Sandcastles

By Dick Broren

In December 1968, Customs Agents, assisted by local law enforcement officers in Southern California, launched an early morning roundup of suspects that would lead to the largest drug smuggling conspiracy case in the history of the United States Customs Service. The operation resulted in a gigantic conspiracy indictment of 61 individuals.

This is the story of that operation and how it came about. More than that, it is the story Don and Richard, where they came from, how they got to be what they were, and how it ended for them.

The primary sources were, of course, the surviving principal characters in the story, on both sides of the law. They may suffer from lapses of memory after so many years but in the main the story is as they told it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dick Broren
• Release date: Mar 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458136138

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Sandcastles

A mostly true story

By

Dick Broren

Copyright 2001 - 2011 by Dick Broren

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Author’s Note

In December 1968, Customs Agents, assisted by local law enforcement officers in Southern California, launched an early morning roundup of suspects that would lead to the largest drug smuggling conspiracy case in the history of the United States Customs Service (USCS). The operation resulted in a gigantic conspiracy indictment of 61 individuals. Of these, 60 were subsequently convicted at trial and sentenced to varying terms in federal penitentiaries. This is the story of that operation and how it came about. More than that, it is the story of the two characters I’ve called Don and Richard, where they came from, how they got to be what they were, and how it ended for them.

It took place before the creation of the Federal Witness Protection Program, and before the merging of narcotics interdiction elements of the United States Customs Service (USCS) with the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs (BNDD), to form the Drug Enforcement Administra¬tion (DEA). While both USCS and BNDD were under the Treasury Department, the newly created DEA would come under the Justice Department. This case was the largest, and one of the last of the big ones, to be handled by the USCS Agents working anti-narcotics cases before the creation of the DEA in 1973.

The old Dragnet radio and television series used to say that the names had been changed to protect the innocent. This is a fictionalized account of a true story, lived by real people, many of whom are dead but some are still alive, and therefore: In this story, names have been changed or shortened to just the first names or nicknames in order to pro¬tect the privacy of the innocent and the guilty alike, some of whom have been forgiven their sins by a grateful government, and others who are still denying it ever happened.

The primary sources were, of course, the surviving principal characters in the story, on both sides of the law. They may suffer from lapses of memory after so many years but in the main the story is as they told it to me.

There are, of course, exceptions. It is after all, a mostly-true story, based on real events; not an absolutely accurate rendering of history. In some instances two or more real people have been combined into one character, others have been invented out of the whole cloth, and liberties have been taken with times, dates, and places. A serious researcher – or even a not-so-serious one – could certainly dig up the true names and numbers of most of the players in the real-life drama.

Even participants in the same event remember it very differently. If the people who lived it, when honestly trying to report what happened, can’t agree on just what went down, I reckon absolute truth is a fleeting commodity at best. The events took place, exactly how and why they happened is, and always will be, open to argument.

Dick Broren

Isola del Giglio 2003

Chapter 1 Tijuana July, 1969

The whitewashed hacienda-style ranch house with the red tile roof was located on an unpaved road on the outskirts of Tijuana. Gary, a shifty-eyed young man in his 20s, was nervously examining the bougainvillea which decorated the front porch when, in response to his knock, the door was opened by a middle-aged housewife.

Gary! Sweetheart! said Helen. Come in dear. Come in. It’s nice to see you. Robert is expecting you. You said you had good news for us. We’re eager to hear it. He’s playing with his fish, as usual. Her voice rose slightly in volume as she continued: Robert… Gary has arrived.

As Helen and Gary walked into the living room, Robert was climbing down from a small stepladder beside an enormous tropical fish aquarium that made up one entire wall of the spacious room. Hey, Gary. Grab a seat man. I’ll just put this stuff away, and be right with you. He folded up the ladder, and took it, along with a can of fish food, to a corner of the room, and deposited them in a cupboard. Helen, my dear, bring us some cold beers, and let’s make ourselves comfortable as we learn what good news our young friend here has brought us.

Robert moved with a certain deliberate ease, born of long familiarity with his surroundings. And yet, there was something not quite right about his movements; a certain awkwardness, a hint of hesitation. Unless one was already aware of the fact, it was easy to miss. The large Ray-Ban sunglasses he wore even in the subdued light of the house were usually the first clue spotted by a particularly astute observer that Robert was blind.

Helen moved to the well-stocked bar, and opened the built-in refrigerator from which she extracted several long-necked bottles of XX beer and a bowl containing wedges of lime. After opening the bottles, she carried them on a tray which she placed on a large coffee table near the seated men. She passed the bottles with a wedge of lime inserted into the open neck — no glasses — to Robert and Gary, took one herself, and settled onto the sofa beside her husband.

Robert, dressed like a drugstore cowboy in a B-Western but wearing more gold jewelry set with larger stones than permitted by good taste, was sitting on the sofa across from Gary. Robert and Helen looked for all the world like the typical affluent Mexican-American couple approaching middle age, and having a quiet afternoon at home with one of their friends or business associates.

Hey man, are you still offering fifty grand for anybody that gets rid of Richard and Don? ‘Cause I know where they are. You still interested? asked Gary.

In the summer of 1969, Robert and Helen were in fact, the heads of the largest and best organized illegal drug smuggling and distribution organization in the Southwestern United States. It was known as the H&R Organization or H&R Crew for Helen and Robert’s initials, or sometimes just the H&R.

Absolutely! answered Robert. "Without those two, the government’s got no case. There are now over sixty of my customers awaiting trial, and each of them has pledged to contribute to the hit money for the elimination of them two traitors. Hell, it’s a bargain. They’d have to put out a lot more just for lawyers’ fees. The money is available and waiting.

$50,000 for whacking both of those mutherfookers. You bring me proof it’s been done, and I’ll lay the bread on you. Or you can have merchandise if you prefer. That way, you can make even more if you take the shit to the States, and sell it there. Whatever you want, but you gotta give us proof they’re dead.

Proof, what kinda proof we talking about here?

Well, their heads would be nice. Yeah, I like that. Bring us their damned heads, said Helen.

Man, we gotta be serious here. I ain’t bringing any fucking heads across the border.

Yeah okay, conceded Robert. Where are they anyway?

The feds have got ‘em stashed out in Tucson, and an old buddy of mine who knows the assholes by sight just happened to see them going into where they live. Having been aware of your offer — news of which has spread far and wide — and knowing I was tight with you, he got in touch, and asked me to see if you was still interested. So if you’re serious here, this dude is willing to take them out for the aforementioned fifty gees. But he wants my guarantee that the money will be paid when the deed is done.

Guarantee? How you supposed to guarantee anything like that? asked Helen.

By me getting the money up front from you, and holding it until you’re satisfied it has gone down, and then I turn the dough over to him. He don’t want you to know who he is, so if somehow you manage to stiff him, and don’t pay up, he’ll come for you, and you won’t even know who he is. He trusts me. For playing the honest broker and escrow agent, I get something out of his end. It don’t cost you nothing for my services.

Robert demands: How much you gonna get?

With all due respect, that is strictly between him and me.

Yeah okay. It’s not important anyway. Who gives a shit? The only important item here is offing those two bastards. Robert paused, and turned to his wife. Does all this sound all right to you, my dear?

It is cheap at twice the price, if we can be rid of those wayward boys. I say we go for it, affirmed Helen.

"Okay! Tell your friend we’re in for the fifty big ones, and to just get on with it. You and Helen can work out the payment details of the contract. Now, let’s get this fucking deed done!

Have another beer.

Chapter 2 Tucson July 1969

What are we going to do about the women and children? asked Leo. I ain’t doing no kids, and nobody said nothing about taking down the broads. So what do we do?

Leo and Gary were sitting in their car, parked in a parking lot of the Ralph’s Market, directly across the street from the Sunrise Motel on the outskirts of Tucson. Gary had decided to participate in the hit himself since Leo needed another man, and the money would be half his. It was hot and dry even at 11:30 at night, and they were sipping beers out of a six-pack lying on the seat between them. Under a blanket on the back seat of the car were two 12-gauge shotguns, and both men had pistols tucked into the waistbands of their jeans. The killers were awaiting their targets.

We wait and we watch, replied Gary. We be patient, and wait for the time when we can get the two guys alone, away from the kids and the broads. It’s not a problem. We got all the time in the world. We’re in no hurry. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, or maybe next week. Just relax.

Their attention was on the subjects of their conversation. Two cars had just pulled into the motel’s parking area in front of the rooms. Out of a brand new Ford station wagon climbed a family of four. The husband was in his early thirties; just under six feet tall with light red hair, fair skin and freckles. He was just a bit on the heavy side, and could be mistaken for a professional football player for he was powerfully built, and moved with the grace and ease of an athlete. He had an infectious grin, and was the sort of guy that almost everybody liked immediately on sight.

His wife emerged from the passenger side, and began helping the sleepy children from the back seat. She was small and plain, with a weary look about her. Her brown hair, in need of washing, was drawn back, and secured with a rubber band at the base of her neck, a simple and expedient way of making it look sort-of neat and requiring minimum effort. The boys in the back seat were aged nine and eleven, simply dressed in jeans, tee-shirts and sneakers.

Come on you two. We’re home. Gather up your things and get a move on. Time to hit the sack, said the father cheerfully.

Steve, the older brother, dutifully climbed out of the car, half asleep. Carrying his Red Ryder BB gun, and dragging his jacket along the asphalt, he started toward the door of room 132.

Artie, aged nine and a half years, objected to being awakened from his sleep in the back seat of the station wagon, and offered: How come we had to come home? How come we had to leave the lake? We was havin’ a really good time up there. We had a neat picnic, and the water was warm and nice to swim in, and then we had that fire, and roasted all them marshmallows and weenies. How come we couldn’t just stay up there all night? Why do we have to come home to sleep? We could have slept there.

You know, the kid has got a point. We should have just stayed there under the stars, and slept out like I used to do when I was a kid at Rock Creek. The only thing is that the damned mosquitoes would have eaten us up. Man, I really hate those little mothers, said the husband.

It’s okay, honey, said the wife to her son, and then to her husband, I’ll get the kids and their stuff rounded up. Don, can you open the room door, and start getting the stuff out of the back or shall we just leave it till morning?

Naw, just leave it where it’s at. We’ll just lock up the car. It’ll be all right. I am for bed. We can get the stuff tomorrow morning, replied Don as he headed for the door to the motel room, digging in his pockets looking for the room key.

The other car that pulled up and parked beside the big Ford station wagon was not really a car at all, but a sort of hybrid marriage between a car and a pick-up truck. It looked like a family station wagon that had undergone radical surgery by having its roof and upper half sliced away, starting just behind the front seat to make room for an open pickup truck bed, with a rear window put across to separate the passenger compartment from the cargo area. It was a brand new 1969 model, covered with a custom metallic blue paint job with racing stripes, and it sported white-walled tires on chrome alloy wheels. The Ford Motor Company, who made it, called it the Ranchero, and Richard, who was driving it, called it the finest set of wheels in the world.

Although he was thirty years old, the Poncho Villa moustache he exhibited gave him the look of being older, which was just fine with Richard for he had always suffered from having the face of a young boy, and he didn’t like it. As he unbent his six foot frame from the driver’s seat, and placed his Western boot on the pavement, he reached over, grabbed his big cowboy hat, and placed it on the back of his head at a jaunty angle. The ivory-white of the Stetson was in stark contrast to his meticulously-barbered auburn hair, which had earned him the nickname of Red Ryder.

Richard’s girl friend, Julie, stirred herself awake as the Ranchero came to a stop, opened her door and sleepily got to her feet. Julie was in her mid-twenties, a raven-haired Mexican beauty who knew how to dress, even if just going up to the lake for a picnic, and could evidently afford good quality clothes. She might have been a showgirl; she was that beautiful.

Most of the picnic supplies were in the bed of the Ranchero along with SCUBA diving gear that Richard and Don had used to explore the bottom of the lake. Richard stepped back, and examined the contents of the bed, then turned to Don who was just opening the door of room 132.

Hey Don! he called. We really shouldn’t leave all this stuff out in plain sight out here. Sure as hell when we get up in the morning, it’ll be long gone. Most of this shit is so new you can still see the price tags. It would be a shame to get it all ripped off. The world is fookin’ full of thieves! Give me a hand, and we’ll just dump it in the spare room. That’s why we’re paying for it.

Man, replied Don, we ain’t paying for it. Uncle Sammy is picking up that tab. But you’re probably right about it not making it through the night out there alone. Too exposed and just too tempting. I’ll be right with you. Have you got the key to 134?

You had it last, replied Richard, when we took this diving gear out this morning. I haven’t got it. You must have it.

No, I haven’t got it, said Don, once more rummaging through his pockets. Turning to his wife he asked, Patty, where did you put the key for the spare room, you know, the one where we got all the big stuff that we don’t need in our rooms?

I haven’t the slightest idea where the key is. Why is it always me who has to keep track of everything? Can’t you hold on to one simple little key? When are you going to grow up? chided Patty.

Ah shit! Don’t start, Just don’t fucking start! I’ll find the god damned key, said Don, walking into the room.

He emerged a moment later, key in hand. It was on the dresser with all that other shit of yours. I told you, I didn’t have it. You had it all the time.

Patty sighed, mumbled something under her breath, and turned her attention back to the children. Julie, in the meantime, had gotten the key to 133 from Richard, and was on her way to a soft bed. Richard started unloading the SCUBA tanks, regulators and other equipment from the Ranchero’s bed onto the still-warm asphalt. Don walked over, opened the door to room 134, and then joined Richard in unloading the equipment. They chatted as they worked.

Across the street, Leo started his car, and eased out of the parking lot. Let’s go around the block so they don’t see us coming directly from here to the motel. We’re registered in room 233 as of this morning. We’ve got a key, and if asked, we just say were going to our room for the night. We’ll pull in like any other folks livin’ there, park the car in that row nearest the exit, and act like we’re headed for our room. When we get right up to ‘em, we’ll pop ‘em. The broads and the kids are out of it. Are we straight?

Yeah, replied Gary. We’re straight but let’s not make any sudden moves. These guys ain’t exactly a couple of sugar cookies. If they tumble to what’s going down, we may be the ones get carried out of here tonight.

No problems, man. Just stay cool. Here we go.

— 0 —

As Leo and Gary got out of their car not fifty feet from where Don and Richard were unloading and carrying equipment into room 134, they stopped, and looked briefly at the new arrivals. Leo and Gary, looking like a couple of hippies with their shoulder length hair and drooping moustaches, walked to the trunk of their car, extracted suitcases, and began speaking about which room was theirs, which direction was it, and who had the key.

It’s over that way, said Leo pointing past Richard and Don.

Yeah, I remember now, replied Gary, and they started walking toward Richard and Don who had gone back to their work.

As the hit men approached, Don and Richard with full loads of heavy diving apparatus had just entered room 134. Leo and Gary sped on tiptoe to the door, raised the shotguns they were carrying under the windbreakers carelessly tossed across their arms, and stepped quickly inside.

As Gary later told the story: Both he and Leo opened fire at point-blank range. Richard and Don never knew what hit them, and were dead before they hit the floor. One of the SCUBA tanks was struck with a full load of buckshot, and exploded like a small bomb.

The noise was deafening, and both Leo and Gary were knocked off their feet. What the fuck was that? screamed Gary.

Let’s go! Let’s go! shouted Leo as he climbed to his feet. We don’t give a shit what it was! We need to get outta here like right now! Move you ass!

Leo and Gary, neither of whom had been injured by the exploding tank, burst from the room, and sprinted toward their car. They threw their luggage, windbreakers and shotguns into the back seat, and sped out of the lot while pandemonium broke loose at the motel as Patty and Julie began to scream, the boys shouted, and other patrons peeked from their rooms to see what was the matter.

Once around the first corner, both Leo and Gary pulled off the longhaired wigs they were wearing, and peeled off the fake moustaches. Nobody who happened to see them earlier in the day would be able to recognize them now, not even the desk clerk at the Sunrise Motel who had rented Leo room 233.

As they headed for the freeway, Gary was already bent over the back of the front seat hiding the guns under a blanket provided for just that purpose. They settled back for the drive to the point where they would drop this car, and change for a clean one.

So much for the big bad outlaws, said Gary as he opened another beer. Slow down now. We’re away. We’re clear, and there’s no use taking a chance on getting pulled over for a speeding ticket. Just relax. We’re home free, and a damned sight richer than we were an hour ago. Here, have a beer.

— 0 —

Three days later, Gary presented Helen with a copy of the Tucson newspaper Arizona Daily Star containing an article describing the murder of Don and Richard at the Sunrise Motel. At their insistence, Gary gave Robert and Helen a blow-by-blow account of how it went down, and the couple was eager for all the details. Helen authorized the payment of $50,000, and Gary paid Leo his part for the completed contract.

And so ended the adventures of Red Ryder and Don The Barber … or so it seemed.

Chapter 3 Tecate November 1968

Tecate, besides being a famous (and delicious, when served ice-cold) brand