Brown Sugar in Minnesota (Cooper Smith Book 1)

by Joe Field

  Brown Sugar in Minnesota

  COOPER SMITH BOOK 1

  Joe Field

  Text copyright © 2016 Joe Field

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Mesabi Range Publishing

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  This is for my beloved family

  and the kindred spirits of the North Star State

  Chapter 1

  Red Lake Indian Reservation, MN

  It was a Friday night in early April when two hefty men from Minneapolis walked into the front entrance of the Red Lake Casino thirty miles north of Bemidji. Both men were in their mid-thirties. They dressed and looked alike with matching blue LA Dodgers caps angled to the side covering short black hair. They had brown eyes, prominent noses, and well-groomed beards from their favorite barber back home. They wore long-sleeved shirts that looked two sizes too small, baggy blue jeans held by thick leather belts, and heavy-duty Carhartt boots. One man chewed a toothpick while the other sucked down a cigarette. The man with the cigarette was slightly taller, but the man with the toothpick had a commanding presence about him. They swaggered through the casino’s lobby. They had been instructed to head to the back of the casino floor for the slot machines with the unmistakable picture of a redneck fisherman casting his rod to catch walleye casino-tokens. They would buy a roll of quarters, sit and play for a while, and wait for further instructions.

  The majority of the casino’s clientele were retired grandmas and grandpas spending their Social Security checks on the only entertainment around. Most were too mesmerized by their slot machines to notice the two strangers, but the ones who did see them stared until their slots started spinning again. The men found their designated machines and started putting quarters in. They watched as the walleye aimlessly spun round and round.

  After the third spin, the man with the cigarette leaned toward the other and said, “Hey, Jimmy, do you think we are the first two black guys to step foot in this casino or what?”

  “No, but I’m pretty sure we’re the only two black guys that grandma over there has ever seen,” Jimmy replied, pointing at a casino wall mirror reflecting an old woman gawking at them from a slot machine across the room.

  Both men snickered. “Are Smokey and Tank in position?” the man with the cigarette asked.

  Jimmy checked his phone and nodded. “They are ready to go. Are you?”

  “I’m ready,” his partner said. “Let’s just do it and get out of here. These Indian reservations give me a bad vibe.”

  “These reservations will make us all rich,” said Jimmy. “So get used to them, and let me do the talking.”

  Just as the man with the cigarette won a small handful of quarters, two tribesmen marched over and stood behind them. Jimmy could see in the mirror that they were of equal size and stature to him and his partner, Marcus. If people thought Jimmy and Marcus were brothers or twins, then these two guys were either identical twins or doppelgangers. Jimmy guessed they were about forty years old. Their long black hair was tied tightly into ponytails behind clean-shaven faces that revealed several nasty scars. Most likely knife fights, thought Jimmy. The one standing behind Marcus wore a long-sleeved, maroon button-up shirt with a bolo tie featuring a red eagle medallion and two feathers. The one behind Jimmy wore a tight red V-neck t-shirt under a black suit jacket with a red bear pin.

  “Are you the boys from the cities?” said the one with the tie on.

  “Yes,” answered Jimmy. He and Marcus turned their swiveling stools to face the men.

  “My name is Jason Red Eagle,” said the man with the tie.

  “Let me guess, that makes you Mr. Red Bear, right?” Jimmy asked the other man, somewhat sarcastically.

  “Yes. Matthew Red Bear, to be exact. How did you know…” His voice trailed off as Jimmy pointed to his pin.

  “I’m Jimmy, and this is Marcus.”

  “Where are the others? We were told there would be four of you.”

  “Change of plans,” said Jimmy. “Tell your boss that Smokey wants to meet him away from the casino so Grandma over there doesn’t burn holes through us with her eyes.” Jimmy pointed to the same woman who had been staring at him minutes before. “Or worse, we want to protect against the rare chance that you could be working with the police planning to get all of us on video making the deal.” Jimmy gestured toward the security cameras on the ceiling.

  “Going off-site wasn’t part of the agreement,” said Jason.

  “Too bad,” said Jimmy. “Either you get your boss and meet us outside by our vehicle, or we are out of here and you can kiss your profits goodbye.” Jimmy motioned to Marcus and the two stood up and started to walk away.

  “All right, hold on,” said Jason. “Let me call my boss quick. You guys wait outside – we will be there soon.”

  “We are in the black Cadillac CTS in the northeast parking lot,” said Jimmy.

  “We know,” said Jason and Matthew simultaneously, glancing up at one of the security cameras.

  “See my point,” said Jimmy. “We will wait five minutes, but not ten. So make it quick.”

  ***

  Exactly five minutes later, Jimmy and Marcus saw two red Ford pickup trucks heading straight for their car in the parking lot. Jason and Matthew were the drivers, and each truck had a passenger. Jason pulled up alongside the Cadillac with his window down, motioning for Jimmy to do the same.

  “Follow us,” said Jimmy, his window halfway down.

  “Let’s just do this here and be done with it,” replied Jason, glancing nervously at his passenger.

  It was dark, but Jimmy could see the second person in Jason’s truck was wearing a cowboy hat, which meant he was the boss – a ruthless local drug-dealer named William Kingbird. “We are going to drive just a little east of here to get away from all the cameras and grandmas,” said Jimmy. “It will only take us five minutes to get there.”

  Jason looked at his boss, who slowly nodded his head. “All right, let’s go,” said Jason.

  The trucks followed close behind the Cadillac as the group headed out of the parking lot and continued east along the deserted old reservation highway. After four miles, the Cadillac slowed, its headlights beaming on a second black Cadillac, this one an Escalade. Smokey and Tank were inside, parked across the road perpendicular to a bridge spanning Little Rock Creek. Jimmy pulled his sedan up behind the Escalade, covering the remaining open section of the bridge. The trucks crept to within fifty feet of the Cadillacs and stopped. All eight men jumped out of their vehicles and met in the middle.

  “Hello, Mr. Kingbird. It’s nice to finally meet you in person,” said Smokey in a booming voice. Smokey – whose real name was Tyrone Carter
– had received his nickname because of his uncanny resemblance to Smokey the Bear. He was a big, lumbering thirty-eight-year-old just over six feet tall. His frame was solid muscle over a chubby core, similar to the physiques of NFL defensive linemen. He had a beard that covered almost every inch of his face and neck. He wore a black leather jacket, baggy blue jeans, and Carhartt boots. Smokey commanded respect from his employees and associates by his large personality and charismatic presence. He was also known to be ruthless and unforgiving, although he had a softer, manipulative side, too.

  “Hello, Smokey. It’s nice to meet you, too,” said Kingbird. “But why the last-minute change of plans?”

  Smokey looked Kingbird over and noticed he looked every bit the stereotypical older native dressed in complete Western style, including the cowboy hat, Western button-down shirt, blue jeans, and cowboy boots. Kingbird was in his mid-fifties, and his long hair had a salt-and-pepper contrast to it. He wore glasses and was clean-shaven. He had a short, wiry frame and was well past his prime.

  “Sorry about the change,” said Smokey. “We need to be careful and discreet about our meetings. I am pleased, though, to be standing on the reservation owned by your proud Chippewa tribe. Hey, who is the kid?” Smokey motioned behind Kingbird.

  “This here is my boy, William Kingbird, Junior,” Kingbird said. The kid was a mirror image of his father, except that he looked around twenty years old. He even wore the same Western attire minus the cowboy hat. “He will be taking over the family business one day and should be included in these discussions. And these other two are my trusted employees, Jason Red Eagle and Matthew Red Bear.”

  “We look forward to working with you all,” said Smokey. “These are my employees – Jimmy, Marcus, and Tank.” Smokey had to point up when he said Tank’s name. His nickname was well earned – he was built like a M4 Sherman. Tank was likely the largest black man to ever step foot on the Red Lake Indian Reservation. He had a shaved head, thick beard, and a giant nose. He wore a matching windbreaker jacket and pants, and custom-made tennis shoes.

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Kingbird. “Now, let’s get down to business. You claim you can supply us with the purest heroin in the country. What’s your secret?”

  Smokey nodded. “Yes, we receive our opium from the best farms in Mexico via secret supply lines. I can import the goods safely without blemish to your reservation each month. We, of course, carry most of the risk, but our prices are still competitive. This allows our local dealers to turn a handsome profit. If you plan to deal for us, you must agree to provide our product to your customers in its most pure form. No dilutions. We call our product Brown Sugar. Think of it as the Rolls Royce of heroin."

  “How much for a kilo?” asked Kingbird.

  “One hundred thousand dollars,” replied Smokey.

  Kingbird shook his head. “One hundred K? I can get a kilo out east for $60,000 with no strings attached. I dilute that down to fifty percent purity and instantly double my profits.”

  “Yes, but your customers would be receiving a terrible product,” Smokey countered. “Don’t worry, though. We assume you’ll dilute the product, so we cut the kilo for you and have the single-dose packages ready to sell. They even have our Brown Sugar label on them. You give the finished product to your street-level dealers, and they will sell it like hotcakes.” Smokey smiled.

  “This arrangement is not going to work for us,” said Kingbird, raising his voice. “I’ve owned the drug market on this reservation for two decades, and I’m not about to cut my profits because a bunch of tough guys from the cities come up here and tell us they have a superior product. Our clientele doesn’t care about a Rolls Royce – they want a Ford Pinto. A quick and cheap high.”

  “You’re wrong, Mr. Kingbird. Your users will prefer our product once they try it because they will get the best high of their lives,” Smokey insisted. “You there” – he jerked his head toward Jason. “Come over here and try a hit of Brown Sugar.”

  Jason glanced at his boss. Kingbird nodded his permission. Smokey pulled a small brown bag out of his inside coat pocket and handed it to Jason. Jason brought it to the rear of his truck. He poured the bag’s brown contents down on a cutting board that he kept in a bin on his truck bed. He started to smash the heroin into a fine powder with the butt of his hunting knife.

  As Jason prepared the heroin, Smokey’s voice brought everyone’s attention back to him. “Mr. Kingbird, Junior, and Matthew. I think the three of you really missed out here. This could have been a big day, but greed got the best of you.”

  Kingbird scowled. “What are you implying?”

  “I’m just saying you guys missed the boat, or the canoe, or whatever the saying is up here on the res—”

  Three loud bangs in rapid succession from Jason Red Eagle’s assault rifle interrupted Smokey’s words. Three well-placed rounds hit the upper spines of Matthew, Kingbird, and his son. They slammed face forward into the gravel. They were dead within seconds.

  “Well done, Jason!” yelled Smokey. “We will have to start calling you Eagle Eye instead of Red Eagle from now on. Hurry up and help us throw the bodies into the creek so we can get out of here.”

  The dead were thrown off the bridge into Little Rock Creek, their bodies instantly lost in the darkness.

  “Now that we have those guys out of the way, here is your territory acquisition bonus and first kilo of Brown Sugar for you to sell to the network,” said Smokey, handing Jason a stack of bills bound together with rubber bands in one hand, and a duffle bag full of drugs in the other.

  “I won’t let you down, Smokey,” Jason promised. “I will make you a lot of money up here.”

  “That’s what I like to hear. Now, we need a solid forty-eight hours before anyone catches wind of what happened tonight. Do you think you can keep everything under wraps until Sunday night at least?”

  “You can count on me.”

  Smokey shook Jason Red Eagle’s hand, and the four black men got back into their Cadillacs and headed west to the next acquisition meeting on the White Earth Indian Reservation.

  Chapter 2

  Duluth, MN

  The Smith family reunion was held every year on the Fourth of July weekend in Lester Park in East Duluth. The summer get-together started five years before I was born, so this year marked the big thirtieth annual family reunion. It was a summer highlight with eighty to ninety Smiths in attendance, depending on the birth-to-death ratio the preceding year. Several standard events took place during the day, including the water balloon toss competition, cliff jumping into the river, and the dreaded name-draw known in the family as “the decision”. The decision consisted of placing the names of all the Smith family adults into a hat. Whoever had his or her name pulled was in charge of organizing the following year’s event. My name had yet to be called since I became a legal adult. Last year my younger sister Jill’s name was drawn, and she went all out this year. This included matching white t-shirts for everyone with the words got smith? in large black font on the front, and 30 years of milk mustaches on the back. We are required to wear them around town all weekend and pretend not to be embarrassed.

  Most of my family still lived in Duluth and would never leave, and I couldn’t blame them. I looked around the park at our huge family and started counting the number of Smiths who had moved outside of Saint Louis County. Just as I looked down at my hand to actually total them up, I saw a whizzing football flying my direction. I instinctively brought my hands up and caught it before it crashed into my nose.

  “Heads up, Coop,” called my cousin, Jesse, two seconds later then he needed to.

  “Hey, Jesse, nice throw,” I said, tossing the ball back at him. “When did you start throwing the pigskin like a Sally? Had you thrown the ball like that back in high school, we would have lost every game.”

  “Lucky for you I didn’t,” said Jesse. “I made a Greyhound hero out of you at East High with all those touchdowns I threw you.”

  “That’s
true,” I said, “but I had to make acrobatic catches every time you threw the ball!” I caught his next pass with one hand just for show.

  Jesse and I were born just three days apart on the sixth and the ninth days of November, respectively, in 1989. Growing up, Jesse liked to remind me how young I was compared to him. I didn’t mind being born after him – my birthday occurred on the same day as the fall of the Berlin Wall, which seemed fitting given my lifelong obsession with the news.

  All of the many Smith cousins grew up playing sports and games together in the Woodland neighborhood of Duluth. Eventually, Jesse became the starting quarterback at Duluth East High School, with me as his go-to wide receiver. We set a Greyhound school record in 2006 for the most touchdowns thrown and received that year. We both had illusions of grandeur about playing ball in college, but it didn’t work out for either of us. Seven years after high school, Jesse was still in decent shape. He was tall with an athletic build. He had sun tanned skin, brown hair, and blue eyes. He wore his got smith? shirt with black gym shorts and white sneakers.

  “Does the Sheriff have a gym up in Bemidji to keep you deputies in shape?” I asked.

  “Of course,” said Jesse. “I’m still jacking steel after all these years. How about you – does MPR have a tough-guys gym down in Saint Paul?”

  “Yeah, can’t you tell?” I said as I flexed my muscles.

  Truth was, I hadn’t kept in as good shape as Jesse after high school. I had stayed in Duluth and gone to journalism school at UMD, where the “freshman fifteen” quickly caught up with me. It took me three solid years of exercise to burn ten of the fifteen pounds off after college. I wasn’t as muscular as I was back in high school, but I still had a solid build. At exactly six feet tall, I was shorter than most of my brothers and cousins, but what I lacked in height I made up for in speed and endurance in athletics. I was a true Irish redhead growing up, but thankfully my hair had gotten darker over the years and was more brown than red now. And I hid the freckles on my cheeks behind a scruffy red beard. I wore glasses now, and I was a freak about my teeth, which were so straight and white they were more fit for television than radio.