by Betsy Poole
By the 2000’s heroin started to disappear and meth became the scumbag drug of choice. The biggest issue with meth and the Mexican cartels was that anybody could make it with common household items and cold medicine. Almost overnight literally thousand of independently run labs started popping up in the trailer parks of America, and the worlds #1 provider of illicit narcotics, the Mexican cartels, had no way of controlling it unless they started going into the United States and “regulating” the manufacture and sale of it. Most of the inland cartels wouldn’t dare try something so bold as invade the United States and take over the sale and distribution of a drug. But the Tijuana and Juarez cartels, well, they didn’t see a problem with it. These trailer park chemists were cutting into their bottomline, and they needed to be stopped.
So the Tijuana and Juarez cartels started doing little raids into California, Texas, and Arizona. They would track down labs and burn them to the ground. They would recruit cooks from the rink dinky operations and tell them: “Work for us and you’ll make millions. Don’t work for us, we’ll cut off your head.” Most choose to work. They even did this to pot growers. Within five years, they controlled meth and marijuana throughout the west coast and mid-west, which is where he got the bulk of his product. Sure, he had labs set up throughout Chicago to refine it and cut it, and do a little side manufacturing, but only a little. Because if Junior’s cartel contacts found out about his labs, they would come after him hard, and Chicago would be entirely under Mexican control.
Before I left, Junior had given me a burner phone with only one number programed into it for what he said was his former cartel man’s bosses. I’d been putting it off calling the number because God knew what they would do to me. I mean, I was a stranger, and I had no idea if Junior had put in a call to let them know I was coming or what. I hope he did, because I didn’t want these caballeros thinking I was drunk dialing them or something like that. Finally after taking a couple of quick shots of bourbon from my rooms mini-bar, I hit the number and then send.
The phone rang and rang for five minutes until I finally hang up. Maybe the number Junior programed into the phone was wrong, or maybe they’d changed it and I was calling some half-deaf grandma who was listening to her TV at top volume and couldn’t hear the phone ringing. I hung up and rushed into the bathroom and barfed up my drinks and the breakfast burrito I had snarfed that morning before getting on the plane. I was that worked up, and now I was just flat out relieved that I wouldn’t have to deal with the Arizona cartel. Junior would be disappointed, but screw it, he’d live.
But then the burner rang and I picked it up on the third ring.
“Who is this?” asked the digitally enhanced voice of the other end.
“My name is Larry McGee, I’m calling on behalf of …”
“We know who you are. We’ll meet you at the corner of Central and Van Buren at 12 pm tomorrow.”
Then they clicked off and I found I had a little more left in my stomach and rushed to the bathroom.
I ended up having to rent a car through the hotel because when I googled the corner of Central and Van Buren, I found out the cross section was nearly twenty miles away, and there wasn’t really any kind of mass transit to take me out to the spot.
That’s the other thing about most west coast cities that drives me absolutely bonkers—no reliable mass transit. Sure, cities like Phoenix and LA LA Land had trains and buses and what not, but almost every single one of the routes never really got you where you needed to be. They’d get you within a couple of blocks, but with the heat and pollution of Phoenix, who the Hell wanted to be walking around in that mess? I sure didn’t. So I rented a car with a nifty GPS built right into the dash and it had me to my destination in no time flat. The one thing I love about waistcoats cities are their freeway systems. No dealing with tail gating or bumble hump drivers who didn’t know where they were going. It was one of the main reasons why I didn’t own a car in Chicago, it was easier to just catch a bus or ride the EL and avoid the whole traffic mess.
My destination was the parking lot of a liquor store that a lot of drunks and homeless people seemed to frequent. I stuck out like a sore thumb standing out under the blazing noon day sun in my standard issue Italian suit and the drunks and bums kept hitting me up for cash and cigarettes. I shrugged them off and kept an eye on my watch. I’d gotten to the meet up point five minutes early because I wanted to see the cartel guys coming just encase they decided they wanted to take a shot or two at me. But if that happened, well, I was SOL. Even though I have my concealed carry permit because of my PI license, I usually didn’t carry a piece. It’s not like I’m anti-gun or any of that liberal nonsense, but I’ve found over the years that you can solve a problem a lot easier by just talking things through with whoever, and that a gun just tends to complicate matters. Plus, there was no way TSA was going to let me walk onboard a cross country flight with my glock tucked into my shoulder holster.
But it really didn’t make a difference that I had made it to the spot early, because the cartel guys got the drop on me. A couple of goons just walked up behind me ninja quiet, gently grabbed me by the arms and led me away from the liquor store and into the back of a nondescript white van that was idling behind the store. As soon as we were inside and the metal door slid shut, my new friends pulled a pitch black sack over my head and the van pulled away. We drove around for what seemed like an hour. I could feel the van turn left and right a few dozen times. They were either trying to confuse me about where we were going or they were trying to make sure they weren’t being followed, or both. They really didn’t have to worry about me, because I knew absolutely nothing about Phoenix other than my hotel and the freeway I had driven on to get to the pick up point, and I didn’t even know that very well considering that the in dash GPS had gotten me there. But I got it, they were just being careful like any bloodthirsty criminal would.
When we finally stop, I heard the door slide open, and I was once again gently removed from the vehicle and then sat on a hard metal chair. Despite their hard ass reputations, they were being surprisingly gentlemanly with me, it was actually kind of a pleasant ride other than the fact I was sweating bullets under my face mask. This of course all changed when they jerked the mask off and I found myself facing the single biggest Mexican I’d ever seen.
He was sitting, so I didn’t know how tall he was, but judging from the sheer muscle mass of his upper body, my guess was that he was clocking in at 250 or 275, and none of it was fat. It was all hard, prison built muscle tattoos covering virtually every inch of his frame. He was bald with a thin mustache, and his black eyes were cold and appraising. They were the kind of eyes that had seen the very worst in humanity and had probably perpetrated some of that horror they had witnessed.
What made the scene all the more scary was that were sitting in a warehouse that stunk of gasoline, sweat, and burning hair. And resting on the table in-between us was a four foot long machete. It looked like it was so sharp that my new friend could easily cut me in half and then go and cut through a dozen aluminum cans and then easily dice tomatoes for sandwiches after he was done. The bruiser slowly caressed the blade with his fingertips leaving smudges of condensation on the silver blade.
“So, my friend, my first question for you is, where’s Juan?” I was expecting this. I wasn’t expecting it to be the very first question, but I knew it was coming. “The last we heard of him he was looking into something for your boss and then he just up and disappeared without a trace. And trust me, that ain’t like Juan to just disappear without letting me know where he was going.”
“My employer actually has the same question,” I was trying to keep a tremble out of my voice and mirror the way my new friend was speaking. It was probably one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, especially since I couldn’t keep my eyes off of the machete. “He disappeared on us, too, and all we want to do is find him and make sure he’s okay.”
“That sounds very sweet of you, hermano. I like it
that your boss has taken such an interest in his whereabouts. Or maybe, maybe Junior just sent you out here to cover his tracks. Maybe Junior got mad at Juan for not getting him what he wanted and decided to hurt him for not finding it.”
“Junior would not do that. He values your partnership and the relationship you’ve built over the years. He knows that if he did something to disrupt that partnership that it would do nothing but harm his business. He is very fond of you and the money you make together.”
I might be a crude son of a bitch 90% of the time, but when I’m backed into a corner, I can be one silver tongued devil. My charm levels are usually at their best with women I’m trying to get in the sack, or if I’m about to piss myself because I’m about to be hacked to death with a machete.
“All we want, sir, is for our relationship to continue as it has been, and to find out where Juan is so we can continue working through him.”
The bruiser leaned back away from the blade—the first time he hadn’t been touching it since I was unmasked—and contemplatively stroked his thin mustache. We sat in silence for five minute and I could feel my bladder turning to jello. Finally he spoke.
“Okay, I believe you. I’ve known Junior for ten years now, and I know he wouldn’t do something like hurt one of my brothers. He maybe power hungry, but that fat bastard isn’t stupid, is he?”
“No, he isn’t.”
“The thing is, we don’t know where Juan is either. He’s just gone, no sign of him. And that’s just not like him. The man is a rock and a family man. He’s got a wife and eight kids, and all of them are going out of their minds.”
“I imagine.”
“I mean, I’m taking care of them until he comes back. But I’ve got a life, too. I’ve got a lot of things to handle and a lot of people to answer to back home. I don’t need Juan’s old lady calling me every couple of hours asking if we’ve found him yet. All this shit is frustrating, bro.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. Don’t get me wrong, I think Arizona is beautiful and all, but I really didn’t want to have to come out here to deal with this. I’ve got problems enough of my own.”
“Arizona’s a steaming pile of shit, bro. Do you think I actually like having to live here. I mean I can’t even go for a drive without having some yahoo cop pull me over because he sees a Mexican behind the wheel of a Mercedes. I want to be back home in Juarez with my wife and kids. But, you know, you’ve got go where the money is, and Arizona’s where its at right now.”
The bruiser was really starting to loosen up and my bladder was going back down to its normal size. But now I was going to have to get into the hard questions.
“Do you know what Juan was looking for for Junior?” I asked.
“Of course, I know everything my men are up to 24/7. He was looking into the emeralds.”
“Is that what you call it. In Chicago they call it Leprechaun.”
The big man laughed, “That’s figures with all those Irish motherfuckers in Chicago. Naw, man, we just call it that because that’s what it looks like.”
“So you have nothing to do with it.”
“I wish, man. That stuff is scarce, and from what we can tell it’s kind of like PCP, meth, and molly all rolled into one. Plus, we got our hands on a little taste a couple of months back and had some our nerds try to reverse engineer it from what we had. As far as we can tell, nothing in it is illegal at this point. Can you imagine the kind of money we would be making if our guys on the street were doing was selling that stuff. The cops couldn’t do nothing when they roll up and pull a search.”
“So you know what it’s made out of?”
“Kind of, man. There’s something in the mix that we weren’t able to identify at all. So what we basically made was nothing more than this kind sour candy that made all of our testers barf their guts out for 24 hours and not get high at all.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah, we were pretty disappointed and we needed up having to hack up the nerd who put the formula together. Freaking shame, too, he was good cook.”
I guess there wasn’t really anyway to leave the cartels alive.
“Is it any of your competitors, maybe? Do you think they’re just keeping it under wraps and trying to corner the market.”
The bruiser smirked.
“What competition, man. We’re it, and if anybody steps out of line or decides they want to start their own enterprise, well, we bring ‘em here and spend a few hours setting pieces of them on fire.”
Well, that explains the burnt hair and gasoline smell.
“Naw, maybe there’s a pot grower who works for one of the medical pot facilities who decided to fool around with some chemicals, but I doubt it. Most of those guys are all about the natural high thing.”
“Medical pot?”
“Yeah, you don’t know about that?”
“I’ve never really been a weed kind of guy.”
“Pot’s practically legal out here, bro. All you need is a medical marijuana card and you can buy as much as you want, and they give out those things to everybody, not just the people who actually need it like cancer patients. Pretty soon you’re not even going to need a card.”
“Really?”
“Yup. Times are changing, man. But my bosses, they just aren’t getting it, and they’re still expecting me to bring in the cash we’re losing because of the dispensaries.”
“That’s tough, because you’re business seems pretty cut throat.” I eyed the machete when I said cut throat.
“You have no idea, man. But what can you do? It’s either this or I’m picking oranges for some rich white guy who’s only paying me three bucks an hour. So you got any other questions before you head out of here?”
“Only one. Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”
“Ah, man, we don’t got a bathroom. You’re going to have to hold it until you get back to the liquor store we picked you up at.”
“That’s kind of a long drive. Don’t you think I could just go in the corner or something?”
“What are you sick, man? We’ve gotta work here,” this coming from a guy who just told me he burns people alive in this building. ”Like I said, just hold it.”
I was hooded again and stood up by the two sets of gentle hands that originally led me into the building.
“Hey, man, could you tell Junior something for me when you get back home?” He said, his voice seeming to come from a long distance away from me.
“Sure.”
“Tell Junior that if he don’t shut down those labs he’s running, I’m going to come up there and cut off his dick and make him eat it. You make sure to tell him that.”
“Yeah, will do.”
The ride back to the liquor store was just as long a drive out to the warehouse, and I can tell you, with as full as my bladder was, I think I may have preferred the bruiser had hack me up opposed to having to feel my guts sloshing around for an hour. The van dumped me in front of the liquor store and I dashed in and asked the cashier of I could use the toilet, and he, of course, told me that the bathroom was for employees only. So I did the only thing I could do, I dashed around the back of the store, unzipped and let it fly.
While I was pissing, a little old black lady came up to me bundled up in three different soled and stinking coats despite the 100 degree temperatures. She stared right at my business the entire time until I finally acknowledged her and she asked me for a dollar.
With my dick still in my hand, I fished around in my pockets and shoved a couple of twenties into her dirty hands.
With the cartel contacts being a dead end, I had to turn my attention to The Stills family out in Carefree.
Honestly, I should’ve just packed my bags and headed home after my meet up with Junior’s cartel boys, but I knew the real reason Junior sent me out here was to establish a connection with whoever was manufacturing the green drug, and my best bet was the Stills, especially since I discovered that young Michael was not only a doper, but also a chemistry maj
or who most likely had the know-how and the ability to create the drug. I knew it was a long shot that his parents would have any knowledge that their kid was involved with drugs of any kind—the parents are always the last to know in these kind of situations—but it was worth a shot. Besides, at the very least they could maybe point me in the direction of friend’s who might still be in the area, and maybe those kids would know a thing or two.
But first, I needed to unwind a little bit. After killing the entire stock of booze in my minibar—screw it, Junior was picking up the tab, so I might as well swill the $16 mini-bottles of Grey Goose—and then decided to head down to the pool/bar area of the Valley Ho. I, course, hadn’t brought any swim trunks, so there was no way I was going to be climbing into the pool, but the bar was still swarming with hard bodies. And, of course, I was wearing an Armani suit, which reeked of cash to throw around, so I thought my chances of hooking up were pretty high. In fact, I was 100% sure I would be bringing back a young lady back to my room.
The pool was just as jumping as the day I checked in, and I immediately hit bar. I decided to stick with vodka since that was what I’d started out with back in my room. $24 for a Grey Goose martini (By the way, the hotel bar only stocked Grey Goose. It was their well vodka, which was fine by me) and I had them charge it to my room. Within three drinks, an innocent young blonde who was bursting out of her string bikini sat down next to me and started pawing through her thick, slightly damp hair and batting her eyes at me. She was young, and if I had even been remotely close to sober, I would’ve blown her off. You see, I’m not a complete sleaze despite everything I’ve told you so far. I do have standards, and those standards are that I usually only date women my own age. The same rules apply to when I’m just looking for a one night thing.
