by James Cage
I say, “Little Rock, Arkansas, the Ramada Inn, it is on Highway 30 West. Check in before 2 PM on Saturday.” I hang up the phone because I am running out of change.
Rob is a rich young man. He lives from a trust fund, given to him by his grandfather. He told me that he receives one hundred thousand dollars per year. He is tall and blond. He is a drug dealer. He checked out the medical school and the drugs in Mexico. He chose the drugs. Rob would have to do his drug dealing in the United States because the Mexicans won’t deal with a blondie like Rob. They will only deal with a macho, like Tom.
Chapter 8
I arrive in Little Rock at noon on Saturday, the sixteenth of October. I park my car one half mile from the Ramada Inn and call the hotel from a phone booth. I ask for Mr. Loesser. The switchboard connects us and Rob says, “Come on over, I am in room 214.”
I walk over to the hotel carrying the gym bag. I enter the Ramada Inn through a side entrance. I have stayed at this hotel on three separate occasions. It is easy for me to find room 214. I knock at the door. Rob opens the door and I walk into the room. Tom Jenner sits on the bed, calmly watching television. There is a presidential campaign commercial on the television and I say, “Who is this guy, Jimmy Carter?”
Tom answers, “You are not surprised to see me are you, Jaime?”
I say, “You set me up to carry this stuff across the border. I figured that out when I found you had taken a leave of absence for the semester. Before that I thought you were killed.”
Then Tom says, “You were the only guy who could carry that coke across the border and get away with it. Rob and I were certain you would make it. My Mexican friends wouldn’t bother you. It was US customs that you had to clear and you did.”
I respond. “Well, I wasn’t so sure. I know the cocaine is odorless but just in case, I wrapped it in cellophane, cotton and sponge. There weren’t any dogs at US customs.” I then open the gym bag and place twelve socks on one of the beds.
Rob hands me four stacks of bills. There are twenty-five, one hundred dollar bills in each stack. I think four times twenty-five times one hundred equals ten thousand dollars.
Tom says, “The cocaine cost twenty grand in Mexico. This ten thousand is for you, Jaime. The entire investment equals thirty thousand dollars.” He repeats, “You just made yourself ten grand, Jaime.”
I answer, “Good enough.” But I think the cocaine is worth a lot more than thirty grand on the USA side of the border. Tom had told me months earlier that this amount of cocaine is worth forty to fifty thousand dollars wholesale once it is inside the United States.
In good spirits, Rob and Tom unravel the socks. They begin to weigh the coke on a small grocery store scale. I am watching them. They say that they will cut the stuff and distribute it in Chicago. Tom tells me, “This cocaine stepped on a few times can be worth at least a quarter million dollars on the street.”
I open my gym bag again. “Thud, thud,” speaks the gun. Two bullets rip into Tom’s skull. “Pop, pop,” Rob’s eyes are bloody holes. The last two bullets thud into the hearts of Tom and Rob. That completes the double murder.
I make a mental note that the silencer made by the artesian in Tlaquepaque caused a somewhat louder pop, thud sound than I expected. The .38 caliber long barrel revolver is recommended for its accuracy. It worked rather well.
I put the gun and money inside the gym bag and take a final look at the white powder cocaine and two bloody bodies lying on the floor. I close the door to room 214. I vacate the Ramada Inn from the opposite side of the building carrying the gym bag in my left hand.
On the road again, I reach the Mississippi River at Memphis, Tennessee. I drive down to the riverbank and throw the gun and silencer into the murky water. I decide to drive to New York. Maybe I’ll visit some relatives. Back on the interstate highway, I turn the radio on. The announcer states, “The New York Yankees and the Cincinnati Reds are playing in the World Series tomorrow.”
“Well,” I speak aloud, “I wonder how that will turn out?”
BOOK II: ASTRAL ANDY AND THE FUNNY BEAR
Chapter 9
Rome, Italy July 4, 1980
My cousin Nicky and I are drinking espresso while relaxing inside, the outside cafe of the Excelsior Hotel on the Via Veneto in Rome, Italy. It is the Fourth of July 1980, a very warm evening. Earlier in the afternoon the communists held a small demonstration in front of the American Embassy. Tonight, we sit and watch the pretty Italian girls walk by. The girls wear light summer dresses, blouses, have bare, shaved legs, and wear sandals.
Nicky says, “The girls don’t shave their armpits.” Then he says, "Northern Italians say Africa starts south of Rome.”
Well, tonight we feel the hot African breeze blowing through us.
More people pass by the café and suddenly I see him, the Funny Bear. He has changed somewhat. He must be over sixty years old. His curly, thick, dark, brown hair has become white. He looks strong as a grizzly bear. He stands six feet four inches tall and weighs two hundred thirty pounds of solid muscle. He has maintained a flat stomach. The lady with him is a mature young woman, early thirties. She is a knockout: flawless skin, blue eyes, dirty blond hair, and beautiful legs. She is tall, five feet eight or five nine. Perhaps she is a model or maybe an actress. Even though he has not looked in my direction, I know The Bear sees me. Nicky takes a long, long stare at the young lady.
“What a beautiful woman, how old do you think she is?”
“A couple of years older than I am,” I respond.
Suddenly, The Bear turns around, looks at me. He grins. I smile silently and nod back. The Funny Bear and the pretty lady walk away. I order two shots of Galliano for my cousin and me.
Nicky is taking an Italian vacation before he begins his final year of medical school in the United States. I am accompanying him. After drinking the whiskey, we return to the Hotel Quattro Fontani. It is a second-class hotel. We have a small room without air conditioning. Nicky goes to sleep.
I open a marbled color composition book and write the following:
Chapter 10
Mexico City, July 4, 1971
Stella Maris Hotel, Mexico City, July 4, 1971. I am in the dining room having dinner: steak, beans and salad. The book I am reading is The Third Eye by T. Lobsang Rampa. A really big man and a brown skinned, well-built Mexican girl are seated at the table across from me. I think. “What a fine looking Mexican girl she is.”
The big man gets up, walks over to my table and says, “Are you into astral projection?”
“No,” I answer. “I am interested in comparative religions. I am not sure the author of this book is a Tibetan monk as stated.”
“Why is that,” says the big man.
“Because the author mentions God and Buddhists do not believe in an all-powerful God.”
The big man asks, “Do you believe, the author, Rampa can astrally project himself to wherever he wishes?”
I respond, “Maybe he can, but I really don’t know anything about astral projection.”
Next he reaches out an extra-large hairy hand, “My name is George Foster.”
“My name is Andy.”
“Andy, are you on a Mexican holiday?”
“Yes,” I answer.
“Well, sit and have dinner with Marta and me instead of being alone.”
“No thanks, I’m finished with dinner.”
“Then have an after dinner drink and a cup of coffee with us,” says George.
Feeling a bit lonely, I accept the offer. I drink black coffee with George and his companion, Marta. I tell him my name is Andrew Jackson Como. I wanted to say Stonewall Jackson or Perry Como but it came out, Andrew Jackson Como.
George has a British accent. After some conversation, he invites me to accompany him to a gun club at 10 AM tomorrow morning. I think this is strange.
“George, I have not shot a gun since I was seventeen years old.”
/> “About five years ago?” He questions.
“Yes, exactly,” I answer.
George says that he can teach me to shoot targets. He asks if the glasses I am wearing are for reading or do I need them all the time.
I say, “I am near sighted and need glasses all the time but I can read without them.”
“That’s fine,” he answers.
The following morning at the gun club, George teaches me how to use a Remington model 40X, single shot, .22-caliber rifle. When I was a teenager, my friends took me to a target range. They taught me how to shoot with a target rifle similar to this one. This morning George shows me how to sight the target, point the weapon and squeeze the trigger. After four shots, I finally hit a bull’s eye on the fifth try at 100 meters.
George takes me to a local restaurant for lunch and begins to ask me questions.
“Are you a draft dodger Andy?”
“No,” I answer. “I have a high draft lottery number. I don’t think I will be drafted.”
George wants to know more about me. So I tell him honestly. “I graduated from college in June. If I were drafted I would go into the army without hesitation but I am not the volunteer type. I don’t want some Sergeant yelling orders at me all day. I have no political points of view concerning the war in Vietnam.”
George keeps asking questions. He says, “Do you enjoy traveling alone in Mexico?”
“Yes, I can go where I want, when I want. I may visit the Mayan ruins in southern Mexico and in Tikal, Guatemala. Then I shall go home.”
“Where is your home?”
I tell George, “I live with my grandmother and my cousin Nicky in New York City.”
“Do you have a job, Andy?”
“When I get back home, I’ll look for a job as a general elementary school teacher or a high school biology teacher. However, I would like to stay in Mexico for a semester to study Spanish at UNAM. You can see the university over there.” I point my finger toward the school.
He says, “Would you like to make a decent amount of money.”
“Depends on the type of work involved,” I respond.
George answers, “You can be a private teacher for a couple of children. But the job entails that you also know how to protect them? I can personally teach you how to use a gun. My friends can teach you martial arts and other methods of protection.”
“You mean I would also be a bodyguard.”
“Yes.”
“How much money would I be paid?” I question.
“Twenty thousand dollars,” says George.
“When can I start?”
“It will take eight to ten weeks to train you as a bodyguard.”
“I cannot tell my grandmother, I have a job as a bodyguard.”
“No of course not, you can tell her that you are taking a two months course in Spanish. I can arrange a post office box for you here, in Mexico City. I can have your letters postmarked from Mexico City and have letters from your family brought to you at my ranch in Guatemala.”
I say, “Guatemala?”
George says, “You wanted to go see the Mayan ruins in Tikal, my place is better. If you do not like the training you can leave. Or, if I feel you don’t have the ability to perform the job, I shall discharge you. Here is two thousand dollars.” He hands me an envelope with cash inside.
George continues, “I shall give you eight thousand dollars at the end of your training and another ten thousand dollars when the job is completed. All expenses, travel and living are covered.”
I did not have to think about this. Twenty thousand dollars is a fortune to me. “Ok, I’ll do it but if this does not work out, do I keep the two thousand dollars?”
“Yes, you keep the two thousand and I shall pay for your plane ticket home,” answers George.
“What happens if I get killed when I am working as a bodyguard?”
George says, “Our employers will send your grandmother a check from a life insurance company in the amount of twenty thousand dollars. She will get a document stating you died in an accident and your body was cremated.”
“Ok,” I answer.
I figure George has been observing me at the hotel. I arrived two days ago. The only things I have done since arriving in Mexico were to visit the National Autonomous University of Mexico (UNAM) and go to a movie.
I saw the film Ulysses starring Kirk Douglas. It was dubbed in Italian. Or maybe it was originally made in Italian and dubbed in English. I don’t know. I am sure George knows that Andrew Jackson Como is not my real name.
Arrangements are made to leave for Guatemala in two days. George asks me for my passport. He says he will supply me with another passport and I will get my original back when the training period is over. I give the passport to him.
George asks, “Do you want Andrew Jackson Como on the new passport?”
I say, “Whatever name you want, put on it.”
The next evening I receive my new passport. My new passport is British. My name is James Andrews. My place of birth is Toronto, Canada. I am one year older. The picture is exactly the same as on the original passport picture. I have a visa for Guatemala. The plane ticket is Mexicana Airlines one way to Guatemala City.
Chapter 11
Guatemala
I arrive with George and Marta at La Aurora Airport in Guatemala City. Two guys pick us up in a large Jeep. Luke Two is one guy. He is around thirty years old. Luke is thin, wiry and slightly oriental looking. He says that he is a Filipino Greek. The other guy is a black dude. His name is Johnny Walker. John is as tall as George but thinner. John appears young but is close to forty years old.
George points toward me and says, “This is Jaime.”
We drive onto the main road. The city has low buildings and I don’t get a good view. The countryside is hilly with banana and coffee plantations. The colors of the mountains are green and dark brown.
We pass through the gates of a ranch. Above the entry gate are the words SAMBALANGA RANCH. I shall be staying here. The size of the ranch is one hundred hectares or two hundred forty acres. The location is twenty kilometers northeast from central Guatemala City. It rains every day. It is warm and humid. There are horses, cows, barns, corrals, and storage silos. There are fields of corn, coffee and fruits. There is an outside shooting range with stationary targets.
A large building with a small gym, meeting room and dining hall is located a few meters east from the main ranch house. There is a wood burning stove in the kitchen of the dining hall.
The main ranch house is in the middle of the estate. There is a new electrical system and telephone service is provided. George Foster, the owner of the estate, lives in the main house with his girlfriend Marta. She goes back and forth to Mexico City every two weeks. She brings back small personal items including mail posted to Mexico City. At times George uses a short wave radio for communications instead of the telephone.
A motel type building with a water tower is the next building east of the dining hall. I live alone in one of the motel rooms. The contents of each room are exactly the same: one single bed, a desk, chair, electric lamp, kerosene lamp, and bottled water. The electricity does not always work and I use the kerosene lamp to read in the evening. I have a private bathroom with a shower. The hot water never gets hot. Maids change the towels every day and the bed sheets once a week. Luke Two and Johnny Walker live in the rooms on each side of me. Five other men live in the motel. Three are young men: Alan Sinclair, his brother Paolo (Paul) Sinclair, and Marcos diRandi. There are two older men who are instructors. They are The Colonel and The Major. I assume they are all advanced bodyguards. A better word is mercenaries. I am the only novice.
At the opposite end of the finca, there are Guatemalan workers living on the estate in a similar motel type building. The workers call George, “Oso Sonrisa,” or Grinning Bear. My translation is Funny Bear.
Chapter 12
<
br /> September 2, 1971
It is Thursday, the second of September, 1971. I have been on this ranch for nine weeks. George personally trained me. He taught me to use the Remington 40x, .22-caliber target rifle. He showed me how to shoot an AK47 machine gun, with thirty rounds in the magazine. George told me to use the machine gun as a semi-automatic weapon and squeeze the shots one at a time. He also taught me how to shoot a single shot sniper rifle with scope. This weapon had no markings on it.
He said, “This sniper rifle is a Russian Dragunov. The cartridge is 7.62mm by 54. It is different than the cartridge used in the AK47 machine gun, which is 7.62mm by 39.
George the Bear taught me to adjust the scope on the sniper rifle starting at twenty-five meters and ending at three hundred meters. If I did not hit the target dead on at one hundred meters, I had to adjust by four clicks per inch (2.54 centimeters) to the right or left when I missed the bull’s eye. He said any real shooting I may do, would be under two hundred meters or around two hundred yards at maximum. The scope on the sniper rifle made it easy to hit a bull’s eye after a small adjustment. George also taught me to shoot a Smith and Wesson .38 caliber, long barrel policemen’s special. George carried a Colt Model 1911, Commander .45 caliber semi-automatic pistol with seven rounds in the magazine. George taught me how to shoot the pistol but I did not get one for myself.
During the summer, all the young mercenaries: Alan, Paolo, Marcos and I would meet in the gym for physical training. We would spend two hours each day learning boxing, judo and karate techniques. Some of the street fighting, methods were extremely vicious. Johnny Walker was the physical training instructor. Luke Two was the instructor for knife fighting. The Major was our Spanish instructor and The Colonel taught us how to use a ham radio.
Tonight George calls me into his office. He opens the dossier of my life and proceeds to read it to me.
“You were raised in New Jersey and New York. You graduated college in Jersey City this past June. You were an average student. Your father died of cancer in 1965. Your mother, her brother and his wife died in an automobile accident on the New Jersey Turnpike in 1968. Now you live with your Grandmother and your younger cousin Nicky in a Manhattan apartment complex located at First Avenue and East Fifteenth Street. It was your cousin Nicky’s parents that were killed in the accident with your mother. Your Grandmother is an elementary school teacher and your cousin Nicky is a high school student. You have two close friends. One enlisted in the Navy and the other enlisted in the Marines. You like girls but never had a steady girlfriend. You are a loner by nature. You have one uncle from your mother’s side that lives in California. He is a very successful businessman. You have another uncle from your father’s side of the family. He lives in Brooklyn where he owns a bar. He is connected to organized crime. He served two years for a double manslaughter from 1967 through 1969.
