Throwing Bones: And Other Adventures of an International Drug Smuggler

By P. A. Barnhart

This stuff really happened. The drug smuggler known as "The Boxer" actually beat the U.S. Government at every turn. Think 'Traffic' and 'Blow', only real. Same decade; same bad guys; same airstrips. Throwing Bones is an artful blend of fact and fiction that will leave you amazed, curious, and a little jealous. The events, places and people are real, just thinly disguised. Enjoy!

• Language: English
• Publisher: P. A. Barnhart
• Release date: Oct 26, 2008
• ISBN: 9781452382838

P. A. Barnhart

Author of two novels (Vanderville and Throwing Bones, both available on dead trees at www.publishamerica.com), experienced book editor, and freelance writer, Pat resides in central Florida with her oh so spoiled Bassett Hound, Belle of the Ball. In addition to writing, Pat enjoys mentoring other authors as they pursue their writing dreams, and is available for all projects involving words. A self-avowed wordsmith, hobbies include movies, crossword puzzles, and travel.

Book preview

THROWING BONES©

and other adventures of an International drug smuggler

By

P. A. Barnhart

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

P. A. Barnhart on Smashwords

Copyright 2007 by P. A. Barnhart

* * * * *

Hardcover Edition available at www.publishamerica.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

PROLOGUE

The blade of the old-fashioned straight razor glinted in the morning sun, slicing a path through the thick foam. Every stroke revealed more of his sun-browned face. The wide, unlined forehead, the high cheekbones, were unmistakably Seminole Indian, yet slightly diluted by some distant ancestor’s foray into a Germanic gene pool. He forgave the strayer, admiring the results.

Good morning, Chief. He smiled at himself through the steam. He made a V with two fingers, held them up behind his head, and did a little whooping war dance on the cool tile floor. He was in damn good shape for eighty. Excited about the prospects for the day. He believed in getting up every day like his hair was on fire.

He slid a finger down the slope of his long, straight nose, clearing away the last of the shaving soap. He sometimes thought that he must be the last man in America to shave this way, but he enjoyed the ritual. It elevated the mundane chore of shaving to a pleasant event. The blue and white china mug filled with a lemony shaving soap pleased his senses. Honing the blade of the razor on the strop suspended by the sink was physical and manly. The steel razor had weight and felt good in his hand, just the opposite of those little plastic throw-aways. Those things were for pussies.

Yes, sir, it's gonna be a fine day for the air show.

He often conversed with himself, preferring the company. His contemporaries seemed to enjoy talking about their latest surgery or medical malady almost exclusively. They defined themselves by their puckered surgical scars and number of heart by passes. He was beginning to rue his reckless past and his disregard for family. An old man needed someone. Too bad he hadn't thought about that all those years ago back in Texas. The hot summer night that he had shed the skin of Charlie, pilot, war hero, dare devil, husband, and father. The night he had reached deep into the thick stew of his past and pulled out a new identity   Seminole Indian Chief Tommy Grey Dog. The newly invented Grey Dog had no family. No one to answer to for the burned bodies of his drinking buddies. No funerals to attend. No disappointed child's eyes to look into.

But on mornings like this, when the sun glared harshly on the cobwebs of his life, he knew the truth was that he never really expected to live this long. Not with his lifestyle, living for the moment only, day to day, dancing on the prongs of the devil’s pitchfork.

As he idly wiped his face with a towel, mechanically rinsing and putting away his shaving gear, he watched several white herons wade by in the shallow water outside his bathroom window. The swampy Everglades served as his back yard.

Who would he be today? A lot of people knew him in one guise or another, but no one knew all of the 'hims'. At least no one above ground.

The phone interrupted his reverie.

It was his former boss at U.S. Customs requesting an urgent meeting. Chief Grey Dog told him in no uncertain terms that the meeting would have to take place at the Fourth of July air show or not at all.

"Pritchett, I’ve got a ticket to this thing and I’m not gonna miss it for anything short of a national emergency. Care to give me a clue what you want to talk about on a holiday weekend? To someone who, I might remind you, is retired?"

No, Agent Grey Dog. I’ll tell you in person. You know how these phones are. The bugs have bugs to see if they’re bugged! He emitted a false sounding chuckle, then continued. I’ll come to the friggin’ air show if you insist. It’s important. I gotta job for you.

Terrific. I’ll see you there. Just keep it brief. Don’t want government business messing up my day. Prick, he thought, breaking the connection. The only thing he had enjoyed about the exchange was that he knew he made Pritchett nervous.

What could Pritchett want? He slapped on Old Spice cologne and tossed his long black braid back over his shoulder.

The small steamy bathroom opened into an austere 'bedroom', in actuality just a sleeping area. There was nothing visible in the rebuilt Indian chickee hut that wasn't needed. No frills, no knick knacks, no photographs. A visitor, had there ever been one, might think it the residence of a monk at best, a hermit at worst.

In sharp contrast to the timeless, unadorned decor, was the large amount of space devoted to electronics. One entire wall was filled with elaborate shelf space displaying an enviable collection of computer equipment, stereo components, printers, a Teletype, fax machine, copier, telephones, several monitors, and a short-wave radio.

He did his usual twenty minutes of calisthenics, then dressed carefully in starched khaki slacks with a knife edge crease, a starched short sleeved shirt, zip up cordovan ankle boots, a nickel plated .22 pistol in an ankle holster, and finally a brown baseball cap with U.S. Air Force insignia on the front. He tucked his braid neatly under the cap, stuck a cell phone in his shirt pocket, grabbed the keys to his completely rebuilt Indian motorcycle, and went down the front steps to his sandy, high and dry, front yard. Today he would be a pilot. Again.

As he sat and revved the cycle engine, enjoying as he always did the deep rumble that throbbed beneath him, he tossed three raw eggs to Big Gator. The sixteen-foot alligator waited patiently underneath the chickee hut. Grey Dog had tried to have other pets, but Gator had won the contest in the survival of the fittest, and was now a permanent fixture. He jealously guarded his swampy kingdom with a keen eye for visitors or would be challengers. He was not only number one, there was no number two.

Grey Dog didn’t waste much time speculating on what Pritchett wanted to talk about. In spite of threatening storms, the weather gods had smiled sunshine on this magical morning and he would enjoy the show and his reunion with the beautiful flying machines as he always did.

He got to the airfield early, ahead of tourists and pilot wannabes. He enjoyed walking around the hangars, talking to the owners and pilots. ‘Hangar flying’ it was called. He nodded to the regulars, and smiled. He knew they whispered to each other behind his back about the odd reverence he felt for the planes. Fuck ‘em, he thought, and went on with his soft chanting prayers, slowing forcing his wide brown eyes to leave one beautiful bird and slide to another.

Eventually he made his way to the bleachers, studying them, working out in his mind what would be the best seat. This time he picked the highest row, dead center, and dared his legs to fail him on the long climb to the top.

He reached his perch, took out a handkerchief, and dried the raindrops from his chosen seat. Giving in to a streak of meanness, he left the seats on either side of him wet.

Within minutes of taking his seat, he spotted the silvery crew cut and clipped beard of Andrew Pritchett approaching the stands, shielding his eyes with a well-manicured hand, searching the stands for his Agent.

He waved to Grey Dog from the ground, motioning with his arm for Grey Dog to come down. He pointed theatrically to a seat in front of him on the bottom row.

Grey Dog smiled and waved back, then gave Pritchett the finger. He had no intention of leaving his hard earned perch. He watched as Pritchett began sullenly climbing up toward him. He could see the man’s lips moving, no doubt cursing the weakened position climbing up would cause him in any negotiations about to take place.

While waiting, Grey Dog turned his attention back to the airfield. Several entrants had begun untying their planes and were beginning pre-flight checks. He knew it wouldn’t be long before engines would begin to rumble to life. He could feel his heart thump a little faster in his chest.

He looked up. The wind had chased the last of the clouds off to the west, leaving only a brilliant blue canopy overhead. Wind needs to calm a little more, he thought, pulling his cap down a little tighter on his head. He knew the maneuvers the pilots would attempt were dangerous enough without the added pressure of erratic wind gusts.

When Pritchett reached the top row, the men shook hands firmly, each putting competitive strength into the physical contact.

Good to see you, Chief, Pritchett began. You look great. He stood, propping one expensively shod foot on the seat next to Grey Dog, turned slightly, and surveyed the airfield.

Grey Dog smiled, knowing full well the interest was feigned. Pritchett would probably think a Steerman was a cowboy. He answered genially, however. Likewise, Pri... Pritchett. Let’s get to the point, shall we? What brings you out of the air-conditioning to see an old has-been like me?

Spare me the false modesty, Chief. You know no one has ever been able to fill your moccasins at the agency.

You’ll notice I’m not wearing moccasins. I’m wearing boots. That’s so when the bullshit gets deep my feet don’t get dirty. He thought about adding that he did carry a skinning knife, but changed his mind.

Indulge me a moment, Chief. I’ll get to the point. Don’t worry.

A beautiful red and white World War II era Beechcraft Staggerwing D-Model began a slow, graceful taxi out to the active runway. Pritchett’s time to talk was running out. Still, he jabbed another question at the old man.

I know you’re Seminole, Chief, but what else are you? You don’t look full blooded Indian.

Following the Staggerwing with his curtained eyes, he answered reluctantly. German, Andrew. Half German and half Seminole Indian. After the war I decided to ignore the German half. I know it’s still in there, he continued, pointing to his chest, that Germanic intolerance and rigidity, but I try to keep it buried under Indian composure. He took off his sunglasses to make eye contact. That’s what keeps me from doing impulsive things, like pushing people off bleachers who block my view. He put the sunglasses back on as Andrew Pritchett moved a little to the side. Flashing straight white teeth, the Chief smiled and went on. Sometimes I sit in my chickee hut and eat cabbage and sausages and stomp around to marching music, though. Can’t help myself.

Makes sense to me, Pritchett responded, either missing the sarcasm or ignoring it. Probably a good career move. Indians never sank any American ships or bombed our allies. Anyway, more to the point. I have a job that needs doing and you are better qualified for it than anybody currently on my payroll. It’s good money if you’re bored enough with retirement to do an undercover job. He stopped to let the proposal sink in.

Undercover as what?

A writer, Chief. And, to sweeten the pot, you’ll be going to Jamaica.

Andrew, what the hell are you talking about? Spit it all out. His voice was tight with impatience. He wanted Pritchett to put the meat on the table. No more hors d’oeuvres. The Staggerwing had lifted off as gently as if in the palm of an unseen hand. A black Steerman was beginning to taxi out of a shimmering metal hangar. Pritchett was an unwelcome buzzing fly of distraction, but something told the Chief that he needed to hear him out.

"Knowledge of flying is involved and I know you can do this. Only you. Here’s the deal. He began talking fast, apparently finally realizing his time was running out. I’m retiring soon and I plan to run for the vacant Senate seat. There’s one bad guy I need to catch before I hang it up. It could be the springboard to my election. An exclamation point to my career."

Chief Grey Dog’s antenna went up. He could guess what was coming. He swallowed hard, determined not to show his excitement. Fortunately, the air show could account for any agitation that might be visible.

Tell me more and make it fast. My patience pocket is nearly empty. In reality, he could barely breathe.

The target is an old nemesis; a smuggler that thinks he has gotten away clean. He’s a pilot, and a damn good one, unfortunately for us. He comes from a long line of pilots in his family -- his father was a hero in the war. Flew the Burma Hump for Chennault. We’ve never been able to catch him. He’s living in Jamaica now, high on the proverbial hog. I’d like to bring him in, at least get him indicted. It’d be a real feather in my cap. He took a deep breath, watching the Chief’s face intently.

What makes you think this guy’s vulnerable?

Pritchett rubbed his chin. We figure he’s laid back, taking it easy, probably let his guard down some. How much security could he have on that island? Hell, the cops don’t even carry guns.

Avoiding eye contact, Grey Dog turned to look skyward. The manmade butterflies were beginning to soar overhead, bumping against the sky.

The key is the father, Pritchett continued. With your knowledge of flying and your age, you could pose as a historian wanting to write yet another book about war heroes. Maybe in working on the book, you can get this guy to open up. Put an Indian spin on it if you think that’s appropriate. At least it’s a shot. We would have done this sooner but I just recently found out where the bastard is. What do you say? I promise to make it worth your while. Pritchett’s voice was beginning to whine. He stopped abruptly and mopped his forehead. The day was beginning to steam.

Never taking his eyes from the sky, Chief Grey Dog asked quietly, What’s the target’s name?

Marty Murray. But he goes by Boxer. Don’t know the story behind the nickname, but that’s what he’s called by everybody who seems to know him in the smuggling business. Wife’s name is Penny. They have two daughters but they aren’t in Jamaica that I know of.

Chief Grey Dog rubbed a weathered hand across the back of his neck, under the stiff shirt collar. Shit, he thought. Double shit. He knew if he didn’t take this job Pritchett would just find some incompetent government asshole to do it. Somebody who would really fuck things up.

Okay, Pritchett, I’ll do it. I don’t want to, but I’m the best man for the job. You got that part right. I’ll want double my usual consulting fee, plus expenses. Maybe the money would be the deal breaker. Maybe cheap ass Pritchett would just decide it wasn’t worth breaking his precious budget over.

Double? His voice rose to a yell.

Yeah, double. And if you keep hanging around today, it’s gonna be triple. Take it or leave it.

Shit. Okay, done deal. Meet me in my office Monday morning, first thing. I’ll give you the file.

Out of some remaining respect for the man’s position in a government agency that Grey Dog had worked hard to strengthen, he stood and shook hands with Director Pritchett. He watched as the younger man descended the rows of bleachers, then remained standing for the Star Spangled Banner. He was infuriated to see Pritchett toss his ticket stub in the grass and keep walking, ignoring the national anthem.

The day continued to unfold in glorious south Florida sunshine, steamy and hot, but just the thing to warm the bones of an old man.

The lemon colored Steerman, a Gypsy Moth, the red and white Beech Staggerwing, and a U.S. Air Force marked AT-6 performed an incredible aerial ballet before his mirrored eyes. He took a deep breath, drawing in the heavy air tinged with aviation fuel. It was his favorite perfume.

The anonymous voice crackled from the loudspeakers, describing each stunt. He spoke of barrel rolls, snap rolls, loops and the audience terrifying hammerhead stall. Grey Dog needed no play by play. He had every move memorized, carved into his very soul. He closed his eyes and felt the G-forces push against his body. He felt the hot wind against his face. He wished the voice would shut up.

As always, the Blue Angels military precision flying team finished the show with their spectacular head-on passes and signature starburst. The audience gasped, then ooohed and ahhhed, but behind his dark glasses, the old man wept silently. He coughed against the rock in his throat, but it refused to budge.

Later, racing northward up old highway 101, he began the mental process of transforming himself from government agent to historical writer. He knew he had to be ready. The past was about to collide head on with the future.

CHAPTER ONE

Penny told Boxer later that day that it had looked like dueling lounge chairs by the swimming pool, a face off of wills, played out in the warm white sunshine of the Caribbean.

Boxer and the old writer, stretched out on white wicker chaises, facing each other, nearly toe to toe. Boxer was armed with a plastic tumbler of Cutty Sark, neat, and he held it two-fisted, balanced on his chest, like a shield.

The writer held his sword in his right hand, a blue Bic pen, poised dangerously over a yellow lined note pad.

There was no question as to who was in possession of the more powerful weapon. Boxer knew instinctively that the pen and a postage stamp could destroy him.

He gave no hint of anxiety, but sipped his scotch whiskey, now warm and fragrant, and studied his opponent. He couldn’t see the old man’s eyes, well hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, but there was a military bearing about him that made Boxer want to sit up a little straighter. He resisted the urge, though, and continued staring, listening to his wet bathing suit drip a puddle on the tile beneath his chaise.

Tell me again what you want to know, Boxer insisted, crossing one tanned, muscular leg over the other. He thought he understood the writer’s mission, but experience had taught him to leave nothing to chance. Taking chances can get you very dead.

The old man had simply appeared on Boxer’s villa doorstep, briefcase in hand, and introduced himself as Chief Tommy Grey Dog, just arrived from Miami. He had even presented a business card with an Indian head logo and his name. Below that it had simply stated ‘Chief, Seminole Indian Council’.

Boxer took a quick inventory and decided the old man looked the part. Grey Dog appeared to be in his seventies, nearly six feet tall and sporting a long black snake of a braid down his back. His skin was the color of pecan wood, no doubt from years in the Florida sun. He was handsome and well dressed in stiff khaki slacks and a matching half-sleeve shirt.

Like I said, Son, I’m doing research for a history book on men from Florida who were flying aces during the War. A few of the old-timers in the village still speak of your father and tell stories about his barnstorming days around south Florida. A lady friend in the F.A.A. helped me find you, and here I am. He removed a clean white handkerchief from his slacks pocket and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. No matter how many lies he told in his various guises, he never got comfortable with it.

Grey Dog continued. I want to tell your father’s story, and yours too, if you will allow it. Surely in your years of flying you have had some adventures worth telling. The writer’s voice was as compelling as quicksand, pulling Boxer into a muddy past.

Chief, Boxer said, I’ll gladly tell you what I remember about my father, but my own past may not be what you expect. Besides, what’s in it for me? Any money to be made?

Grey Dog thought for a moment and then answered. Sure, we’ll split any money I get fifty-fifty. How does that sound?

Fine. Fifty-fifty is fine. I don’t really need the damn money; I just never do anything for nothing. People don’t appreciate what they get for free. Boxer grabbed a corn yellow towel from a stack by his chair and began drying himself. He continued, I’ve got trunks full of scrapbooks, pictures, other crap you might be interested in looking at. Give me some time to sort through it all and you come back tomorrow. Maybe we’ll talk. And maybe not. He pulled on a blue golf shirt and strode to the poolside bar for a fresh tumbler of scotch, this time dropping in a single ice cube.

Grey Dog had been dismissed. Sure. Take all the time you need. I’ll do some fishing and come back tomorrow. He snapped open his scuffed leather briefcase, threw in the pad and pen, and waved to the houseboy who was lurking under an awning.

Robert, call me a taxi will you? Robert grinned and pointed toward the entry foyer. A taxi was pulling up, tooting the horn and spitting gravel behind tires that were as smooth as grapes.

CHAPTER TWO

Early the next morning, Boxer took a mug of coffee with him and positioned his favorite lounge chair on the soft shoulder of the lawn, just where it began its long curve to the blue green waters of the bay below. He enjoyed the view of the water but if he didn’t position his chair just so, the ancient breadfruit tree would block his line of sight.

He often compared the moods of the sea to the mercurial nature of a woman. He did not express such views aloud, however, as Penny would probably call him a pig and scoff at his metaphors. Today he thought the bay looked particularly inviting and warm. She was wearing lacy white curls and beginning to reflect the pink shades of the rising sun. Even in the midst of a dark and stormy tantrum, the sea was alluring and mysterious. Every day she was different and every night she was more beautiful than the one before.

Time had a way of evaporating in Jamaica and soon an hour had gone by. He was tempted to make his way down the cliff side stairs for a swim, but dismissed the thought and sipped his thick Blue Mountain coffee. Even cooled it was rich and full of flavor.

Villa de Aero, Boxer’s retirement estate, lay stretched out behind him, palatial in size, yet hugging the curves and contours of the land like a baby at his mother’s breast. The two-story home, with its eight bedroom suites, combined the best of English charm and Caribbean warmth. The exterior was whitewashed limestone, warmed by the richness of mahogany window casings and storm shutters. In traditional tropical fashion, all of the rooms were large and open, with high-beamed ceilings, paddle fans, and louvered doors that opened onto surrounding patios.

Boxer sat now, his eyes scanning the local Jamaican newspaper, The Gleaner, but his mind was not absorbing the stories of weddings and auto accidents. His thoughts were still on his meeting with Chief Grey Dog and on the conversation he had had with his stateside attorney the previous night.

Geoffrey, Martin here. Got a quick question for you. There’s a fellow down here says he’s planning to write a book about my family history from an Indian and an aviation perspective. If I tell him about any of my adventures, am I vulnerable legally?

A soft and effeminate voice oozed back. Not, really, Martin. The statute of limitations has run out, unless there are recent episodes that I’m unaware of. He hesitated a moment and Boxer could hear fingers tapping on a metallic surface. My advice would be to preface any stories by saying that they are fictional. Just tall tales. Far as I know, no one can prove otherwise. Right?

Correct. I do have written journals though. And photographs.

Up to you, son. How much of an ego trip are you on?

Screw you, Geoffrey. This is no ego trip. Just getting the facts down for posterity, that’s all. I’ll call you if I get indicted. Boxer hung up.

Lost in thought, he had not heard the soft footsteps approaching from behind. Cool fingers touched his neck and he reacted by grabbing the fingers and pulling them forcefully toward his chest.

Ow! Stop it, cried his wife of thirty years. You trying to break my fingers?

Sorry, Hon. You shouldn’t sneak up on a paranoid son-of-a-bitch like me. You oughta know better. He kissed her fingers and released them. You’ll give me a heart attack one of these days.

Penny, a tiny redhead with jewel green eyes, dropped to the grass at his feet and placed