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.

Life On The Fast-Lane

My criminal life was leading me deeper into a sink hole I found hard to get out of. I didn’t realize it then but my reckless behavior was  the catalyst for my superficial happiness. I had every toy you can imagine, and a ton of money.

Day in and day out I watched over my shoulder. There was never a dull moment or a sense of real tranquility in my life. Peace evaded me like an incurable disease and hell; I was the cause of it. As I reflect on those young and fearless years, I’ve come to know that I was but a young punk disguised in a suit who thought the world of himself.

While life with Evelyn was fun and vivacious, it was also self-inflicting and corrupt. We used to party all the time, smoking weed and snorting cocaine till no end. We’d travel all over and enjoyed sex to the max, but it was all ephemeral. Of course, at the time, I was ignorant to this fact.

During my work as a drug-trafficker, I was selling my merchandise to John’s friends because they were all wealthy and had the money to pay.

I remember on one such occasion, Evelyn and I traveled to California to meet with a buyer named Jimmy. We stayed at the Beverly Hills Wilshire in Rodeo Drive and on a crazy “strung-out” binge, went to the exclusive Vidal Sassoon Hair Salon and treated ourselves to an over-the-top make-over that left us unrecognizable.

Our cocaine fueled parties together with heavy consumption of Cristal (A brand name Champagne. Widespread awareness of its high price has given the wine an image of exclusivity that, in turn, has elevated demand) which room service generously brought to us round’ the clock, kept us wired and awake the whole five days we were there.

Meanwhile, Jimmy informed me that it was going to take longer to pay me what he owed so I decided to head back to Miami. We agreed that once he got me my money, he would send it with a carrier. The trust factor between us allowed me to negotiate such conditions.

On the day of our check-out, a limo waited for us outside the lobby’s entrance to take us to the airport. Just as we’re getting comfortable, our driver is told that we will have to take the other limo that pulled up behind us. No solid reason was given—only a vague excuse about something not being right—and this immediately put me on edge.

As we’re driving along the expressway, I lowered the tinted window in the back and discarded the few grams of coke I had in my possession. I thought we were in the clear but once we stepped off the concourse at the airport, floods of police swarmed us. Some took Evelyn to one side and others pulled me in the opposite direction frisking us in a hurry. I asked what the problem was but they didn’t answer except to say that they had to search our bags.

I found out later that the guest next to our suite was an important prime minister from some foreign country and that the entire hotel was infested with cops. Maybe they heard us—through the walls or the “bugs” they snuck into our room—snorting lines of cocaine, or our loud ruckus kept them up…whatever the reason, it made them suspicious (of us).

In the end, they let us go. Nothing was found in our bags.