airport; she supplied one first name heard in conversation – useless. She knew nothing about what would happen to her here, only her return ticket date. The U.S. Customs Service, however, had uncovered some extremely useful information: a method. This discovery explained how nearly pure cocaine was entering east coast cities, especially Baltimore and Washington. Zoila was carrying about 3.3 kilos of cocaine. A retrospective check of records showed similar flights and passengers for about three months – which corresponded with coke’s appearance on the streets. This new information was cabled to all U.S. ports of entry in the southeastern United States.
Chapter 10
The Weight of Responsibility
Barranquilla, Columbia, March 1969
“What?” screamed Gonzalez into the phone.
Mindful of his temper, Sterling replied evenly that, “My two men were there and watched the whole thing until they pulled her into secondary. The Customs bitch was all over her with questions we never prepped the mules to expect. She got nervous and couldn’t give good answers.”
“I’m going to kill her whole family here. Get a hit man to take her out in Miami when those bastards have finished squeezing her for information.”
“Alvaro, listen. Cops investigate murders, especially up here, and most especially a mule caught with a full load. More important, she knows nothing about our operations or us. We were very careful about that. We don’t want to attract attention.”
Alvaro’s cat went flying across the room. Somebody had to pay.
“Alvaro, I already talked to Tyrone, and…”
“How did he react?”
“He considers it a business setback and wants a little time to think about new options for transportation, now that every pregnant woman from northern Colombia will be grilled trying to enter the U.S.”
“A fucking
setback?
He considers it a fucking
setback?
Does he ever get upset? Hey, it was only 3.3 keys and our entire transport system.”
“Tyrone is smart and calm. We need that right now. He thinks we should discuss using freighters out of Cartagena.”
“Stupid idea! First, we have competition there. We’re not theonly geniuses to figure out that coke is the future. Second, it’s too damn far for overland transportation. Even with armed guards—speaking of drawing attention to ourselves—an ambush is possible. Third, we can’t bribe in a way that insulates us. The product will always be worth far more than bribes. Too much temptation. Fourth, too many people will know too much. We need to maintain control. I want a farm to arm operation.”
“I’m impressed, Alvaro. Are you taking lessons from Tyrone?”
“Fuck you and Tyrone. I’m going to get drunk. Tell Tyrone what I said and see if the Professor can do better on his second try.
“Also, we need an interim solution. I suggest we use ‘swallowers’ to keep moving some product. Tell Tyrone that each packer can carry between 700 to 900 grams. The mules generally want about two-thousand dollars to take the risk. You know, one condom egg ruptures and they die. We can work out details later.”
“Thanks, Alvaro.”
“Fuck you, Marcus.”
Tyrone thought of himself as a businessman. He owned two nightclubs on Fourteenth Street and a motel on New York Avenue, the northeastern gateway to the city, an area known to accommodate visiting male businessmen and tourists. All were good cash businesses, ideal for laundering the proceeds of his drug business. Also, he paid two pimps to keep the motel and nightclubs supplied with working girls. He chose his pimps carefully and enforced two ironclad rules: (1) No girls abused; and (2) No girls under eighteen. He even stopped by the businesses to interview the hookers from time to time. Not all of this was because he was a kind person. He had killed a few people, but took no pleasure in their deaths. Sometimes, death was necessary to protect his interests. Long ago, Jones delegatedcompliance enforcement to
Chapter 10
The Weight of Responsibility
Barranquilla, Columbia, March 1969
“What?” screamed Gonzalez into the phone.
Mindful of his temper, Sterling replied evenly that, “My two men were there and watched the whole thing until they pulled her into secondary. The Customs bitch was all over her with questions we never prepped the mules to expect. She got nervous and couldn’t give good answers.”
“I’m going to kill her whole family here. Get a hit man to take her out in Miami when those bastards have finished squeezing her for information.”
“Alvaro, listen. Cops investigate murders, especially up here, and most especially a mule caught with a full load. More important, she knows nothing about our operations or us. We were very careful about that. We don’t want to attract attention.”
Alvaro’s cat went flying across the room. Somebody had to pay.
“Alvaro, I already talked to Tyrone, and…”
“How did he react?”
“He considers it a business setback and wants a little time to think about new options for transportation, now that every pregnant woman from northern Colombia will be grilled trying to enter the U.S.”
“A fucking
setback?
He considers it a fucking
setback?
Does he ever get upset? Hey, it was only 3.3 keys and our entire transport system.”
“Tyrone is smart and calm. We need that right now. He thinks we should discuss using freighters out of Cartagena.”
“Stupid idea! First, we have competition there. We’re not theonly geniuses to figure out that coke is the future. Second, it’s too damn far for overland transportation. Even with armed guards—speaking of drawing attention to ourselves—an ambush is possible. Third, we can’t bribe in a way that insulates us. The product will always be worth far more than bribes. Too much temptation. Fourth, too many people will know too much. We need to maintain control. I want a farm to arm operation.”
“I’m impressed, Alvaro. Are you taking lessons from Tyrone?”
“Fuck you and Tyrone. I’m going to get drunk. Tell Tyrone what I said and see if the Professor can do better on his second try.
“Also, we need an interim solution. I suggest we use ‘swallowers’ to keep moving some product. Tell Tyrone that each packer can carry between 700 to 900 grams. The mules generally want about two-thousand dollars to take the risk. You know, one condom egg ruptures and they die. We can work out details later.”
“Thanks, Alvaro.”
“Fuck you, Marcus.”
Tyrone thought of himself as a businessman. He owned two nightclubs on Fourteenth Street and a motel on New York Avenue, the northeastern gateway to the city, an area known to accommodate visiting male businessmen and tourists. All were good cash businesses, ideal for laundering the proceeds of his drug business. Also, he paid two pimps to keep the motel and nightclubs supplied with working girls. He chose his pimps carefully and enforced two ironclad rules: (1) No girls abused; and (2) No girls under eighteen. He even stopped by the businesses to interview the hookers from time to time. Not all of this was because he was a kind person. He had killed a few people, but took no pleasure in their deaths. Sometimes, death was necessary to protect his interests. Long ago, Jones delegatedcompliance enforcement to
Similar Books
