Danger Beyond Intrigue: Volume One
Page 37
“Money!” Bone blurted in awe, backing away from the overstuffed bag.
“Lots of money!” Fly whispered in amazement, with eyes wide open in shock.
“Damn!” Primo whispered. “10s, 20s, 50s, 100s,” he said, clutching neatly bundled stacks of money. “It’s a fortune!”
“Money has story,” Bone said, pulling a bundle of bills from the bag. “Funny smell,” he said, closing his eyes, smelling the two-inch stack of wrinkled bills.
“Let me smell,” Primo asked, closing his eyes, trying to sense the faint odor.
“Too much dirt in your nose boss, you can’t smell.” Bone said chuckling, as Fly looked at him quietly laughing while covering his mouth.
“We’ll have it examined in Tokyo. Keep looking around,” he suggested, looking around the room while blowing his nose repeatedly as Fly and Bone laughed out loud.
“Look at this,” Fly blurted seriously, kneeling on the floor as Primo walked over and stared at the spot on the floor.
“What is it?” Primo asked, squinting at the spot.
“Hard to say. Maybe blood,” Fly said, lying down on the dusty boards, smelling and examining the stain.
"Blood?" Primo replied, scrutinizing the spot, keeling next to Fly.
“Human blood,” Fly answered, and then moved to the next spot on the floor.
“Now what’s that?” Primo asked, lying down on the floor next to Fly watching him smell the white powder.
“It’s not dust. It has funny smell.”
“Wait one,” Primo suggested standing, then walked toward a cot littered with papers. “Here, put the powder in this paper and fold it,” he said, handing him the paper. “And cut a piece of that bloody board” he added, watching Fly carefully scrape up traces of the white powder with his knife. Switching his attention, Primo approached a wooden footlocker and examined its surface.
“Bone, look here. More powder. Scoop up that white stuff,” Primo said, curiously.
“Okay boss,” Bone answered, sticking the tip of his knife into the wood, splintering pieces of the board.
“Another bag boss!” Fly shouted, distracting Primo's focus.
“Open it up!” Primo yelled back, looking at the bag.
“What is it, boss?” Fly asked, pulling out a large clear bag filled with capsules.
“Pharmaceutical drugs. But they don’t belong under a cot.”
“Why?” Bone asked, handing the bag to Primo.
“That's a good question,” he replied, taking the bag.
“He a funny doctor," Bone replied.
“Like a witch doctor,” Fly added.
“We’ll take it back to the lab,” Primo suggested, opening the bag, scooping a handful of capsules and closely examining the multicolored drugs. “This scene doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t fit, it doesn’t follow, and it doesn’t have a logical sequence. As Marco would say.” He mumbled to himself.
“Not natural,” Fly said, listening attentively to the distant explosions in the next valley.
“Means trouble,” Bone stated, as the three men stood in silence struggling to make sense of the situation as the ground began reverberating beneath their feet.
"Room has evil feeling," Fly said, glancing around the dimly lit room, while in the next mountain range B-52 bombers were dropping 500-pound bombs, 400 shells at a time, rumbling the earth with shock waves and muffled thuds.
“The evil of man never takes a rest,” Bone said, walking up to the canvass window, looking up at the moon.
“Violence and cruelty is occurring every day,” Primo said quietly, in despair.
“But, wherever there is a person, there is a chance for kindness,” Fly suggested. “There is a chance for hope.”
“Time for dreaming,” Bone announced, removing potent hallucinogenic psilocybin mushrooms from his leather pouch, and handing several dried mushrooms to Fly.
“You guys and your rituals,” Primo observed. “Just be good to go in the morning,”
“Time for dreaming,” Fly replied, standing in front of the window, holding 40mg of mushrooms up to the stars.
“Time to counter balance,” Bone said, holding a mushroom up to the moon.
“Let my inward journey begin,” Fly said, putting several shrooms in his mouth, chewing them slowly.
“Let my soul and spirit unite with my ancestors,” Bone said, resting the mushrooms on his tongue.
“May the universal life force enter my spirit,” Fly asked, while walking around the room, his arms open, as to embrace the world, masticating the magic mushrooms.
“Please reveal to us, our hidden selves,” Bone added with outstretched arms, following behind him.
“Let the journey inside begin,” Fly requested.
“Great spirit light, father of consciousness, divine us with your powers,” they said in unison, their arms held up, shuffling in a circle.
“I am becoming one. I am becoming,” they said in unison, chewing the magic mushrooms as their inner selves expanded, leading them into a separate reality as the mind altering effects of the sacred mushrooms transported them into an altered state of consciousness, and near out of body experience.
“We are connected. Our minds and our bodies are one,” Fly said as he began to rock and chant as bombs began exploding louder and closer to their position.
“Creator, be in our lives,” Bone asked swaying and raising his arms as the earth shook beneath his feet.
“Be in our lives, Great Spirit, direct our thinking, guide us,” Fly prayed loudly as bombs exploded. “Give us the spiritual tools to be gentle,” he asked pulling a small didgeridoo, a wooden flute like musical instrument, from his leather boomerang case.
“Guide us using our spiritual tools,” Bone asked removing colorfully painted Clapping Sticks from his boomerang case that were handcrafted, and hand painted using Queensland hardwood timber made from gum and ironwood.
“Great Spirit thank you for our day,” Fly stated, placing the colorful instrument to his lips, and then closing his eyes, began playing a melodious tune from Australian Aboriginal life used for passing on sacred lore.
“Purify our bodies and souls,” Bone requested, hitting the decorated sticks together while keeping rhythm to the song. With bombs exploding in the distance, both men began swaying in ritualized dance steps while playing their instruments used for spiritually significant celebrations. With every passing moment the potent drug created a cornucopia of colors and images as the hallucinogenic properties of the magic mushrooms intensified Fly’s and Bone’s musical ceremony, transporting them from the here and now into the world of then and there. Both men began sensing their melting into the environment. They began hearing their music with increased clarity with a deeper sense of cadence and depth. Listening to their music they began perceiving an intense visualization of colors. Ignoring their behavior, Primo continued searching through assorted documents and baggage when he discovered an unopened bottle of whisky. Stepping in time with the ceremonial music, Primo opened it and took a swig, and then began sprightly dancing around the room carrying the bottle. Taking another sip, his eyes caught the enormous stacks of money. Staring at the cash, then Fly and Bone, then at the cash, then at Fly and Bone, he took another swig of whisky. Setting the bottle down, he picked up a stack of 100-dollar bills, contemplating the evidence. Taking another swig, he watched Fly and Bone playing their instruments, both consumed with chanting and praying to the Great Spirit, oblivious to their surroundings.
“Great Spirit, what should I do?” Primo asked, taking another swig while picking up a larger stack of 100-dollar bills, then looked at the discarded empty knapsack, then at the money, then at Fly and Bone, both engaged in an out of body experience, suspended in a third dimension of time.
Revenge
6 September 1964. Tijuana, Mexico. The psychedelic drug revolution is sweeping America, and masking a fast growing heroin market that progressed from heroin addicts during the 1940s and 1950s. International criminals an
d cocaine families are smuggling seventy-five percent of the estimated forty billion dollars worth of cocaine sold in the United States each year. Chinese Triads and secret Chinese societies are running gambling casinos in Chinatown in New York and San Francisco, and handling twenty percent of the fifty-three billion dollar global heroin trade. The Japanese Yakuza are working in Hawaii and California, using their drug profits to purchase tour agencies. Asian mobs and motorcycle gangs are linking up with the Mafia. Drug-related homicides are soaring. The Human Potential Movement is spreading. Growth Groups, T-Groups, and weekend marathon encounter groups are untapping the individual’s hidden-self yearning to be discovered and set free. The psychological teachings of Dr. Carl Rogers, Abraham Maslow, Fritz Pearls, Timothy Leary, and Virginia Satire are flourishing, guiding the movement with intuitive wisdom and unconditional positive regard. Adding to the alpha-omega is Aldous Huxley’s book, “Doors To Perception,” a virtual intellectual blueprint for understanding and navigating hallucinogenic trips. The Gestalt “Aha” experience is unveiling new plateaus of consciousness and self-understanding, laying the psycho-social foundation for the “free-love movement” and unleashing the largest social experiment of modern times, facilitated by the largest consumption of recreational drugs the world has yet to experience. The motto of the current New York World’s Fair is “Peace Through Understanding.”
Elmo Robles was sitting in his classic 1955 Candy Apple Red, two-door Chevrolet BelAir convertible, with a 327 V-8 engine, sparkling wire rims, and rear mounted Continental Kit. The rasping voice of Wolf Man Jack on XERB AM radio, Tijuana, Mexico blared on the radio. The Wolf Man’s guttural howl bellowed “250,000 watts of Soooouuul Power” and was transmitted through a watt signal five times more powerful than any other American radio station. Elmo was patiently coordinating the assassination of key Colombian drug lords. An informant from the Colombians’ inner circle leaked information about a key Lieutenant’s travel itinerary. As a result, a series of hits were simultaneously being carried out in Mexico and San Diego. Elmo ran his fingers over the red leather tuck-and-roll upholstery, glancing at his watch--after 2 a.m., and then looked at Armondo. Antonio Carlos Jobim’s Desafinado was playing over the radio as Armondo Monterey was sitting on the shotgun side, a pistol on his lap, reading a newspaper article in the ultra conservative San Diego Union about suspected Boston strangler, Albert Henry DeSalvo, being arrested.
Parked near a side entrance of the Agua Caliente racetrack and casino, Elmo lowered the volume on the radio, listening to the street noise. Round-the-clock bodyguards were protecting the senior Lieutenant in the Colombian drug ring who was interviewing sales representatives for branch offices in Tijuana, San Diego, and Los Angeles. Two midlevel operatives for the cartel and a bag man, who collected drug cartel payoffs for the Colombians, were also entertaining the entourage in the plush casino that offered poker, craps, roulette wheels, slot machines, Baccarat, racing bets, and topless dancers. Holding a walkie-talkie, Elmo was speaking with his hit men, exposing his gold and diamond Cartier watch. Rubbing a gold crucifix hanging from his neck, he was busy coordinating the motorcycle death squads. A seasoned criminal, Elmo organized the logistics of importing, storing, and distributing cocaine and heroin to wholesale buyers. As the hands-on designer of the worldwide trafficking network for the Nogales family, he directed and staffed each cell in the distribution network. From the home office in Sonora, Mexico, he managed dozens of overseas cells. Talking on the walkie-talkie, Elmo glanced at Armondo, watching him snort another hit of cocaine from a tiny silver spoon with a green abalone shell handle.
“No failures, no excuses, no second chances,” Elmo warned his men, and then stared into Armondo’s glassy-eyed gaze.
“Don’t look at me that way,” Armondo said defensively, resting his hand on his weapon. “No easy way to do this job,” he added, returning Elmo’s stare.
“Remember what Manny said.”
“Hey, it’s the king of headache cures. It relieves pain,” Armondo said, grinning.
“A bullet can also relieve your pain.”
“This stuff drains my sinuses and shrinks my irritated mucous membranes,” he rationalized minimizing his cocaine use, convinced that his justification to use cocaine for medicinal purposes was legitimate and justified.
“Why don’t you join the Mexican Hay Fever Association if you’re that serious?” Elmo suggested, uneasy with Armondo’s drug use. “You’re not supposed to use drugs in the field. That head ease you’re snorting is off limits when you’re on the job.”
“Come on Elmo, I have no real responsibility on this job. This is your hit; I’m just along for the ride.”
“You know the family is patriarchal and authoritarian. It demands loyalty and discipline. Besides, your judgment is compromised.”
“What’s the big deal?’ Armondo asked annoyed, looking at the newspaper. “I’m fine.”
“Wise up man. We’ve got problems on multiple fronts. Eventually, this crisis response team will be after us. They’ll conduct search-and-arrest missions and no-knock searches.”
“What crisis response team? Man, don’t worry, we can handle it.”
“Bullshit! Keep your shit tight, man!” Elmo replied, agitated. “This is serious business. Cocaine prices are going up to $65,000 per kilo.”
“Ahhh mano, the Colombians only sell to people they know. Don’t worry. We’re fine.”
“Don’t worry my brown butt; the Colombians want to make an alliance with the yakuza. And so do we,” he said frustrated, gripping the red steering wheel with both hands.
“Come on man, dealers are selling LSD, semiautomatic weapons, and other street drugs and they’re taking the heat off of us,” Armondo answered, in a cavalier tone.
“Keep reading the paper. Read the part where drug smuggling has reached the level of a national security threat. And that, by constitutional definition, is a Presidential responsibility,” Elmo said quietly, staring at the dimly lit side entrance rubbing his moist palms on his black jeans. Armondo leafed through the paper, and then found the article.
“What are you worried about?” Mondo asked, his head bobbing from excessive dopamine, blinking at the headline, rubbing his eyes.
“Federal trafficking and conspiracy charges have been filed against Manny.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means the Feds have formed the basis for an extradition request.”
“You mean Manny’s getting arrested?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“What do you mean?”
“A Panamanian pilot was a point man for Manny. He was making a delivery when his plane crashed in Texas and he was arrested. Then he made a deal, made bail and turned State’s evidence in exchange for a promise of leniency.”
“Where is he?”
“We’re about to assassinate him.”
“You mean he’s with this group?”
“Yeah, he’s the star witness headed for the Los Angeles Grand Jury Investigation.”
“That snitch. He deserves to be hit.”
“We caught this rat just in time,” Elmo said grinning with pride. “Stand by,” Elmo ordered into the walkie-talkie, watching Shark Baron exit from the side entrance of the topless disco bar followed by a top Honduran drug dealer, and chief contact for Columbian suppliers and competing Mexican smugglers. The men cautiously walked toward the main street with four bodyguards, the pilot-informant, four potential salesmen, two mid-level operatives, the bagman, and a Colombian middleman--all armed and dangerous.
“All motorcycles start your engines,” Elmo ordered. “Hold your positions,” he said calmly into the transmitter, watching the inebriated men walk slowly along the dark street.
“Did you set this up with the Angels?” Armondo asked, trying to cope with the gravity of the moment and lighting his Kool cigarette.
“Yeah, I feel safe around the Hells Angels. A mafia contact introduced me; I thought they could do some jobs for us.”
“Angels rumble! Angels forever,” Elmo shouted into the walkie-talkie, as one hundred Hells Angels riding huge custom made, chrome-laden, Harley Davidson motorcycles, revved their engines and began their ride. Sporting colors, sleeveless leather vests, helmets, tattoos, and sunglasses, the Viking-like Angels began rumbling through the streets with cars veering out of their way. Bike after bike passed the watchful eye of Elmo as the Angels Family began snaking their way toward the Ocean Coast road, leading to the party resort city of Rosarita Beach. Lady Angels in leather jeans rode semi-topless, in back of their men as long, red, white, and blue satin ribbons woven into their long hair, fluttered in the breeze. Other Lady Angels held flickering sparklers, and flashlights, while others blew whistles. American flags held by senior Lady Angeles flapped in the wind. Junior Angels carried the club’s colors, a red flag with the logo, of a skull wearing a feathered headdress. Embroidered in a white circle on the flag were the words, Hells Angels Berdo.
“Wait until they stop. They can’t cross the street,” Elmo ordered. “Check your weapons. Pull the bolt back, make sure you have a round in the chamber,” he directed, preparing for the moment of death. Amused and smiling, Baron and his bodyguards lost sight of safety and security for a moment. Unable to cross the bustling street, they waited and watched the Angels ride by with awe, curiosity, fascination, and amusement.
“This is it! All teams join the parade!” Elmo shouted into the radio as seven of his two-man teams on motorcycles burst into action, with each hit man carrying two silencer equipped Israeli Uzi submachine guns with double magazines taped together. The noise of so many Harleys was overpowering to the senses. Baron and his men stood in the dimly lit zone, mesmerized at the spectacle before them, unaware of the impending violence. Suddenly the Colombians were surrounded. Shark Baron froze in his tracks, painfully aware that he had been tricked and was about to die. Reaching for his weapon, he fired one shot and was killed instantly as six teams began firing their weapons on full automatic. In seconds the massacre was over. A river of blood flooded the dirty sidewalk and street. The seventh team lingered, circling repeatedly for witnesses and signs of life among the sixteen bodies.