man.”
“Not a chance. I’m paid to wear this uniform – all of it.”
Red came off the streetlight and headed right at me. I pulled out my revolver, cocked it, and pointed it at his massive chest. He stopped just in front of me. He stunk worse than an alley dog with sewer breath.
“You wouldn’t dare shoot an unarmed man.”
“You don’t give me any choice. Besides, I have a throwaway gun in my left pocket. Everybody knows about you, Red. Nothing your friends might say later will amount to shit – and you know it. Either way, you’ll be dead with a bullet through your heart.”
“You’re bluffin’.”
“Cops have a saying you ought to know about.”
“What?”
“It’s always better to be tried by twelve than carried by six. Are you getting my message? I know for a fact that I’m goin’ home tonight. You got to decide if you’re goin’ home or to the city morgue.”
Red stared hard at me and the revolver. I watched his eyes and never moved. If he intended to lunge at me, his pupils would dilate slightly and his eyelashes would rise, signaling an attack. The longest minute of silence in the world finally passed.
Red stepped back and laughed.
“Let him pass; this Honky motherfucker ain’t worth any blood from a soul brother.”
I was bluffing about the throwaway. I was not bluffing about what I needed to do. I was going home that night.
Chapter 9
Business Problems
Barranquilla, Colombia, April 1969
The lab had been operational for three months now. Through the hard work by Sterling and Gonzalez, two steady streams of base had been arriving for processing into pure cocaine hydrochloride. If one stream became a little weak, enough was available to keep operations at, or near, full capacity. Gonzales had paid the local police to keep the lab under 24-hour protection. Located in the eastern part of the city, slum dwellings—seemingly crushed against each other—surrounded the lab. Amidst the squalor, beauty existed in a few hardy weeds and flowers that needed no care. Some worked at the lab; most knew about it; all kept their mouths shut.
From the lab, a short drive west on
Avenida Centenario
, then south on
Avenida Boyaca
, took you to
Aeropuerto Ernesto Cortissos
, a modest international airfield at the southern edge of the city.
On the south side of the airport, Maria, a young woman in her twenties waited for a black van to pick her up. They drove her to a far end of the parking area where she undressed from the waist up. Handlers placed body packs of cocaine around her front in an artful simulation of late-term pregnancy, even the artistic touch of a slightly protruding belly button. Next, they taped a special bra securely to the undersides of her breasts, and all around the back. Only women with small breasts were selected. The handlers filled the front of the bra with slightly damp cocaine and molded it to produce normal-appearing, large breasts. Then, Maria was vacuumed, given a new maternity outfit, and groomed to look like a middle-class traveler going to Miami to visit relatives for a few days. Her fee was two-hundred dollars, withthe promise of three-hundred more after a successful flight – a princely sum in east Barranquilla.
In Miami, two of Marcus Sterling’s men greeted her as a “relative.” From the airport, she was whisked off to his packaging facility. There, the process was reversed. Removing the damp cocaine from her bra and breasts was done with a brush and finally with a special vacuum while she stood on a large black sheet. Maria remained in the facility as a “guest” for a few days, until it was time for her to leave. On the return trip, an armed escort “helped” her with the suitcase, normally containing about a half-million dollars.
If the cash were all hundreds, then the added weight would be only eleven pounds. Sterling and Jones, however, could never convert that much cash into all large bills, so the suitcase was heavy. Bribes in Miami ensured
“Not a chance. I’m paid to wear this uniform – all of it.”
Red came off the streetlight and headed right at me. I pulled out my revolver, cocked it, and pointed it at his massive chest. He stopped just in front of me. He stunk worse than an alley dog with sewer breath.
“You wouldn’t dare shoot an unarmed man.”
“You don’t give me any choice. Besides, I have a throwaway gun in my left pocket. Everybody knows about you, Red. Nothing your friends might say later will amount to shit – and you know it. Either way, you’ll be dead with a bullet through your heart.”
“You’re bluffin’.”
“Cops have a saying you ought to know about.”
“What?”
“It’s always better to be tried by twelve than carried by six. Are you getting my message? I know for a fact that I’m goin’ home tonight. You got to decide if you’re goin’ home or to the city morgue.”
Red stared hard at me and the revolver. I watched his eyes and never moved. If he intended to lunge at me, his pupils would dilate slightly and his eyelashes would rise, signaling an attack. The longest minute of silence in the world finally passed.
Red stepped back and laughed.
“Let him pass; this Honky motherfucker ain’t worth any blood from a soul brother.”
I was bluffing about the throwaway. I was not bluffing about what I needed to do. I was going home that night.
Chapter 9
Business Problems
Barranquilla, Colombia, April 1969
The lab had been operational for three months now. Through the hard work by Sterling and Gonzalez, two steady streams of base had been arriving for processing into pure cocaine hydrochloride. If one stream became a little weak, enough was available to keep operations at, or near, full capacity. Gonzales had paid the local police to keep the lab under 24-hour protection. Located in the eastern part of the city, slum dwellings—seemingly crushed against each other—surrounded the lab. Amidst the squalor, beauty existed in a few hardy weeds and flowers that needed no care. Some worked at the lab; most knew about it; all kept their mouths shut.
From the lab, a short drive west on
Avenida Centenario
, then south on
Avenida Boyaca
, took you to
Aeropuerto Ernesto Cortissos
, a modest international airfield at the southern edge of the city.
On the south side of the airport, Maria, a young woman in her twenties waited for a black van to pick her up. They drove her to a far end of the parking area where she undressed from the waist up. Handlers placed body packs of cocaine around her front in an artful simulation of late-term pregnancy, even the artistic touch of a slightly protruding belly button. Next, they taped a special bra securely to the undersides of her breasts, and all around the back. Only women with small breasts were selected. The handlers filled the front of the bra with slightly damp cocaine and molded it to produce normal-appearing, large breasts. Then, Maria was vacuumed, given a new maternity outfit, and groomed to look like a middle-class traveler going to Miami to visit relatives for a few days. Her fee was two-hundred dollars, withthe promise of three-hundred more after a successful flight – a princely sum in east Barranquilla.
In Miami, two of Marcus Sterling’s men greeted her as a “relative.” From the airport, she was whisked off to his packaging facility. There, the process was reversed. Removing the damp cocaine from her bra and breasts was done with a brush and finally with a special vacuum while she stood on a large black sheet. Maria remained in the facility as a “guest” for a few days, until it was time for her to leave. On the return trip, an armed escort “helped” her with the suitcase, normally containing about a half-million dollars.
If the cash were all hundreds, then the added weight would be only eleven pounds. Sterling and Jones, however, could never convert that much cash into all large bills, so the suitcase was heavy. Bribes in Miami ensured
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