MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE (IN A WORLD OF DRUG-DEALS)

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.

Bogota, Colombia

I arrived in Bogota around 10:00 a.m. It was, and still remains, a beautiful metropolis in the middle of the Andes Mountains more than 8,000 ft. above sea level. 

The city with its magnificent landscapes and people and culture, were always welcoming to me. I had fallen in love with it more than 20 years before I landed. I wondered how I could be so captivated in spirit if I had never been born there. The country always felt like home and its magic and allure was second nature to me.

Julio was waiting for me at the airport. He had arranged a search at customs with a Coronel from the army so everything would run smoothly.

The first thing he told me was that the owner of the merchandise wanted to meet with me at a ranch tucked away deep in the mountains.

I instinctively didn’t like the idea. Owing half a million dollars was reason enough to be kidnapped, or worse, tortured until the debt was paid. Something Colombians in this business are experts at is called “Amarrar” (to tie together to a debt until it is paid in full). Either way, the situation was bad. No matter what, I ran the risk of getting killed even after paying the money. The cartel usually resorted to ending ones life to ensure that no one sought revenge.

Julio convinced me that everything would be ok and I believed him.

We drove passed rivers, mountains and valleys, until we reached a little town called Melgar. Our growling stomachs forced us to eat there before continuing the path to my inevitable death.

Two hours later, we were in Ibague, a city that served as a bridge to the secret ranch in the middle of nowhere.

We parked in front of a tall wall where two guys armed with automatic weapons greeted us. They knew Julio so they opened the gate to let us in.

“El jefe (the boss) is on his way so please make your-selves at home.” A huge man with a deep voice said as he guided us to a splendid swimming pool surrounded by an equally lavish gazebo.

Not long after, Mr. Frank Mantilla arrived with four of his bodyguards. In his 40’s, the man they called “boss” garnished a grey silk scarf around his neck and an American cowboy hat. His look was serious and piercing. After Julio greeted him, he sat down with me.

I explained what had happened in great detail, observing his body language and hoping to get so much as a flinch to know what kind of man he was, and what destiny he held for me. But the man was immobile. He just sat there and listened while polishing a diamond ring he wore on his right pinky finger.

After all was said and done, he got up and signaled Julio to follow him to a private room.

The message he left with him was that I had 48 hours to come up with the money, or else.

Greed, The Root Of Evil!

Months had gone by and I was still on my game. My business partner in Colombia took care of sending me merchandise (kilos of cocaine) from Bogota while I ensured it got off the planes safely once it landed at Miami International Airport. 

Julio and I enjoyed the exotic but reckless life of a drug boss. No party was too big or ostentatious for our tastes. We basked in the glory of women, showering them with champagne and cocaine while splurging on luxuries that large sums of money could afford.

The kind of fun we had lasted only a short while.

When Julio decided to move to Miami, I became aware of the ruthless man he really was. He was absent of principles and had no sense of scruples. Even among criminals and in the world of drug-trafficking, there is an air of self-integrity and a respectable way about conducting business that Julio lacked. Because cocaine is the choice of trade, it doesn’t mean it is void of the same business values and practices found in enterprises around the world. Selling a car versus selling 10 kilos is just the same. Both are equal in merit.

Non-the-less, I continued our dealings but at arm’s length. His shadiness and backstabbing ways came to light one day when he told me he had sent me merchandise that never arrived. He wanted to accuse me of theft so he could fatten his pockets with my money.

Things intensified even more when he demanded I introduce him to my workers to interrogate them at his discretion. I wasn’t having any of it. I immediately produced the load he claimed was stolen, paid him off, and sent him on his way. I washed my hands of the whole partnership and instead married up with some other “heavy-hitters” in Colombia who knew my reputation well, and who had no problem collaborating with me.

The last I heard of Julio, he was completing a 30 year sentence in a federal prison for kidnapping a Washington couple and holding them hostage.

As it turns out, the husband and wife bought a few Panamanian Rattan couches from Julio’s furniture store in Coral Gables that unbeknownst to them, housed several kilos of cocaine tucked underneath the frame and its cushions. Because Julio was accountable for the substance, he had to retrieve it somehow, someway. He took the next flight to D.C. and broke into their house terrorizing them for hours until he was able to extract the white powdered “bricks” from the sofas.

The event—inevitably—ruined Julio’s life, and sealed his fate without recourse.