Visit a Giant Marijuana Plantation

 

Ever wanted to visit a giant marijuana plantation? Since seeing my first coffee table book filled with photos of giant pot farms on Mexican hillsides, I did. And when I visited my friend El Brujo in Sinaloa I got my chance. In this week’s fun excerpt from Money, Guns, and Lawyers, you can visit a giant marijuana plantation, too!

But first, check out this photo. Is that pretty or what?

 

 

As I climbed into the back seat of his Range Rover, El Brujo handed me a shotgun. In the States, riding shotgun meant sitting in the front passenger seat, but in Mexico it meant riding with a shotgun.

I asked, “Are we expecting trouble?”

Getting the wrong idea, El Brujo elbowed his son. “See how he is, Rico? Always eager for action.”

With everyone properly armed, our little convoy of Range Rovers headed out the main gates, across the little bridge and down the road into an area cultivated with fields of corn. Mile after mile of it. We could’ve been in Kansas. We’d cruised a few miles when I saw a police car parked sideways across the road. Two cops were standing in front of it. They had automatic weapons in their hands and their eyes intent on us. Rico slowed down, stopped about ten feet in front of them. I didn’t know what to think. Was I supposed to help El Brujo disappear the cops?

When El Brujo and Rico got out of the car, I asked, “What’s going on?”

“Tranquilo, Senor Bueno,” said Rico. “They work for us.”

Having some fun with my character, I faked disappointment. “You mean I have to let them live?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“But they’re on the Other Team.”

Rico held up his palms. “Sorry.”

As it turned out, they weren’t on the Other Team.

After introductions, Sergeant Chumpo, said, “So, this is the infamous Senor Bueno?”

He was looking me over, seem kinda disappointed. Like I’d let him down. I’d seen that skeptical look many times. If it could talk, it’d say, “You don’t scare me.”

To Sergeant Chumpo, the size of a refrigerator, not many people did. But even I had to admit, I looked more like a cheerful surfer than an insane madman. What can I say? I was cursed with an easy smile and a friendly attitude.

“Don’t let his looks fool you,” said El Brujo. “The man is a fiend.”

Deputy Joachim shook my hand, “Con mucho gusto. I don’t care how you look; it’s the heinous things you do that count.”

I’ve had better compliments, but always polite, I said, “It’s kind of you to say so.”

“Todo tranquilo, Chumpo?” asked El Brujo

“Todo madre,” said the sergeant. All cool.

Brujo handed his lookouts a bottle of tequila—the price, I suppose, for moving their car—then we continued our drive through the corn. I had to admit, I liked El Brujo’s style. Why fight the police when you could co-opt them? I’d helped Bighead do the same last September with Colonel Marquez, the man in charge of Northern Baja’s Aerial Surveillance Program. For a mere fifty g’s, the colonel had agreed to do nothing at all.

I told him, “That’s a lot of money for doing nothing, Colonel. How do I get in on that racket?”

The colonel shrugged. “Look at it this way, Senor Bueno, it would cost El Cabezon millions if I do something.”

The colonel made a good point and I didn’t argue. And when Bighead harvested his crops unmolested by the colonel’s ground crews, he agreed the fifty grand was money well-spent. Also, rewarded me with a share of the crop. The reason I had a million-five stashed with Doc in San Diego and was no longer near-broke after my previous project went up in radioactive smoke. So, a silver lining to what had otherwise been a tragic season. At least for me. I can’t say the same for my vaporized partner Charley. For him there’d been no silver lining, more like a millisecond of bright light. It still hurt to think about the disaster. If only the media would stop reminding me. Actually, with me on vacation in Mexico and not watching TV, they had.

Rico parked the Jeep, pulling me out of my thoughts. Still in a sea of corn, I wondered why we’d stopped. Until I looked out the left side window and saw a large field—the first in miles bereft of corn. Instead, waist-high foliage covered the lot. Not expecting to see it grown in plain sight, it took me a few seconds before I realized it was marijuana. After all, it was in full view, right there next to the road. Also, going back for hundreds of yards. A little voice said: We aren’t in Kansas anymore. Who grew pot in the open? Apparently, El Brujo did.

“Jesus Christ, Alberto, how much mota is out there?”

“This pedaso covers four hectares.”

I did the math, came up with ten acres.

“Unbelievable.”

“We have plenty more in the mountains.”

“Out in the open like this?”

“No, that would be a mistake.”

“Right. That’s what I was thinking. And yet. . .” Words failing me, I pointed at his plot.

“Vamos,” said El Brujo, and we got out of the Range Rover.

As we did, moteros popped up like gophers. Evidently, they’d been prone in sniper position, because each of them had an automatic rifle in his arms. Seeing their patron, they relaxed and waved us forward. Las Palmas, the largest plot I’d seen in Baja, had over 20,000 plants. At least till the avaricious General Havoc and Comandante Marcos showed up with thirty machete-wielding troops. But El Brujo’s roadside plot held far more. Sure, it was stunt season and the plants were small compared to summer crops, but I was still awestruck.

“What do you think?” asked El Brujo.

I wiped my eyes. “It’s beautiful.”

“There, there,” he said, patting me on the back. “I knew you’d like it.”

Like it? I loved it! The only way I could love it more was if it was mine. El Sorillo, the Skunk, El Brujo’s younger brother and the foreman of the plot, came over. El Sorillo lacked horrid body odor, but he did have a streak of white hair running down the middle of his head. I preferred it that way.

“So you’re the new expert?” he said.

“I guess so.”

Instead of seeming jealous, he seemed relieved. Shaking my hand, he said, “Good, because I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Don Alberto had recruited El Sorillo, who specialized in smuggling loads across the Sea of Cortez in his fishing boat, to oversee the plot after the former expert’s all-too-soon demise. The Skunk said he felt like a fish out of water. Expert or not, the plants, about a month into flowering and already aromatic as a perfume counter, were doing great and I told him so.

“You’re gonna have some nice buds.”

“I’m counting on it,” said El Brujo.

“I wanna grow the next batch.”

“I’m counting on that, too.”

 

I hope you enjoyed the excerpt. If so, you’ll love the whole book! If you haven’t already grabbed my entire series for free with Kindle Unlimited (or just want to check them all out) just click this link:

The Senor Bueno Travel Adventure Series

 

Money, Guns, and Lawyers

 

Here’s a sneak peak at my upcoming book Money, Guns, and Lawyers, Book #9 in the Senor Bueno Travel Adventure Series. This is Chapter 1, entitled Spy. I hope you love it!

 

Mazatlan, Mexico 2007

“Uh-oh, I think that man is following us,” whispered Gloria.

“Which man?”

“That one over there,” said Gloria without pointing, nodding, or giving me any other clue.

We were in the Mazatlan airport terminal, so that narrowed the choices down to a couple hundred guys.

“Over where?”

“Don’t look.”

“Okay, jeez. No need to pinch.”

“Have you seen him before?”

“How am I supposed to know?”

Gloria sighed as if I was making things difficult and dragged me behind a potted palm. Pointing through the fronds, she said, “That’s him there, the one with the guitar.”

“The blind guy with the parrot and seeing-eye dog?” I gotta admit, I was a little skeptical.

“Si.”

“He’s following us from in front?”

“He is a tricky one, no?”

“Um. . .”

“I bet Felipe sent him.”

By Felipe, Gloria meant Felipe Calderon, newly elected president of Mexico. Representing her family’s business interests (many millions in ill-begotten gains), my pro-active girlfriend had made it her job to get close to Felipe. Just as she had with previous president Vicente Fox.

When I complained, she said, “It’s nothing personal, amor.”

“It kinda is, at least to me.”

“Don’t be silly. I have no feelings for Felipe; it’s a matter of keeping your enemies close.”

“You have to seduce every new Mexican president?”

Gloria shrugged. “Now that the PRI is out of power.”

I sighed.

“I don’t like it either, but business is business. If I want to run for governor I’ll need his support.”

“But. . .”

“You can’t expect my brothers to do it. After all, they’re in prison.”

She made a good point, but still. . .

My partner Bighead (AKA: Big Ed Head—but only to his face) agreed with Gloria. “There’s an upside to sharing your girlfriend with el presidente—we’ll get all the inside dirt on his war against drugs. Some of which might protect our crops. Not to mention, save our lives.”

Bighead’s point was also good. Felipe Calderon wasn’t kidding when he said he was going to war on the cartels. We weren’t exactly a cartel, but we did want to grow tons of marijuana. Which put us right in Felipe’s sights.

Gloria had added a codicil to the upside—especially the part about saving my life. “As long as Felipe doesn’t find out about you and me, amor. Because then. . .”

Bottom line, with Felipe a jealous man and us on vacation, Gloria was concerned with secrecy. Also, maybe a little paranoid. With a reputation as the infamous master criminal Senor Bueno, a person of interest in just about any major crime, so was I. Back in 1971 President Nixon (AKA: Uncle Dick), mad about me getting stoned in a White House bathroom, had declared the War on Drugs. And now, despite my efforts to raise world consciousness, the hypocritical George W. Bush, a regular party animal before he turned square, carried the torch. As did my sister Director Bonnie, now head of the DEA. Then there was the CIA, the FBI, the NSA, Homeland Security, Customs, and, well, you get the idea. I didn’t need Felipe Calderon mad at me, too.

I took another look at the unlikely spy. Sporting dark glasses, a brilliant aloha shirt, and a red macaw on his shoulder, he played a lovely version of Guantanamera on an antique Martin guitar. A regular Jose Feliciano. The parrot, also wearing dark glasses, did the vocals. When I played Guantanamera on my Gibson it sounded much different. Going by snarky comments from unappreciative listeners, I suspected it wasn’t my guitar’s fault. At the guitar-player’s feet sat a cup for spare change. At his side sat a German shepherd with a harmonica, matching dark glassses and aloha shirt, and his own cup. I noticed the dog had more money in his. Apparently, they’d been there a while.

Doubtful the guy was a spy, I said, “Unless that’s a great disguise, he’d make a shitty spy.”

Gloria shrugged. “He looks familiar, but perhaps I’m mistaken.” Then, brightening up, she said, “I can’t wait to see Don Alberto and Dulce again.”

Neither could I. Don Alberto was better known as El Brujo. The Magician. A man who could snap his fingers and make people disappear—and yet, as long as you got along, El Brujo was great company. I could say the same about our mutual friend Bighead, who wanted the three of us to partner up. Gloria and I had vacationed with Bighead, El Brujo, and their wives at Felony Flats, Bighead’s resort community on the Sea of Cortez in October. While there, Don Alberto and Dulce had invited us to their beach estate in Mazatlán. With them as guides, we’d enjoy the best of Mazatlán—gorge on fresh seafood, go clubbing, hit the beaches, take a cruise on El Brujo’s yacht, the works. That would be the part Gloria loved. After a week of that, while the ladies stayed in Mazatlán, El Brujo and I would check out fields of ripening marijuana. That’d be the part I loved.

El Brujo, like his cousin El Chapo, had enormous plantations in the mountains of Sinaloa. Also, one right outside his village. When El Brujo said it was his village, he really meant it.

__   __  __

I was eating shrimp ceviche at a beachside restaurant, working on my second margarita when Gloria asked, “How long will you guys be gone?”

“Just a few days,” said El Brujo. “Will you ladies be able to stay out of trouble?”

The ladies passed a mischievous look. “I guess we’ll see,” teased a giggling Dulce.

El Brujo considered that and said, “In that case, I’ll leave La Tortuga with you.” Only he wasn’t teasing.

La Tortuga, an enormous man with the inability to smile, the knife wounds hadn’t healed well, and the complection of a sponge, was what I’d call more intimidating than sexy.

Smiling over the top of his margarita, Don Alberto added, “You’ll feel safer that way.”

“No need, amor,” said Dulce.

“Senor Bueno and I will feel safer that way, too.”

I had to agree. Two unattached ladies looking like Dulce and Gloria would attract swarms of men. In fact, they already did. With slimy beach gigolos a dime a dozen in Mazatlán, our table was getting plenty of stares—each leer promising the ladies sleazy fun. Then there were curious looks at our bullfighter outfits.

Seeing El Brujo attired the previous summer in a toreador outfit, I’d become curious and asked if he had an appointment with a bull. He’d explained that cartel leaders, like bullfighters, produce tremendous amounts of testosterone. Nodding towards his crotch, he said, “There are certain side effects.”

My friend Dee, perhaps jealous, asked, “You get really well hung?”

“More like low-hung,” admitted El Brujo, not sounding happy about it. “Which is why I need a special pouch for my huevos.”

“No kidding?” said Dee.

“Would you like to see?”

Sorry he’d asked and no longer jealous, Dee turned down the offer, saying he already had the saggy picture.

“The crazy stuff you do, Senor Bueno,” said El Brujo, “you must have the same problem.”

I didn’t, thank God, but to save face, I’d lied. “You bet. Where can I some of those pants?”

When El Brujo and Dulce gave me a bullfighter costume for Christmas I was thinking: Me and my big mouth.

Which is why, like El Brujo, I was eating sashimi dressed in a bullfighter’s outfit. Gloria’s idea, not mine: “You don’t want to appear ungrateful, amor.”

Not that I felt like a total geek or anything.

“You ladies don’t get tired of all that gawking?” I asked.

“Never,” said Dulce.

“That’s the price you pay for having such a gorgeous girlfriend,” joked Gloria.

“How about you, Mikey?” teased Dulce.

“You mean the gawking?’

I took her laugh as a yes. I wasn’t a glamorous hottie but I was getting plenty of stares myself. All of them amused. Then there the snarky comments. . .I wanted to disappear.

A few minutes later, while mariachis played Guanatamera for the table next to us, Gloria whispered in my ear, “There he is again.”

“Who?”

“The spy from the airport.”

Mr. Discrete, I looked around for the blind musician with the dog and parrot, but couldn’t spot him. “Where is he?”

Another whisper. “The guitar player.”

The guitar player lacked a parrot, a dog, and the aloha shirt and dark glasses but he’d gained a mariachi band. Like his nine bandmates, he wore a fancy mariachi outfit, with all kinds of embroidery and silver medallions, a puffy white shirt, and a big black hat with those little dingleberry deals hanging around the brim. Pretty much the same stuff El Brujo and I wore.

“He’s been staring at us.”

“Every guy stares at you.”

They couldn’t help it. It was as natural as breathing.

El Brujo asked, “What’s up?”

“Gloria thinks she recognizes the guitar player.”

He looked over. “From where?”

“Mikey thinks I’m silly,” said Gloria, “but I think Felipe is having me followed.”

“A la verga,” said El Brujo. “We can’t be having that, not on your vacation.”

“We’re not really sure,” I said.

“No? Why not?”

“Well, the last time Gloria saw the spy he was a blind guy with a parrot and a dog. Ouch.” Rubbing my shin, I added, “Then again, both guys have an antique Martin guitar.”

Gloria’s subtle smile acknowledged she’d made her point. I just wished she didn’t use her pointy shoe to make it.

El Brujo said, “Hmm. . .that is suspicious,” then whispered something into La Tortuga’s ear. What with the missing tongue, he’d bitten it off rather than snitch on El Brujo, La Tortuga couldn’t speak, but his hearing was superb. With a nod he walked off.

A few minutes later, while I started on my grilled ahi, I noticed La Tortuga escorting the guitar player down the beach. And by escorting, I mean carrying.

El Brujo shrugged. “Better safe than sorry, no?”

“Um. . .”

La Tortuga returned ten minutes later, minus one mariachi but with a Martin guitar and a cell phone in his hands.

“Now we can relax and enjoy ourselves,” said El Brujo. Picking up the pitcher, he asked, “Who wants another margarita?”

After an exhausting night of clubbing we crashed at El Brujo’s beach pad, breaking waves and too much tequila putting us to sleep.

Brujo remembered the mariachi’s cell phone at breakfast. “Let’s see what’s on here.”

After a bit of scrolling, he handed the phone to Gloria. “I guess you were right.”

I watched as Gloria scrolled through several screens—shots of Gloria and me at the Mazatlán airport, getting into El Brujo’s Range Rover, having drinks. . .

“This can’t be good,” I said.

“I guess I wasn’t silly, after all,” said Gloria. “I knew Felipe was acting suspicious.”

“I guess that worked both ways.”

Gloria sighed. “Apparently. Let’s see if he’s already sent these to Felipe.”

As it turned out, he had. Also, an unfinished text saying, “Uh oh, I think they’re on to. . .”

I pictured a jealous Felipe using a Ricky Ricardo voice. “Gloria, you got some ‘splaining to do.”

I hope you enjoyed the sample of Money, Guns, and Lawyers! I should have the book ready for you before too long.

Meanwhile, you can enjoy all my other books for free with Kindle Unlimited.

Click here to check out the entire Senor Bueno Travel Adventure Series!