A few days had gone by before the suitcases made it to Aruba. Pacheco gave me the good news early in the morning. 
I called Dario to let him know what was going on but once again, his phone was turned off.
One thing I didn’t understand was how Dario, who was the middle man in all of this, not once, troubled himself to call me to find out how things were going. This was kind of odd and it raised red flags, but I some-what ignored it. There was no point in making a stink of it since I thought he was just too laid back and not the strong headed business type I was.
At the hotel lobby there was a young woman working at a clothing boutique. I introduced myself and we became friends. I decided not to see Linda anymore since she was Elvis’ friend.
For the next few nights, Ana and I got to know each other over intimate dinners and pleasantries around the city.
She was a beautiful “mulatta” (a person of mixed white and black ancestry) who danced very well to the “merengue” sounds and her green eyes pierced right through me with an intensity hard to resist. She was also very curvaceous and her raspy striking voice was attractive to me. It aroused my senses, my sexual appetite.
I introduced her to Pacheco but he didn’t care for her much. I could tell by his lack of attention whenever she’d try making small talk with him.
In terms of business, Pacheco recommended that it’d be better to send the merchandise to N.Y.C. That way, we could get more money for it.
I contacted my friend in Colombia and he gave me the green light. The only problem was that we needed $3000 dollars for each labor-hand. Some guys would take care of boarding it on an American Airline flight out of Santo Domingo.
This meant that in addition to the 50 kilos we just received, I would have to come up with $150,000 in cash.
I contacted a friend in Canada and he “fronted” the money, under the condition though, that as soon as the merchandise arrived in N.Y.C., he would claim it and take it to Montreal, something I had no problem with.
Pacheco and I were at the hotel when, to our surprise, Elvis arrived. He asked why I had changed my phone number but I didn’t delight him with an explanation. Pacheco simply told him it just happened.
That night I went out with Ana and the inevitable question came up, she wanted to know what I did for a living.
I lied.
None of the women I “messed” with knew about my fake double identity or my corrupted dealings. I always kept it hidden so as not to endanger them but if they figured things out, it was by their own doing. I never brought it to the forefront, much less make a conversation of it once they found me out.
She also asked me if I trusted my friends, Pacheco and Elvis.
“Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know…a woman’s intuition I guess, but forget it…forget I ever said anything.”
I just looked at her without uttering a word, and turned my attention to the glass of wine I was savoring.
Pacheco came to pick me up the following day and introduced me to a pair of siblings—a brother and sister team—who had recently arrived from Colombia, each with a kilo of cocaine in their stomachs.
The usual routine took place except this time, a day later, they were taken from their hotel room.
By who? I don’t know. Why? The mystery still eludes me.
TONY ROCA THE AUTHOR 