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.

RAT IN DISGUISE

Joey and George informed me that they had put the “bricks” behind some furniture on the truck and that it had left 3 hours ago in route to where the load would be disbursed and sold.

Everything was running smoothly until the truck started to rattle and shake. It did this for a good while until it completely broke down right on the border line between Alabama and Georgia.

The driver pulled to the side of the highway and went to look for a mechanic. He found one at a nearby gas station and together they headed for the truck only to find it swarming with police—like bees on a hive—searching it with calculated precision.

It didn’t take them long to find the merchandise. An investigation immediately ensued.

 

Danny had given only half of the load to the driver so he could keep the other half as “guaranty” if anything “fucked-up” should happen.

We could still move the load by replacing what was confiscated and as determined as Danny was for completing the job and getting paid, I obliged in getting him what he needed.

He asked for $500,000 worth of kilos so I made arrangements with my guys in NYC and two days later a new truck was on its way to Mobil, Alabama.

Once he arrived, he met with Danny at a secluded warehouse and wasted no time in requesting to see the kilos he was presumably holding.

Instead of handing over the merchandise, Danny produced a badge as a federal agent and signaled his team to invade the place.

The deal was killed right on the spot and my life as I knew it, began to experience a series of heated turmoil’s hard to have ever imagined.

TERROR AT SEA

It was dark when we got to “La Licuadora,” (Spanish word for Blender) right at the edge of the Magdalena River in Colombia where the water meets the Caribbean.

This path is so turbulent that it’s no wonder it is dubbed “The Blender.” The currents are rough and uncontrollable and it’s almost impossible to steer ones boat. Every one that dares cross it ends up looking more like a cork on top of a whirlpool.

Luckily for me, I hired a young man who was an expert behind the wheel, known to navigate with such precision that he’s pretty much thought of as a “lucky charm.” And so I trusted him to get us through which he did successfully.

We arrived at Punta Veronica for the load. The reason for using this place was for security.

Once there, kids between the ages of 10 to 13 brought us the load following the instructions of the guy in charge.

It didn’t take long to have everything on board. We headed out in good spirits and comforted by the “Aguardiente” (the county’s anise-flavored liqueur) and the joint that the mechanic lit and passed around to the crew.

I preferred to stay on my toes, alert, so I found a small spot on the roof-top and looked out into the never-ending sky above me.

The night was beautiful, really exquisite. From it beamed countless of stars and the moon resembled a silver ball suspended in the air. I got hungry and one of the mates gave me a peanut butter sandwich, along with a “Costena” beer (the brand of the country).

We had travelled 6 hours and had another 7 to go.

The morning came and the sun rose slowly on the east. A group of birds past by in harmony trying to get the sustenance for their day. The mate once again was very considerate and offered me hot coffee and a slice of bread for breakfast.

All of the sudden, smoke came out of the engine compartment and the mechanic opened the cover and found that the water pump was broken. He said that he had brought a spare just in case and that it would be just a matter of minutes before we got going again.

I looked at my watch and saw that we were ahead of schedule. I decided to return to my spot on the roof-top to get a “tan” while the mechanic fixed the engine.

Out of nowhere, the water currents became vicious, picking up momentum and velocity by the minute. We were covered by huge dark clouds while the wind blew aggressively veering the boat in the opposite direction. Our vessel started swinging from side to side and the waves introduced themselves onto the boat, smashing things into pieces and bamboozling us without mercy.

I quickly came down from the roof—surprisingly, I had managed to not fall over during the rocking—and covered the radio and the G.P.S. with plastic, knowing instinctively that a horrible storm was upon us.

Thunder was now dominated the sky and the once tranquil ocean turned demonic.

We were in for something massive, something sinister, an unapologetic beating that did not discriminate against humans, much less criminals.

TROUBLE IN MONTREAL

My people in Canada had informed me that my good friend was performing well until a stripper he knew in Miami stepped foot in Montreal. His dependable work ethic was replaced by boozing, coking, and partying, and my once flourishing connection was now dwindling and immature. He had become sloppy.

One evening, after finishing a “run,” he decided to cross the border from Niagara Falls into Buffalo N.Y. with his companion. They rented a room at a semi-lux hotel and began their night of fun in the “Big Apple.”

The city was young, inviting; full of provocative adventure, but the thrill it promised still wasn’t enough. They needed to seek pleasure on the other side, too.

He left his car full of money at the hotels parking lot and re-entered Niagara Falls through a van that conducts trips across the border every day.

On the way back to the hotel, Customs found more than $10,000 undeclared bills in the stripper’s purse as well as the car keys from the rental car in Buffalo.

Thankfully, a few days earlier, he had given my share to a partner of mine in Montreal and so there wasn’t anything that could link me to the guy, much less the fiasco.

Custom Agents confiscated the car and found more than a million dollars in its trunk. My friend was arrested but the girl was let go.

Meanwhile, in Bogota, his family pleaded with me to “front” the bill—a whopping $100,000—to get him out. I provided the money but I never used him again. In fact, days later, on his return to Colombia, I ended our friendship and decided to take matters into my own hands.

I flew into the city of MONTREAL CANADIENS, but this time, things got really nasty for me.

GLIMPSE OF A “NARCO’S” LIFE

Back in Cali I met with several associates who wanted to “jump-on-the-ban-wagon”—in this case, cargo ships—with the condition that they give me 30% of the merchandise they’d merge with mine. Since it would be a new route, I also demanded that we smuggle only a small quantity first.

We decided to go with only 150 kilos, which 45 of that was my cut. I also told them that they would have to sell their own “stuff.” I didn’t want to take any further chances or be accountable for anyone else’s product in case anything happened afterwards. I had my Italian friends and also a motorcycle gang that would take care of my “bricks” once it arrived and were ready to be distributed.

In a matter of days I headed back to Panama to find several hundred kilos waiting for me. It had just arrived from Buenaventura, a port on the Pacific Coast of Colombia. Since it is harder to take the cocaine direct from this country to other parts of the world, “traffickers” prefer to send it to neighboring countries where legal transportation would then haul it internationally.

In fact, it became customary for many boats loaded with an abundance amount of drugs, to travel through the Pacific Ocean and the Caribbean into Panama and all the way to Mexico. From there, the merchandise would make its way south to Ecuador, Argentina, Venezuela and even Brazil disguised as legal goods from legit companies to evade American and European Customs. Reputable companies that through the years worked arduously to gain notoriety and to monopolize their markets, fell prey to this criminal activity. Employees, without their owners knowing it, would act as “smugglers” using company connections at airports and ports to “push” the drugs across.

I remember the times when I used to do the same thing. I would hide my cargo, usually 25 kilos at a time, in boxes of flowers that would be exported from Colombia to nations across the globe.

If we were caught—obviously, my name never exposed or in vain—an investigation would ensue but this wouldn’t stop the mission from getting accomplished. We would simply use other routes or acquire the facilitation of other sources. Relying on personnel from airports and even officials who worked closely with the D.E.A., making them think that they were loyal when in truth they weren’t, was all part of the “game.”

We would never though, in the face of adversity, forfeit or compromise our bottom dollar. That was never to be jeopardized.

Ricky finally concealed the containers ensuring that the seals were exactly the way they needed to be, and in a day, we transported them onto the boat that would take them into Canada.

My job was done for the time being.

I decided it would be good to take advantage of the lapse in time, and see my kids in Mexico. I boarded a plane and thought about the joys of fatherhood, of how wonderful it would be if only for a moment, to forget my double life as a “narco-trafficker.”

No Turning Back

Benny was one of my right hand men. That morning I told him what had happened and I also gave him the key to the suite I rented in Miami Beach.

I instructed him get the money out of there as soon as possible and to call me once he had it. 

He was supposed to meet with the lady who handled all my money transactions but he never arrived. The last thing I heard, months later, was that he was found dead in a hotel room in Costa Rica.

Back in Ft. Lauderdale, I had everything under control. I was ready to leave the country but before I did, I had to collect the $100,000 dollars that Hassan owed me.

We arranged to meet that same morning at a near-by Arby’s.

I was punctual as always, and so was he.

I walked over to his car and opened the passenger’s door, discreetly making my way in.

“Hey buddy,” he looked nervous. “How’s it going?”

“Good.”

“Are you ok?” I questioned to test his mood.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine…I brought you back the stuff.”

Right away I knew he was the “rat.” There was no way in hell he couldn’t sell the merchandise—pure and qualitative—after 2 weeks of having it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I answered since I knew he was “wired.” “You know that I’m only here to collect the money you owe my people.”

Without even waiting for a response, I gave him a cold stare and nodded as to say that I knew he “sold” me out.

No words were exchanged nor handshakes nor cordial gestures. I jumped out of his car and walked towards mine. Regardless of the increasing panic in my head, I pulled out of the parking lot in a cool and calm demeanor so as to not draw suspicion or attention towards me.

I knew it was a matter of time before the “Feds” would catch up to me.

The Floating Zoo

A week had passed before I arrived in New York and Moby Dick continued to sail across the Atlantic Ocean. Michael had set up an apartment for me in Manhattan for the duration of the job, while at another residency the latest models in radio technology were installed to communicate with the captain. It had been 10 days since the ship departed Colombia, at which time the high winds of fall made it perfect for sailing. According to plan, everything was running smoothly.

My temporary apartment was a beautiful open space overlooking Central Park. It was tastefully orchestrated, furnished with contemporary pieces that complimented each other and gave way to an amazing view. Situated in the middle of everything, Michael and I would frequent an authentic sushi restaurant known for its exquisite delicacies and service, just a few blocks down the street. We’d feast on Sakes with Sashimi, Temaki, Ebis, among other exotic varieties before heading to the house where Michael’s employees were in contact with the barge.

Erick arrived a few days later and asked if he could stay with me. His wife Tracy, a native New Yorker, had a father who worked as a coronel for the Pentagon and she was staying with their baby at her mother’s house in Brooklyn. Erick wasn’t too keen on the confines of family life so he would make up the excuse that he was working late hours and couldn’t make it back home, when in reality he was partying with us. This is common practice among drug-traffickers. The money earned was spent on countless of privileges and luxuries that included an abundance of women. Power and an air of arrogance that catapults ones ego beyond humility, becomes an attractive and enticing—although pretentious—quality, difficult to control. It is something, if not careful, capable of thrusting you into the throes of hell. And although we prided ourselves in being great providers, the truth is we were pieces of shit thinking only in ourselves—contemplating the next big conquest, whether it’d be a drug-deal or sex, whatever came first. It was all the same pleasure.

When Erick’s brother Jose, flew in from Barranquilla, he got arrested at the airport for using a fake Visa to enter the country. Non-the-less, we continued to talk to him on a daily basis—regardless of the restrictions imposed by the police—to let him know how things were going. He’d call us in the evenings and we’d provide updates.

I remember on one such occasion, Michael and I met up at the “communication house” to discuss the current situation but instead, we’re radioed by the captain telling us that it’d be the last time we’d hear from him because the American Coast Guard was boarding the ship at that precise moment. Immediately, Michael and I decided to head back to Miami for security measure. I explained the news to Erick thinking he would become hysterical but to our dismay, he took it quite well. However, when Jose called, he asked to put me on the phone and started mouthing off that I was a liar and a thief, accusing me of stealing the merchandise.

Two days later, the local paper printed the story exclaiming that the “bust” resulted in the biggest seize of marijuana ever to arrive along the coast of New York, showing my animals and the vessel with the sub-title: “Floating Zoo,” splattered across the front page. I sent Jose indictment copies of those arrested to no avail. By this time, the natives in Colombia who were kept in the “loop” by calls from Erick told him that they had consulted the spirits and were told that I did in fact receive the marijuana.

The truth was that as soon as Michael’s people became aware of the ensuing chaos, they retracted in their speedboats back to the Santa Marta coast empty handed.

The natives became relentless. They further accused me of conspiring with the newspaper to have the story published, and demanded that I pay them for the product confiscated by law enforcement valued in the hundreds of thousands.

I was in awe of their behavior and of their tactless ethics. Yet, I wasn’t going to be defeated. I wouldn’t take the natives audacious threats lying down, and I certainly wasn’t going to allow this setback ruin my reputation. Back in Miami, I called up some cartel friends in Colombia explaining my dilemma and they, without hesitation, assured me that everything would be taken care of. Before long, my life returned to normalcy. The problem with the natives was history and I resumed business as usual.

How they took care of it, I don’t know. I just know they finally believed me.