Dirty White Page 6

  Jorge Gomez decided that things were going his way. At last. Today would be the decider and it could still go wrong—which would mean the waste of almost ten months’ work and manipulation, and worse, the loss of face to some very important American connections. But there was nothing more he could do: no insurance he hadn’t invoked, no possible difficulty he hadn’t anticipated and prepared for. So now—from today, this moment, now—everything had to take its course. If it went wrong—if Julio Navarra failed to show and Gomez still hadn’t heard from his widespread contacts within the immigration and airport service of the man’s arrival—then he would be made to look stupid. Antonio Scarletti would go back to the Bruno family in Philadelphia and tell everyone that he, Jorge Herrera Gomez, the prince regent of the cocaine traffickers, couldn’t deliver. If it went right, then he’d look the opposite. He wouldn’t be prince regent anymore; he’d be king. He’d be the sensible, thinking Colombian who’d used his intermediary expertise to corner the coca production of Bolivia’s biggest and most influential grower and channel it exclusively to one of America’s most important and influential Mafia families. U.S. task forces and European enforcement agencies would be fucked because what Gomez was putting together was intended to be the world’s first multinational drug-dealing enterprise, the profits from which would make the rest of the minuscule multinationals look like paupers glad to collect money in cloth caps and tin cans by begging at theater queues.

  It hadn’t been easy—but then, he hadn’t expected it to be. For him to be the número uno—in Latin South America as well as Latin North America—it had been important that they came to him. At first, the machismo of Julio Navarra forbade that; and the pride of the Bruno family in general, and of Antonio Scarletti in particular, made the idea preposterous. But, without conceit, Gomez knew he had done it right, after the initial, thoughtless approach.

  It was more than nine months ago now—when he’d flown to La Paz and waited cap-in-hand at the Cochabamba suite, with the drinks and the canapés ready, for an entire frustrating, humiliating week, before being summoned, cap-in-hand still, to Santa And de Yacuma and granted as if by royal decree a meeting with Julio Cesar Navarra. And the bastard had laughed at him! Openly laughed, for the encouragement of the acolytes: a king disdaining the bumptious courtier who argued that the world wasn’t flat and that what any of them had done so far hadn’t begun to tap the revenues of the new, eagerly sniffing world over the curve of the horizon. Navarra wasn’t laughing anymore. He hadn’t been for months, and today was the final, unspoken—although Gomez thought something vocal might be possible later—apology for that charade at Santa And de Yacuma. Today Julio Cesar Navarra was coming to him, here in Medellin. Just as Antonio Scarletti—already a don in the Mafia, but aspiring to be capo di tutti capi of every family throughout America—was coming to him in Medellin. It had been inspired, after the Bolivian embarrassment, to ignore Navarra and concentrate instead upon America. Gomez liked Scarletti. The Italian-American wasn’t interested in scoring points for the benefit of the hangers-on. Scarletti was interested in the most important thing: making money. It was when the approach came from Philadelphia that the ridiculous Navarra had changed his mind and begun to take the proposition seriously. Gomez knew he would kill the Bolivian; wanted to kill him. But only when the time was right—only after they’d forged the three-way link that was his concept and Gomez had learned enough about Navarra’s complete operation. Gomez determined to find someone within Navarra’s organization who was ambitious—although not foolishly ambitious, like so many were—and he’d nurture and encourage him, and when Gomez staged the overthrow he’d have what he’d always intended to have: the exclusive conduit from the most productive coca-growing provinces of Bolivia through his distribution chain to the equally efficient organization of a leading American Mafia family. Going my way, he thought again.

  Gomez was unusual among the trafficking operators of Colombia. He complied, of course—by, for example, putting the required number of his own men into the Muerte a Sequestradores army that offered protection against guerrilla kidnappers who thought that the relatives of recognized traffickers were legitimate kidnap victims. He supported Pablo Escabar financially during the government elections, and attended the gatherings of Garces and Ramos and Lehder and Alverez-Moreno and Zuleta and Quintero and Davilla and Nasser and the von Griekens and the La Fauries and the Londonos—not from any hold-together commitment, but because he knew that, if he didn’t, they’d consider him a breakaway opponent and, until he became established and replaced Escabar and Lehder, he ran the risk of becoming one of the daily stripped, dead and mutilated victims of the city and country’s drug trade. In reality, Gomez despised the muscle-rippling machismo and the rancho motor rangers with belching flames painted along their bodywork and the need to impress with yet another delivery helicopter or yet another delivery aircraft. He thought the others were insular and self-obsessed and foolish. Jorge Herrera Gomez wasn’t insular or self-obsessed, and certainly not foolish. He was a man with an ambition—an ambition he intended to achieve. He wanted to become the richest, most influential, most powerful drug trafficker, not just in Latin or North America, but throughout the world. If Julio Navarra kept today’s appointment, he would become just that.

  Reminded, Gomez called for the third time the immigration inspector at Medellin, and for the third time was told that there had been no arrival of anyone called Julio Navarra nor anyone answering the physical description or resembling the photograph Gomez had thoughtfully provided. Two hours remained before they were all scheduled to meet, so there was time enough—because, of course, Navarra would be using his own aircraft and not be dependent upon any civil service, but Gomez still wasn’t happy about the uncertainty.

  The Intercontinental is the only prestigious hotel in Medellin—the place where the traffickers stage their parties and their gatherings, each to impress the other—and it was here that Gomez had booked in the already-arrived Scarletti and the still-to-arrive Navarra. He summoned the hotel manager and repeated an earlier tour of the Bolivian’s suite, ensuring that the bar was stocked and the flowers fresh from a valley that boasted the best orchids in the world. He made the manager reiterate that, if Señor Navarra sought anything the hotel felt unable to provide, they would nevertheless promise to provide it and call at once one of the four numbers he had specified, so his own people could complete the order. Gomez didn’t know if Navarra used his own product—if he did, he was stupid, but then Navarra was stupid—but he had instantly available a supply of the purest refined cocaine. If he fucked, there were girls available. Boys, too, if that was the way he did it. The same facilities were available to Scarletti, and Gomez was impressed that neither the American nor any of the five men who accompanied him had drawn upon them. It proved he had been right in going to Scarletti and the Bruno family: they were proper businessmen, impatient with distractions—and, like proper businessmen, they were interested only in profit. Fleetingly, Gomez considered calling their suite, to inquire if everything was satisfactory, but it was only a fleeting reflection because he realized it would make him appear anxious.

  Gomez twitched at the intrusive shrill of the telephone. Then, at once, he smiled his thanks and said of course the informant in the airport control tower should be promised a reward for the information that Navarra’s private aircraft had filed an onward-flight plan from Bogotá and was already on its way. As fleetingly as he had considered approaching Scarletti’s suite, Gomez mentally debated the idea of going out to the airport to meet the Bolivian producer. Instead, he stayed in his own suite, savoring what the confirmation of Navarra’s arrival meant. The Bolivian had come. Scarletti had come. They were the supplicants: the ones who wanted, who ached, for the deal. Gomez felt warm against the cold. Anyone less controlled, less determined, might have considered something as theatrical as a meaningless, solitary drink, or—considering where they were and the subject of discussion—a celebratory snort of the product. Gomez
had started using coke—although privately, so that none of his people would know—but was completely aware how wrong it would be at this moment. Maybe later. Like his other, still favorite, indulgence, which was fucking, which he did every day and rarely with the same girl, preferring it to be a financial, transitory episode. Although he felt like fucking now, Gomez decided there wasn’t time. But that there would be a celebration later—and with more than one woman, as a celebration ought to be.

  He stood at the window, able from the high elevation of the hotel actually to stare out over the Medellin airport, which occupied the middle of the valley, picking out his own planes among those of the other traffickers clustered at the private section of the field. He could see the dwarflike figures of the service personnel as they readied two that were, later that day, to fly up to Barranquilla to make the marijuana collection. Although cocaine was Gomez’s principal activity—and increasing personal interest—there was still sufficient profit in marijuana to make its cultivation, and its trade, very much worthwhile. Once again, ahead of everyone, Gomez had imported from California—a reverse smuggling route—sinsemilla, and already had two extensive plantations of the superior marijuana, in which the tetrahydrocannabinol was particularly high. Beyond the parking area, Gomez could see private as well as commercial aircraft arriving and departing. He wished it were possible to isolate it, the Bolivian’s plane; he would have enjoyed seeing the moment of Navarra’s arrival, the very moment of the man coming to him.

  A thin, tightly coiled man, Gomez turned away from the window. He prepared himself for the encounter with the care with which he’d devoted to everything else. The subdued gray shirt toned in with the subdued gray trousers, and the sports jacket was a muted gray check. Just as Gomez disdained the flamboyant dress of the other traffickers, so he despised the almost universal predilection for gold jewelry and decoration. Gomez wore only a slim gold wristwatch, a discreet Piaget.

  He had installed further along the corridor his immediate coterie of protectors—headed, sensibly, by his cousin; family were always safe. It would have been madness, after all, to consider moving around a city which averaged six drugs-related murders a day without protectors. But intentionally and cleverly he had dispensed with them for the meeting, wanting Navarra and Scarletti visibly to be aware that he wasn’t frightened nor needed bodyguards. So, when the attentive undermanager came to check that nothing had been forgotten or overlooked, Gomez answered the door himself. He knew nothing had been forgotten, but he still enjoyed letting the man fuss about the rooms and check the bar and the refreshments and point-lessly rearrange already perfectly arranged flowers. Gomez thanked the man and tipped him in American money—a twenty-dollar bill—and then sat back, waiting. He told himself that he wasn’t suffering from nerves: it was excitement at the moment of everything coming to fruition. Excitement, too, at winning. He always intended to win.

  Gomez went to the door again at the knock, smiling to see Scarletti. The American had come alone. Scarletti was a small man, little over five foot tall, but he didn’t have a small man’s need to impress. He had an open, unworried face and was dressed as conservatively as Gomez, in unobtrusive blue.

  “Navarra isn’t here yet,” said the Colombian. “I know he’s coming; it shouldn’t be long.”

  Scarletti nodded, showing no curiosity at Gomez’s knowledge. “Don’t you have a place here, in Medellin?”

  Gomez gestured toward the invisible Andean range, against which the hotel was built. “Two fincas,” he said. “I’ve a house on the coast, too. At Riohacha.”

  “I thought we might have met at your house,” said the American.

  Gomez had considered it but decided that it would have been too much to expect Navarra to come to his home. “The hotel was more convenient,” he said. He didn’t add “neutral.”

  “Sure it’s OK?” asked Scarletti, looking around the spacious apartment. “I get uneasy in hotels.”

  Gomez smiled at the concern, careful against appearing patronizing. “The whole floor is ours,” he said. “And the authorities aren’t a problem for me, here in Medellin; in Colombia even.”

  “Good place to operate,” said Scarletti.

  There was a sound at the door. Gomez didn’t hurry to respond. Four men accompanied Navarra, grouped tightly and directly behind the man, in a protective half-circle. Gomez looked briefly at the Bolivian, then beyond to the guards and said, “We’re by ourselves.”

  He stood back, allowing Navarra to enter. The Bolivian did so with head-bent curiosity. He almost at once became uncomfortable at the realization that he had put himself at a disadvantage by bringing escorts to the room.

  “Better we speak just among ourselves, don’t you think?” said Gomez, wanting to heighten the Bolivian’s unease.

  “Sure,” said Navarra, in quick, irritated agreement. He jerked his head impatiently, dismissing his people into the corridor.

  “Antonio Scarletti, Julio Navarra,” said the Colombian, entering his role as host.

  Scarletti nodded at the introduction and Navarra nodded back. Neither man smiled nor made any gesture, such as offering to shake hands.

  “Can I get anyone a drink?” offered Gomez. Now that they were here, he could afford to appear subservient in small things.

  “Scotch,” said Navarra. He was indulgently fat, stomach bulging under a bright red shirt. He wore two medallioned gold necklaces and a gold wristlet band on each arm.

  “Just a soda,” said Scarletti. “Seven-Up will be fine.”

  Gomez made the drinks but didn’t take one himself. “Thank you for coming,” he said, as he handed them the glasses. “It’s going to be worthwhile—for all of us.”

  “I hope so,” said Scarletti.

  “How worthwhile?” demanded Navarra.

  “We’re going to become the biggest,” promised Gomez, simply. “The biggest operation there is.”

  “How?” said Scarletti.

  “By organizing ourselves properly.” Gomez nodded toward Navarra. “By guaranteeing supplies from the biggest coca manufacturer in Bolivia and channeling it through me, in established regular shipments, up to you in Philadelphia for distribution throughout America and Europe. At the moment there isn’t any proper setup. Not like there should be.” He indicated Navarra again. “You sell to whom you can, seeking buyers.” He turned to Scarletti. “And you buy from whom you can, seeking sellers. My way will concentrate all that. Guaranteed purchaser, guaranteed supplier. No other middle men, no other involvement. We can double our income. Triple it maybe.”

  “How?” demanded Navarra, allowing the hostility to show.

  “The most important part. I used the word ‘guarantee.’ I guarantee to buy all the coca you can produce, and I guarantee that I will get every shipment through to Philadelphia or wherever else you stipulate for delivery.”

  “There are task forces everywhere in the States now,” said Scarlett. “How can you guarantee there won’t be any interception?”

  “I intend retaining a stockpile, here in Colombia, after refining. Any shipment intercepted will be replaced, in full, within a week. If I can’t replace the order in cocaine, I’ll guarantee it to you in cash. You’ll have already been paid, of course,” he said to Navarra.

  “That’s a big undertaking,” said Scarletti, allowing his admiration to show.

  “Which I wouldn’t have given if I hadn’t thought I’d be able to keep it,” said Gomez. “That’s the deal.” He looked carefully between the two other men. “What do you think?”

  “I like it,” said Scarletti, at once. “How much stuff are we talking about?”

  “As much as you can handle and shift. Tons. Sufficient not just for all your outlets in America but in Europe, as well. Like I said, we’ll be the biggest.”

  “I get paid whatever happens to the shipment?” asked Navarra.

  “On the day of delivery, here in Colombia,” promised Gomez. “And I’ll guarantee collection from you as well. All you have to do i
s cultivate the coca.”

  “You get the best part of the deal,” Scarletti said to the Bolivian. Gomez prevented any expression of satisfaction at Navarra’s role being diminished.

  “And you get your supplies,” he repeated to Scarletti. “The risk is in the middle and I’m the one who’s taking it, with a money-back guarantee.”

  “You’re right,” said the American reflectively. “This could make us the biggest.”

  “Will make us the biggest,” insisted Gomez. “All I want today is the decision.”

  “Yes,” said Scarletti. “I’m definitely in.”

  “Will you be our supplier?” Gomez asked the Bolivian, phrasing the question so the man would realize that, if he didn’t agree, they would go to someone else.

  Navarra frowned and Gomez wondered if the man understood how he’d been trapped. “Yes,” he said after a pause. “I agree.”

  Gomez allowed himself the theatricality of shaking hands, with Scarletti first. Navarra hesitated and then responded. Enjoying the unusual exuberance, Gomez offered more drinks and Scarletti joined in, accepting Scotch now that the business had been settled.

  “To a successful and fruitful partnership,” toasted Gomez.

  “A successful and fruitful partnership,” echoed Scarletti.

  “I hope it proves to be so,” said the still-doubtful Navarra.

  “What are we going to do, with all the money!” enthused Scarletti.

  “Make more money,” said Gomez.

  The director of the Eastham clinic waited patiently for the case doctor, whose name was Belson, to finish his report and then said, “As bad as that?”

  “That’s my opinion,” said Belson.

  “Tranquilizers won’t be enough?” queried Halpern.

  “Not for a long time,” insisted the doctor into whose care Howard Farr had been entrusted. “I’ve prescribed clonidine and naltexone to block the narcotic craving.”

  “What’s his general attitude?”