by H. L. Valdez
“That’s vital and key evidence and may prove that various drug-related murders occurred throughout Mexico,” Butch added, pre-occupied in his thoughts.
“The lead may also indicate a sustained, systematic conspiracy involving Mexican and Colombian drug dealers, possibly with officials of different government agencies,” Marco added.
“Who’s the biggest drug Czar in Mexico?” Justin asked, tapping his fingers on the table.
“The Nogales family, or at least one of the biggest,” Velvet answered.
“Are you suggesting the Nogales family is involved with the murders?” Masako asked.
“I’d bet my badge on it,” Velvet replied crisply. “The Nogales family has made tons of dollars. An informant said they recently switched from marijuana to selling cocaine and black tar heroin,” Velvet stated looking at her notes.
“Who are they doing business with?” Masako asked.
“Anybody they can. My hunch is that Detective Cruz wants us to think the Colombians are the main exporters of drugs, not Mexico,” Butch stated, sitting up, rubbing his face.
“Up until now, Mexico has been a transshipment point for drugs, not a producer or supplier,” Marco stated. “It’s not a source country.”
“The Nogales family has the protection of a large number of officials. His multibillion dollar pipeline extends to the highest reaches of the Mexican army, police, and government,” Velvet told the group.
“They’re all guilty,” Masako concluded.
“Humph,” Justin uttered, annoyed. “You solved this case quickly.”
“Here’s another item,” Velvet announced. “Cops in New York seized 820 pounds of heroin. Each kilo was marked with a destination code. I requested a sample. The shipment could be from the Nogales family,” she concluded, glancing at Butch who avoided eye contact, reaching for his green tea.
“Let’s put some clues together and consolidate the data,” Marco suggested, watching Rita who was distant and deep in thought, slightly rocking back and forth in her seat, closing her eyes repeatedly.
“This is getting complicated. I think I’d like to sit this out in jail after all,” Rita said, staring at the table.
“Humph,” Justin answered. “Have fun in the showers.”
“Let me know the next time you need stitches,” Rita replied, reaching for her coffee as a warm surge rushed through her body. Feeling calm, her emotional well-being and perceptions began intensifying, shifting her mood. Reaching the edge of her psychological boundary, fear was being replaced with a sense of renewal. Intense chemical reactions were elevating her cerebral acuity, expanding her insight, increasing her psychological clarity. A third dimension of reality was peering through the veil of her collective unconscious, intensifying her moment-to-moment experience. Her hidden self was gradually emerging through the neurological effects of the narcotics, unveiling her understanding to the outer limits of her human potential. Composed, alert, and compassionate, blood was racing through her circulatory system at almost 120 beats per minute. Her aorta was pumping blood dangerously close to the edge of her body’s physiological limit. “Jail is safer,” she stated, reaching for her water, with Marco watching her closely, observing her movements.
“An agency source from the CIA claimed that a Nogales informant had witnessed interrogations and murders,” Velvet stated, sitting on the edge of her seat.
“We have a ledger and a witness,” Primo said, coming to life, after a long period of introspection.
“Humph,” Justin grumbled. “He’s finally awake,” he whispered to Masako.
“Any questions?” Velvet asked, running her fingers through her short curly brown hair.
“Is there a connection between the Mexican and Japanese drug dealers?” Masako asked.
“We don’t know,” Marco replied.
“Can we prove that a conspiracy exists between Japanese and Mexican drug lords?” Rita asked.
“No we can’t,” Marco answered with a dour look.
“Recently however, a military cargo plane carrying dead troops from Vietnam was routed to Hawaii during a severe lightening storm. Morticians there inspected a few bodies and found heroin packed into cadavers. I requested a heroin sample. If we compare Hawaii and New York heroin, then we might learn something,” Primo said, sitting upright, sipping his coffee.
“Don’t forget the heroin confiscated from the boat off the Izu peninsula,” Marco added.
“That’s right,” Butch responded solemnly, staring into his tea.
“Far-out, now we’re getting someplace,” Justin said loudly, turning to Masako.
“What’s far-out mean?” Masako asked.
“American slang, a hippie term.”
“What’s a hippie term?”
“Never mind. I’ll explain later,” he smiled, cheerfully, just write it down..
“By the way, how did the prison interview go? Any leads?” Velvet asked, turning to Butch.
“It went OK. The pigeon said a shipment was coming into Yokohama docks. Don’t worry, I’ve got all my pigeons working,” he said with a stern face.
“Does he own pigeons?” Masako whispered to Justin.
“More American slang. I’ll tell you later,” Justin replied good-naturedly. “Write it down.”
“Time to work the streets again. We have to make things pop,” Marco suggested. “Let’s put a stake out team on the docks. Be prepared. Oil your weapons. Get to the rifle range and make sure you sight alignment is straight and your front sight blades are lined up,” he instructed, gathering his notes.
“Are we going to pop something?” Masako asked quietly.
“More slang,” Justin replied frowning, waving his hand, flustered.
“This could be our first big break,” Velvet said gathering her notes.
“Let’s bring home the bacon on this one,” Marco instructed.
“I thought it was heroin. Are we going after bacon?” Masako asked confused.
“More American slang. Write it down.” Justin said, with an annoyed expression. “I need to teach you American slang,” he whispered.
“You need to learn Japanese,” she replied seriously.
“Marco, what do you expect with the Yokohama thing?” Primo asked dryly.
“I expect a gun fight, taking prisoners, confiscating heroin. I expect everyone to wear a vest,” he said forcefully.
“Great, at last we have permission to use weapons.” Primo replied. “Back in the saddle.”
“Are we going to use horses?” Masako questioned.
“No, no, no.” Justin answered, slapping his forehead.
“Butch, bring Spanky along,” Velvet suggested.
“Sure, Spanky likes biting bad guys.”
“Humph,” Justin blurted. “Biting bad guys my left foot,” he mumbled.
“Is something wrong with your left foot?” Masako questioned softly.
“Slang. Just American slang, American slang again,” he retorted impatiently, grimacing, clenching a fist with both hands.
“But, we need a smoke screen. We have to thrash the sparrows from the thickets,” Velvet said, sitting back, contemplating events.
“I don’t get it.” Masako whispered, leaning toward Justin.
“It’s a metaphor, like slang. I’ll explain it later,” Justin whispered, agitated, and grimaced looking at her, as she added the statement to her list of slang words.
“Let’s wrap this meeting up,” Marco suggested, looking at his watch when someone knocked at the door. “Velvet, catch the door,” he nodded, pointing his finger.
“Catch the door?” Masako whispered to Justin.
“Shhhh, write it down, just write it down,” he answered, short-tempered, slapping his forehead, as the team sat quietly, waiting, watching. Unlocking the door, Velvet leaned her head out, keeping the door slightly ajar.
“Yes.”
“There’s a long-distance phone call for Lieutenant Pascal,” the uniformed officer said, bowing.
“Transfer the call in here.”
“It’s an operator assisted person-to-person call. We might lose the connection.” The officer replied.
“Primo, you have a phone call. Just follow the officer.” Masako said, pointing her hand toward the door.
“I do? Where?”
“In another room. Just follow the man in blue.” Masako repeated herself, extending her arm toward the door.
“Listen up!” Marco blurted. “Start calling your informants. Start working both sides of the street. And Rita, hold back for a minute, let’s talk,” he told her as she shook her head without looking up.
“Come on, let’s leave before he gives us more work,” Justin whispered to Masako. “We can study slang over coffee,” he suggested, laughing.
“How about Japanese sake? I don’t drink coffee,” she answered, reaching for an operational site map in the middle of the table.
“I haven’t had sake in years,” he replied watching her nimble and lithe body stretch, revealing her slender thighs and well-proportioned buttocks. “Wow,” he mumbled squeezing the handball.
“You need a drink, Primo. You look depressed,” Butch suggested.
“Alcohol is good,” he replied standing, glancing at the window and the misty veil of rain building in intensity.
“When you finish your phone call, I’ll take you to my favorite Izakaya,” he suggested, looking out the window at the swirling fog creating a mystic eeriness and muffled silence.
“What’s an Izakaya?” Primo asked.
“It’s a pub where we can eat, drink, laugh, sing, enjoy females, friends, smoke cigarettes, and be happy.”
“Don’t go away. Let me take this call. I’m hungry and thirsty,” he grinned.
“Take your time. I have a few things to do. I’ll wait here,” he replied, reaching for an operational map. On the streets below, a different resonance was coming to life as red lanterns illuminated the names of restaurants in black Japanese kanji. Clubs were open and happy hour was in full swing. Beer, sake, and bourbon, the social mix, was fostering salacious exchanges between males and females and loosening libidos for two-hour sessions at abundant local love hotels.
“This way,” the officer said, leading Primo down the gray corridor.
“Here, in this room,” the officer stated, opening the door and bowing.
“Arigato,” Primo responded, entering the private room, standing at a small stark gray desk.
“This is Lieutenant Pascal,” he said, picking up the black receiver handle of the bulky square phone while sitting down in the gray metal chair.
“Primo, it’s me,” the female voice said softly.
“My sweet little wife. Are you safe?” he asked nervously.
“Yes, I’m safe,” she replied, remaining silent for a few moments.
“Are you there?” He asked looking down at a metal ashtray filled with cigarette butts.
“I’m here. I guess you know why I’m calling?”
“I have a pretty good idea.” He said closing his eyes and sighing.
“I thought you would’ve returned the divorce papers by now.”
“I signed them. I just need to mail them,” he groaned with heavy feelings, looking at a laundry bag in the corner overflowing with dirty towels.
“I have something to tell you,” she said, clutching a pink silk pillow.
“What is it?” he asked, looking up at the dusty gray metal ceiling fan.
“I’ve been seeing someone.” She said, setting the pillow aside and standing up.
“I see,” he said quietly, holding his hand to his face.
“Actually, I’ve been seeing two men. I might move in with one of them,” she said, lighting an incense stick, and placing it into the small hole of the long wooden holder.
“I see,” he replied, rubbing the back of his hand against his unshaven face, visualizing her being with other men.
“My new guy is in such good shape. And he doesn’t understand how anyone could leave me,” she boasted. “So I gave him the go ahead signal to date me.”
“I see,” he said, breathing deep. “But I didn’t leave you, you left me,” he replied, watching a cockroach walk over the desk.
“I need a man with me at night. I need a man who will hold my hand, hold me in his arms, and be there for me. I don’t want to be without a man,” she said, applying perfume down her slender neck and between her silky legs. “Besides, I need more than commissary privileges,”
“I see,” he shuddered, hitting the cockroach with his finger, whacking it off the table.
“Please mail the papers. I’ve wasted enough time waiting for you,” she said impatiently, lighting a series of candles and turning off the table lamp.
“All right,” he said standing, filled with remorse and self-pity. “I understand,” he said softly, holding the receiver tightly to his ear, staring at the gray waste paper basket overflowing with discarded lunches and used coffee cups.
“You’ll find happiness like I have,” she assured him supportively, removing her Italian gold bracelet and diamond ring.
“I’m not looking for a mate,” he answered, his eyes welling with tears, looking up at the industrial lights with spider webs hanging from the steel mesh protective coverings.
“You’ll find love again. You’re good looking,” she encouraged, adjusting her pink garter belt and matching nylons.
“I’m not hunting,” he said somberly, staring at mops and brooms stacked upside down in the corner next to an industrial bucket with a squeeze handle.
“I’ll put your golf clubs in storage with the rest of your stuff. Whenever you decide to return, all your gear will be there. I’ll mail you the key,” she informed him, edging backwards on the pink satin goose down comforter, leaning back and adjusting herself on silk throw pillows.
“I just want to say that, when I left home that morning, I never realized that when you were squeezing me tight, you were actually saying goodbye. And when you kissed me and said you loved me, I didn’t know it was for the last time. It was your goodbye kiss really. And when you left, I didn’t know it would be our last embrace. But you knew. You had it planned,” he said, bitterly, with anger in his eyes.
“There’s a lot you didn’t realize. I was seeing someone the whole time we were together,” she informed him. “But it’s over. There’s no turning back,” she stated, adjusting her skimpy see through transparent pink baby-doll lingerie.
“I believed in us,” he said puzzled, closing his eyes, trying to digest the psychological dynamics of losing his wife.
“It’s a walk of grief for both of us,” she replied, resting her head on the goose down pillows and looking up at the mirrored ceiling, admiring herself.
“When I drove home from work, I couldn’t wait to see you and the red star illuminated in our living room window. The star represented hope and peace to the world. It meant you were home. It was our symbol of hope and our love for each other,” he said, sitting down slowly as his leather holster snagged on the steel armrest of the chair. Annoyed, he angrily yanked the holster up, readjusting himself in the seat. “When you stopped turning on the light, I should’ve realized your love also stopped.”
“Somewhere along the line, you fell behind,” she said coldly.
“But you deceived me. You betrayed me. You were dishonest. I never cheated on you.”
“I told you I’m always the first to leave a relationship.”
“But you said you would take care of me. I believed you. I believed in our love,” he bemoaned, looking at the gray dusty filing cabinets.
“The struggle was too much for me,” she replied, sitting up, lighting a tightly rolled marijuana cigarette.
“I can never trust you,” he said quietly, resting his elbow on the table, covering his face with his hand as she inhaled deeply on the joint, distancing herself from his emotions.
“You were always angry. I had enough anger and violence with my previous husband,” she said, exha
ling the excess smoke.
“Everyday my love deepened for you. I tried my best every day. I was always happy to be home with you. I was always happy to have dinner with you. You’re such a great cook,” he said with a lump in his throat. “I still love you,” he wept.
“Time ran out,” she carped, reaching for a shot glass filled with Tequila. “I need happiness and security now. You can’t do that,” she groused, chugging the Tequila.
“So you stopped trying?” he asked, holding back an emotional onslaught.
“You are what you do. And you do what you believe in,” she responded coldly
“The depth of my despair matches my love for you,” he admitted honestly.
“There’s no easy way to stop a romance. The end of every relationship has its own shock waves,” she reasoned, stretching on the Queen sized bed, while inhaling the marijuana smoke, thinking he had to go. He was an emotional and financial deficit.
“We vowed to stay together. What happened to that?” he asked, desperately clinging to false hopes.
“I loved you. I did, and I still do,” she said coldly. But you are no longer my priority. I have other priorities. Besides, someday you’ll be as happy as I am,” she appeased him, taking another drag of the Maui Wow-Wee marijuana from Hawaii.
“Leaving you is painful. This truly pains me,” he cried, as tears fell on the soiled and grimy desktop.
“If you need anything, call me,” she said with artificial sincerity, holding her pink Princess phone. “You can stay here after I move out, if you need a place.”
“I’ll mail the papers tomorrow,” he said, painfully aware that at the end of this conversation he would be alone, without his wife. The relationship would be over. The final moments of their emotional synchronicity were about to be disconnected.
“So long, Primo and good luck. Peace,” she said with a sense of relief, thinking the emotional cord was cut -- finality had arrived.
“I just want to be alone,” he said quietly.
“OK, this is it. I’m OK, you’re OK,” she said grimly, hanging up as he held the receiver to his ear listening to the dial tone of the dead line. Lowering the receiver slowly, he was stunned by the finality of the conversation. Lowering his head on the desk and burying his face in his arms, he began muttering, sobbing and moaning.