After a month in Cuba—several miserable weeks of exhaustion, sleep deprivation, intense heat, and uncertainty—we finally made it back to Miami. My cousin’s stepfather, the person who hired me to help bring his daughter and husband back to America, received a note saying that they weren’t going to make the flee after all, opting and preferring to stay in their familiar habitat.
A few days later I embarked on another trip to Colombia. I landed as usual in the middle of the jungle where a small make-shift bump dirt road secluded from the rest of the country, served as the runway and where strip lights made of 55 gallon drums on either side of it, was utilized to guide planes in and out of the forest. Sometimes during take-off, the load was so heavy it was almost impossible to maneuver the plane over the trees.
On my return to Miami, I decided to pay a visit to my new friend John. I called him up and he gave me instructions to his house. I remember him telling me that he had a mansion on Palm Island, one of the best and exclusive areas in Miami Beach. As soon as I got there, I realized he wasn’t kidding. The place looked immaculate, more like a royal palace than an estate.
Two big husky guys, who held guns tightly around their waste and in plain view, met me at the front entrance and escorted me around the house and into the pool area towards the back. At this point in time, a lot of things raced through my head. First the nice boat, then the lucrative mansion with half-a-million dollar sport cars parked in the fore, and the two goons that were paid to ensure his protection, quickly gave me the impression that he was a “high roller.”
John waited for me in a plain white t-shirt and navy blue shorts. He was playing with Kyle and Ninja, his two trained Rottweiler’s while Led Zeppelins “Whole Lotta Love” seeped out of several miniature speakers tucked away in surrounding bushes and from a few nestled enclaves in the concrete ground. As soon as he saw me, he approached with a lit joint in hand, offering it and edging me to take a toke as if it were a welcoming ritual. After the typical greeting and brief chit-chat, he proceeded to take me to his game room where he’d entertain and talk business. This one I swear looked like a full decked out arcade with memorabilia hanging from the walls and art deco pieces and lava lamps neatly situated in their place. Even the lighting could be manipulated to enhance the mood and ambiance. It seemed that the several video games, slot machines, and two beautiful wooden carved pool tables that stretched across the floor, could be added to his other priced possessions. The man lived large; he liked to splurge and didn’t mind the expense as long as it made him feel good.
A few drinks later we negotiated a deal. I of course brought him cocaine to taste—it was customary for the client to try out the product, testing (it) for quality and substance—and even though he was already confident that my stuff was organic, he still needed to show face, to let me know he was a serious business man who wasn’t just going to take my word for it. Once again, he fell in love. After the first hit, he had succumbed to its intensity, alluring him more and more into its trenches with every passing second. It was the best in town he conceited, better than the supply he was getting from a Cuban girl in her 20’s. Hers was not the real thing whereas mine was pure and direct from the Andes Mountains.
TONY ROCA THE AUTHOR 