Sugar Sand: A Novel

By Jeff Behm

Russian immigrant Owen Heron comes to the US to make his fortune in the dotcom boom. When circumstance finds him out of work, he searches for direction in life, and wiles away the hours in the NJ Pine Barrens with his faithful dog. The chance discovery of a small fortune puts Owen back on the path to happiness or so he thinks.
Owens unwitting & unsavory benefactors are anxious to get their money back, and will risk anything to accomplish their mission -- unless someone or something can stop them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 7, 2006
• ISBN: 9781469100661

Jeff Behm

Jeff has spent his life exploring the back roads and trails of NJ. A Forestry graduate of Rutgers, Jeff prefers the parts of the state that do not (yet) smell like chemicals, and have not (yet) been destroyed by development. He has helped birth two dotcoms, and is currently employed in the insurance industry. Whether biking the D&R Canal, trail-riding in the Pine Barrens, or hiking with his dog Sam, Jeff is happiest in the great outdoors. He is an advocate for environmental causes, and is leading a campaign to erect signs on the NJ Turnpike which read: “It’s all like this. Keep Going.”

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

It was a beautiful night for a drive. But this trip was no joyride. It was strictly business. On a starlit September evening, two slightly rough-looking, thirty-something men drove their customized black Ford Explorer southward on U.S. Route 1 and 9 toward Atlantic City. Though they had been to AC on business many times before, this trip would be a little different for Edgar and Spot. The stakes were higher, and so was the risk. A collective of drug dealers calling themselves the Council was nervous about the recent increase in random stops and searches along the Garden State Parkway. So, the boys were taking a more rural, less conspicuous route south on secondary highways through the New Jersey Pine Barrens. The Pines, as locals often call these woods, are an anomaly in a state regarded as the most densely populated in the nation. Many lifelong residents of New Jersey have never been to this region, which includes some 1.1 million acres of pitch pine and oak forest in the south-central portion of the state. In New Jersey, where some people joke that the state tree is a cellular tower, the enormity of the Pines is often quite a shock to first-time visitors. Ironically, it is one of the few places in the state where a good cell signal can be tough to come by.

Edgar and Spot were visiting the Pines for the first time, but unlike the more typical hikers, kayakers, or cyclists who commonly used this route, they were attempting to avoid the police and the eyes of rival gang members. Halfway down Ocean County Route 539 "in the middle of motherfuckin’ nowhere," as Edgar put it, they were, so far, successful in the first objective, but less so in the second.

In between bites of his second bacon cheeseburger, Spot was thinking out loud about how he hoped they had a good spare tire. It was the second time he’d mentioned it in the last twenty minutes. He speculated that if they were to have a flat out here, a bear might eat them before anyone would find them. Edgar was paying more attention to the Explorer’s rearview mirror than he was to Spot’s babbling. One set of headlights had been following them now for about half an hour, staying back just far enough that you might not notice. Well, you might not notice unless you happened to be an experienced, slightly paranoid drug courier on the way to a big deal, with piles of cash in duffel bags between your feet. Spot, so nicknamed because of a rather large birthmark on a portion of his reproductive equipment, was continuing his monologue unabated.

Good thing we stopped for burgers, dude. There’s no fuckin’ Mickey D’s around here. That’s for sure.

Edgar was still looking in the rearview mirror, and said nothing in response. Spot finally noticed Edgar’s concern, and turned to observe the other vehicle as well.

"You’re just paranoid, dude. We’re still in New Jersey, you know. There’s gonna be other cars, man," Spot said, gesturing with dinner still in hand.

His bacon cheeseburger was now dripping all over the duffel bags between his legs.

Spot, you’re gettin’ that shit all over the money, man, Edgar said.

He then refocused his gaze to the mirror. The vehicle behind had closed in to about half the previous distance, and was holding steady at about 100 yards back. Edgar determined that it was another SUV similar to theirs. Edgar opened his window slightly for a little ventilation. The night air was cool, damp, and smelled very much unlike the air the boys were used to in the more industrialized, northeastern part of Jersey. The scent was a veritable buffet of decaying vegetation, sand dust whipped up by the gentle autumn breeze, and dried pine needles blown into clumps along the roadside. No chemical plants, refineries, diesel trucks, or fast-food cooking smells in this mix. Being longtime city boys, this plethora of natural sights and smells made Edgar and Spot nervous. They took comfort in strip malls, traffic lights, and thumping car stereos. This was alien turf.

The men in the two SUVs moving swiftly down Route 539 somewhere near Fort Dix were, as most New Jersey residents are, totally unaware of the history and folklore of this last, great mid-Atlantic forest. The Pinelands of New Jersey is the largest body of undeveloped, open space in the entire mid-Atlantic region. It comprises some 22 percent of the total land area of Jersey, yet holds only a tiny fraction of its bulging population. From Boston to Richmond, sprawl has consumed nearly every other once-formidable forest. This land that many still consider a wilderness was once a beehive of commercial activity. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the Pinelands were at the heart of industrial New Jersey. Sawmills cut Atlantic white cedar and oak for ships. Boat builders sprung up all along the coastline in what are now Ocean and Atlantic counties. Iron forges and furnaces extracted metal from the bog iron they found in abundance, and made cannonballs as well as tools. This industry made the Pine Barrens an important source of armaments for General Washington’s army during the Revolutionary War. Referred to as Devil’s Pills, cannonballs were considered a devastating technology because of their unprecedented ability to maim and kill. Convoys of logs, iron, and other raw materials extracted from the Pines made their way to New York, Philadelphia, and out to sea. The Pines also had its share of outlaws, traveling preachers, self-made doctors, and other colorful characters. Entrepreneurs found fertile ground on which to sow the seeds of their dreams in this strangely beautiful land, with the tea-colored lakes and streams. Even today, not far from Route 539, among the vast tracts of gnarled pitch pines, white and scrub oaks, and myriad sand roads, the intrepid hiker may uncover old foundations, churchyards, and grave markers from those times gone by.

What historical remains lay in the utter blackness of the forest on both sides of the road was of little concern to Edgar and Spot, as they headed for the bright lights of the casinos that night. They were gamblers all right, but not the usual sort. Losing a hand in their game often meant ending up as a statistic in the morgue. As Edgar increased his speed, the truck behind him did likewise. When he slowed, the other driver did not pass, but kept a constant distance from his back bumper. Observing what was happening; Spot was getting a bit more nervous now.

You think it’s the Marleys, man? Spot asked Edgar.

They often referred to their rival Jamaican drug gang as the Marleys, in reference to the most famous Jamaican of all, the late Bob Marley.

I don’t know, man. I just wish we were on the Parkway right now instead of way the fuck out here. It’s not like I can just turn off and lose them in a mall parking lot. See if you can get somebody on the cell, dude.

Spot tried dialing one of the Council members, but a nicely backlit NO SIGNAL displayed on the tiny screen.

No signal, Edgar. What if we go down one of those sand roads? Spot asked. We could lose them in the woods.

"We could lose us in the woods too, dude," Edgar countered.

Just at that moment, the other vehicle sped up and pulled into the other lane, as if to pass. Though it was totally dark now, Edgar could swear he saw an arm come out of the passenger side window, and something shiny flash in the moonlight—something like maybe a gun. Edgar didn’t wait to see what would happen if the other truck got any closer. He floored the accelerator. The big V8 sucked in the damp, cool air, and lunged forward. The other vehicle faded back a bit, and Edgar decided that maybe his companion had a good idea when he suggested a detour onto the woods roads.

Spot, tell me when you see the next sand road coming up, man. I’m gonna go for it.

Spot held tightly to the passenger door grab handle and leaned forward, trying to discern a break in the black, thirty-foot-high wall of pitch pines and white oaks along the road. He dropped the burger he had been eating, and it deconstructed itself all over the bags of money on the floor between Spot’s feet. Seconds later, as the pursuit vehicle gained on them again, Spot yelled, There, man! Up there, on the left! They were just passing through a small town. Slow down, dude, or we’ll never make it!

Edgar swerved left, hit the brakes, and a huge cloud of sand and dust filled the air around them. The pursuit vehicle missed the turn, but they heard screeching brakes as it slowed down, intending to double back. The sand road was wide enough for the Explorer, and not especially rough, but the chrome aftermarket rims and low profile tires that looked so bad-ass in the 7-11 parking lot in northern New Jersey were not helping Edgar stay on course down here. Big black SUVs with custom chrome wheels were the Council’s trademark—the company car, so to speak. After only a short time on the sand road, they again saw headlights behind them. Spot turned around in his seat to see the headlights coming closer.

Shit! he said.

CHAPTER TWO

One thing Edgar and Spot liked about working for the Council was that, for a bunch of gun toting drug dealers, they sure seemed better organized than other gangs they had worked for. These guys were more about business and less about doing drive-by shootings and flaunting big egos.

I’m getting too old for that teenage gangbanger shit, Edgar said to Spot, not long after they joined the Council.

This is more like a ‘corporation’ than a gang, he imagined.

Maybe corporate was a stretch, but the Council did hold regular meetings, and offered rewards and promotions for a job well done. And yes, there was bureaucracy, too.

Two years earlier, five mid-level dealers from New Jersey and New York put aside their egos, lowered their automatic weapons, agreed to stop shooting each other, and decided to work their connections together. They felt they could make plenty of money if they pooled their resources, got rid of those workers with the does not meet objectives in their personnel file, and organized themselves. They allowed no weapons at any meetings, and there was no drinking or partying until the agenda was completed. Just the fact that the Council’s employees were not constantly beaten and shot probably put the group high on the list of Best 100 Criminal Organizations to Work For.

Though she did not officially have a top rank in the organization, everyone knew who really kept the Council organized—Estelle Sanchez. Estelle grew up on some of the meanest streets of Brooklyn and was plenty tough. She was also beautiful. Both of her brothers were in gangs of one sort or another. Both had been in jail. Unlike them, Estelle did pretty well in high school, and her teachers were always telling her she could make something of herself. Yeah, right. After graduating, Estelle attended two years of business school, but the contrast between what was taught in class and the world she came home to was hard to reconcile. At twenty-two, she was one of the few girls in the hood who had not gotten pregnant, married, divorced, raped, stabbed, shot, or all of the above. She decided she would make something of her life, but she could not see herself working for some yuppie lawyer or investment banker on Wall Street.

Her brief experience in the corporate world had more to do with fending off unwanted advances from the people to whom she reported than it did with climbing the ladder of success. If the corporate world wasn’t her cup of tea, she also knew she needed to find a fast exit from the urban death spiral around her. She began dating Carlos Ortiz, a successful, local guy in the music business who later became one of the founding Council members. When the Council offered her a full-time job as office manager with steady cash under the table, she took it and kissed her legit, secretarial career goodbye. This looked like her ticket out. In a short time, Estelle became the glue that held the Council together. Her job description required her to plan meetings, get hotel rooms, and obtain catered lunches and dinners. Oh yes, and she also procured vehicles, cell phones, and guns for the Council and its couriers. The latter task she completed through her brothers, who had connections with the Old Economy organized crime gangs in North Jersey.

What d’ya got on that laptop anyway? Spot asked her one day.

Personnel records, meeting minutes, salaries, and important phone numbers—like yours. She winked at Spot. Estelle’s laptop was backed up nightly on a separate disk. She never went anywhere without it, and usually kept it in her backpack slung over her shoulder whenever she went out. Was that laptop to fall into the wrong hands . . . well, she didn’t want to think about it.

Estelle was good at what she did, and the Council members all liked and respected her for it. There was an unwritten, but strictly enforced rule that the boys were to keep their hands off Estelle. Because of her favorable Hispanic/Portuguese genetic code, this was not always an easy thing for the Council members to do. It was a look-but-don’t-touch kind of thing. Estelle and Carlos were no longer dating, since she didn’t like competing with the bimbos he sometimes picked up in bars.

Carlos’s conciliatory pleas, But you’re the one I really love, baby, didn’t wash with her.

Yeah, for tonight anyway, she’d reply. "How many dollars did you lose last night at that Gentleman’s club?"

Estelle knew his tricks, and she had had enough of them. Estelle and Spot shared a mutual attraction, but Estelle knew that Carlos would go postal if she and Spot even went out to dinner together. Spot and Edgar were well beneath Carlos on the Council’s org chart, and on the pay scale too. They delivered the product, ran the money, and picked up lunch for the senior guys like Carlos and Stan. They were runners or couriers—good ones, but lower caste, nonetheless. Dating any of the couriers was out of the question for Estelle. In many ways, she felt a kind of maternal bond with the Council members, and she figured it was safest for everybody if she kept it that way. Although Estelle was younger than nearly all of them, they were her boys, and she watched out for them and their interests. Her little black Mercedes, the only non-SUV in the Council’s fleet, was proof that they appreciated her as well. Her worth to the Council was soon to be tested.

New York City mayor Frank Corelli was living up to his campaign promises about getting drug gangs out of the city. Frankly, he didn’t care where they went as long as they got the hell out of New York. Corelli got elected largely because of his union support. The unions were of course tied in with the mob—as in Old School mafia. But even the mafia was having a hard time controlling the rise in gang-related crime. The gangbangers were cutting into their drug sales, and the mob wanted that stopped. Corelli figured he could put the squeeze on the gangs, make a few high profile arrests, look like a hero to the public, and everybody’s happy. The mayor went to grad school with a guy who had just become the Federal drug czar. The day he was elected, Corelli called his old school buddy and set the wheels in motion for Federal assistance in the drug war. The Feds knew, as did Corelli that gang-related crime was headline material, and both men figured this would help their careers. With an injection of Federal money, Corelli added highly trained narcotics cops to every neighborhood in New York City where the demographic data said it would be a waste of time to mail out L.L.Bean and J.Crew catalogs. Suddenly the sidewalk temperature went up.

Estelle, we gotta get the fuck outta this city, Carlos said to her one day. I don’t want to live out my retirement years going to the spring dance at Rikers Island.

The joint Federal and city crackdown on gangs was making headlines, so the Council decided not to wait until their number came up at the mayor’s deli counter. They moved out of NYC, across the river, and into that nearby poster child of urban sprawl, Elizabeth, New Jersey. Estelle proved her worth again during the Council’s corporate relocation to Elizabeth. She found the office and meeting space through a realtor, handled all the details of the move, and made sure all the Council members were satisfied with the new digs. The sign on the office door said Council Party Supplies.

Yeah, baby! Carlos liked that.

The name was Estelle’s idea, too. The last item on her punch list was to get the license plates changed over to Jersey tags on the fleet of SUVs the council bought.

The Council was not alone in their exodus from the Big Apple. Other gangs were moving to the ’burbs, too. Elected officials in the surrounding area were concerned about what they saw as New York pushing its problems across their borders. Drug-related crime was going down in the City, and up in neighboring towns and cities of New Jersey and Connecticut. As long as the demand existed, the suppliers would just find new distribution outlets.

Screw ’em! Corelli replied to the City Controller, who’d had an earful from his friend across the Hudson, a mayor in Jersey.

Let them get some Fed money, and start their own drug war. I’m busy, Corelli finished, as he hung up the phone.

At the very first Council meeting in Elizabeth, Carlos explained their business model to some of the new recruits. He occasionally read popular business bestsellers, and liked to pepper his monologues with buzzwords that he thought made him sounds more like a CEO.

We have a little different . . . uh, ‘business model’ from what you may be used to, he began. Let the dipshit high school kids with their pants around their knees sell crack, cocaine, ecstasy, and pot on the street corner. Our ‘market segment’ is the convention, conference, and sporting event trade in New York and Atlantic City. Carlos pointed to another of the founding Council members. "Me and Stan developed this niche from our days as cabin boys—uh, I mean employees (he smirked at Stan) of the music industry. Stan and me were recording engineers. We made what we thought was decent money, until the assholes from LA showed up in their Benz convertibles, and started tipping their escorts more than they were paying us. They spent more time doin’ lines of coke on the mixing boards than listening to the music we were burning. So we figured ‘Fuck this!’ and we started supplying our buddies at the recording studios. A nickel here, an ounce there . . ."

Carlos held out his palms and tilted from side to side, as if he were a scale.

Soon, we worked our way up to the record company executives—the guys with the Benz convertibles.

I’m surprised they didn’t fire your asses! one of the new guys interjected, and everyone laughed.

Surprisingly, they were cool with it Carlos answered. "The execs introduced us to their friends, and our network grew. Those guys from LA make some serious cash for doing not much, and you have to understand, these guys like to P-A-R-T-Y. Fat profit margins and that kind of party atmosphere in the recording industry meant there was always lots of cash going around. Before long, any record company exec from either coast, or any hard-up, over-hyped, teenage Metal guitarist who happened to be in New York knew he/she could discreetly hook up with us if they needed to score. In fact, Carlos explained, it was often the managers or record execs themselves who scored the drugs for their young musical protégés—the guys climbing the ladder."

The room was silent. The new guys looked at one another—eyebrows raised. For most of them, Carlos’ monologue was their first exposure to strategic thinking. Really, it was just self preservation, Carlos continued. He rubbed the sole of his right foot in a circle on the floor as he spoke. The smooth leather of the five hundred dollar, black leather cowboy boots made a scraping noise like extra-fine grit sand paper on the tile.

This marketing strategy was a lot safer for us than dealing directly with a bunch of stoned, teenaged band members.

When adding new clientele, the Council also avoided the typical twenty-dollar street whores and junkies, who got arrested twice a month and would give up their connections in a minute. The Council’s customers had plenty of cash, plenty of friends, and a strong desire not to get arrested, and lose their mansions.

But how did you and Stan hook up with the Atlantic City dudes? Edgar asked.

Carlos shook his head up & down as if to indicate Edgar had asked a good question.

"One day we thought, ‘Hey, what’s better than a couple of rich, stoned record company executives?’ Answer? A whole fuckin’ casino full of ’em!

We discovered that music and recording industry conferences are especially prime marketing venues. Although we didn’t set up a booth and hire spokesmodels—Estelle wouldn’t let me—soon we were making more money than any of the legitimate conference vendors who did all that fancy shit."

As the Council came together, the founders decided that staying away from the more traditional, but much more dangerous street deals, and working conferences and conventions was, as Martha Stewart would say, a good thing. They liked the fact that their more mature clientele had real day jobs, families, and a lot to lose if they were busted.

As Carlos liked to say, Our customers don’t have to rob a fuckin’ Seven Eleven every time they want to get high.

This kept the transactions quiet, and quiet meant safe—at least it had so far. The Council continued networking, and began serving other conferences as well. They added sporting events and sports-related conventions as well. Carlos joked that when folks from Hollywood were in town, the Council made more money in the movie business than Schwarzenegger or Stallone. And, there were some lively discussions among the senior Council members about how beer sales at sporting events were cutting into their profit