The Other Side of Bad (The Tucker Novels)

by R. O. Barton

  Someone kicked my leg under the table. Wearing the boots was a good idea.

  This familiarity between Rachael and me was perplexing, to say the least.

  After the meal was consumed and the dishes stacked into the dishwasher the four of us were back in Carr’s office. This time, more to the front of the room, closer to the door. We were seated around a coffee table sized slab of stone, on legs of twisted iron. Rachael and I sat on a couch that looked and felt like worn saddle leather. Carr and LeCompte were seated across from us and the table, in individual chairs that matched the couch.

  On the table was a large, thick manila envelop.

  Carr started this little meeting with, “Tucker, before we talk any more business, there is something I would like to ask you about.”

  “What’s that?” I asked, thinking that whatever was coming would probably be a curve or a knuckle ball.

  “In the interview with Robbie Gray, he mentioned something that was curious to me. He said to ask you how you got the cop to pay the money he owed you. Listening to the tape, it sounded as if he didn’t know, and wanted to. Now, I want to know.”

  My stomach did a full barrel roll, endangering my Etouffe’e. This was a baggage car I had sealed and welded shut.

  Shreveport, La., 1973

  In the process of getting rid of the extra pounds of pot I’d persuaded the Miranda brothers to give us as compensation for their miscalculation of our ability to protect ourselves, I developed my own network of dealers. They wanted quantity and quality.

  Around three months after the first run, I made one more for Darvoyce. It was the same crew, Robby Gray, Phil, Allen, and myself, making the same trip with different vehicles, but of the same type.

  It was a breeze. We stayed at the same Holiday Inn. This time arriving in the early afternoon. From the time we pulled into the parking lot, until the load was in the trailer, was less than two hours.

  We had just finished loading the tomatoes into the U-haul, when a shiny black Cadillac sedan pulled up next to us. The electric window on the passenger side disappeared into the door, and I was looking into the white smile of Armando Miranda.

  “ Buenas tardes, Señor Tucker, I hope everything is satisfactory.”

  I was hoping to see him.

  “Everything is fine, Armando,” I said, lowering my head to see who was driving.

  “Hello, Tom’as.”

  “Hola, Tucker,” he replied, with his agreeable smile.

  Teemo and Robby had just gone into the room before the Mirandas pulled up, and were now walking across the parking lot towards the car. Teemo was carrying the gym bag containing the money. I noticed a small movement by Tom’as, and the trunk popped open. I didn’t know enough about Cadillacs to discern if that was an option on that model, or something the Mirandas had customized.

  Teemo walked past the driver’s side and around to the rear, threw the bag in and slammed the trunk closed. Robby was standing next to Tom’as, looking over the roof at me.

  On the trip down, I told Robby I would not be making another trip with the crew and I was going to talk to the Mirandas about going on my own, but on a much smaller scale. He wasn’t at first agreeable, but after explaining my home situation with Margie (she didn’t like me going off on these runs) and school, he came around. He wasn’t happy about it, but he understood. Besides, what could he do about it, really?

  Before they pulled away, I said, “Armando, there is something I would like to discuss with you, if you have the time?”

  Politeness goes a long way with Mexicans. I had injected just enough respect into my question to get his attention and to imply it was business.

  “Of course,” he said, like he expected it.

  He looked over at his brother, and said, “Tom’as, please.”

  The back door next to me opened by itself. I knew that wasn’t stock. I looked over the roof at Robby, and said, “I won’t be too long, I know we’ve got to roll. Explain to Phil and Allen. Okay?”

  I said this more for the Miranda’s than Robby, I didn’t have time for them to take me to dinner and ply me with Mexican hospitality.

  I got into the back, and just before closing the door, saw Phil and Allen looking a skosh alarmed over by the trailer. After closing the door, it occurred to me, not only could the door be automatically opened from the front seat, but it might also be locked from there as well.

  As we pulled away and the windows were going up, Armando shifted in the front seat so he could see me and said, “It is a shame you must be in such a hurry. There is a wonderful Cantina on the other side of the border I would love for you to experience.”

  It swiftly came to me, this was the first time I had been with the twins without a gun in my hand. It was nestled behind my back, bringing me no more comfort than it would if I were riding along with any of my friends.

  “I would enjoy that, Armando. I would like to know you and Tom’as better. I hope to have that opportunity in the future.”

  I’ve been told that I have the knack of picking up on the way people talk. If I’m around Cajuns, I’ll start talking with a small Cajun accent. If I’m around hard-talking farmers, I swiftly turned into one. Now, I was around two educated Mexicans that spoke proper English. I wondered if I could take this back with me and hold on to it. Maybe, probably not…no way.

  My reference to the future held an implicit connotation. Tom’as was driving with no apparent destination and Armando was looking expressionlessly at me . They were both silent, waiting, reminding me, they were big-time drug dealers and, without a doubt, very dangerous men.

  I said, “This will be my last trip to Laredo with Robby.”

  “And, you would like to do business with us by yourself,” Armando said, smiling and nodding with understanding.

  No wonder he’s the jefe. He was very quick to grasp my intention.

  “Si,” I said.

  Without commenting on my bilingual agility, he tapped Tom’as on the shoulder, and pointed out the windshield to something. Tom’as turned left into the parking lot of a dry cleaners, put the car in park, and turned to where he, too, could see me.

  “What is it you have in mind, Senor Tucker?” Armando Miranda asked.

  They were both watching me with interest. I was rapidly losing my confidence that they would go for my proposal. Why would they? They just sold a ton of marijuana to us. Why would they sell less to me, much less?

  “Armando, Tom’as, I am married to a beautiful woman who I love very much. I have a beautiful daughter who I also love very much. I am not really a, how you say, a bandito. The things Teemo told you about me were made up, to make me one. I have never been arrested for anything. I am using the money I make with your marijuana to pay for my wife’s and my education. My wife does not like me going on these trips, with these men. She is afraid that I will, one day, not return.”

  “There is always that risk in this business.” Tom’as said seriously.

  “I understand that risk and accept it,” I said. “But, is it fair for me to ask my loved ones to sit and wait for me to maybe not return?”

  Tom’as started to say something but Armando slowly raised his hand to thwart any response from his twin.

  “What is it you want?” he asked.

  I made a quick decision to just throw it up and see where it landed.

  “I would like to be able to contact you directly. Come down with my wife, like a little vacation trip, pick up anywhere between 25 to 50 pounds and drive back. Enjoy the trip and sightsee along the way.”

  The shock was plain to see, but I misread it.

  “Your wife would come with you, she has agreed to this?” Armando asked, his eyes widening.

  “It was her idea,” I said. “She wants to come. She wants to be with me. She doesn’t like being left out of any part of my life.”

  They both started laughing, and starting speaking Spanish faster than I could grasp, even if I was capable of grasping. After a minute of their laughing,
talking and observing my silence, Armando asked, “Do you have a picture of your wife?”

  Now, that was a fast-breaking curve ball. I reached in my back pocket and pulled out my wallet. In it was a picture of Margie, sitting on a table at the fishing camp on Spring Bayou. She had her hands flat on the table next to her legs and was leaning forward, laughing at something I’d said just before taking the picture. She was wearing hip hugger pants and a halter top, her full-bodied auburn hair spilling around her face onto her bare shoulders. It was one of my favorite pictures of her. It showed her fine athletic figure, her beautiful hair, her sexy smile, and the sun had somehow managed to light up her blue eyes. I pulled out the picture and handed it to Armando.

  He stared at it for a full ten seconds, then handed it to Tom’as. Tom’as looked at it for a few seconds, then whistled softly through his teeth.

  “She is very beautiful, Tucker,” Tom’as said.

  “She must also be very strong, in here,” Armando said, tapping his chest over his heart. “She must be, to want to come and help you with this business.”

  “She is very strong,” I said, “and, very tough. She has helped me before. I trust her to do what needs to be done, when it needs to be done. She is my best friend.”

  Armando took the picture from Tom’as’s hand and eyes, then said, “I would like to meet this woman of yours. What is her name?”

  “Her name is Margie.”

  Armando looked at Tom’as. Tom’as nodded, then they looked at me. Armando reached in his inside coat pocket, pulled out a business card, and handed it to me. The card was a plain cream-colored card that read, Miranda Enterprises, with a phone number on the bottom edge.

  “That is our home number. We live together. We have not, as yet, met the kind of woman your Margie seems to be. You say you are not a bandito, Tucker. You may not be, but you are in a business that is full of banditos. I have seen you in that business, and how you deal with banditos, and I would have to say you are very… professional. If you say your wife is strong, I believe you. Call us when you are ready for your little vacation.”

  To this day, I don’t know if the banditos they were speaking of were themselves, or… if they would have done business with me if I hadn’t had that picture of Margie.

  A couple of months later, Margie and I did drive down to Laredo. The Mirandas invited us to their home. A beautiful ranch about two hours’ drive from Laredo, into Mexico. They were perfect gentlemen and Margie liked them both. Over the months, we met with them and were introduced to many different gorgeous women who were trying to snare the Miranda twins. Apparently, no one knew what kind of business they were in, no one but Margie and me.

  About a year after Margie and I first went down to Mexico, Tom’as married a lady from Austin, Texas. Her name was Lori, and she looked a lot like Margie. Our trips became a little shorter, as Tom’as could provide what little I needed right there in Austin.

  The Miranda’s had become good friends, but, after Tom’as got married and moved to Austin, we didn’t see much of Armando. He decided to move back to Mexico City, saying he could conduct business from there, now that Tom’as was living like a gringo, in Tehas.

  Looking back, them doing such a small business with me was only because of our friendship. Friendship and trust. I never felt like I was almost fifteen years younger than them, and they never treated me that way.

  So, while developing my own network of small dealers, one was a cop from Alexandria. Barry Johnson, with whom I’d played junior high and high school football. Allen had told me about Barry, assuring me he wasn’t going to bust me by telling how they had done some business before, illegal business. So, I really had nothing to be worried about.

  Well, he was right about one thing, I didn’t have to be worried about being busted. I needed to be concerned about being paid.

  Most of the dealing in those days was done on a front basis. Meaning no money exchanged hands until the end. This did two things. One; if you were dealing with someone you had just met, or didn’t entirely trust, you could give them the pot without any money exchanging hands. No money exchanged-no dealing crime-no bust. Two; it allowed people like myself to help someone under them develop a network without an initial investment by the underling. This was important, as most small-time dealers, that is, people dealing in lids, quarter pounds and such, usually didn’t have enough cash on hand to buy 3 or 4 pounds of high-grade grass. I would front it to them and they would pay me as they sold it, hopefully before buying themselves new sound systems for their cars or color TV’s, etc. Eventually their cash flow would increase and they could pay cash for part or all of their shipment. It wasn’t unusual, for someone I was fronting, to get a little behind, owing me for one or two pounds, out of five I’d fronted. They usually caught up within a couple of deals.

  Now, we get to the subordinate that develops his own pound business. In other words, his lid business would get so big as to be dangerous. If one person starts selling too many lids to too many people, his chances of being busted increased with the size of his business. That’s when it’s time to turn his lid customers into small pound customers and let them take the chances.

  I could sell a pound for $175, that I paid $65 to $85 for, and the ancillary could turn around and sell it for around $250, give or take $10, making himself a fast $75 per pound.

  If he could do this with 10 pounds, to one or more people, he just made $750. If he had his ducks in a row, he could to this easily in a few hours of one day.

  The excuses for being short on payments, ranged from, ‘my dog ate it’, to, ‘my guy got busted before he could pay me.’

  I had this one guy who swore his dog pulled his trash bag full of pot out of his garage. Said his tore it up and spread it all over his back yard and there was just no way he could recover it all. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe him, but I told him I would be right over and help pick it up.

  When I got there, he said he’d picked up most of it. As I walked around his back yard, I did pick up a few buds and stems. I never knew if his dog did it, or if he had to put some pot in his back yard for me to find.

  Now, getting back to Barry the cop.

  Barry had built up quite a large pound business. Being a cop, he had access to all sorts of would-be dealers who were always looking for a little help.

  I started by fronting him 10 pounds, for $200 each. I always charged more for a front; it was good incentive for them to pay cash.

  Business between Barry and me went well for almost a year.

  He had been gradually building his network, so, he needed more and more quantity. It wasn’t unusual for him to come to me needing more, before all of his cash from the last transaction was in. So, he always had a running balance with me. Before I knew it, he had a balance of 12 grand.

  After, not hearing from ‘Barry-the-cop’ for a couple of weeks, my concern over the money started hurting my stomach, literally. This was not a good sign. I believe not enough people listen to their stomachs, in more ways than one.

  I called my cousin, Allen, explained the situation, and asked what he thought I should do. After all, Barry was a cop.

  Allen said he would look into it and get back to me.

  The next day I was sitting on the screened-in back porch, when the phone rang. Margie answered it, and said it was Allen.

  After Margie handed me the phone, he just said, “Tuck.”

  I didn’t like the sound of it.

  “Yeah,” I said, as I watched her walk back into kitchen. I loved watching her walk away.

  “I think you’re fucked,” I heard through the handset.

  “Why is that?” I asked. I stood and walked over to the screen, to view the horses grazing in the green pasture across the gravel road behind my house.

  “Barry says one of his guys ripped him off and has some incriminating evidence on him, so he can’t get the money.”

  “Ever?” I asked.

  “Doesn’t sound like it.”

&n
bsp; “Do you believe him?”

  After a five-second pause, he said, “No.”

  Now that sucked.

  If he had said yes, I might have been able to let it go. I had already paid the Mirandas and that 12 grand was all mine. But, he said, no.

  “Why don’t you believe him?”

  “Because it’s the first I’ve heard about it. Seems to me if it was true, he would have said something to me before I had to ask him about it. And, it’s his attitude.”

  “What about his attitude?” I asked, as the strawberry roan kicked the bay.

  “When I told him you weren’t going to be okay with it, he said, ‘What’s he going to do, kill me? I’m an old friend and a cop’.”

  As the bay ran across the pasture to get away from the roan, I said, “He has a point.”

  “Tuck, you’re not going to let him get away with it. I know you better than that.”

  As the bay turned to fight the roan, I said, “Tell you what, you tell Barry, my old friend, that I’ll be in touch.”

  I gave Barry Johnson a couple of days to stew. Then after checking with Allen to make sure Barry was home, I went to a pay phone and gave him a call. I didn’t have to worry about his phone being tapped. After all, he’s a cop.

  “Barry, it’s Tucker,” I said, after he answered.

  After a few seconds of silence, he said, “Yeah, I figured you’d be calling. I’ve been trying to get some money together, but those guys that ripped me have disappeared.”

  Sure was a lot of information without a question.

  “What happened?” I said. I was curious as to what kind of story he came up with.

  “Ah, these two guys I was working with, they’re brothers and one of them lives here in Alec and the other one lives in Lafayette.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, they’ve been good guys and have always been on time.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Yeah, I guess they’ve been working me for a while, ya know, taking more and more, paying up, and then hauled ass to points unknown when they got enough fronted to them. That’s all I can come up with,” he said, with practiced conviction.