DANCING WITH “CAPOS”

Two days had gone by and I hadn’t heard a thing from George or Joey.

I felt something was wrong. Something in my stomach twisted and turned but I somewhat ignored it. Being the always optimistic person, never accepting failure or defeat, I went on as if things were okay. Besides, no news is good news, I thought.

On a hunch though, especially after 48 hours, I decided to call George’s family in Miami to find out if they had heard from him. His wife answered but she sounded nervous.

“Are you Tony?” She asked with a quiver in her voice.

“Yes.”

“My husband was arrested with Joey in Alabama. You better run cause’ they’re after you.”

When I heard this I pretty much dropped the phone and left everything as it was. I took off to a ranch I owned north of Bogota in a town called Chia. I ditched my cellular phone and didn’t bother to pack clothes or toiletries. I was paranoid. I was sure the police would find me if I spent another second trying to gather my things. Given the circumstances, it was illogical to pack for a “get-away.”

Two weeks passed before I decided to meet with the “friends” I was dealing with. I wanted things to cool and simmer so that I could resurface with some confidence and security.

We met in Bogota and I explained what had happened but as usual, they didn’t believe me.

In this business, there are no friends. Only ruthless people that with intimidation, get what they want.

The first thing they told me was that they didn’t like doing business with the D.E.A. and that I should have known who I was dealing with. They came to the conclusion that I had to pay them all the merchandise at U.S. market cost and also the $500,000 they “fronted” me.

I thought this was crazy, absolutely ludicrous, but I had no choice. I had no one to back me up, especially against these “capos” because of their reputation for killing anyone who got in their way or who owed them money.

Life as a drug-trafficker is like being on a rollercoaster ride. I had more downs than ups in my dealings as of lately, yet, I was too greedy to walk away from it. I was hooked. Addicted to the fortune and power that stemmed from the business deals. I was afforded many luxuries that are hard to give up once you’ve had a taste of them. People are easy to stroke your ego, usually for their own interest hoping to gain something as well like money or material things, and the shallowness that comes with the corrupted lifestyle, was hard to recognize amid beautiful women and riches.

Unfortunately, here I was again. Down to practically nothing after selling my properties for less than half of the purchase price and scrapping through my jewelry and cars and worthy possessions, just so that my life would be spared.

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.

PLAYING GAMES

With my Venezuelan passport I was able to travel wherever I wanted, except the U.S.

And, if I wanted to do this, I would have to seek authorization from the American consulate in Caracas, something I would avoid to deter arrest.

Back in Bogota I spoke to Mr. Montero, the guy I was indebted to. He told me that there was a lawyer flying in from Miami that would be meeting with me that night.

We met at La Fragata, a trendy seafood restaurant at the top of the “World Trade Center,” north of the city. I remember being told that he was waiting for me when I arrived. The maître d’ escorted me and introductions were made once I reached the table that looked onto the horizon.

The establishment was nothing short of spectacular. It rotated in a 360 degree circle so that its customers could soak in the panoramic view of mountains and its surrounding splendor. It was remarkable, breathtaking.

I sat down and he ordered a bottle of fine wine, something very exquisite to indicate that he was willing to splurge at no expense—perhaps to make me feel at ease, comfortable, like he was on my side.

He reassured me that everything would be alright and that he would help me find out what really happened in Miami.

“Don’t worry, I’m going to do everything in my power to get to the bottom of this. What happened to you is a misfortune and those “Feds” who took that money from you are going to pay for what they did.”

At first, things felt promising. He was “chill” and maneuvered his words tactfully. This went on briefly for he veered the conversation elsewhere.

“Look Mr. Tony, I’m sure that what you said really happened, but, I can also do something for you that would make the story more believable.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if you pay me $25,000 dollars I can make up papers to show Mr. Montero that your story is true.”

I looked at him seriously. “My story is true! What, do you think I made all of this up?”

“Well, let’s just say that this didn’t happen like you said it did, you know…hypothetically. I can create papers that will make you look…”

At this time I got really pissed so I interrupted.

“Look, I don’t know who the fuck you think I am? This shit is not a lie and if you investigate the case, you’ll find that it is true. Please tell Mr. Montero not to play any fucking games sending you to me to see if I fall for his trap. I’m going to pay him every penny!”

“But Mr. Tony…I…I…”

“You know what? Just go fuck yourself mother fucker!” I got up unapologetically and left with my dignity intact.

Devils Allure

I arrived in Cali and two of Mr. Mario’s—my friend—assistants drove me to Ciudad Jardin, one of the high trend areas of the city. Minutes later we were in front of a beautiful estate where he lived. 

He greeted me at the entrance door and showed me into the massive living room where I could observe an assortment of contemporary art that hung from the walls. He was in his fifties and conveyed a distinguished and unparalleled flair. His brother, Geraldo, was just as tasteful and sophisticated, always wearing designer suits and looking well groomed.

“It’s been a long time my friend, where have you been?” Mr. Mario asked.

“I live in Cancun now. I have a family and some businesses there.”

“What brings you back to Colombia?”

I explained my situation in elaborate detail. He was all ears and I knew he believed me. I could see it in his face.

“Who is this man you owe money to?”

“Mr. Montero…”

I identified the man and he immediately had his assistant locate his number. Without hesitation, and much to my surprise, he called him up and dove right into discussion. He told him how things were going to be handled and what was at stake. He also talked about how many businesses we executed together and lied about a debt to put fear in him. He said that I owed him money and that if anything happened to me, he would be held responsible for the payment.

Mr. Mario hung up and with a smirk, looked at me.

“Done…now tell me, what is there to do…? I got you more time but you still have to pay that money.”

“Let me put some ideas together and I’ll contact you in 2 days,” I assured him.

Once again, the devil had lured me in.

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.

The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly…

Every two to three weeks I would fly to Miami. By now, Angie and I used to see each other on a regular basis. We’d meet in different places including Mexico City where she introduced me to her parents. 

I remember her picking me up from the airport and driving us about an hour outside the city to a ranch her father owned. There was Mexican music, all kinds of food and tequila, and a jubilee sensation in the air. The whole family was having a great time commiserating and dancing with their friends. I thought they were so united, something I never experienced within my own family circle.

Angie’s mom was very sweet and her father was nice as well although I could tell he had his reservations about me. Sometimes there was skepticism in his voice when he spoke to me, and he could pierce me with a peculiar glare as if trying to detect what kind of man I was.

Life with Angie was easy and enjoyable while I maintained my married life with Veronica cross country. I carried a simultaneous co-existence with them that still allowed me to fool around with other women in my travels.

When-ever I was in Miami I would buy something for my wife and kids from Bal Harbour Shops, an upscale shopping mall that catered to the wealthy. On one of those occasions, I ran into Julio, the son of a well-known and reputed cartel member in Colombia and a very good friend of mine. He was so elated to see me that he invited me for a chat at a near-by coffee shop.

Only a few minutes into the conversation, he was already trying to enlist my skills. As it turned out, he was in possession of 500 kilos of cocaine that needed fixing. The yacht it had been on, released a streak of fuel that seemed to have seeped into the packages ruining its quality.

I explained that I couldn’t do anything because I was “out-of-the-game” completely. But he wasn’t hearing it. He was relentless.

With some insistence, I was won over. In truth, it didn’t take long to convince me especially when I calculated the numbers. I was in the position to make a cool million in less than 10 days and this appealed to me immensely. I guess you could say there was still some criminal residual left in me.

I called my wife and under false pretenses, told her that I needed to extend my trip for two additional weeks.

A week later after I contacted a Colombian friend to fix the merchandise; the “bricks” were ready to be sold.

So far things were moving along nicely and Julio was content with the way the product had turned out.

I had sold practically everything except 24 kilos that I kept with one of my “boys.” Before taking my share, I would pay who I owed first. That’s just the way I handled business. I didn’t like to hold on to anyone’s profits, or to cheat them out of their time.

I guess my share was cursed because when a friend of mine arranged for me to pick-up the cool “mil” I was promised, things got dramatically and uncompromisingly ugly.