DIRTY LAUNDRY

“This is unbelievable,” I thought to myself. There were more than 2 dozen SWAT teams jumping out of a military truck and bamboozling their way into the neighbor’s house, all armed with rifles and dressed in fatigues.

I hurried back to the boat, deciding to keep my mouth shut about what I just witnessed, and made the call to my connection in Colombia who was waiting for my signal.

“How’s everything over there?” He asked.

“Everything’s perfect, perfect, perfect,” I answered.

“O.K…I’ll be calling you in about an hour to confirm the plane’s departure.”

Pacheco, Elvis, and myself, ultimately decided to start moving towards our waypoint. We were cruising at low speed, killing time while watching the sun slip out of view when precisely an hour later, the phone rang.

“Tony…this is bad, we’re gonna’ have to cancel everything.”

“Why? What happened? I asked.

“There’s a lot of security here…it’s too risky to make a move. Sorry, but we just can’t do it.”

I explained to the guys what was unraveling in Colombia and why the job had to be cancelled, and they both had a fit, they were really pissed off. But, there was nothing left to do. It was out of our hands.

We turned around and retreated back to the beach house, mounting into Pacheco’s SUV, and drove back to our hotel in Santo Domingo.

As we past the neighbor’s house I saw the military truck situated in the drive-way and all the lights were off.

I figured they were waiting to catch me with the load, arrest me, or maybe worse, kill me.

The next morning Pacheco came for me at the hotel. We decided to have breakfast and I made a point to drill him about what went down the night before.

“How well do you trust Elvis?” I asked.

The look he gave me was of concern. He screened the crowded restaurant before turning his attention to me. “Why do you ask me this?” His voice was nervous and edgy.

“Well, I’m gonna’ tell you the truth. Last night the house next door was full of SWAT cops when I went to the S.U.V. to get the chart so I canceled the operation.”

“What do you mean you decided to cancel? I heard when you said that everything was perfect.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” I slightly smirked. Perfect is the code word for killing the job. It means not to send the shit.”

“Wow…very clever…I’ve gotta’ admit, Tony, I’m not liking this one bit. Maybe he’s dirty and he’s got us all fooled.”

“Maybe,” I retorted with skepticism in my tone.

“I think we should just forget the whole thing…at least for now.”

“No, no, no…not at all. What we need to do is just try something different without letting him know.” Pacheco insisted.

“Like what?”

“Can you send merchandise by commercial plane?” He asked me with a renewed confidence in his voice.

“Of course. As a matter of fact, I’m testing something right now…from Holland to Aruba.”

“Why don’t you send me suitcases through the airport?”

“Sounds good…How many kilos?”

“About 100…25 in each suitcase.”

“Let’s talk about 2 suitcases first…”

“Perfect…I’ll start working on it.”

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.

Dear John

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.

Taking Flight

1979 was when I officially began flying drugs into the U.S. I was hired by a tight cartel organization in Colombia, whose operations were so massive and so diligent, that they became the only source big enough—monopolizing and claiming exclusivity—to handle the transportation and importation of large quantities of narcotics into American soil.

Even though I was making a lot of money, I wasn’t very happy. Having to watch my back all the time and living under suspicion of everyone, created a sense of neurosis and restlessness in me. Delivery was the most dangerous job of trafficking and I had to responsibly ensure my end of the bargain no matter what. The business of flying low, under radar detection and dumping the merchandise in the Atlantic Ocean along Bahamian waters where Cubans like my-self would retrieve them onto boats and take them into Miami, was a risky and often times, wreck-less one.

A year later in the summer of 1980, there was a huge change in the city of Miami with the “Mariel Boat Lift” move. More than 100,000 Cuban’s were given clemency by Castro and allowed to abandon the island on exodus boats headed for the city just 120 miles off the Mariel Harbor of Cuba. The beginning of an era of violence in South Florida took flight, when among families, were a wave of criminals released from Cuban jails.

By that time I had bought a small 32 footer boat from my uncle and was living with my wife on the outskirts of the city. At the crack of dawn one day my cousins and their step-father arrived at my doorstep to ask if I could help his daughter and her husband defect Cuba since Castro was allowing boats to pick-up family members from the harbor. He offered me $10,000 and the next thing I knew—because the challenge of the voyage was more exciting to me than the money, I didn’t need it, I was banking on my own—we were stocked to the gills with all kinds of provisions and left Key West towards the island. 12 hours later we were at the port of Mariel, west of Havana. It took us forever to get there because the engine broke down and we started to drift. Luckily, we managed to fix it and resumed our mission.

After 2 weeks in the port of Mariel along with hundreds of other exodus boats, I started to get anxious. We thought that as long as families in Cuba knew that we were there to pick them-up, everything would proceed quickly. A lot of us came to the conclusion that this was some kind of a set-up by Castro who had trapped us for ransom money. A tornado even came through the port and sank many boats forcing men to get into other vessels and head back to Miami. It was a real nightmare, a frustrating ordeal. The events of nature as well as the chaotic and unorganized dealings with the regime, made it hellish for many people to follow through.

A few days from the time I arrived, at around 3 a.m., I was fishing from my boat while drinking a beer. I guess I could not sleep because of my cocaine high. All of the sudden, from out of the dark, I heard a pounding noise that seemed to come from a powerful engine hitting the water. Before I could blink, I caught glimpse of this beautiful sleek Cigarette boat heading in my direction. I could tell that the long blond-haired American hippie-type behind the wheel, was trying to find a spot to “anchor.” In my perfectly half-dazed state I hollered at him to roll up next to me. He was so thankful that out of gratitude, invited me on-board and also to the best marijuana I had had in months, ending my involuntary sabbatical. He explained that he had just made it in from Key West less than 3 hours to fool around with some Cuban friends on the island. I knew I had to show off with something so I produced the ounce of cocaine I took for my personal use and shared it with him. As soon as he took a “hit,” he was enthralled. He asked to buy a kilo (from me) once we got back home and from that point on, we became the best of friends. His name was John.