by Marc Olden
Think about the future, my man. Think about Lydia being right and Neil Shire moving up, turning over dudes, and maybe, maybe grabbing Kelly Lorenzo, maybe, maybe finding out about the super deal the Cubans and blacks were putting together. Pray Lydia’s right, and if she is, work her until she melts, until you can walk away looking good. Last chance, Neil. Check her out and hope the future’s lollipops and roses.
He sat in a cab going downtown to the lab, head back on the seat, his mind trying to deal with his future.
2
IN THE WORLD OF dope, the importer stands at the top.
He alone has the overseas connections, allowing him to deal directly with heroin sources in Europe and cocaine sources in South America. An importer has money to buy hundreds of kilos at a time, often an investment of millions of dollars. He’s shrewd enough to smuggle his dope into America past law enforcement that is ruthless and relentless in its determination to stop him.
An importer never holds a large supply of drugs for long; he arranges for buyers before contacting his overseas connections. The faster a large shipment of narcotics is sold, the less chance of seizure by law enforcement or a ripoff by competitors.
The loss of a shipment is more than just the loss of money; when a load is confiscated, valuable men are usually arrested. More important, a smuggling route is lost, representing millions of dollars to an importer.
Importers are the most feared men in narcotics, shadowy figures far removed from street-level dealing, men who never touch or see the dope that brings them millions. They insulate themselves, keeping lieutenants out front to deal with customers.
An importer discusses dope only with those three or four trusted lieutenants, men and women he has personally known for a long time, people who are often blood relatives. An outsider has absolutely no chance of talking with an importer or of dealing dope with him.
Because of his extreme caution and suspicion, because he has the money to remain insulated, an importer is rarely arrested. Only a few people are ever in a position to inform on him, and these people are so carefully selected that, through either loyalty or fear, they almost never betray him.
Because an importer “does weight”—deals in large amounts of dope—and because he sells his shipment as soon as he brings it in, he rarely cuts his narcotics. He sells pure to distributors, who will cut the narcotics at least once.
Distributors sell fifty percent pure to dealers. Dealers cut the dope three times or more, rarely selling anything more than ten percent pure. While cutting increases profits, it weakens the quality, but such is the demand that no matter how diluted the drug, there is always a buyer.
Dealers sell to pushers, who again cut the dope. Here the dangers of arrest are greatest, since the pusher is the most exposed man in the dope sales chain. He must go public in order to make a profit, because the dope he sells (which he’s also cut) is barely one percent pure, and he needs the largest turnover possible in order to stay in business.
Pushers, who are often addicts, sell on street corners, rooftops, in hallways and schoolyards, which increases their visibility and accounts for their frequent arrests. While the public concerns itself with the pusher as obvious culprit, and pressures for his arrest and conviction, it remains ignorant of the importer, the true source of illicit narcotics.
Without the importer, there would be no dope.
And so long as dope is available, there are people who will do anything to get it.
Until recently, most importers were Italian. The Mafia had enjoyed the only overseas connections, bringing in dope, then selling it to blacks and Latins. With changing times, Cubans and a handful of blacks now had money and intelligence enough to deal directly with overseas sources. Cubans, along with a few blacks, now became major importers of narcotics.
Blacks, because American inner cities were becoming increasingly black, were able to control this particular drug market and thus force their way into the upper levels of dope dealing.
Cubans were a special success story. By sheer intelligence, by a total reliance on each other and a distrust of outsiders, by an outstanding talent for organizing, which surpasses even that of the Mafia, Cubans rose to the top of drug dealing in New York City and Miami, the two largest markets for illicit narcotics in America.
When Fidel Castro took over Cuba in 1959, he expelled criminals as well as ideological opponents, all of whom were received in America as political refugees. Those criminals who had been drug dealers in Cuba resumed dealing in America, particularly in New York, Miami, New Jersey, areas where the majority of Cubans settled.
Cubans trained by the military, by their own secret police, by the American CIA, used that experience and background to put together efficient dope rings, as always, relying on each other rather than other ethnic groups. Since the 1960’s, no one has worked harder at dope dealing than Cubans, and no one has had greater success.
Mas Betancourt, Cuban, fifty-six, and crippled in both legs, was the second largest importer of heroin and cocaine in New York. He planned to quit the business, to leave dope dealing behind, to retire to Spain, where he owned property. But first there would be one last deal, la última, the biggest deal of his life. After that, he and his wife, Pilar, would leave New York, dividing their time between Madrid and Málaga.
In Madrid, Mas Betancourt owned apartment buildings, two boutiques, and a travel agency. In Málaga, he owned five hundred acres of farmland and excellent vineyards.
With the money from his final heroin deal, he could expand and improve his businesses and live like a king, with no worry about paying expensive doctors for himself and Pilar. Mas’s painful legs had cost him plenty of money over the past sixteen years, and the removal of Pilar’s cancerous left breast hadn’t ended her need for the finest medical care available.
It wasn’t just illnesses and pain that made him want to leave New York. Nor was it a desire to become a middle-aged businessman in Spain that made Mas Betancourt decide to turn his back on dealing narcotics after sixteen years.
It was time for him to walk away. He sensed it strongly, and had it confirmed by the babalawo, a priest of the Santería religion. The babalawo had looked into the future and told Mas Betancourt that his wife, Pilar, would die in less than two years if she did not leave New York.
Mas, a man who was afraid of nothing, had clenched his fists to keep his hands from shaking.
Santería was the primitive magic of Latin America, and meant “worship of the saints.” Hundreds of years ago, Nigerian slaves brought the Yoruba religion to the Caribbean, where it was blended with the Catholicism of their Spanish and Portuguese masters. The result was a primitive Latin magic that now identified certain Yoruba gods with Catholic saints.
Today, more than one hundred million people in South America, the Caribbean, and the growing Spanish-speaking communities of the United States believe in Santería.
Its followers are rich, poor, educated, illiterate, the same cross section found in all religions.
Cuban narcotics traffickers will not begin a major deal without first consulting a Santería priest, who then reads the future and predicts success or failure, often with incredible accuracy.
The babalawo, this priest of Santería, is trusted by all who ask his advice and never reveals a confidence. A babalawo is unknown to anyone outside of the Latin community or the cult of Santería, which only adds to his ability to keep a confidence.
Mas Betancourt had come to the babalawo to learn if this last deal would be successful, to find out if he should proceed with it. When the babalawo had said that Pilar’s life depended on her leaving New York in less than two years, Mas’s last deal became a matter of urgency. Now it had to be successful.
Mas loved Pilar terribly, because her devotion and love had saved him from being a useless cripple. He would do anything to keep her alive. Her cancerous breast had been removed six months ago, but it would be a long time, the doctors said, until it was certain that the cancer was entirely go
ne from her body.
Mas’s determination to pull off his last heroin deal and leave New York now became fanatical. Nothing would stop him. He had killed before; to kill for Pilar was almost a religious duty.
Mas told the babalawo of his plan to bring in five hundred kilos of white heroin, a load of over one thousand pounds, almost twice what anyone had ever attempted to smuggle into America.
The babalawo said, “When?”
“I plan now, work now, I do it in one year. It takes that long to arrange men, money, smuggling routes. I cannot do it alone. The expense is too great.”
“Much money,” said the babalawo. He was small, black, a burned match of a man who wore a green-and-yellow robe. Those were the colors of Orunla, the Santería patron saint who revealed the future.
“Yes, mi padre.” Mas was buying pure white from Jacquard in Marseilles. Fifteen thousand dollars per kilo, five hundred kilos, a total of seven and a half million dollars. All of the money had to be paid in advance, but Jacquard had promised to deliver the heroin to Barcelona. After that, Mas would take over.
“You will work with strangers,” said the babalawo.
Mas frowned, nodded. How did he know? “Sí, mi padre. For the first time, I must work closely with blacks.” Mas waited. The babalawo said nothing.
Mas tried desperately to read the little old man’s face, but he saw nothing in the dark, wrinkled skin except in the eyes, which reflected tiny points of candlelight. The babalawo was sick and spoke in a whisper. Both he and Mas sat on the floor, legs apart, Mas’s short, curved aluminum crutches to his right. Located in an all-Cuban neighborhood in Jackson Heights, the babalawo’s apartment was dark, humid, lit by yellow and green candles. It smelled of burning wax and sweet incense.
“Trouble with the blacks.” The babalawo’s whisper was as soft as tissue paper being torn in half.
“Sí, mi padre. Two of them are disobeying their leader. This could be a problem for all of us.”
Mas Betancourt had sold dope to blacks in the past, but never had he used them for importing. For this most crucial deal of his life, Mas had teamed with Kelly Lorenzo, because Kelly had certain foreign contacts that were essential.
Kelly, in hiding, had ordered his lieutenants and distributors in New York to cooperate with Mas Betancourt until this super deal went down. All of the blacks involved had done as ordered, except for two: the Rucker brothers, Connie and Carl, tough, young distributors anxious to break away from Kelly Lorenzo and go out on their own.
The babalawo said, “The trouble will pass. Soon.”
Mas Betancourt sighed, rubbing his withered thighs. He was a stocky man, once athletic and muscular, but now fleshy, since he could only drag himself around on crutches. Sixteen years ago he had been crippled in Cuba when an informant had betrayed him. Now his square-shaped face relaxed and his green eyes blinked behind brown-tinted glasses. The babalawo always spoke the truth. No need to worry about the Ruckers.
Mas Betancourt had passed along word to Kelly’s people that the Ruckers had to be dealt with one way or another. The Ruckers’ money, efforts, and energy belonged to Kelly Lorenzo and to this deal he had entered into with Mas Betancourt. There could be no breaking away until this deal was completed. The Ruckers hadn’t seen it that way.
Kelly, though still dealing dope, was a fugitive, in hiding and on the move, no longer on top of things in New York; and to the Ruckers, that meant he was owed less respect, less loyalty. Furthermore, the Ruckers had found a secret stash of six kilos of white that Kelly had hidden in the refrigerator of a young white model living in Chelsea, one of many women in Kelly’s life.
The disappearance of the white heroin had almost cost the model her life, until Kelly’s people learned that it wasn’t the woman but the Ruckers who had taken it, shipped it to Baltimore, cut it, selling it there and in Washington, D.C.
The theft of those six keys was something Kelly Lorenzo could not let go unanswered, not if he wanted to remain a leader. If Kelly’s respect was shaky among his men, it would affect his deal with Mas Betancourt. Mas had sent word to Kelly to settle this problem as soon as possible.
And now the babalawo had said, “The trouble will pass. Soon.”
Mas Betancourt relaxed.
The consultation with the babalawo continued. The consultation was called a registro. The babalawo sat on the floor. An estera, which was a small straw mat, was between his spread legs. He would rub sixteen tiny pink and white seashells between his hands, drop them four times on the straw mat, and read the shells according to the pattern they made when landing.
He read only those shells landing with the outside facing him. Each pattern was called an ordún and had an assigned number and name known only to the priest.
Mas Betancourt and the babalawo both wore collares, yellow-and-green bead necklaces, to protect them from evil. The necklaces were worn always, except when bathing or having sexual intercourse.
There was very little white heroin available on the streets of New York now. There was some brown from Mexico, but the addict craved his white, and at the moment, what white he could buy was barely one percent. Blame the shortage on informants, who were betraying shipments to law enforcement and customs. Informants, who were costing importers and distributors men, money, smuggling routes.
Mas Betancourt, with help from Kelly Lorenzo, was going to bring in five hundred kilos of white heroin, and there would be no way for him to lose it. No way at all.
He told the babalawo of his plan, and the tiny black priest listened, sixteen small pink and white seashells in his hands. The priest listened and read the shells.
Mas said, “I buy five hundred keys in Marseilles, fifteen thousand dollars each for uncut white. I will pay seven and a half million dollars just for the dope. Part of the money will come from the blacks. Jacquard says he can get the load to Barcelona easily. No problem.
“In Barcelona, I break the shipment down into twenty loads, twenty-five kilos each. I have twenty couriers, twenty mules. Each takes twenty-five keys, which means I don’t lose the entire load. I do this to avoid informants, betrayals. Each mule leaves at a different time, different route. Instead of bringing it all in at once, I bring in a trickle at a time.
“Each mule gets one thousand dollars a key. Twenty mules means I pay each one twenty-five thousand dollars. That means a half-million dollars to them. I pay all expenses: hotels, transportation, bribes. One million dollars will cover all of that.
“I figure it takes one year to plan and do all of this. One year’s expenses plus nine million dollars.
“Each of the twenty mules will have three checkpoints between Spain and America. At these checkpoints, they telephone one of my lieutenants. There’ll be a code word, so we’ll know if there is trouble, if anybody got arrested or is being followed.
“While the mule is on the phone checking in, his load is shifted to someplace else in the same city. This cuts down on betrayal by informants. It also makes surveillance by police very difficult, since they will need much manpower.
“This shift from one spot to another in the same city will be done by a driver who knows nothing, who is to be told nothing. He will be paid to drive a car, a truck, a cart across town, that is all. If this driver gets arrested, he will know nothing. There will be no way that the police can get him to betray me.
“Each mule will have a genuine passport and visas. No counterfeits, nothing to create trouble, arouse suspicion. None of the mules will have a time limit; all will travel slowly, taking their time. All will follow different routes. Each enters America at a different point, some from Canada, some from the West Coast, Mexico, Miami, New York.
“Maybe I lose a few mules. Maybe. Maybe somebody betrays me and I lose some of them. But it is impossible for me to lose all of them, and that is the important part of the plan. I cannot lose all of my shipment.
“In America, the heroin comes in drop by drop, building up. I will have five stash points, one hundred kilos to be stor
ed in each place. All of the heroin will be sold the day it arrives. A buyer must take at least fifty kilos, nothing smaller.”
Mas finished talking. In front of him, the babalawo again tossed the seashells onto the straw mat and read them.
Mas had not told the babalawo everything. He hadn’t added that the minimum American price for the smuggled white would be ninety thousand dollars per kilo and that if it all got into the country, the total worth of the load would be forty-five million dollars. Half of the money would go to Mas, the rest to the blacks and those Cuban distributors Mas trusted enough to work with on this final deal.
Part of the plan was already in motion. There was a search for couriers to be used months from now. There was a search for checkpoints. Certain people in foreign customs, at airlines and shipping terminals, were being asked their price. But the entire plan would take months, and Mas Betancourt wanted the approval of the babalawo before proceeding with everything.
He would, of course, return to see the babalawo often until the plan was completed. But now he needed the priest’s approval in order to begin in earnest.
In the past, when Mas had been forced to proceed with a dope deal against the babalawo’s advice, there had been trouble. Two shipments had been confiscated, one in Belgium, one in Miami. The cost to Mas had been over seven million dollars.
In Marseilles, where a French chemist had been working day and night to transform morphine base into white heroin for Mas Betancourt, there had been an explosion in the Frenchman’s lab and he had gone up in flames. His assistant, his eighteen-year-old son, was blinded for life.
Two deals the babalawo had warned Mas against, but at the time circumstances were such that the Cuban importer had been forced to proceed.
Mas owed Pilar’s life to the babalawo. It was the tiny priest who, in answer to Mas’s question about the lump Pilar had found in her breast, had ordered her to be treated immediately by an American doctor. And it was the babalawo who said after the operation that if Pilar remained in New York longer than two years, she’d die.
