by H. L. Valdez
“If we can find her, we’ll have a bargaining chip.”
“This is a gold mine for us. I can’t believe our luck,” Gina stated. “Who’s your cop friend?” she asked, straight-faced.
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, what do I mean?”
“He’s my deepest and best plant. We’ve been friends since childhood. But, I really have to be careful.”
“It’s all about judicial prudence. Live and let live and mutual cooperation, both sides greasing the wheels of justice,” Gina reminded her, looking directly into her eyes.
“I would need a bargaining chip.”
“Give them Nick Nogales; he’s a snake in the grass anyway. Don’t feel guilty. Cops need gangsters and gangsters need cops for their informant network.”
“Very simple street survival psychology,” Sasha said, sitting back fumbling for a comfortable sitting position.
“You seem a little shaky,” Gina remarked, snuffing out her cigarette, frowning.
“I just feel sick.”
“What did you eat?”
“Nothing unusual,” Sasha lied. “I’ve felt this way for a few days,” she replied nervously, looking quietly into Gina’s inquiring eyes, as they sensed much deeper implications.
“Is it possible, even remotely possible? That…”
“That I’m pregnant?” Sasha blurted, completing Gina’s thought.
“When was the last time you were laid?” she asked, lighting another cigarette. Sasha remained quiet, reflecting on her sexual activity over the past months. Opening her appointment book, she retraced her movements. Gina poured herself coffee, waiting for her response, staring at her bite her lips.
“The end of June,” she replied, shrugging her shoulders.
“End of June, then July that’s four weeks. August, that’s eight weeks,” Gina figured out loud, counting on her fingers then staring at Sasha. “Have you had a period?”
“No. I thought we were careful,” she replied solemnly.
“Only way to be careful is not to do it. And who is we?”
“I went to bed with Nick, my cop informant, and Tony.”
“With your informant! With Tony! Are you crazy?” Gina gasped. “Why Tony? He’s the boss!” She stressed anxiously, waving her arms, then leaned her head back, groaning.
“I was lonely. I needed someone. Besides, Tony needs a son in the family.”
“Why you?”
“We’ve been somewhat lovers a long time.”
“Are you really lovers? He’s so much older than you.”
“We have a warm time of it. It’s supportive and gentle.”
“I’ll be damned. Let’s go to the doctor and get you tested,” Gina suggested, snuffing out her cigarette. “Shit, from sisterhood-to-motherhood.”
“I’ve got work to do,” Sasha stated, setting her elbows on the table, resting her face between her hands.
“Don’t fight it. Look at all your symptoms. And who’s the father? What if it’s Nick?” she asked, sipping her coffee.
“It’s over between us.”
“Oh great. Great way to start motherhood,” Gina retorted, filled with opinions and attitude.
“The baby doesn’t need a father,” Sasha suggested.
“Oh, just bodyguards?”
“What’s wrong with that?” she answered defensively, rubbing her chin.
“Then you’re having the cop’s baby?”
“Nooooo.”
“You’re amazing. You need to keep your legs closed. Hey, why don’t you just name the baby ‘Target’ since everyone’s had a shot at it,” Gina said disrespectfully, shaking her head in frustration, wonderment, and confusion.
“It’s Tony’s. I know it. Besides, he’s always wanted a son. He deserves a son,” Sasha said softly, putting her head back and sighing, breathing deeply. Covering her face, she slowly shook her head, as tears began seeping though her fingers. A whimper turned into weeping, then crying, then deep sobbing. Gina rose, sat next to her, and then put her arms around Sasha’s shoulder as they both cried embracing each other. Kilo turned his head, meowing, staring at the women.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean make that nasty remark,” Gina wept. “Forgive me. I was out of order.”
“Meow! Meow! Kilo bellowed, walking over the newspapers. “Meow!” He repeated in a high tone, walking across the table. “Meow! He screeched louder, standing on his hind legs, stretching his fuzzy padded paw, tapping Sasha’s face.
“Meow,” Kilo cried, nudging and rubbing his furry head against the two women.
“Meow,” Sasha answered crying, putting her arm around Kilo and holding him close as he began loudly purring, while plucky cheek, brown and gray tree sparrows congregated, chirped and chattered boisterously on the windows ledge, fidgeting and staring at Kilo’s every move.
War Room
8 September 1964. Metropolitan Police Department, Tokyo, Japan. By this time the Vietnam War had lasted through four administrations: Truman, Eisenhower, Kennedy, and now President Lyndon B. Johnson. The war was being broadcast daily. The “television war” was being viewed by millions of people around the world. The President was under continuous pressure about the escalation of the war, which was costing two million dollars a day. General Maxwell D. Taylor, who was Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, became the U.S. Ambassador to South Vietnam replacing Henry Cabot Lodge, a highly respected Republican appointed by President Kennedy. Lieutenant General William C. Westmoreland was the new U.S. military commander in Vietnam.
On the Asian continent, China was busy massing troops along the border of Vietnam. Ten thousand North Vietnamese soldiers were gathering in the Central Highlands, using Chinese and Soviet weapons. The Vietcong battalions were gaining strength with better soldiers, leadership, and weapons. Fifty-six thousand Viet Cong were spreading guerrilla warfare throughout Vietnam, as North Vietnamese regulars were freely using the Ho Chi Minh Trail. In contrast, many young American officers in charge of soldiers lacked combat experience, displaying inconsistent leadership.
Problems in the U.S. military were steadily increasing. Racism, low morale, theft, murder, corruption, suicide, and drug trafficking were eroding good orderly conduct. Drug use was increasing. Fourteen-year-old girls and old women were selling or giving away 99-percent pure Number Four heroin to an increasing number of drug consuming soldiers and civilians. Street peddlers were giving away plastic vials of pure heroin to incoming American personnel. The North Vietnamese knew drug addicted soldiers would have difficulty maintaining discipline and combat readiness, and would be unfit to fight. The psychological erosion was beginning. PsyOps, Viet Cong style, would prove to be debilitating for now and forever.
On the eighteenth floor of the Metropolitan Police Department headquarters, Marco and Primo were sitting at the conference table talking quietly, staring through large windows at the changing weather. A warm moist air current from the Pacific was producing high humidity and sporadic rain showers. Sunrays pierced raindrops on the window creating a kaleidoscope of refracting light. Sitting at the opposite end of the room, Butch, Rita, Velvet, Justin, and Masako were gathered around the television watching Walter Cronkite commenting on the evening news about the Vietnam War. Marco began reviewing his notes as Primo sipped his coffee, staring out the window, emotionally withdrawn, deep in thought, watching the rain, wishing it were autumn.
“That’s horrible,” Velvet commented, watching bombs bursting in a series of fiery explosions.
“Napalm’s nasty stuff,” Justin replied. ‘It’s a mixture of gasoline and a thickening agent. It turns into a thick jelly that flows under pressure and sticks to a target as it burns.”
“That’s bad stuff,” she replied, shaking her head in disgust.
“OK, let’s refocus, let’s get started,” Marco suggested, tapping his water glass with a yellow Ticonderoga pencil. “Everyone take a seat.”
“Be right there,” Rita replied, as she pushed in the plasti
c button of the television set, turning it off, then strolled to her wall locker quickly swallowing 20 milligrams of Dexedrine and an equal amount of Valium. Justin opened his wall locker, grabbing a handball, a notebook, and the book “Games People Play” by Eric Berne.
“By this time you’ve read about the drug massacre in Tijuana, Mexico. If not, Masako is handing out the report.”
“Some of those guys were shot twenty times or more,” Masako said, placing the report in front of each team member.
“These were key people,” Marco stated, looking at the report. “And, we’re slowly putting clues together and gathering loose evidence.
“Also, Department of Justice sources say Colombians are linking up with a group of Sicilian families living in Venezuela who control heroin distribution networks in Europe,” Velvet stated, reading a classified document.
“Primo, what did you find out in Vietnam?” Marco asked.
“Here’s what I have. Some of the money we found had traces of acetone, heroin, and morphine. Powder taken from a floorboard had the identical chemical structure of the bills. Also, autopsy reports from Tripler state that a bullet taken from one of the victims was from an M2-carbine. His accomplice died of snakebite. The victims also had large amounts of heroin and cocaine in their systems. I also have some maps. And, a cigarette butt.”
“Do you have the cigarette butt?” Butch asked.
“Right here,” he replied, reaching for the evidence in a plastic bag.
“It’s a Mild Seven cigarette. Made in Japan.” Butch said, holding up the half-smoked cigarette in front of him.
“You think the Yakuza made those hits?” Masako asked.
“Who killed them?” Rita asked.
“They’re Asian hits,” Masako stated. “They know the terrain, the language, and values of the people they do business with. Foreign hit men would stick out too much.”
“Who were the guys killed?” Rita asked, pensively.
“Names, names, names.” Primo repeated, gliding his finger over the casualty report. “Here they are, Colonel Richard Rose and Doctor Karl Messner. They were serving in a remote long-range reconnaissance outpost, running drugs. They were found decomposing in a tunnel,” Primo said casually, as Rita sat dumfounded, breaking out in a cold sweat as her legs started shaking and her stomach churned.
“We also found a huge quantity of pharmaceutical drugs,” Primo stated, holding up a clear bag stuffed with colorful and odd shaped sized pills.
“You know these guys, Rita?” Velvet asked, suspiciously.
“No,” she lied, shaking her head, trying to cope with the gravity of the moment as her paranoid ideation soared.
“Somebody caught up with these poor guys. They wanted them dead in a hurry,” Primo concluded, examining the assortment of pills, then stared at Rita. “Rita, you sure you know nothing about this?”
“Nothing,” she lied, shaking her head, feeling sick to her stomach, filled with fear and remorse.
“Someone squealed on these guys. The hit men were determined, smart; real professionals.” Velvet remarked, confidently.
“We have three solid clues,” Marco concluded. “A cigarette butt, a 9-mm, and a M2-slug.”
“That’s a small start. But, my concern is the level of viciousness and violence against these two guys,” Masako said grimly. “These deaths are sending out a message.”
“You think the murders have the same violence pattern?” Justin asked.
“Seems that way,” Masako replied. “One of the psychological anchors in this crime grid is identifying a pathological pattern.”
“A psychological map of the killers is already developing,” Marco suggested.
“It had to be a team working together. Putting those guys in that tunnel would require more than one man,” Masako concluded.
“Let’s find the pattern. All killings have a signature,” Marco stated.
“I’ll be back in a second,” Rita stated standing up, hurriedly leaving the room, her stomach churning as her trembling hand wiped beads of sweat from her forehead. Covering her mouth, she banged the bathroom door open with her foot, dashing into an empty stall in the small, brightly lit pink painted bathroom. Sticking her finger deep down her throat, she began gagging, shaking, and coughing, as a mass of liquids and dark bile gushed from her mouth.
“I can’t believe it. That could’ve been me.” She whispered trembling, holding her quivering hand to her chest.
“Hello. Hello.” Masako chanted, knocking on the entrance door, thoughtfully entering the bathroom. “Rita, are you feeling okay? You left rather quickly. Are you sick?”
“I’m fine,” she answered, grabbing toilet tissue and wiping her mouth. “Too much gory stuff on an empty stomach. Too much coffee, and too much acid in my stomach.”
“OK then, take your time, I’ll see you inside.”
“Thanks. I just need to wash up,” Rita replied, flushing the toilet while slowly backing out of the small stall, watching Masako leave through the mirror’s reflection. Standing wobbly at the sink, and staring at herself, she was aware that she had narrowly escaped death. Luck or fate or both were at work.
“I’m next. I’m in trouble,” she concluded, dousing cold water on her face and rinsing her mouth. “I won’t let them kill me,” she said, drying her face. “Just get the money. Just get the money,” she assured herself, leaving the bathroom resolute, yet realizing her vulnerability and the fragile boundary between life and death. Suddenly, the crooks were the hunters and she was the hunted. “It’s only a matter of time before they find me.” She sighed, blowing her nose.
Entering the command conference room, the team was on a break as Rita glanced at Masako and Justin whispering and laughing quietly. Justin, struggling with his penetration thoughts over Masako, repeatedly squeezed his handball, savoring her beauty. Velvet was busy reviewing messages from the American Ambassador in Vietnam, Justice Headquarters, and the Commander-in-Chief Pacific. Primo and Marco were commiserating about his recent mission to Vietnam and his grief from losing his men. Butch was standing at the window, staring at the traffic below.
“I’ve got a prescription for this,” Rita grumbled, feeling empowered, walking to her wall locker. Opening the metal door, she partially hid behind the long metal door searching for, finding, then quickly swallowing two five milligram tablets of pharmaceutical heroin and 20 mgs of cocaine, reserved for such emotional emergencies. Closing the locker, she went to the refreshment table poured herself a cup of coffee and gulped cold water, attempting to re-hydrate, hoping to prevent her high anxiety from turning into a panic attack. Yet, her inner voice kept repeating, “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I want to live. I want to live.”
“OK, let’s get started,” Marco said, tapping his water glass with a yellow pencil. “We’ll talk more about this later,” Marco whispered, watching Rita, while leaning toward Primo.
“Sure, any time,” Primo replied, reaching for his green tea.
“Velvet, let’s start with you,” Marco suggested.
“Well, Danny Delight was monitoring the private radio network of drug lord Moctezuma Nogales. Delight decoded a message ordering a courier to deliver money to the Sonora airport. Nogales told the courier the tail number of the plane. Delight then dispatched a Navy SEAL team from San Diego. The Navy team flew down to Mexico and saw a small jet being guarded by six guys with machine guns. The next day they discovered that a phone call was made to the Mexican Federal Security Division from a phone booth in that hangar.”
“I thought they were called UDT?” Justin asked.
“Stay focused,” Marco said, seriously.
“The SEALS, or UDT if you prefer, took photographs of the group. I also have photos of the Tijuana massacre,” Velvet stated, removing photographs from a brown envelope.
“This doesn’t make sense,” Masako said, studying the pictures. “The situation seems complex and nefarious.”
“Some of the bodyguards for the Colom
bians were police officers from the Federal Security Division (DFS) moonlighting for the drug traffickers,” Velvet informed the group.
“That’s the shadowy arm of the Interior Ministry, some think the private army of the drug Czars,” Marco told the group.
“It’s a corrupt system -- poverty and greed again. That’s why Mexican police and military need illegal sources of income to survive.” Velvet stated, sneering.
“Who was that Mexican detective at our first meeting?” Justin asked.
“Mimo Cruz,” Butch answered.
“Who’s he with?”
“He’s a narcotics detective with the Mexican Federal Judicial Police.”
“What division?” Masako asked, suddenly.
“The Federal Security Division,” Marco answered, checking his notes.
“Uh oh,” Justin blurted, squeezing his handball. Is this a clue emerging?”
“Can we trust this guy?” Masako asked.
“Is this a case of double-dealing detectives and traffickers?” Justin asked. “I think we have a corrupt cop on our hands.”
“Who was in charge of investigating the Tijuana murders?” Rita asked as cocaine and heroin molecules massaged her central nervous system into a new comfort zone.
“Mr. Delight said Detective Cruz was in charge of the homicide squad handling the Colombian murders,” Marco stated slowly, trying to make some connections from all the deductions.
“That means Cruz has access to corrupt officials in the Mexican Attorney General’s office,” Velvet surmised, looking at Marco.
“I got the heebie-jeebies from that guy. He’s against us. I know it,” Rita stated with a heightened sense of euphoric awareness. “And now we’re pitted against a crooked detective and a drug family that works more like a military operation-and they know who we are.”
“They’re professional killers,” Masako said, sipping her water. Marco scrutinized Rita as she was transcending into a different time and place mentally, and emotionally, psychologically checking in and out of the meeting.
“The CIA and Justice are receiving numerous allegations from informants about the Tijuana killings. A CIA operative and his informant raided the Colombian rented villa after the shootings. They found a detailed ledger of financial transactions,” Velvet said.