by C. S. 96
Again the four men looked to me for direction. I moved to the driver who was now also focused on me through hyperintense eyes as if I were sending him on a secret mission that would potentially end the war or his life. I pointed to the rear tires. “We need to remove both of them, then release the air and pull them from their rims.” The driver did as told without any further questions or attempts at humor. The two customs guys, assuming their work was complete, found a nearby pickup truck, released its rear hatch, lit up cigarettes, and chatted like they were at a tailgate party.
Tim and Al stood rigidly, arms folded, watching the driver move between an industrial jack and a hydraulic lug remover at breakneck speed. He had both tires flattened and the wheels off the car in less than three minutes. He impressively carried both of them to his truck, which was equipped with a tire remover. As he placed the first one on the machine’s pedestal I slowly slunk backward, leaning on a car. I pulled my handkerchief out, swabbing the sweat off my face and neck. The driver jammed a jack in between the rubber and the rim, turning the mechanism on, and within ten seconds I heard him pop the tire off the rim.
Tim Dowling snapped rather loudly at the poor unsuspecting driver, “Back away.” He and Al both aimed their flashlights into the interior of the tire, then Al frantically ran his hands around the inside. He looked at Tim as if he were delivering a death notice, and they then both turned to me stone-faced, a look I never wanted to see from them again.
I was almost ready to leave, but out of desperation I asked the driver to look at the other rear tire. When the next didn’t work, Al’s and Tim’s shoulders drooped in defeat. I felt the pit widen in my stomach. There was a moment of complete silence; even the chatty customs guys now just sat on the back of the nearby pickup, staring. “Okay, okay!” I said. “He must’ve gotten the wrong info on the tires, must be the front two, pull those off.” I knew at that point that I’d been screwed—Tony had caught on to me; what made me think I could fool him?—but I needed to buy some time and figure out my next move.
The driver moved to the front of the car with a little less Rommel in his step. This time when he’d rested the tires on the tire pedestal, I moved in close. I wrapped my arms around myself tightly, watching the man jam the tire iron between the rubber of the tire and its steel rim. He clicked the mechanism on and it wobbled to life. After what seemed like an eternity I finally heard that familiar pop. The tire was loose. Nothing came free from within! SHIT! I thought to myself, NO! Neither Tim nor Al even expressed interest in looking at it.
I ran forward, flashlight aimed on that damnable tire’s innards. I looked inside while furiously banging the outside of the tire hoping, actually pleading with the gods for the packages to miraculously appear, shooting out from within the black hole like a slot machine paying out—DING! DING! DING! TRIP GOLD BARS—your payout sir, twenty kilos!
Nothing! And worse, no familiar packaging on its interior, just more of the same—black rubber.
I froze, caught up in a swirling typhoon of embarrassment and dejection. I wasn’t giving up, because this was just too inconceivable. I ran my hand inside the tire just as Al Harding had done, and to my surprise it didn’t feel like the smooth innards of a tire, it was rough.
Odd, I thought.
As I ran my hand along circumference inside, the whole interior of the tire felt rough with gaps in between.
Okay, okay, promising!
No one came near that tire, all expecting the same results. A symphony of silence ensued as they all watched the schmuck who had been taken by the bigger kids on the block, the schmuck who wouldn’t admit defeat under any circumstances, who would actually try and will those kilos to be inside that black hole.
The agents and customs guys looked away like embarrassed parents.
And then—suddenly—I came across the tiniest of clues; it felt like a thin rubber flap about an inch in width and diameter.
Please tell me this IS NOT an irregular Taiwanese tire, PLEASE!
I started breathing harder, faster, could this be something, anything?
I pulled on it as hard as I could and whatever it was gave a bit, then one more tug freed something lose in my grip. I couldn’t believe it!
Holy shit; I turned to Harding and Dowling, my face must’ve read—JACKPOT!
I pulled and continued pulling, feeling an epoxy-like bond snapping this thing in my hand away from the inside of the tire. There it was, a long thin black rubber package, sticky on one side to hold it in place.
This was something I’d never seen before, but it was ingenious. The sudden realization hit me that the customs people were about to encounter a lot more trouble than they had the hour before.
The package resembled a money belt, though there were no zippers or straps, and inside it was stuffed with pure cocaine.
Al and Tim stood in stunned silence.
We pulled out thirty-nine more “money belts,” a perfect way to describe them because those odd-looking pieces of rubber were worth a hell of a lot of money once they were unloaded and processed, twenty kilos in all.
The two customs agents were suddenly our best friends, whipping out a camera to take photos of the unusual booty, the six of us holding onto all forty packages in every pose imaginable.
Before we packed up to head back to the base, one of the customs guys said, “Holy shit!” We all turned to look at him; he was aiming his flashlight at the manifest, staring at it with a look that was filled with both exaltation and horror at the same time.
I said, “What? What’s wrong?”
He looked up at all of us and said, “This car was slated for auction tomorrow morning at 9:00 A.M.”
There was a collective silence, and then we all broke out laughing one last time.
Can you imagine the expression on the poor man or woman’s face that purchased the vehicle if they went in to change the tires and the skillfully packed cocaine was found? How do you explain that to your local mechanic—let alone the cops or dozens of federal agents suddenly surrounding you at the local Pep Boys?
That night was one I was certain to never forget because it marked the beginning of something special. My excitement in pulling that small load of cocaine out of those tires gave me more spirited elation than anything I’d ever done.
I’d brought tractor-trailers of cocaine, literally tons of it, on one single-haul into the United States and felt no rush—just guilt for the harm I did to people and fear for my family. But finally being on the other end of that business was like being reborn.
It was time to take Tony out of the picture for good. And now I had my bona fides to get the manpower I’d need to do so. We were on our way to organizing some of the biggest busts in the history of the DEA.
Before we headed back to our base in Ramona, I used a pay phone to call Inez. I’d made a promise to her that before and after we did this operation—or moved forward on any operation—I’d call her to let her know what we were about to do, and she’d say a prayer for me.
I told her what happened, and I just couldn’t help myself: I began to cry because, as I told her, the whole experience was like a second baptism for me. I felt like a different man, as if so many more weights had suddenly been lifted off my shoulders. I told her I was safe and that I loved her.
Inez began crying as well. We were two blubbering adults marveling at the fact that I’d just stolen twenty kilos of cocaine from some of the most dangerous men on the planet. “It took some time to find your way,” she told me, “but you did. You can help in this ugly fight. And as happy as I am, I’m happier for you, baby.”
Walking back to the unmarked vehicle, I felt incredible euphoria, combined with the oddest feeling, like some sort of immutable déjà vu, that I’d done this before. I’ve always believed that before we are born we are all predestined in life to do certain things, and it’s our job to find out what those are. I felt as if I’d finally found mine.
The next target in my sights was Tony Geneste, the man who�
��d come to me when things were bad so many years ago with an idea to make money in running drugs. It was time to tear to the ground those bridges that had ever connected me to this business, that had wrought nothing but havoc on my life and so many others.
The Demise of Tony Loco Tony
The next morning, all the team members—including me, now a full-fledged band member of the Alliance Task Force, aptly named for the pairing of two agencies, Customs and DEA—were to meet at the base in Ramona at 10 A.M. sharp.
On this trip I decided to drive my Range Rover up that steep craggy mountain trail. I was still very cognizant of any tails that might be on my ass, so after forty-five minutes of circuitous maneuvering, doubling back and then returning to my house, I parked my Mercedes in the circular driveway fronting my home. I then went through my house into the enclosed backyard, into the pool house, and out a back door that led to a six-and-a-half-foot retaining wall separating my property and my adjacent neighbor’s property. I scaled and hopped over the wall, no easy task in a pair of TOD’s driving loafers, a silk shirt, and thin gabardine pants. I then furtively made it to the adjacent street, finally driving off in my Range Rover, which I had previously parked there in the middle of the night. I was pretty certain I was clean, though I would remain vigilant.
I got to the base with fifteen minutes to spare and, surprisingly, the men were already at their usual workstations.
The first thing I noticed was the large whiteboard I’d requested from Harding the night before. There it was, now, covering up the rogue’s gallery photo array of me living my life, unaware of the feds watching me.
Upon seeing me enter, Harding, Dowling, and Capella jumped from their banker chairs to greet me, cheering as if I’d just driven in the winning run of the World Series.
It turned out that we’d pulled more powder than any Alliance mission in two years. The team was ready for our next move.
I didn’t waste any time. I stood in front of the whiteboard and arranged the men in a semicircle around me so I could lay on them one of the biggest multi-state, multi-agency seizures they would ever make, and all in one very coordinated swoop. We were going to need the cooperation of multiple law enforcement agencies, both federal and local, as well as judges, cops, and agents in four different states, one law enforcement–unfriendly European country, and a Caribbean island with very lenient banking standards. The agents asked me question after question, and when I’d finally satisfied them, we all decided we were in.
I hadn’t heard from Tony, Hector, or Raul in almost a week, which seemed unusual, especially after Tony’s emotional breakthrough phone call to me.
But I couldn’t think about them all day and night. Instead, I recorded what I’d learned about Tony and his organization in the book I’d been keeping for years, recording all the details about how we pulled off our crimes, as if knowing that someday I’d flip. Whenever I uncovered a new piece of information on Tony, Hector, or any of the key players in the Beltrán organization, it went into that book. Call it insurance, call it payback, call it a way out.
Collected in the book’s pages were the addresses for every one of Tony’s safe houses, for his secret club in Washington Heights, his bank account numbers where he secretly hid the bulk of his very substantial holdings; some were offshore and some were in friend and family names.
I produced the book for the men and I explained, “Guys, as good as last night’s rip was, this next one is going to blow all of you away, including your bosses and probably their bosses.”
Tim Dowling laughed, “Well, Roman, you really don’t know our bosses.” The rest of the men started to laugh, even Pete Davis.
I laughed along. “Inside this book I have every one of Tony’s safe houses where he has been stockpiling drugs, guns, and a lot of money for years.”
I noticed all of the men sit up, eyes waiting for more. “Now the issue is they’re in places scattered around the country—San Diego, Los Angeles, Detroit, New York, Long Island, and in some cities there are more than one or even two locations—and the minute he knows a spot has been hit, he has contingency plans for the caretakers to move the material to other spots, some of which I might not know about. So to pull this off, we need to hit all of his spots at the same time.”
Tim and Al stared at each other for a long moment. I could see that in his mind Capella was already hitting the spots in California himself. He actually looked high, eyes suddenly glazed over with anticipation.
Tim said, “Roman, what exactly are we talking about?”
I didn’t understand the question.
Al said, “What he means is how much material are we talking?”
I thought about this, even though I had been thinking about it for a long time. I knew, pretty much to the penny, what Tony had skimmed because it was my job to know how much material we brought in, how much we sold, how much we owed back to the Beltráns, how much we owed to all our workers, and what he owed back to Hector and myself. And invariably, for the past ten years, he was skimming from Hector and me between 10 and 20 percent of both the drugs and the money passing through us. I never said anything because this was Tony’s business that he started. If anyone should’ve noticed and said something it was Hector. I hadn’t realized until that day we were all locked in a hotel room with the Beltráns that Hector was skimming too, and that was why he managed to keep so quiet about Tony’s antics.
I told Al we’d be looking at between a million to two million dollars in each spot if we busted Tony. Now that could be all cash or a combination of cash, uncut hard drugs, plus a lot of marijuana. Some spots might be all coke, heroin, or weed. How he decided which spots hold the material versus the cash or both together I didn’t know.
It wouldn’t be easy to round up all Tony’s inventory. In fact, getting in the houses safely would be nothing short of impossible. Tony always had a crew of men on hand who he had supplied with weapons. And I’m not talking pistols, I’m talking heavy, military-grade artillery. If he entrusted this amount of material to someone and they didn’t die fighting for it, they would surely end up dead once they’d delivered the news to him that they’d gotten ripped.
“We get the point,” Al said.
All the men were pinned back in their chairs, thinking about the meaning of a $16 million haul. I thought about what we’d find on top of all of that: a cache of weapons I’d seen with my own eyes that were surely tied to multiple homicides, closing out even more cases.
No one was smiling, which I hoped was because they were anticipating all the moving parts that were needed with an operation like this one, but also the danger they were placing other cops and agents in. The worst part about it was that our team would lose tactical control everywhere outside of California.
I never doubted it would be worth it, though. Not with the suffering and dying of the consumers of Tony’s goods, his dozens of girlfriends and mules—often the same women—the murders he’d piled up in the course of a ruthless, drug-fueled life. And now taking Tony out would be necessary for my own family’s protection.
I had to stay on point with these guys because my life truly depended on these men taking this rip seriously. I said, “There’s more—”
Mike Capella laughed, cutting me off. “Of course there is. Please enlighten us!”
I flipped to one of the pages in my book, turned to the whiteboard, and wrote six bank account numbers, along with bank names and the names of the people assigned to those accounts—all of them guardians for one person: Tony Geneste. Next to each account I wrote a number, added together a sum of $42 million, Tony’s little nest egg or “get-the-fuck-out-of-the-country money.”
In the hands of a very street-smart killer, $42 million was more dangerous than any weapon. He would know how to disappear for good, and from wherever he was he could have others disappear without lifting a finger to do anything, not dial a phone or tap a keyboard. Knowing where he was and where his money was stashed, that was power. And as long as those safe ho
uses remained I knew Tony was somewhere in the continental United States. Losing him was a totally unacceptable scenario from where I was sitting.
I turned back around and I could see the realization forming in each man’s eyes. I said, “Yes, all Tony’s. The accounts with his name are offshore accounts, one in the Caymans that is linked to a bank in Geneva. The others are friends and family, dummy or dupe accounts, we call them ‘Muldoons.’”
Mike Capella, for a change, asked quietly, “Should we ask how you got that information?”
I quickly answered, “No. But they check out—that I’m certain of.”
Mike continued, “Crime sure does pay, huh, boys?” He laughed. “Until now.”
Tim Dowling said with a big smile he couldn’t conceal, “Well, it certainly has been an interesting couple of days.” He thought a moment then continued, “Roman, if all of these spots are a hit-in-one rip, don’t you think he’s going to know you were the one who gave them up?”
I told him the same thing I had said to Inez: “Tony has no idea I know about these spots, nor does he know that I’m aware he’s been skimming. So what would be my motive for taking out what essentially were my own spots?”
Then Harding asked, “Well, how did he justify money coming back to you short when it came time to pay you for your…” He had trouble finishing the question. I suppose there was still that awkward chasm between me and these battle-hardened agents. Who was I to be asking them to risk their lives? Did they fear I was a scummy drug dealer looking to beat the system? In a lot of ways I was the very epitome of everything going to shit in this country they were born and raised in. Deep inside I knew I wasn’t their equal—not even close. But I wanted to be regarded as a partner. I knew it was going to take a long time and a lot of scores before I’d be looked at that way.
