by Morton Bain
‘Hey, hey, I’ve just had a thought.’ Joey draws himself up in his seat. ‘What if we were to bring girls over from Colombia? Then we could get them to bring some really interesting packages!’
‘Yeah, but customs officers are going to be all over girls from Colombia,’ I say. ‘Coming in with little English and not much money.’
‘What if one of us travelled with them? Wearing our robes and stuff.’
‘Maybe,’ I reply. ‘Though personally I think we should keep the two activities separate. If our friends here can provide us with good quality product in good volumes, why look elsewhere?’ A sudden thought occurs to me. ‘I wonder what Courtney’s up to?’
‘Probably listening to those Rare Groove records of his with a huge bag of weed,’ Joey replies, stubbing a cigarette out. Smoke trails from his mouth like a dragon that’s given something a good blast. ‘I don’t really know why he gets involved in crime, to be honest. His needs are pretty simple – weed, music and the occasional woman.’
I laugh. He’s right. ‘You said he was introduced to you through some of your mob pals?’
‘No, they introduced me to Desmond, but Desmond got arrested before he could be useful. Courtney is Desmond’s brother.’
‘You trust him?’
‘As much as I trust you.’ Joey looks at me meaningfully for a few moments before slapping me on the back and laughing.
We turn our attention to the other three. They’re talking in Spanish, but switch to English when they realise we’re back. Even drug dealers can have manners, I guess.
Miguel says: ‘We were just talking about finding some women.’
‘Paid for or seduced?’ I ask.
Miguel gives me a confused look.
‘You talking about prostitutes?’
Miguel looks at me as if I’m totally dumb. ‘Of course! Much easier.’
‘I’m up for it,’ I say.
‘Not for me,’ Joey says. ‘I’m pretty beat. But don’t let me stop you guys . . .’
I look at the other three, their expressions indicating general willingness.
‘What are you going to do?’ I ask Joey.
‘I think I’ll head back to the hotel and get my head down. We’ve got a busy day tomorrow.’ He gives the Spanish speakers a knowing look.
The evening’s mild as the four of us stroll to a ‘place’ Jose knows of. At about half past ten it’s still early by Spanish standards, and I see plenty of kids out walking with their parents. The cafes seem full, as are most of the bars we pass. I wonder what the Spanish talk about during the seemingly endless hours they spend in drinking establishments. We stop at a set of pedestrian lights, waiting for green. Before we get the signal to walk a man crosses right next to us, timing his passage carefully to avoid being hit by a car. At first I pay him little attention, but then I notice his back, and realise it’s the same person I saw in the hotel foyer. What the fuck is going on? I want to follow after him, but as soon as I have this thought the traffic really piles up and I can’t cross. I lose sight of the man in the crowd on the other side of the road.
It seems I’m either going crazy, or Jake is in Vigo, shadowing me. Neither is a scenario I relish. I have an idea. I have Jake’s home telephone number saved on my mobile. If I ring it and he answers I’ll know I’m going mad, not about to be attacked. I begin to manipulate my mobile, trying to keep up with the others as I do so. They seem to have increased their pace, no doubt spurred on by desire. Jake’s phone rings for about a minute before an answerphone kicks in. Inconclusive.
The next day Jose and Miguel pick up Joey and I from our hotel. We climb into a brand new Land Rover and begin the twenty minute drive to our destination, a small village in the hills above Vigo called Rodondela. Leaving the outskirts of the city, and with the nose of the car firmly pointed upwards, we take new, EU-funded roads, through heavily wooded terrain comprising mainly pine and eucalyptus trees. The sun burns off cloud as we climb, and by the time we reach the village the day looks like it’s going to turn out fine. Down the village’s main road, a left and then a right, and finally we stop in front of large gates that guard the entrance to an impressive estate, dominated by a large neo-Colonial mansion. I half expect to see tigers on the other side of the gates. Jose gets his phone out and makes a quick call. Seconds later the gates are opened remotely.
A few minutes later we’re being given a tour of the grounds of Jesus’ property. The house is rented, he explains. No point tying up cash in something he can’t put on a plane, but why shouldn’t he enjoy the fruits of his labour? The villa is set back about fifty yards from the main gates, but to the rear of the property are landscaped gardens that extend at a downward angle for at least a hundred and fifty yards, terminating in well-established woodland. A large fountain, marble statues, a swimming pool – it’s ticking all the boxes as a drug-dealer’s lair.
‘What do the locals think you do?’ I ask Jesus.
‘They know but they don’t know,’ he replies. ‘There are plenty of houses like this in the area. All the same people live in them. I give money to local charity, employ people from the village, pay off some policemen. This makes for easy life. As long a no gunfights or murders, people leave me alone.’
‘You live here on your own?’ I ask.
Jesus chuckles. ‘No, my wife and two kids are here for half the year. I have people from my group in Colombia staying very much of the time. Security, two of them. Any burglar who try to rob me gonna be in for a big surprise.’
After walking the perimeter of the grounds – a perimeter made very clear by a high wall – we move inside. Jesus takes us to the room he calls his ‘office’ – about the size of most apartments, with lots of mismatched furniture, a huge LCD television bracketed to one wall, and four computers.
‘Sit down,’ he instructs us, pointing at several leather sofas. ‘You guys wanna drink?’
It’s at this point that I switch on the video record function on my iPhone, then discretely scan the room and its occupants. Call it paranoia, but I’ve long wanted a little insurance policy against death should Joey and I have a falling out. I let my phone continue to capture sound and image.
The drink orders come in, and Jesus opens a fridge that’s positioned against one wall. I sit next to Joey on one sofa; the two Spaniards share another sofa to our right, both facing another sofa that is separated from the other two by a glass coffee table. Glass clinks against glass as our drinks arrive, then Jesus settles onto the empty couch, the cushions sighing with expelled air.
‘Down to business,’ Jesus says. He reaches for an ornately constructed wooden box that rests on the coffee table and swings open its lid. Retrieving a bag of white powder – I’m guessing it isn’t icing sugar – he proceeds to empty a large pile of its contents on the glass top of the table. ‘This is the product. I can get you anything from two kilos to two tonnes. Available pretty much straight away. Try some.’ Jesus takes several short plastic straws from the box and places them on the glass. Taking a credit card from the same place he cuts up four fat lines.
Joey goes first, making plenty of noise as he vacuums up the powder, followed by Jose, Miguel and then me. Seconds after the powder hits my nostrils I feel like I’ve doubled in size and tripled in perceptivity. Everything is good. Everything. My life couldn’t be better if I’d just won the lottery. I put the straw down and grin at the others in the room.
‘Good, hey?’ Jesus says with a big smile on his face.
‘I haven’t had stuff like this since Miami in about ’89,’ Joey comments, wiping his nose. ‘What’s its purity?’
‘About ninety-seven percent,’ Jesus replies. ‘You never get a hundred percent. Ninety-seven is about as close to pure as you ever get.’
‘What’s the price for this stuff?’ I ask. The drug has made me chatty, and I’m talking where I’d normally stay silent.
‘Price depends on how much you take. Tell me how much you want and I’ll give you the kilo price.’
Jesus leans back in his seat, putting his hands behind his head. ‘One hundred kilo? I charge you fifteen thousand U.S. a kilo. Now if you take five hundred kilo, that price would fall to about eleven thousand.’
None of this means anything to me, but Joey’s pedigree as a lifetime crook becomes evident as he says: ‘That’s a good price. My old boss was paying that kind of money about twenty years ago . . .’
‘Of course it’s a good price. You can thank your friends Jose and Miguel for that. And I think we can do a lotta good business together in the future.’
‘Cash upfront?’ Joey queries.
‘Yes, unless you wanna leave your wife with me as a deposit.’ The Colombian laughs. ‘Not because I don’t trust you, but if you guys get busted that leave me with a problem.’
‘That’s fair enough,’ Joey says. ‘Just outta interest, how much would you charge to deliver that quantity to England?’
‘Wouldn’t even a try and do it my friend. My job is to get the stuff across the sea and to this place. The rest is up to you guys.’
‘Have you figure out how you going to get it back to England?’ Jose asks, looking at Joey.
‘Yeah, but for operational reasons I’m not going to tell you.’ He flicks a grin. ‘It’s not that I don’t trust you, but what you don’t know you can’t tell – even if you come under a lot of pressure to do so.’
‘That’s okay,’ Jose responds. ‘But if you want some tips or help, I can give. Miguel and I know the best ways.’
‘Thanks.’ Turning to Jesus, Joey says, ‘When can we collect? I’m going to hire a van tomorrow, and I’ve got the cash already. Can we do the transaction tomorrow?’
‘Get the van today,’ Jesus responds. ‘I call you when everything ready. Maybe tomorrow, maybe day after. You gonna pay in dollars or euros?’
‘Euros if that’s okay. I’ll convert at the exchange rate on the day.’
‘Dollars are better, but euros okay.’
Joey’s phone starts to ring. ‘It’s Courtney,’ he says, before answering. ‘Courtney, you fat cunt, you missing us?’ he asks. There follows an exchange that involves Joey saying ‘really?’ twice, ‘no way!’ twice and ‘wear a crucifix’ once. Joey puts the phone down and turns to me. ‘Seems that poltergeist is bugging Courtney’. He laughs.
‘It’s turned up at his place?’ I ask.
‘No, he’s housesitting at my place.’
‘The amount of weed he smokes I’d have thought the poltergeist would be too stoned to cause any problems.’
Joey looks suddenly serious. ‘That’s a fucking point. He better not be burning holes in my carpet or furniture . . .’ Breaking off from his domestic concerns, he says, ‘Sorry guys, just a call from someone in the U.K.. Okay, well the gear is good, the money is ready. You call me when the stuff’s ready to collect.’
We talk trivialities for a few more minutes, before walking with Jose and Miguel to the car and heading back to Vigo.
‘So how are you going to get the stuff back?’ I ask Joey back at the hotel. He’s followed me into my room and is standing in the bathroom, stroking his hair whilst staring at it in the mirror, ever vigilant against the appearance of grey hairs.
‘All taken care of,’ the American replies. ‘We’re gonna drive up to Calais and then Irish Jim’s gonna fly over and pick us up. The coke’s going to go into ten ten kilo tubes, and we’re gonna drop them over Jim’s farm near Colchester. He’ll then fly on to a little air strip near Dunmow, and that’s where we get off. The only risk is going to be the drive between here and Calais – and that’s low – and picking up the stuff from Jim’s farm – also pretty much zero risk.’
‘Nice. I didn’t know Jim had a plane.’
‘You didn’t know he had a farm either, but he does.’
‘You trust him to keep his mouth shut?’
‘As much as he trusts me to keep mine shut. He’s buying twenty kilos of the stuff.’
I begin to wonder why exactly I’m along on the trip. It seems Joey could have done everything without me.
We meet Jesus at his villa on a Tuesday morning. The following Thursday afternoon we’re flying low over the Essex countryside, preparing to ‘bomb’ Jim’s farm. Joey stopped at a big hardware store on the drive back from Spain and bought a whole bunch of large diameter plastic piping. Using a hacksaw he chopped it into two-foot lengths. Plastic-wrapped cocaine parcels were shoved into these, and the ends sealed with caps. The result is shockproof and waterproof missiles.
‘Get ready,’ Jim says over the radio. He cuts the speed of the plane and Joey slides back the window of the passenger door. I’m sitting behind the other two, and my job is to feed missiles to Joey.
‘Now!’ Jim says, and Joey launches the two tubes he’s been holding on his lap. As soon as the last one is out I lean forward with a third, which Joey jettisons. We get another two off before Jim says, ‘Okay, that’s it for this pass. I’ll bring her around again.’
The second pass seems to go smoothly, but after the last tube goes out Joey shouts ‘Fuck!’ loudly and turns to Jim.
‘What’s up?’ the pilot says.
‘I owe you a cow,’ Joey replies. ‘One of those bombs hit a cow on the head.’
Tumbling slowly, the cratered, potato-shaped mass of iron-nickel, cobalt and gallium drove forward on a course determined by gravity and chance. Travelling at fifteen miles per second, you might be forgiven for thinking the object was in a hurry to get somewhere, but this rocky lump has no destination, and had been travelling without arriving for over three billion years.
We’ll call this asteroid Albert. That isn’t a name an astronomer would recognise, but then the asteroid wouldn’t recognise the astronomer, and there isn’t an astronomer alive that is aware of Albert’s existence. Currently arcing its way through the sky some two hundred and fifty one million miles from Earth, it is occupying a position in the sky that is approximately half way between Mars and Jupiter. If Albert possessed self-awareness he might appreciate the significance this portion of this particular orbit held for the asteroid, as he was just a few hours from a momentous collision.
Chapter Thirteen
Joey gives me fifty grand for my help with the cocaine importation. I’ve never really had expensive tastes, but now I’m thinking I’m going to have to develop some. I’m also going to have to think of somewhere to hide all the cash I’m accumulating. There’s no way Lucy is going to believe my congregation have started giving five-figure sums on a Sunday. Talking of Lucy, the money I’m now making does make getting rid of her a bit easier. I can now afford to hire a live-in nanny – preferably one who does ‘extras’. The immediate priority, though, is Jake. Whether I was hallucinating my sightings of him in Vigo or not, I want to know soon that any future sightings of him are of his ghost.
How best to get rid of him, though? The inner psychopath wants to wield the blade himself, but I wonder whether that’s wise. I think of asking Joey to do it. He’s got bodies on him; he’s done hits. My worry is having anyone other than myself knowing about Jake’s fate. People talk. People can use information against you. I don’t like that. In the end I decide to go and do a bit of a stakeout. Keep an eye on Jake’s place and see if I can detect any sort of pattern to his comings and goings. I also want to see if he lives with anyone. That could be quite significant in making the final choice regarding the way I get rid of him.
That afternoon I hire a car, and the following morning it’s parked on the opposite side of the road from Jake’s house, with me inside it. The rental was a necessity – Jake will know what I drive – and I’m wearing a flat cap and shades in case he comes near my vehicle. Time passes. I read for a period. I watch a dog do a shit. I skip through
a bunch of radio stations. I’ve brought food and a bottle to piss in so I don’t have to leave the car. I eat the food. I piss in the bottle. After three hours there’s been no sign of Jake. I ring his home telephone number to see if I can catch him in, but it clicks through to the answerphone straight away. Fucking hell, I think to myself. Thank God I’m not a police detective having to do this on sort of thing on a regular basis. I wonder if cops are ever going to camp themselves outside my place, watching my comings and goings.
After about four hours of fruitless waiting I decide to risk getting out of the car and stretching my legs. I walk up and down the footpath for a few minutes before getting back into the car. It occurs to me that any local residents who have seen me sit in the car for the whole morning might well wonder what I’m up to. The last thing I need is for the cops to come and start asking questions.
At a quarter past four in the afternoon, just as I’m about to give up and go home, a car pulls up outside Jake’s place. There’s something familiar about the vehicle, but I can’t say what. Then the driver’s door opens, Courtney steps out, and it all becomes clear. ‘What the fuck?’ I say audibly. I hold the paperback I’ve brought up to my face, sink a little lower in my seat, and watch with disbelief as Courtney walks up to Jake’s front door. He hits the doorbell, and about a minute later the front door is opened by someone I’m ninety-nine percent certain is Jake.
My mind’s spinning as I stare at the spot on which Courtney had stood until being admitted to the house. What in the name of all the divinities that have ever been and ever will be, is that fucking Jamaican doing visiting Jake? My brain struggles for traction; there just isn’t anything remotely plausible about what I’ve just witnessed. After a couple more minutes of sitting in the car with my mouth open I realise the only possible way in which the two men could have got acquainted is by Jake making contact with Courtney. He must have figured out who my buddies and associates are. This realisation leads to further questions. What’s he trying to do? Why hasn’t Courtney told me anything? The whole thing reeks of treachery. How fucking lucky that I decided to turn up on this particular day.
