels. Look, we'll give you a deal. We can cut it with glucose, mannitol, lactose, even caffeine or amphetamines. We'll do you good on this one, don't worry."
"You're full of shit, Chavez."
"Nick, you need to grow another penis if you're gonna survive in this business."
“I don’t think so.”
“You have enemies. I can help you. Just give me a chance."
"I can't do that," Nick replied, shaking his head no. "I don't want to work with you. I don't need your business."
"So, you will pass up this opportunity for peace?"
"Yeah, I'm passing up this opportunity." Nick said, turning up his lip. Suddenly, two men burst through the front door. Holding his drawn pistol behind his back, Nick quickly turned around just as a bullet slammed into his shoulder. Falling to the floor, he didn't fully realize what had happened; it wasn't slow motion, but it wasn't normal either. His only thought was to get up.
"Jump up! Jump up!" his inner voice shouted; he was holding his weapon, fighting to stay conscious. Looking at his shoulder, he saw a bloody mess. The bullet made a tiny hole on entry, but when it came out the other side, it left a gash six inches long and three inches wide. The bullet tumbled as it passed through his body. His concern was not to panic. Thoughts raced through his mind at a hundred miles a second. Watching the assassins hesitate, he rolled to his side, firing his .44 Magnum, sending two thick lead slugs bursting into their heads. With a loud thud, the large drug dealers hit the floor with their eyes open, staring at Nick. Blinking in disbelief, Nick stared at the dead bodies. Lying motionless, his mind swirled, fighting to stay conscious. His total system was in denial of being shot. Mentally wanting to stand up, he was physically unable to. Chavez, still standing at the window, watched the events unfold, immobilized in an emotional straight jacket. The surprise and horror of the fast paced sequence of violence left Chavez frozen. From across the street Armondo aimed his silencer equipped Beretta concentrating on good sight alignment, then steadily squeezed the trigger. The living room window exploded into hundreds of pieces as three rounds burst into the Colombian's chest, knocking him across the room.
Unexpectedly, and with tires screeching, a third car appeared making a sweeping U-turn. Running, Armondo dashed back to the light blue pickup. Yanking the door open, the bleeding Colombian suddenly slumped out of the truck.
"Get your ass back in there," Mondo grunted, shoving the blood soaked body back into the cab of the truck. Starting the engine, he raced maniacally toward the oncoming vehicle, crashing into the car and pushing it to the side of the street. Dust and debris were everywhere as the cars careened into small shrubs and parked cars. Filled with hate, anger, and discontent, Armondo’s eyes bulged, and with cheeks puffing red with rage, he hurriedly backed up the truck. Without regard for his safety, he backed into the car again as the dead Colombian bounced on the front seat banging against the windshield and window with blood oozing from his main artery. Leaping from the truck, covered in blood, Armondo crouched close to the ground aiming his weapon carefully as the excited Colombians were shooting randomly. Armondo fired two bullets into the driver and three rounds into his passenger. Suddenly, it was over. Seven Colombians were dead: Chavez, the men in both pickup trucks, two men in the third car, and the two gunmen. Quickly standing, Armondo sprinted to the motel, racing up the stairs to the second floor. Approaching the open door, holding his Beretta in front of him, he moved steadily forward.
"Nick! Nick! Are You OK?" He shouted, breathing heavy, easing into the room.
"Mondo! Over here," Nick whispered, lying in a large pool of his blood and the blood of the two assassins.
"My God Nick, you're a mess," Armondo said quivering, standing over him, and looking at the two bodies as blood spurted from their skulls.
"Thanks, cabron," Nick replied feebly.
"I've got to get you out," Armondo murmured trembling, shouldering his Beretta then racing to the bathroom for a towel. Kneeling down, staring at the bullet hole, Armondo pressed the thick green towel against the wound.
"These guys are vicious," Nick said quietly, as Armondo looked into the glassy stare of Nick's rolling eyes as he began to lose consciousness.
"Don't let me die," Nick said faintly. "Please, don't let me die," he pleaded, clutching Armondo's shirt. "Not here, not here," he whispered, as Armondo tried lifting
Nick into his arms.
“Holy Jesus!" Armondo gasped, losing his balance, slipping on the large pool of sticky blood covering the wooden section of the floor.
"Dio, Dio, Dio,” Armondo repeated frustrated, attempting to regain his footing on the slippery floor.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he wept, trying to stand, this time slipping backward on top of the dead Colombians with Nick's body falling on top of him. Struggling to get up, Armondo pushed Nick off of him, trying to stand with shoes coated in blood.
“Hold on! Hold on!” Armondo said, slipping again in the large sticky mass of body fluids with his hands, face, and body splattered with blood.
"I'm sorry Nick, I'm sorry," he whispered, kneeling in the blood with his hands on the floor, and then carefully standing, began dragging Nick away from the bleeding Colombians. Lifting Nick and holding him close to his chest, his arms suddenly went limp in Mondo’s tight embrace.
"I let you down. I should’ve brought more men. I didn’t know,” Armondo cried, trembling with guilt, remorse, and fear as Nick's warm blood oozed through his fingers.
“It’s my fault,” he said, leaving the luxurious suite. “Don't die. Please open your eyes,” Armondo shouted, struggling to steady himself, while carefully walking down the stairs.
"Nick, you're my best friend. Nick," Mondo shouted tearfully in despair, tightly gripping his companion, racing across the palm tree filled courtyard.
“Come on! Come on!” Armondo yelled, running across the street, his adrenalin pushing his system into overdrive, as Nick squirmed and moaned in his arms.