Smuggler's Blues: The Saga of a Marijuana Importer by Jay Carter Brown Page B

heard a news report about a four-hundred-pound weed bust at the same address the next day.
    Not only that, but Jean Paul had a temper — a bad one. Jean Paul had a shootout one time with Charlie “the Weasel” Wilson over some weed that went missing in Jamaica. I suspect it was that same four hundred pounds of Jamaican coli. The shooting came after a meeting behind a restaurant that left Charlie’s Porsche with three bullet holes in it. The way I heard it, Charlie pulled his gun and confronted Jean Paul, who pulled his own gun and started shooting. I suspect they were both surprised that the other guy had a gun and they can thank either good fortune or bad shooting that no one was killed.
    So there I was standing face to face with Jean Paul and the little pit bull was working himself into a frenzy.
    “The cops called your friend Jacques to come and pick up the compressor at the airport. They let him take it away and then they arrested him in Quebec City.”
    “What the hell was he doing in Quebec City?” I said.
    “I sent him there to make sure there were no cops tailing him.”
    “I don’t understand. He wasn’t even supposed to call Ryan until the load was in his hands.”
    “Your rat friend called Ryan as soon as you hung up the phone. He told him that you were sending the compressor and he asked for our help.”
    “He wasn’t supposed to do that.”
    “Yah, well he did, and then he ratted on us.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that.”
    “It’s not as simple as that. You fucked up our scam and now you owe me.”
    “I owe you? Why would I owe you?”
    “Because that was my scam you fucked up.”
    “I paid Ryan seven grand for that scam.”
    “That was my scam. I been paying two guys on the docks for weeks waiting for the right moment to send that compressor to them by sea. And you went and sent it by air. Now the scam is fucked up.”
    “I gave Ryan seven grand for that scam. He asked me for more money and I told him I was sending the compressor up on my own if he couldn’t get it together. Tell him, Ryan.”
    I looked at Ryan. When he put his head down and turned away I was dumbstruck.
    “I’m telling you, Ryan and I had a deal,” I insisted.
    That’s when the sucker punch came. I was looking at Ryan when Jean Paul’s fist came out of left field and caught me under the left eye. There was no pain, but I was in shock as the punch sent me reeling backwards. Before I could recover, Jean Paul grabbed a pair of scissors from our bedroom dresser and shoved me backwards onto the bed as he held the scissors in front of my eyes.
    “You fucking owe me,” he said.
    I turned away and looked at Ryan for an answer to this mystery, but he just looked away again. I turned to Robby who was standing in the doorway. He, too, looked away with a shake of his curly locks. I felt alone. I felt deserted by my friends. Worse than deserted. They were in on the shakedown.
    “You took our weed and you fucked up our deal,” the little Frenchman raged on. “That weed was supposed to go north by sea freight, not air. No one sends a compressor north by air,” he said.
    It was a rip-off, pure and simple, and Ryan was using Jean Paul to pull it off. I could not bring myself to believe that Ryan was doing that. We were supposed to be friends. Best buddies.
    When Jean Paul said he was paying two guys on the docks, I knew right away it was a lie. He talked on and on while I waited in subdued silence for the amount. I thought for a moment about fighting back. I figured I could take Jean Paul, even with the scissors in his hand. I figured I could take Ryan, too. But it wouldn’t stop there. If I didn’t kill the little Frenchman right then and there, he would come back and gun me down inJamaica or Montreal for sure. I waited to hear the amount, but first came the threats. He had two killers waiting in Montego Bay. I didn’t believe him, but I let him think that I did. My allies and friends may have turned against me, but my loyal