Crip took a drink of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What if I talk to the detective, explain to him what our situation is, and ask what he thinks we should do? We could fuck around and make a mess of this quick if we make the wrong move.”
“I don’t like the idea of having a cop involved,” I complained. “Cops make me nervous.”
“Cops make me just as nervous as the next guy,” Crip said. “But this isn’t a typical cop.”
“When it comes right down to it, cops are cops,” I said. “Sooner or later, they all start doing cop shit.”
“Obviously not,” Crip argued. “He knows your little rag tag bunch robbed that bank, and he hasn’t done anything about it yet.”
“He’s got a point,” Baker said.
“What’s wrong with us setting up a buy, getting him to cross the border, and—”
“No matter how we do it, the cops are going to have to arrest him the instant he crosses the border,” Crip interjected. “That means they’re going to have to be involved from the beginning. They’re going to need to be poised, ready, and waiting. If not, that asshole’s going to be in this country doing what he wants to who he wants. I don’t know about any of you, but I’m not looking to get my head whacked off with a chain saw.”
“Me, neither,” Tito said.
“So, what do we do? Just call this cop and say, ‘hey come on down to the clubhouse, we want to talk to you about a drug dealer we’d like to get rid of’, and this guy’s going to come down here and have a beer with us and discuss it?”
Crip chuckled. “Sounds like you’ve done this before.”
Dressed in khaki military-style utility pants and a blue tee shirt, the guy sure didn’t look like a cop. He was built like an athlete and had an attitude that arrived long before he did.
“The problem with telling him his drug dealers are now working for you and that his ex-girlfriend is your new lover,” the cop said, “is that he’s going to come here at his leisure. You won’t be in control of when he crosses the border. He’ll just show up.”
“That’s a good point,” Baker said. “We need to know when he’s coming.”
“Here’s my suggestion.” The cop crossed his arms and glanced at each of us. “Take one of the kilos you got from El Pollo to the drug dealer over in Sunset Cliffs and toss it in his lap. Tell him you want 1,500 kilos of the same shit. No DEA agent is going to be able to make a 1,500 kilo buy, and they know it. If you wanted five kilos or ten? They’d question it. 1,500? He’ll not only jump at the chance, but that quantity will guarantee you that the dealer won’t fuck with any of you. It’ll put you in a buyer’s category that’ll assure your safety. Neither El Alacrán or the local dealer will want anything to happen to you. A 1,500 kilo buy will take multiple shipments, and considerable planning and organization. It’ll also draw the attention of El Alacrán enough to get him to come to the states to meet you. Especially if you play it right.”
“1,500 kilos?” I choked on the words. “Jesus. That’s what? 60 million?”
“He normally sells the shit for 15 to 18 grand a kilo,” the cop responded. “If you offer 10, he’ll know you mean business. At 10 a kilo, that’s 15 million. Not that you’d need to show all the money to anyone, but you’ve got fifteen million from that bank job.”
“Ten,” Baker said, lying through his teeth.
The cop’s eyebrows raised. “You got fifteen, and we both know it.”
“If we get him here, and you get the arrest, what do we get in exchange?” Baker asked, not willing to argue over the amount of money taken in the robbery.
“You can keep the proceeds from the bank robbery.”
“I want the proceeds from the bank robbery and the five million in reward money,” Baker argued.
“We’ll visit that when the arrest is over,” the cop replied. “No promises.”
“I’m thinking the reward ought to go to the men who are taking all the risk,” I interjected. “No promises sounds to me like you’re planning on keeping the fucking reward money.”
He shifted his attention to me. A look of slight disgust was etched on his face. “Who, exactly, are you?”
“Tyrone Tiddlewood,” I said, straight-faced. I scanned him from the tips of his cop loafers to his fancy cop haircut. “Who, exactly, are you?”
“Watson,” he said. “Detective Marc Watson.”
“Listen, Watson,” I said, my tone expressing irritation. “Nothing against you, but I don’t trust cops.”
“I don’t trust thieves,” he confessed. “Guess that puts you and I at odds right out of the gate.”
I crossed my arms in a mimicking gesture. “Guess so.”
“C’mon, fellas.” Crip slapped me on the shoulder. “Why don’t we all try to get along?” He looked at Watson. “Who’s this drug dealer in Sunset Cliffs?”
“Roberto ‘Manos’ Lopez,” Watson replied. “He’s one of El Alacrán’s men. My guess is that El Pollo was headed to Manos’ place when you bumped into him. Manos is San Diego County’s contact for the Tijuana Cartel.”
“Must be a heavy hitter if he’s in that part of San Diego,” Crip said.
Watson gave a nod. “He’s just south of Ocean Beach in a house overlooking the cliff. He’s not a run of the mill dealer. He’s the man in charge of Southern California.”
“You really think it’s a good idea to take a kilo of cocaine to him?” Baker asked.
“If you do it right, I think it’ll go well,” Watson replied. “If you don’t, it could end pretty poorly.”
I wasn’t interested in anything “ending poorly” with the Tijuana Cartel. “What do you mean, ‘do it right?’” I asked. “Enlighten me.”
“With Manos, you’ll have to go there like you’re looking at him to be your supplier, and nothing more. Like you’ve got an order to fill, and he’s your means of filling it. Don’t kiss his ass, and don’t let him intimidate you. Act like he owes you something. He’ll respect you for it.”
“And you think it’s a good idea to go to his house, toss a kilo of coke in his lap, and tell him we need 1,500 more?”
“He’ll recognize the coke as El Alacrán’s,” Watson replied. “That’ll get him to immediately trust that you’re telling the truth and force him to question El Pollo’s loyalty.”
“What if he asks us where we got the drugs?” Baker asked.
“As soon as he sees it, he’ll know where it came from. Tell him you bought it from El Pollo. Explain that you’ve been trying to get ahold of him since the buy and all you get is voicemail. Get a burner phone, record a voicemail greeting in Spanish, and when Manos asks how you got ahold of El Pollo, give him the burner number. It’ll aggravate the hell out of him to think El Pollo was operating behind his back.”
Cops had agendas. Always. I wondered what Watson’s was.
“What’s in this for you?” I asked.
“If you get El Alacrán to cross the border, it puts the biggest drug supplier in Mexico out of business. That makes Southern California a much better place and it puts Manos out of business without me having to arrest him.”
“You’re not going to arrest Manos?”
“They’d immediately question your group’s involvement if I did that. I’ll leave him alone, for now. I’ll get Ramirez as soon as he crosses the border, and it’ll look like he was apprehended by federal agents. No one will be the wiser.”
The plan sounded good, in theory, but I knew things never went the way they were planned when dealing with drugs and the people who dealt them. Something would go to shit for sure.
“We’ll need to discuss this,” I said. “Talk it over and make a plan.”
“I’d suggest any plans you’re going to make be made right now,” Watson said. “You’re going to need to get with Manos no later than tomorrow. Considering El Alacrán’s propensity for torturous violence, you’re going to want to find him before he finds you.”
Coercing the cartel to do a fifteen-million-doll
ar drug deal with a buyer they didn’t know was enough of a potential catastrophe that it didn’t need any more complications. Doing it in the next twenty-four hours was asking for a mistake to be made. There would be minimal time for planning. Furthermore, I didn’t trust the cop.
The entire thing started to reek of a set-up.
“What assurance do we have that we won’t be arrested while we’re making this drug deal?” I asked. “Or while we’re transporting the drugs to Manos’ place? Who’s to say you’re not setting us up like a bowling pin?”
“You have my word that I won’t arrest you,” he replied. “I’ll tail you, and if you’re apprehended by local cops, I’ll step in and say you’re working as a CI on a major drug bust.”
“Like I said earlier, I don’t like cops,” I said, my tone dry and not apologetic in the least. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“Because,” Crip interjected. “I say you can.”
171
Carma
I gazed at my reflection in the full-length mirror. After scanning myself from top to bottom, I turned to the side and glanced over my shoulder. Regardless of the angle, the dress looked fantastic.
“That looks like it was made just for you,” a voice said from behind me.
I turned around and smiled. “Thank you.”
“The midi fit and flare doesn’t work for everyone,” the sales lady said, looking me over as she spoke, “but it sure works for you. It accentuates your hourglass figure.”
Some people eat when they’re nervous. Others drink. Some lock themselves in their homes and binge watch television. Me? I went shopping. I rarely bought anything, but I liked imagining a life where I could make use of the clothes I tried on.
The sleeveless black dress fit me remarkably well. Even so, spending two weeks wages for an article of clothing was out of the question. The daydreams that came with wearing it were enjoyable, though.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“I like it.” I gave myself a quick once-over in the mirror and scrunched my nose. “I just…I’m not sure if I love it,” I said, lying through my teeth. “I think I’ll look around a little bit more.”
“If there was ever a perfect dress, that one would have to be it,” she said. “I can hold it for you if you like.”
I turned toward the dressing room. “Thank you, but I think I’ll look around.”
During my shopping sprees, I freed myself from the fear of deportation. I dreamed of the places I’d go and the things I’d do if I was a US citizen.
The things that most Americans took for granted were the objects of my dreams. Pizza in New York City. Skiing in Aspen. Gawking at Mount Rushmore. Peering into the depth of the Grand Canyon. Eating beignets in the French Quarter. Experiencing Disneyland. Climbing Pike’s Peak.
When I was exhausted of seeing the sights on a national level, I’d reduce myself to walking the beaches of Southern California without fear. Driving the entire length of the Pacific Coastal Highway. Dancing in the best clubs in Los Angeles.
Returning to a country that was plagued with drug-related violence, political corruption, and an economy so poor that nearly fifty percent of the population lived in poverty scared me senseless.
Shopping for clothes that I’d never buy tickled my senses. If only for a little while, I was free to frolic about and do the things I always dreamed of.
I placed the dress on the hanger and carried it from the dressing room.
Upon seeing me she extended an outstretched arm. “I can take care of that.”
“That’s okay, I’m going to look around a bit more,” I said. “I’ll put it back.”
She offered a smile of appreciation.
If everyone who encountered me knew I was an illegal immigrant, I wondered how many of them would be as kind and appreciative as they were. Ten percent? Twenty? Five? My status as a citizen didn’t change the person I was.
Yet.
I couldn’t help but wonder if the sales clerk who was so eager to help me would be as enthusiastic if my forehead was stamped “Illegal Immigrant.” If we were easily identified by a permanently affixed bracelet or a tattoo on our wrists.
How many would turn their noses up?
While many my age hoped for fame or fortune, I dreamt of living in a world where we were free to travel from continent to continent without restriction. Where a person chose to call home was a choice they made, not something they were branded with at birth.
My grandparents migrated from Spain to Mexico. Had they remained in Spain, gaining US citizenship would be an easy task for me. Spaniards were granted citizenship with ease, but because my ancestors chose to move to Mexico, becoming a US citizen was impossible. The only way for me to remain in the country was to do so illegally.
So, I spent my days glancing over my shoulder. Fearing the person behind me was either one of Angel’s many thugs or an Immigration Agent, I lived wondering if each day in San Diego would be my last.
The only thing I could think of to compare it to would be if a reformed bank robber was forced to live in a city where all the residents were active-duty police officers specializing in investigating bank robberies.
I hung the dress on the rack and meandered through the store, briefly touching what caught my eye as I passed by. Each article of clothing allowed me to escape—if only for a moment—to a place where I could wear it without fear of being forced to relocate to the crime-ridden country I didn’t consider my home.
I left as I always did, with my hands empty and my mind filled with dreams.
172
Reno
With outdated license plates that couldn’t be traced to anyone, Crip and I rode through the residential area like we were on a Sunday afternoon sight-seeing tour. A few blocks from Manos’ home, we came to a stop at an intersection.
Crip glanced over his right shoulder. “I’m not very fucking excited about this.”
“I’m not, either.”
He revved his engine and checked the traffic light. “For the sake of all involved, I hope this doesn’t go to hell.”
“You know I’ll do this alone,” I said. “I got us in this mess and—”
“I’d have shot those sons-of-bitches, too.” He nodded toward the road ahead. “Let’s get this over with.”
I accelerated up the block and turned onto the street that led to Manos’ home. He didn’t sell drugs out of a shack in Oceanside like his underlings. He lived in a home overlooking the Pacific Ocean. It wasn’t a mansion with marble columns and three-tier fountains in the driveway, but it was a nice ranch home with a hand-laid brick drive and a beach view.
Filled with the same nervous energy that plagued me when we searched homes in Iraq, I came to a stop in the center of his circular driveway.
Crip got off his bike, took a precursory look at the home, and took off his helmet. “Don’t look like the drug dealers in Oceanside, that’s for sure.”
I opened my saddlebag, got out the backpack, and slipped my right arm through one of the straps. “Ready?”
“As ready as I’m going to get.” He drew a deep breath. “Let’s do it.”
The modest home was an outdated white single-story ranch shoehorned between two two-story contemporary glass mansions. With the backpack swinging from my shoulder, I sauntered toward the double wooden doors.
The faint sound of music came from the back side of the home. I glanced at the door and then at Crip. “Cop knock, or ring the doorbell?”
“Cop knock might get us both shot.” He nodded toward the button. “Doorbell.”
I rang the doorbell. After what seemed like an eternity, I rang it again. Beyond the ding-dong sound of the bell, there was no noise or movement coming from inside the home.
“I’m guessing they’re out back,” Crip said.
“What do you want to do?”
“Suppose we should go back there.”
With slight reluctance, we walked toward the music. Upon clearing the back corn
er of the home, a large two-level concrete deck, infinity pool, and outdoor kitchen came into view.
My jaw dropped.
The rear of the home certainly didn’t match the front.
On the upper tier of the deck, a man was leaning over a large stainless-steel stove. With his back to us, he either didn’t realize we’d arrived, or he didn’t care. Two other men were seated at an island bar fifteen feet from where we stood, facing the ocean—and us.
Upon seeing us, one of the men stood.
As calm as could be, he looked us over. “Jew two look lost, or scared,” he said flatly. “Or maybe a leetle of both.”
His skin was dark-bronze in color. His head was shaved clean and he wore a neatly-trimmed goatee. Dressed in pressed Chinos and a stark-white wife beater, he had a clean, presentable appearance.
His hands—and only his hands—were covered in tattoos. From the photos Watson had shared with us, it was clear that he was Manos.
The man at his side was wearing a pair of light blue linen slacks and a tan linen shirt. His dark brown hair was cut short, almost in a buzz-cut. An untrimmed caterpillar-esque mustache covered his top lip entirely. The look on his face made it clear that he was irritated with our presence.
Nervous as fuck, but hoping I wasn’t showing it, I lowered my backpack, unzipped it, and removed the kilo of cocaine.
Manos’ eyes darted to the cellophane-wrapped package. Upon recognizing what it was, they quickly widened.
“You look surprised or nervous.” I tossed the package to him. “Or maybe a little of both.”
He caught it and laughed. “Jer fahnny, amigo.”
I tilted my head toward Crip. “He tells me that all the time. If being an outlaw biker doesn’t work out, maybe I’ll try my luck in Vegas, as a comedian.”
Manos looked the package over, showed it to his mustachioed friend, and then threw it back in an underhanded lob, no differently than if he were tossing me a can of beer. “Sorry, my friend. I’m not inna-rested.”
Devil's Disciples MC Series- The Complete Boxed Set Page 91