Marijuana Air Freight

By Lloyd Wingfield

During the 1960s the United States gave birth to a new culture. The “Hippie Generation” seemed to grow out of nowhere and quickly became a powerful movement of idealistic youths spouting slogans like “Make Love not War”. They galvanized around the politics of the Vietnam War and their protests soon began to register among the powers in Washington, DC.

Folk music singers and artists were the heroes of this free love, hippie generation. Along with their social and political identifications came the discovery of drug use. In particular and first on the scene at all of the peace rallies was the prominent use of marijuana. Young people were seen openly smoking grass at concerts, in parks, at the beach, in clubs, at parties, on campus, and at sporting events. It became a rapid epidemic for which the authorities were ill prepared. It also created an enormous demand for the drug.

In the 1960s there was very little if any home grown pot. The only readily available avenue of supply was from Mexico and Columbia. An entire new group of entrepreneurs was born to capitalize on this transportation problem. They became the new “freebooters” of the hippie generation. These highly motivated, young, businessmen devised all of the popular modes of transportation methods to smuggle the marijuana into the United States. They would meet the demand.

Airplanes were initially the most widely method used. This novel is the story of how one group and one brazen pilot succeeded for years in flying marijuana out of Mexico, across the border, and all the way to New York to be distributed to the elite, upscale hippies with their insatiable appetite for pot.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lloyd Wingfield
• Release date: Oct 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301619856

Lloyd Wingfield

I am now retired but I have had a colorful and varied career from starting as an airline pilot for Eastern Airlines at the age of 23, to trading commodity futures in Chicago, to owning several companies specializing in supplying and installing production equipment for the soft drink, beer, and spring water companies.I am a graduate of Lehigh University with a degree in English Literature and I have always aspired to writing novels. My first novel, Marijuana Air Freight, is an adventure, suspense tale about a young, daring pilot flying loads of marijuana out of southern Mexico near Acapulco all the way to New York city. It is full of excitement and it details how the young pilot's life and fortunes change with each successful smuggling trip.

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Marijuana Air Freight

By Lloyd Wingfield

A novel based on a smuggler’s true story

Smashwords Edition

Published By:

Lloyd Wingfield on Smashwords

Copyright © 2012 by Lloyd Wingfield

United States Copyright Number TXu1-819-628

July 19, 2012

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Marijuana Air Freight

Prologue

Spring 1970

Barry and Roscoe were busy throwing their stuff into duffel bags. All of their clothes dirty and clean, shoes, toiletries, everything just jammed in. The only things they packed with care were the flight charts, the flight gear, and the detailed flight plans they had so meticulously worked on over the preceding week. They knew the route from Oklahoma to Mexico but not from heart. They had planned their trip based on current weather and most importantly on the forecasted winds aloft. But forecasted winds aloft were no guarantee for accuracy. So, they worked out multiple flight plans for varying wind conditions. It was a hell of a long way down to Petetlan on the West Coast of Mexico 60 miles north of Acapulco and they couldn’t afford to make a mistake and run out of gas.

Their motel room was a mess. For the past week they had had the Do Not Disturb sign on the door and no maid service. They ordered take-out food for most of their meals and empty pizza boxes, McDonalds wrappers, tequila bottles littered the room. It smelled of dirty socks and cheap cigars. Barry and Roscoe loved cigars, tequila, and most of all marijuana. They loved their pot. They would roll huge doobies, fat as your index finger, and each smoke one. Never passed around. And their pot was no ordinary, cheap Mexican. Their pot came from the state of Guererro on the Pacific coast southeast of Zijuatanajo. It was grown in the remote mountain areas where it was cool at night and warm during the day. Rainfall was abundant. The pot had a sweet, pungent aroma, pine-like. It had a yellow tinge to it and it sparkled with crystals, the THC that caused the high. Acapulco Gold. It was very potent weed.

They walked over to the motel office to check out. They only owed the basic room bill as they didn’t use the room phone or charge anything to the room. Barry told Roscoe to remember their cover story if they were asked, that they were headed east to start the crop dusting season. Barry was smiling the way he always did. Good PR. People didn't like to hear complaints. People generally had so many problems of their own that they didn't need to hear problems from others. Better to be happy-go-lucky and crack jokes. Make people laugh or smile. It brightened their lives.They were dressed in their usual attire: flight bomber leather jackets, blue jeans, black Wellington boots, and cowboy hats. Their long hair extended to their shoulders. If they were trying to play a low-key role they failed miserably. But they knew it and they really didn’t care. They were wild and crazy fly boys.

Mornin’ boys, checkin’ out? asked the manager.

Yep, we’re headin’ out, said Barry.

OK, here’s your room bill. Cash or credit card?

We’ll pay cash, said Barry.

Cash is always good, said the manager. We’re you boys off to?

Roscoe piped in with bravado, We’re goin’ to Louisiana, Mississippi, and anywhere else crop dustin’ takes us. Roscoe proud of himself for being part of the conversation. Usually, Barry did all of the talking.

Huh, crop dustin’. Never figgered you boys for dusters. That’s a wicked job from what I hear. Not too many old crop dusters around. Then added, Oops, sorry ‘bout that. Don’t mean to jinx you or nothing.’

Hey Barry said, That’s all right. We’re hooked on the excitement of dustin’ but we’re damned good pilots. Besides, the money is great. Can’t beat it except for the airline pilots. And they’re not hiring now.

Well, you’d never catch me up there doin’ that shit. Flyin low, dippin’ down on fields, just missing power lines…you can have it. I’m happy on the ground and that’s where I’m gonna stay.

Barry and Roscoe left the office and walked back to their car. They were out in the country about 60 miles from Oklahoma City. They choose this area because of the small airfield nearby. It didn’t have a control tower and was mostly closed by 6:00PM. There were some aircraft parked on the tarmac and tied down just like their D-18 twin Beech. A couple more expensive planes were parked in the hangar. The airport was mostly used by private pilots and a few students learning to fly. It was quiet with not much air traffic.

They drove to the airfield, only ten minutes away. It was still fairly early, only 8:00AM. Barry had wanted to get to the field earlier before it opened. Maybe slip out without anyone noticing. But, he had a hangover and couldn’t quite get it together to rise at 4:00AM. Besides, might as well top off the fuel tanks and do a proper pre-flight in the light of day. The rental car could be turned in at the Hertz airport office and paid in cash avoiding the use of his credit card.

This morning both of them were mildly hung over. Nothing new there, they were used to it. They were in their mid-twenties and full of piss and vinegar. Despite the hangovers they were all wound up and ready to head south. Last night Barry had used the pay phone down the street at the gas station to call their contact person in New York City. He did that every night between 7:00 and 9:00 to find out if they were clear to go and last night he got the word. Everyone would be ready for their arrival in Mexico the next day.

Now the planning, calculating, and waiting were over. Time to hit the road. Besides the flight planning they had had time to prepare the plane. It was an old twin engine

Beechcraft, a D-18, that they had purchased through Trade-A-Plane. Trade-A-Plane was a great newspaper advertising used aircraft for sale. It came out twice a month and virtually had a monopoly on the used aircraft market in the United States. Everything was advertised there from single engine Cessnas to old B-17 bombers. They didn’t use their own money to buy the twin Beech. It was financed by the New York boys. Barry and Roscoe were only hired pilots and were paid by the trip and weight of the cargo, the marijuana. But they had to care for the plane as well. After all, it was their asses at risk. Roscoe was a licensed FAA mechanic as well as a pilot. It was his job to check out the twin Beech. He changed the oil and hydraulics, checked all of the high pressure lines, the fuel pumps, and everything else accessible while the plane was tied down on the aviation ramp. They couldn’t afford to have the plane moved into the small, airport maintenance hangar because unwanted eyes would easily detect that the seats were removed and that a 55 gallon drum had been installed in the passenger compartment over the main spar. The drum was for extra fuel they would need for their return trip from Mexico. Mechanically the Beechcraft was in excellent condition. But the paint job was faded and the engine cowlings were dirty and streaked with oil. The Pratt and Whitney 985 radial engines were known for throwing oil which always made the fuselage look dirty and ratty. In addition the boys had installed curtains on the windows to prevent nosey pilots from peeking inside the cabin. It made the plane look a little suspicious but out in the Oklahoma countryside no one paid much attention.

As Barry parked the car he saw one of the line boys walking over to the fuel truck. Hey, Billy Ray, hold up, Barry shouted.

Billy Ray turned to Barry. Hi Mr. Barry, how’s it going? Billy Ray remembered Barry even though he and Roscoe had only been on the field for a week. On a small airfield everyone notices everything. That was the one downside for choosing an isolated field.

Hi, Billy Ray. I’m doin’ great, couldn’t be better. But me and Roscoe have to head out today and I wanted to top off the tanks. Can you do that for me?

Sure thing, said Billy Ray. I’ll get to it right away. The other reason that Billy Ray remembered Barry so well was because of the two joints Barry had given to him on the second day after their arrival. After a couple of conversations with Billy Ray (as Roscoe worked on the twin Beech changing the oil) Barry realized that a little pot would be good PR for the kid, get him to keep an eye on the plane. Maybe even keep people away and make sure nobody was snooping around. He couldn’t afford to have someone see the 55 gallon drum secured to the cabin floor.

Thanks, Billy. We’ll be over there shortly.

Barry and Roscoe grabbed their duffel bags and flight bags and started walking toward the plane. Billy Ray was pulling up with the gas truck as they got to the plane.

Roscoe, I’ll throw this stuff in the plane and then run over and pay for the car and the tie-down fees for the plane. You do the pre-flight, check everything out. We’ll depart VFR and we won’t need to file a flight plan. Make sure Billy Ray gets the fuel caps on tight. I know he’s a good kid but he’s only a teenager, Barry said.

Roscoe answered, Sure thing, Barry. I always check that anyway.

Billy Ray was unscrewing the fuel cap on the left wing as Barry unlocked the rear door located on the left of the Beach fuselage. As he opened the door he was hit with an overwhelming wave of fuel vapors. It wasn’t yet hot in Oklahoma but the 55 gallon drum was full of 100 octane aviation fuel and the fumes were strong in the cabin. Two nights ago Barry and Roscoe had slipped into the field after dark. They used a long fuel hose and a hank-crank fuel pump to transfer fuel from the full wing tanks into the 55 gallon drum. They had laid the drum on its side and clamped holding brackets into the floor to keep the drum stationary and in place. They also fitted a 90-degree elbow at the filling opening with a spout extending up above the drum. The spout also served as a vent for the drum. Unfortunately, the gas fumes were vented into the cabin. Now, before anything could be done in the cockpit, before any electrical devices could be powered, the cabin would have to be vented and cleared of gas fumes. Otherwise, it was one big bomb just waiting for a spark. Having the drum in the cabin was very dangerous. But they had to risk it because they needed the extra fuel, good fuel. Sometimes the fuel available on the black market in Mexico was contaminated with water. hey couldn’t take that chance.

Barry climbed aboard and headed up the aisle to the cockpit. He opened both pilots’ windows on either side of the cockpit. He hoped Billy Ray wouldn’t notice the smell of the fumes. But then, he was fueling the plane anyway and probably wouldn’t notice. Barry glanced at Billy Ray at the left wing fueling station. Billy Ray was waiting to catch Barry’s eye and when he did he called over very clearly and distinctly.

Hey, Mr. Barry, you’d better take a look at this. Looks like you might have an oil leak.

Barry thought, Oh shit, now what? That’s all we need, an oil leak. He hurried back down the aisle, out the door, and hustled over to the left engine. Bill Ray was climbing down his step stool which he used to get to the fuel caps on top of the wings. Barry was right beside him now and the plane was between them and the hangar where the aviation office was located.

Barry was a little confused as he glanced around looking for obvious signs of oil.

Where’s the leak? I don’t see anything out of the ordinary.

Billy Ray now became a little secretive with his eyes darting around checking the ramp for other pilots or workers.

Then he turned to Barry and almost whispered, There ain’t no leak, Mr. Barry. I jus’ needed to talk to ya’ for a sec.

What about? Barry asked.

Billy Ray started to explain, Well, by the way, those joints you gave me were killer. Just two of them really whacked me and my buddies out. Shit, it was strong. So, thanks for that. I figured I should tell ya’ that yesterday two guys flew in here with a Cessna 310. They were dressed real nice with suits and ties. They went into the office and talked with Mr. Watson, the owner of the fixed base operation. After about fifteen minutes the three of them came out and walked toward your plane. Mr. Watson was pointing at it and talking. Mr. Watson is a real religious guy, one of them evangelists or something…doesn’t even drink beer. If he knew I smoked a joint now and then he’d fire me on the spot. Anyways, one of the pilots took out a small camera from his case and walked over to your plane while Mr. Watson and the other guy went back to the hangar. The guy was quick but it looked like he took a lot of pictures of your plane. He even tried to look through the windows. Then he scuttled of back to the hangar hoping no one noticed him. But I was watching the whole time. I was washing the windows on a plane two rows over. Anyway, jus’ thought you should know.

Barry was alarmed, even shocked, but he tried to maintain his bravado and not let on that he was concerned. He kept his normal voice and said, Well, I wonder what that was about? Maybe they’re interested in buying the plane? Barry suggested, illy Ray looked at Barry, smiling, and said, I kinda doubt it. What would two dudes in suits driving a Cessna 310 want with your old D-18? And I never seen these guys around here before and they didn’t look at any other planes.

Barry was thinking Oh, we’re fucked. Gotta be the DEA or at least some Feds. They won’t arrest us…they’re just waiting for us to leave and then follow us. But we have our weed stash in the duffel bags. That could be a problem if they searched us. Shit! Think…what the fuck should we do?

Barry tried to act nonchalant, unconcerned, and hoped his voice wouldn’t give him away. He was afraid to talk but then Billy Ray had offered up this information. He wasn’t a threat. Just some pot-head kid returning the favor for the two joints.

Finally Barry cleared his throat and asked Billy Ray, How much fuel did you pump?

Billy Ray looked at the meter on the fuel truck and replied, Just over 80 gallons which would be about $100 bucks.

Barry dug into his pocket and produced a wad of bills with a money clip. He counted out $150 in twenties and gave it to Billy Ray.

Here, said Barry. This should cover the fuel with a little tip for you. I trust you to pay our fuel bill, if you don’t mind.

Gee, thanks Mr. Barry! I can use the money and don’t worry, I’ll pay your bill as soon as I get back to the office, Billy Ray said with obvious excitement. It wasn’t everyday that a line boy got a tip, let alone $50 bucks! His lucky day! But it also confirmed his suspicion that Barry and Roscoe were up to something. He was betting drugs but that didn’t bother him. He got a vicarious thrill thinking he was a part of it.

As Billy Ray walked over to the fueling truck Barry hustled to the other side of the plane where Roscoe was checking the right wheel tire pressure. Still partially hidden from the hangar Barry scrambled under the wing and tapped Roscoe on the shoulder.

As Roscoe turned toward him he could see the panic in Barry’s eyes.

Barry leaned close to Roscoe and began jabbering, Fuck man, we got a problem. Shit, a big problem. He explained quickly what Billy Ray had told him.

Roscoe, trying to play his usual macho roll, said, Those fuckin’ pricks…has to be DEA. The holy-roller owner must have dropped a dime on us. Son of a bitch! Fuckin’ do-gooder…what the fuck business is it of his? Damn! Whadda’ think?

Barry had had a few minutes to ponder the problem and decided quickly.

Roscoe listened without interrupting as Barry explained, OK. I gave the kid money to pay for the fuel. The tie down fee will have to wait until we come back. We still have the rental car so let’s get our bags and book outta’ here. We’ll drive to Oklahoma City and turn the car in there. I’ll have to call the guys in New York and tell them what happened. Maybe they’ll have a plan but one thing is for sure. I’m not flying a hot plane with the Feds or DEA on our heels. We can always come back later and retrieve the plane. They won’t stick around for long once we leave. We can buy a ticket and fly to New York if we have to.

Roscoe answered, Right. I’m with you. Let’s get the bags.

Barry added, Don’t rush or panic. We’ll just casually get the bags, lock the plane door, and walk over to the car. Oh shit, I forgot. I have to run up to the cockpit and close the windows.

Roscoe, anxious to go, said, OK, let’s do it.

And they did. Billy Ray was finished storing the fuel hose and was removing the grounding wire as Barry and Roscoe were leaving the plane. They didn’t even glance at the hangar as they made the short walk to the car. The Feds were surely taking photographs of them and neither one wanted their faces recorded. But what did it matter now? They were blown. They were using their real names and Barry had been in the Marines. He had made it to flight school and served one tour in Vietnam flying A-6s. He was on file, prints and photos. Sure, he looked different now with the long hair but that wouldn’t stop an ID check. They were had. Their lucrative career as freebooters was over.

They threw their bags into the back seat of the rental and jumped into the car. Barry was driving. His hands were steady even though his mind was in a turmoil. He backed out of their slot and headed for the airport exit. It was only a two lane, paved airport entrance and a short way to the highway. Billy Ray would be paying the fuel bill by now and the Feds would notice no activity around the plane. They would question Billy Ray but what could he tell them? By the time they realized the plane wouldn’t be going anywhere Barry and Roscoe would be on the interstate heading for Oklahoma City.

Barry kept checking his rear view mirror for signs of a tail. Then he suddenly realized there wouldn’t be a tail. At least not for a while. The Feds had flown into the field and didn’t have a car. They at least had a grace period to put some miles between them. And they didn’t know where they were going. And, actually, they hadn’t really done anything wrong. Except the fuel drum in the plane. That was a FAA violation for sure. But it couldn’t get them arrested. Just maybe fined by the FAA. But the Feds didn’t even know about the drum. And they had no real probable cause to get a search warrant. The only thing Barry and Roscoe could be arrested for what the bag of weed in their duffel bag.

Roscoe, Barry suddenly exclaimed, Crawl in the back and find our weed stash. Get it all. Make sure you get it all. And dump it out the window. Hurry up!! Do it now! Roscoe jumped as he was in his own world of worry. But he did as Barry ordered and was back in the passenger seat in a matter of minutes. He wasn’t too pleased about dumping their stash but he didn’t argue. Barry slowed down a bit and Roscoe reluctantly opened the two baggies and, one at a time, dribbled the contents onto the open highway. Then he threw the two baggies out the window.

What a waste of good smoke, he said to Barry. Then he added, I know, I know, it was the smart thing to do…but, still, it pisses me off to do it.

Barry responded, Hey, don’t worry about it. You know our New York compadres have plenty of the best. We’ll load up next time we see them.

Roscoe complained, Yeah, when will that be? We’re history for any more dope runs. We’re hot, for sure on some government list.

Barry replied soberly, Yo’ bro, I know what you’re saying. But, we’re free and haven’t been charged with nothing. Probably won’t get charged either. We didn’t do nothing. They got nothing to go on except the plane. We can still fly, do the crop dustin’ and fire fightin’ gigs. We won’t get rich but we’ll do all right. I’d better call New York and see what the plan is.

Barry took the next exit keeping an eye on the rear view mirror. No one followed him off the exit. He pulled into a gas station and parked in front of the mini-market.

Went inside and bought two bottles of Coke. Then back in the car and onto the interstate. He only went as far as the next exit and again turned off. Into another gas station with no one following. He was certain they were clean of any tails. He spotted a pay phone at the side of the gas station lot and parked beside it. Barry got out with his bag of quarters and dialed the New York contact number. It rang a few times and then was picked up by Robert Peterson. Barry recognized his voice. Robert Peterson was responsible for all sales of the product. He only sold to a selected few dealers. The dealers were all wholesalers who lived in Manhattan and the surrounding New York boroughs. By selling wholesale Peterson was able to keep a layer of insulation between himself and the street people.

Hey bro, said Barry, trying to sound cheerful and upbeat. We’ve got a little problem here and I….

Hold it, hold it, interrupted Robert Peterson. Let me give you another number. He rattled off a number from memory. It was a pay phone number three blocks from his downtown loft. Barry asked him to hold on as he ran to the car for a pen and paper.

OK, what’s the number again, Barry asked. Peterson repeated the number and Barry wrote it down. Peterson wondered for the hundredth time why these guys can’t be prepared when they made these calls. Why didn’t they have a pen and paper handy and ready? Bozos with shit for brains.

Robert Peterson asked Barry to repeat the number. He had it correct. He was relieved. How many times had he waited by a pay phone for a return call that never came? Sometimes the bozos would call and be so stoned that they could never get the call-back number right. Or sometimes they would insist on these stupid codes, reversing the area codes, or the last three digits of the phone number. Then they’d forget the code or be too stoned to figure it out. Frustrating. Peterson would have to return to his loft and wait for another call so they could go through the entire process again. Such paranoia. If it got down to the point where his phone was being tapped it would be all over anyway.

OK, you got the number right. Just wait fifteen minutes and call the number. If I don’t answer try again in five, instructed Robert Peterson. Then he hung up, grabbed his light jacket, the loft elevator key, and headed for the elevator door. His loft was on 22nd Street between 5th Avenue and 6th Avenue. It was in the old garment district in lower Manhattan. Almost all of the buildings there had been vacant for dozens of years. The once thriving weaving and clothing manufacturing had fallen by the wayside due to ever increasing cheap clothing imported from China and India. What remained where huge, brick buildings which could be leased for 99 years. Enterprising young people would lease two or three floors of these buildings for ridiculously low rents and proceed to rehab them. The elevators servicing the buildings would typically open directly into the rehabbed lofts. Each floor had a specific key to open only the proper door. The lofts were enormous spaces, often running the entire length of the building.

The renovations were often lavish. Peterson’s loft boasted a bowling alley, a full-sized 41/2’ by 9’ billiard table, a shuffleboard table, and two boar’s hair dartboards. That was just the game room. He had three huge bedrooms, three baths, and a separate, huge hot tub with an adjacent dry heat sauna. The kitchen was equally impressive with a stainless steel commercial gas range, a stainless steel refrigerator and freezer, and a massive oak bar that overlooked the kitchen.

Robert Peterson inserted his key into the elevator control panel and the metal door opened smoothly. He entered the elevator and again used the same key at the inside control panel to close the door and select the desired floor. In this case, the ground floor. A specific key would be necessary if he decided to visit another floor.

Now at the ground floor he left the building and turned right toward 5th Avenue where the pay phone was located. It was early Spring and the temperature was in the mid 60s. 22nd Street was empty of traffic as was almost always the case. With no commercial traffic and very few residents there was no reason for anyone to be strolling down the sidewalk or driving a vehicle. There was a privacy here that was unknown in virtually every other district in Manhattan…its own little secret fortress.

Peterson was on 5th Avenue with plenty of time to spare. The phone booth was empty which was good. Another phone booth was directly beside it and he had that number memorized as well for a back up. He didn’t give Barry that number for fear of confusing him.

The phone call came five minutes early. Not a good sign. Barry must be nervous. Peterson answered on the 1st ring, said Hello and immediately Barry started talking nonstop. Peterson listened intently without interrupting. He knew it would do no good to interrupt because Barry was jabbering like a parrot. When he stopped to take a breath Peterson quickly interjected, OK Barry, you did the right thing. Good you got out of there. But we need to talk more. Get on a flight and come to New York. Take a cab to downtown Manhattan and find a bar called the Buffalo Roadhouse. It’s a popular place, good food, and good bar. Any cabby knows the place. Call me with your flight number and arrival time before you leave Oklahoma City. Then call again when you get to the bar. I can meet you there in fifteen minutes. You got that?

Barry answered he understood. He repeated his instructions just to make sure. He hung up the phone and dashed back to the car. He explained the plan to Roscoe as he left the gas station and got back on the interstate. They’d be at the airport in not more than thirty minutes. Turn in the car and check on the flights to New York. Hopefully they could get one to JFK or LaGuardia. Newark was such a pain in the ass to get into Manhattan.

Back at the airfield Billy Ray had returned to the office and gave Mr. Watson the fuel money. The two agents were now questioning him. What did he say to the pilots? Hey, I filled the tanks and noticed some oil dripping from the left engine. I showed Mr. Barry. That's all.

Well, what happened to them?

They talked for a minute and then left. Guess they're going to come back and work on the oil leak.

It didn't sound like a good story but Billy Ray didn't know what else to say. He wanted to keep his job and didn't want to get any more involved. He left the office and went to fuel another plane. The agents talked to Mr. Watson for a few minutes. They had the registration number for the plane and the name and address of the owner. But no crime had actually been committed so there was very little they could do except follow up with the address. They asked Mr. Watson to call if he saw the pilots again. Or if the plane left.

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CHAPTER 1

Robert Peterson was a handsome man in his early 30s. He was just under six feet tall with a medium build. He didn't work out at the gym but did play pick-up games of basketball regularly. He had short brown hair and a neatly trimmed brown mustache. His temperament was usually positive and enthusiastic. He had a charming smile, which never seemed to fade. Even in casual conversation he managed a disarming smile. He paid attention to the words of others, making them feel important and meaningful. But at the moment Robert was upset, very upset. His partner Jacques Silverman had arranged everything at the airfield outside of Petetlan, Mexico. There were two other partners in their group but they were mostly dead weight. They would soon be cut from the organization. But that would be dealt with later. Right now, Peterson had to devise a new plan and hope that Jacques would call him as scheduled later tonight. Hopefully the product could be safely stored while they figured out how to get another plane and crew down there. Jacques Silverman had spent many weeks in the mountains north of Acapulco going from one marijuana farm to another. His guide and connection was the retired chief of police from Zijuatanajo. His name was Alvaro Ramirez and he retired very young. He had only been the chief for 10 years but during that time he had cultivated the friendship of almost every farmer in the region. He knew them all. In fact, his 5th wife, a young 15 year girl, was the daughter of one of the major marijuana farmers. He had no choice in the marriage because when the farmer found out that his daughter was pregnant and that the father was Alvaro he hastily agreed to a quick marriage. If he wanted to keep all of his marijuana connections intact it was the only thing to do. Knowing all of the growers allowed him access to the high mountain fields. And this was extremely important to his New York client, Jacques Silverman. Jacques was very picky about his marijuana. He was a connoisseur.

Robert Peterson walked back to his loft at a quick pace. There was no reason to hurry but his adrenaline was pumping and his mind was spinning with thoughts of how to develop a new plan. One thing was for certain, Barry and Roscoe were out of the picture. The plane was hot and no doubt their names had gone down with the plane. Even if they could find another plane it would be suicide to use them again. And they were such fools. Strutting around with their ridiculous bravado…the bomber jackets and cowboy hats and long hair…how many times had Robertson and Silverman lectured them about their appearance? At least a hundred times. But they refused to listen. Undoubtedly their macho attire and attitude had brought undue attention to themselves. Stupid fools! And now the plane was hot. It wasn’t much to purchase it, only $25,000, but now it was stuck in Oklahoma under surveillance! Shit. Had to figure a way to get it out of there and sell it quickly. Maybe they could recoup most of their investment. He would have to talk Barry and Roscoe into going back there in a week or so and flying it out. Peterson could pay whatever was owed to the fixed base operator by mail…a certified check or money order. Then, Barry and Roscoe could slip in there at night and fly out…hopefully get it down to Florida where there was a big market for dope planes. And, no doubt about it, the Beechcraft D-18 was definitely a dope plane. Sure, it was used as a commuter for small airlines, sure it was used for light cargo, and sure, it was even used for crop dusting. But the Feds and the DEA knew that it was a favored choice of drug runners for flying pot and more recently cocaine. It was cheap, there were plenty of them available on the used market, and they were a great workhorse with a 1,500 mile range with the extra-range fuel tanks.

Peterson was sure he could use his salesmanship to convince Barry and Roscoe to recover the plane. He would guilt them into it…blaming them for being so obvious and acting like a pair of crazy fly-boys. But he had to tread a little lightly with them. Peterson realized that they both knew other pilots, pilots who would be willing to make a quick buck. But, God forbid, they should get involved with another pair of pilots like Barry and Roscoe. That’s just what he needed. The one good factor out of this mess was that they didn’t get arrested and interrogated. Peterson and Silverman had no doubts that they wouldn’t stand up. They’d spill their guts and the entire group would be under suspicion. At least that didn’t happen. All they needed was a new plan.

Robert Peterson got back to his loft where his girlfriend had just returned from shopping. She was a good looking girl, chic, with short cropped hair, very little make-up, and a tight, well proportioned body. Her breasts especially stood out…not huge, but perky and very firm. Sheryl Martin, like Robert Peterson had a college degree. They had met at NYU ten years ago where she was studying fine art and he was majoring in business. Neither one had a career. Robert was a natural salesman and found it easy to talk with people and make new friends. He soon learned how to pick out pot suppliers and talk them into small amounts of credit. From selling dime bags to his friends he soon moved into selling pounds and eventually multi-pounds. Now he was a major dealer. For the past eight years. He had never been busted.

He and Sheryl got along fabulously. She was an extremely intelligent woman and was never shy about expressing herself even when her opinion was unsolicited. Robert respected her brain power and always considered her input but sometimes resented her insistent probing into his business. His partner, Jacques, was much less tolerant. Sheryl was much more reserved when Jacques was there meeting with Robert. Pot smuggling was business for the men and women had very little place in that world.

So how’s the project coming? Sheryl asked.

Rotten. I just got back from talking with Barry and it seems he and Roscoe are under surveillance and just missed getting arrested in Oklahoma. I didn’t get all of the details but both of them are taking a commercial flight to New York to meet with me. I’ll know more then but for the time being we’re on hold. Jacques should call tonight and I’ll fill him in with what I know. It really bums me out. We were all ready to go. If those two morons had been a little more low-key none of this would have happened.

Sheryl agreed. Yeah, I know. Those two are fucking idiots. I never did like either of them. I wish they had never been to the loft. They know where we live. I was pissed at you and Jacques for bringing them here.

Ok, Ok, Sheryl…we’ve been over this before. There was no way we could have worked with them without sitting down and talking openly about the details. You know there are tons of details to go over. I’ll meet them at the Roadhouse and bring them over here.

Sheryl mildly sneered and said, Fine, I’m not going to be around when they’re here. I’ll go out but I’m not going to sit around at a bar somewhere waiting for them to leave. Get them a room somewhere. Have your meeting but don’t let them sit around here getting stoned or drunk. And don’t give them any of our pharmaceutical cocaine. That’s our private stash and it costs too much to waste on them.

Don’t worry, baby, I have no intention of parting with any of that. It’s the best and too hard to get. Good thing my old buddy, Henry the dentist, is so agreeable in selling it to me. But he only gets so much allotted to him in any given month. I paid a grand for that one ounce vial and there won’t be any more until next month. So, don’t worry.

Pharmaceutical cocaine was invented by the Germans and was produced under strict controls by a pharmaceutical company on the island of Myorca off the coast of Spain. And it was the best. The flakes were so fine that they literally floated out of the bottle when opened. They had slight bluish tint to them in the sunlight. It was 100% pure and a little went a long way.

With the coke on his mind Robert opened a small gold vial he kept in his jeans pocket. It was a custom made bottle by a goldsmith friend of Jacques’. It was 18-karat gold with a hinged lid. When you flipped the lid open there was a small gold spoon fitted snugly into the bottle. Robert removed the spoon then reinserted it into the bottle and came up with a spoonful of the potent coke.

Here, he offered it to Sheryl. Her face immediately lit up and she smiled her best coquettish smile.

Why thank you kind sir. What do I have to do to return such a generous favor? She asked with a short giggle. And then she held his hand with the spoon up to her nose and inhaled sharply. Robert repeated the ritual for her other nostril and then helped himself in the same manner. The effect was immediate. The high was invigorating making both of them wide awake, super alert, and highly sensitive.

It’s amazing how wonderful the first high is. Makes me feel tingly all over. It takes all of my willpower not to overindulge. But I like it so much! Sheryl admitted.

Yeah, me too. I do like it. Come here. Give me a kiss and see how quickly I transform this energy into something I know you’ll like.

Sheryl smiled broadly and showed her perfect, white teeth…then with just the tip of her tongue extending provocatively between her lips…she slivered down from the couch on which they were sitting and began to unbuckle his jeans and open his fly.

Is this the kind of kiss you had in mind? It was indeed.

Just after Sheryl finished the phone rang. It was barely 6:00 PM and his prearranged calling window with Jacques was between 6:00 and 10:00 Eastern Time. Sheryl was miffed at the interruption, as she was very hot by now and ready to continue. But she knew she would have to wait. Or see to her needs alone. She got up and proceeded into their bedroom where she quickly found her vibrator. It would have to do for now.

Robert jumped up for the phone nearly tripping over his jeans as he struggled to pull them up. He got to the phone as he buckled his belt.

Hello he gasped, slightly out of breath.

Hey man, it’s me Jacques said without identifying himself. They weren’t paranoid like other members of the group but they were still careful not to use names.

Do you want me to call you back? Robert asked, suggesting it was probably a good idea. Are you at home? Yeah, I’m here and I’ll wait for the call. How long?

Make it about fifteen minutes said Robert.

OK, good. Later. Jacques hung up.

Robert grabbed his jacket and keys and left the loft without saying anything to Sheryl. She knew the routine. He hoped she wasn’t pissed about the interruption. He would have to make it up to her when he got back.

Within fifteen minutes Robert was at the pay phone dialing the number in Mexico. Jacques picked up immediately.

Hey my man, what’s happening? Jacques’ usual greeting.

Oh man, we got a problem. I’ll make it quick and then you tell me what you think.

He told Jacques about Barry and Roscoe and their run-in at the Oklahoma airport. He used vague code terms but clear enough for Jacques to get the picture.

Shit, he answered. That really fucks things up for me. I was all staged and ready to go. Now I have to get back to the beach and secure everything. Put everything on hold. He knew that he could get Alvaro to hold the pot for them. 1,400 pounds was a sizeable amount of merchandise but it could be divided up into several stash houses close to the beach. Alvaro had a good crew and they could be trusted. As long as the delay wasn’t too long. Even though he had given Alvaro a small deposit Jacques knew that if the delay became extended that the merchandise would be sold to the first person showing up with cash. Alvaro would keep the deposit and make a commission on the sale. The farmers fronted the pot to Alvaro. But they expected to be paid in a reasonable timeframe. Jacques knew it was fronted but Alvaro always denied this trying to make it appear that the deposit went directly to the farmers. Jacques didn’t press the point. After all, the deposit was a minimal amount. They had developed a trust over the years and he had never failed to pay Alvaro the full amount owed. Their deposit money had become less and less. I might have to sweeten things with my buddy. Jacques added. "Do you think I should