CHAPTER THIRTEEN - How It Started

C HAPTER T HIRTEEN

How It Started

Cabo San Lucas Two Years Before

O liver was treating himself to a week at Pueblo Bonito Sunset Beach Resort, located at the western tip of Baja in Cabo San Lucas, on fifty acres of private beach. Situated within Quivira Los Cabos, it overlooked the Pacific Ocean on a secluded private coastal bluff. He booked a suite. He liked the idea of having exclusive access to the Jack Nicklaus Signature golf course at Quivira Golf Club. That would surely be something to brag about.

Oliver had been burning through his inheritance quickly and figured this might be the last lavish vacation he could take for a while unless he could devise another means of increasing his income. He was already working on manipulating the invoices for the tree restorations. He had a deal with one of the accounts receivable personnel at the supplier. The invoices would say “fifty,” but he actually received thirty. S.E.I. paid the supplier for fifty, then the supplier would split the difference with Oliver. A little extra cash in each of their pockets. How the guy at the supplier finagled the extra cash from the invoice was none of Oliver’s concern. He never complained, so it must not have been a problem. If you’re smart enough, embezzlement is one way to increase your income. This scheme of Oliver’s was giving him a few extra thousand dollars every month. Enough to cover his new cocaine use. He refused to call it a “habit.” He viewed it as a “recreational sport.” Plus, if he was with other people, he’d gladly share if they felt so inclined. Real addicts don’t share. At least that was what he told himself.

One late afternoon, after a round of golf, Oliver pulled up a seat at a patio bar. The view was breathtaking. A man around Oliver’s age sat a few stools away. He was even more richly dressed than Oliver. The man wore white linen pants, with an untucked silk tropical print shirt, silver-tone Saint Laurent boat shoes, a huge gold coin pinky ring on his left hand, and a watch with a diamond-encrusted bezel. It was the Iced-Out Rolex, arm bling to the stars. Oliver figured it cost just under 20,000 dollars. Not overly ostentatious, but a little too much sparkle for his taste. He preferred his Rolex Submariner, or his Breitling Top Time B01. Both cost about the same as the other gentleman’s shiny wristwear. The man turned and nodded at Oliver. Oliver noticed the man was also wearing a heavy-link gold chain around his neck, a gold and diamond ID bracelet, plus another gold ring. The second ring was a David Yurman Memento Mori Skull Ring with black pavé diamonds. Oliver nodded in return while he calculated the amount of gold the man carried. Probably could buy that Lamborghini he had been eyeing. But it was the skull ring that caught his attention. It could represent a number of things. Interesting . He watched the gold-clad man ask the bartender to buy him a drink. “Tears of Llorona Extra Anejo,” Oliver told the bartender.

“I see you have good taste.” The man in gold smiled.

“Thank you.” Oliver held up his glass to toast the man. “Oliver. Oliver Spangler.”

The man nodded. “Ernesto Calavera.”

Oliver remembered his short stint studying Spanish. Calavera meant skull. He was intrigued; got up from his seat and approached the man. “Mind if I join you?”

“Please. Sit down.” Ernesto had a refined Spanish accent. “Did I see you playing golf this afternoon?” he asked.

Oliver chuckled. “Guilty. But I doubt anyone would call that playing. I was fumbling.”

“We all have our own talents.” The man took a swig of the liquid in his glass. It was a similar amber color as Oliver’s.

“What are you drinking, Ernesto?”

“Marques de Casa Noble Anejo.”

“Also a man of good taste.” Oliver lifted his glass.

“We enjoy fine things.” Ernesto swept his arm around, indicating the view.

“Indeed,” Oliver answered. “You here alone?”

“Yes. I come here to get away from the busy life. And you?”

“Same thing.” It occurred to Oliver that the man might be hitting on him, or perhaps the man thought Oliver was flirting. “Lots of beautiful women here.” He figured that would notify Ernesto of his preference for females.

“Ah. Yes. But alas, most are here with their very rich boyfriends.”

Oliver chuckled, held his shot glass up, and nodded to the bartender. “We’ll have another round.” He turned to Ernesto. “This one is on me.”

The two men chatted for about an hour. Nothing of major importance. A little politics, a little celebrity nonsense. Then the conversation turned to what the men did professionally.

“Spangler Enterprises.” Oliver was on his fourth shot of tequila. “Up in the Pacific Northwest. Oregon, actually.”

“Ah. I see your trucks. Lumber?”

“Yep.” Oliver was wondering if he should order another round. “And you?”

“Import and export,” Ernesto replied.

Oliver was now leaning with his elbow on the bar, his head resting on his fist. “Maybe we can do some business together. What do you import and export?”

Ernesto looked around the bar area. No one was paying attention. “I do custom jobs.”

Oliver was intrigued. “Oh, do tell.”

Ernesto signaled for the check. “Come. Let’s take a walk.”

Oliver hoped he wasn’t being set up to get mugged. He had a very nice buzz on. He got up from his stool and followed Ernesto to a secluded area. A large boulder blocked them from the hotel patio. Ernesto pulled out a familiar brown bottle. “Care to join me?”

Oliver thought he’d died and gone to heaven. The scenery was spectacular, his head was floating, and now he was going to be exceptionally high. “Don’t mind if I do.”

Ernesto stared at the seascape. “I wonder if you could do me a favor.” He realized he was taking a big chance, but that’s where big rewards come from.

“I can try.” Oliver was squinting at the sun.

“I have a package I need delivered to a friend in Vancouver, Canada.” His eyes were as dark as coal, burning into Oliver’s head.

“How big?”

The man turned away. “Maybe the size of a Louis Vuitton Rolling Trunk. Fifteen by twenty-two inches. It could easily be stored in one of your trucks behind the driver.”

Oliver thought he was catching on. “And you don’t want to send this via regular shipping?”

“That is correct, my friend.” Ernesto faced him again. “I will make it worth your while. Say five thousand U.S. dollars. Cash?”

“Am I not supposed to know what is in the case?”

“You are a very smart fellow.” Ernesto placed his hand on Oliver’s shoulder.

“Explain the logistics. How do we get the case to my truck? And then where does it go?”

“You have deliveries to Mexico, correct?”

“Absolutely.”

“The truck must return, no?”

“Of course.”

“Do they bring products back to your Pacific Northwest?”

“We try not to have our guys dead-head it. Waste of fuel, so we work with some of the local produce companies and bring their goods up north.”

“Excellent. In which cities do your trucks stop?”

“It all depends. There is a lot of new construction in Querétaro, and of course Mexico City.”

“Ah. Perfect. So if someone should meet one of your trucks, say off I-25, they would be able to deliver it to you?”

“That’s entirely possible. But then what do I do with it?”

“You arrange for another truck to bring it to Canada.”

“It sounds a bit risky.” Oliver continued to squint. He wasn’t sure if it was the sun, or if his brain was trying to wrap itself around what Ernesto was proposing.

“Life is risky, my friend.” Ernesto took another hit from the brown bottle and handed it to Oliver.

“True.” Oliver thought for a moment. “Would this be a one-time thing?”

“It doesn’t have to be.” Ernesto turned toward the sunset again.

“How many trips do you envision?”

“Perhaps one per week.”

Oliver was struggling with the math in his fuzzy head. “I’ll have to give a vig to the drivers.”

“Of course. Is it possible to have the same drivers? We do not want too many people in our business. That is, if you want to do business with me.”

“Sounds intriguing.” Oliver was sobering up with the idea of making so much money. “We’d have to take measures to mitigate the hazards. Can you increase the fee?”

“I would have to increase the size of the package. Can you fit something eighteen by twenty-six?”

“Should be no problem.”

“ Bueno . Then you shall get seventy-five hundred dollars for every delivery. One per week. You will receive your money when the trunk arrives in Canada.”

“How about the border? I have a trucker’s inn just outside Blaine, Washington. That could be a drop-off point.”

“Even better.” Ernesto smiled. He knew he had found the right person. He had an ongoing relationship with several of the hotel personnel here. They had alerted him that a single, rich American male was staying at the resort, and his family business was transportation.

“I shall call you in the morning. We will have breakfast and discuss the details. For now, I must leave. I have a dinner engagement.” He held out his hand to Oliver. “I look forward to a long business relationship with you.”

“Same here.” Oliver shook his hand vigorously. This was the miracle he had been hoping for. Thirty-thousand extra smackeroos each month. He’d have to pick two drivers he could trust implicitly. He figured a weekly bonus of a grand would surely buy their loyalty. Then he rethought the math. Maybe that was too much. Five hundred? That was two thousand a month. Surely enough to buy a good amount of allegiance.

* * *

For two years, Oliver raked in over a quarter of a million dollars. But problems started to develop. Opioid-related deaths were on the rise. It had become an epidemic among people between the ages of twenty-five and fifty-four, with non-pharmaceutical fentanyl contributing to seventy-nine percent of the overdoses. There were lawsuits against drug manufacturers for creating the addiction, but illegal drugs had also flooded the market, from China to Mexico to Canada, and the U.S., with Canada having a seventeen-percent increase in illegal use. The DEA was cracking down on the opium superhighways in conjunction with Canada’s special task force.

Ernesto had been arrested several times, but because of his own backwater arrangements, he skated. After his third encounter with law enforcement, he knew he was coming perilously close to losing his freedom, especially if he was caught in the U.S. He decided it was time to retire and move to Cuba. He wasn’t about to start looking for his replacement. Getting out of the business and out of the country was his priority.

* * *

Ernesto was moving out of the picture, and Oliver could not afford to take his chances with someone else. The drug cartels were ferocious and territorial. They would think nothing of shooting a driver in the head, then dismembering them for the rest of the narcoterrorists and narcoterrorist wannabes to see. The business had become too dangerous, and Oliver liked his face. He didn’t want to end up mutilated and dumped in a ditch. The idea made him shudder. Even though he wasn’t the one transporting the goods, he was the capo-di-capo. He was just another moving target.

Ernesto’s departure could ruin all of Oliver’s plans, so they made an arrangement. Ernesto introduced Oliver to a handful of people he trusted, and Ernesto would serve as an adviser from his new location for a small fee. Ernesto’s men needed to get out of Mexico, and Oliver arranged for them to travel to Oregon. The plan was to give them room and board, and a counterfeit green card so they could move about in the community without drawing attention to themselves. The green cards were only supposed to be shown in case of an emergency. Oliver paid the men cash, and they lived in the basements of the Cascade Inns. In exchange, they brought pill- and powder-making skills and the knowledge of how to manufacture counterfeit fentanyl, fifty times more potent than heroin and one hundred times more potent than morphine. They brought the recipe, and it wasn’t difficult for Oliver to procure the ingredients.

But now there was a problem. Two, actually. Someone had stumbled into the first lab, and someone had gotten a look at the goods.