1st Chapter of Smuggler’s Blues
Smuggler’s Blues, book #10 in the Senor Bueno Travel Adventure Series is set to be launched on April 20th, which seems the most auspicious day to release a book about the joys of pot, both recreational and medical.
And with everyone stuck at home with the Quarantine Blues, I thought I’d post the 1st chapter of Smuggler’s Blues to make you feel better. Not to mention, hook you on my story so you’ll grab the book. Without further ado, here it comes:
Crisis At The Border
Soaking up the evening’s tranquility, I had to smile. Three weeks earlier, I’d been playing hide and seek with the Mexican Army in the Baja wilderness. Not but choice, but still. . . Faced with death or imprisonment, my smiles had been few and far between. Rousted from our marijuana plot and surrounded by violent enemies, my partner Loco and I spent several sleepless nights trying not to scream while deviate nocturnal ants attacked our private parts. As if losing a ton of killer pot wasn’t painful enough. The days, what with General Havoc and a hundred armed men scouring the chaparral for us, weren’t much better. I took the harassment personally, but only because it was. It seemed America’s President Bush and Mexico’s President Culeron had joined forces in the War on Drugs—and aimed those forces at the philanthropic Señor Bueno. With Señor Bueno being me, I had myself a dilemma. I blamed it on my little sister.
For entertainment, we spent our time on the run lamenting the crop we’d just lost. That and the unlikely prospect of getting out of there alive. It was fair to say, the entertainment sucked. Also, that I was a bit stressed out.
But now, having recovered that ton of killer pot through one of my crazy plans, I’d traded relentless stress for the utter peace of a Baja California sunset. Relaxing on my horse, I soaked up the ambiance—pastel-colored sky, barren mountains painted red, and the only sounds coming from desert songbirds. After five crazy months in the Baja wilderness, I needed all the relaxation I could get. That and plenty of TLC. The lovely Gloria Madera took care of that.
We’d ridden into Rancho Madera’s back country to our favorite sunset spot. Atop a small hill, with Rancho Madera’s hacienda out of sight a mile to the north, we could see hundreds of square miles of unspoiled natural beauty—no freeways, no subdivisions, no electric lines, no traffic lights, not one sign of civilization to mar the view. For a moment there, I felt at one with nature.
And that’s when Smuggler’s Blues came blaring from the Batphone. So much for nirvana.
Gloria shook her pretty head. “I wish you hadn’t brought that, amor.”
So did I, but when you have two crime lords for partners, a satellite phone with a scrambler is a necessity. Gloria had one of her own, but the guys knew better than to bother her.
“You watching TV?” asked Bighead, sounding agitated.
“No, we’re out riding.”
“Well, rein it in, cowboy, we’ve got bad news.”
“Aw, Jesus, it’s not about me again, is it?”
“Not everything is about you, Mikey.”
Thank God. The last time he told me to turn on the TV, Fox News’s award-losing investigative journalist Gerardo was labeling Señor Bueno a domestic terrorist. To be specific, a domestic terrorist who’d tried to nuke Dick Cheney. That truly was bad news. Not to mention, incorrect. The explosion had nothing to do with Dick Cheney.
So I felt relieved—until Bighead added, “At least not directly.”
“How not directly? Please say a lot.”
“Put on CNN and you’ll see.”
“See what?” I asked, but he’d already hung up.
Gloria sighed. “What’s wrong this time?”
Between his professional and personal lives, Big Ed Head (but only to his face) had more melodrama going on than a Mexican telenovela.
“I’m not sure, but he was definitely bummed out.”
“Something to do with La Diva, no?”
She meant Bighead’s wife. Now there was a domestic terrorist.
I shook my head. “Their fights don’t usually make international news.”
With my partner in crisis mode, and with us curious, we headed back to Gloria’s hacienda and put on the tube.
CNN reporter Blitz Kreig was saying, “Score one for the narcs today, as their brand-new x-ray machine captured two big rigs loaded with marijuana at the Tijuana border.” Blitz didn’t look happy about it.
The screen shifted to show Customs Agents, Feds, San Diego Police, even a DEA Swat Team descending from a helicopter—all of them in body armor and bristling with enough weaponry to take on Cuba.
I told Gloria, “Unless I miss my guess, that’s what’s wrong.”
She rolled her eyes. “You think?”
While several dozen amped-up members of the Other Team pinned the two hapless drivers to the road, I said, “Seems like a bit of overkill, doesn’t it?”
“Look, there’s Agent Debbie.”
We watched my telegenic niece mug for the cameras, then deliver a deadpan sound bite to the would-be smugglers. “Guess this wasn’t your lucky day.”
“Who does she think she is?” I asked. “Clint Eastwood?”
“She looks good, doesn’t she?”
“She always looks good.” Agent Debbie was a fox. She had an inner beauty too—one reason I hated her soul-crushing career at the DEA. “It’s her job that sucks.”
The scene shifted to DEA Headquarters in Washington, where CNN’s roving reporter Jerry Coleman was interviewing a smug Director Bonnie. “And that’s just the start, Jerry. When my new get-tough-on-pot policy is in full effect, not a single reefer will cross our southern border.”
Not that my totally square sister was a fanatic. I mean, who says reefer?
“Is your new get-tough-on-pot policy a reaction to your public relations disaster?”
There went the smarmy smile. Director Bonnie tried a bluff. “I don’t recall any public relations disaster.”
Jerry Coleman reminded her. “You don’t remember freeing General Havoc from prison only to have him show up at the border a week later with a big rig loaded with marijuana?”
A scowling Director Bonnie said, “No comment.”
“What about the rumors you were about to lose your job?”
“No more questions,” hissed a red-faced Director Bonnie before getting up and fleeing the room.
Jerry Coleman, unable to stifle a smile, called after her. “Director Bonnie, come back. . .it’s your office.”
She didn’t.
“Director Bonnie seemed a little high-strung,” observed Blitz Kreig.
Jerry Coleman agreed. “Working for the Bush Administration can’t be easy.”
“Amen to that,” said Blitz, before taking a long gulp of something amber. Sounding like a guy running low on pot, he said, “Four tons of marijuana up in smoke. You think that was good stuff, Jerry?”
“Unfortunately, we’ll never know.”
I could picture Bighead yelling at his TV. “Yes, it was good stuff, goddamnit.”
“Was any of your crop on those trucks?” asked Gloria.
“No, thank God. That was all El Brujo’s.”
“Then he’ll be even angrier than Bighead.”
“Fortunately, they won’t be mad at me.”
I’d no sooner said that than the Batphone rang again. “You see what happened?” asked Bighead.
“Yeah, that was quite the scene.”
“How come you didn’t warn me?”
Unbelievable. He was mad at me.
“Warn you about the brand-new x-ray machines I didn’t know about?”
“You know any other x-ray machines that cost me millions of dollars today?”
“No, not offhand.”
“Don’t you talk to your sister?”
“Only at family reunions. And then it’s only to ask her not to make the frisk so intimate.”
“I’m serious.”
“Well, so am I.”
“She really frisks you?”
“Jerry Coleman hit it on the head. She’s reacting to the General Havoc fiasco.”
“Fuck.” After bitching that the corrupt Customs Agents in his pocket were now wasted, he said, “Why did I listen to your crazy plan?”
“The one that saved us six million dollars? That crazy plan?”
“I told you we should have planted the general on El Machine’s ranch, but no, I have to partner up with a pacifist.”
When the big guy got like this, it was best not to argue. You might as well argue with the Hulk. Once he vented, he’d be reasonable again. I laid the Batphone on the coffee table and waited for him to run out of steam. He moved on from that day’s bust and spent a while bitching about the backlog this would create. With El Brujo growing over fifty tons down in Sinaloa, the backlog potential was enormous.
While Bighead raged on, Gloria made a suggestion. “Tell him about Don Lupe’s idea.”
Gloria’s father, Baja’s number-one outlaw for most of the twentieth century, at the tender age of ninety-four, had finally retired. By then, like Joe Kennedy during Prohibition, Don Lupe had amassed a fortune. It had been years since he’d enjoyed the thrill of shooting it out with Federales and the Mexican Army on horseback, but until recently he’d overseen his various enterprises. He’d hoped to leave the family business to his three sons, but they’d proved themselves unworthy—one reason they now resided in the same prison as General Havoc. That left Gloria, a lawyer/international finance expert, to take the Maderas into the 21st Century. Her skills at laundering dirty money, honed while working for Mexico’s largest bank, had netted the Madera family a vast network of legal businesses. One of the last vestiges of Don Lupe’s smuggling empire was a Southern California ranch just a quick plane ride from Rancho Madera.
When a calmer Bighead said, “Now I gotta come up with a new system,” I took it as my cue.
In retrospect, I should have kept my mouth shut. I was a pot grower, not a smuggler. Instead, all Mr. Helpful, I said, “Why don’t you buy Don Lupe’s ranch near Anza-Borrego?”
“He wants to sell it?”
“Well, yeah, he’s out of the business and he thought you might be able to use it.”
“Hmm. . .”
In a TV announcer voice, I said, “Rancho Borrego has everything the modern smuggler needs: fifty private acres, a beautiful three-bedroom home with an attached garage, a swimming pool, and an airstrip. But wait, that’s not all. As a special offer, if you act now, Don Lupe will throw in a secret route across the border!”
Everyone in the weed business, on both teams, had known what Don Lupe was doing. They just didn’t know how he did it. One reason he’d never been popped.
Intrigued, Bighead said, “Keep talking.”
“Here’s how we see it. . .”
“We? You’re part of the family now?”
“They consider me an honorary member.”
With Don Lupe treating me like the son he’s always wanted, and me spending most of my time at the Madera hacienda, I felt right at home. A nice change of pace from the Good residence.
I expanded on the plan. “It’s a package deal. El Brujo can land his planes on the Rancho Madera strip. You and Snake can take it from there.”
“I thought Don Lupe wanted to get out of the business.”
“He never really wanted to, big guy, but he’s almost a hundred.”
“That’s true.”
“And it’s not like he could leave the family business to his sons.”
“No, that would’ve been a disaster. Still, I’m kinda surprised he’d let us use his strip.”
“Well, he’s gonna want a fee.”
“You gotta hand it to him, Mikey. I hope I’m still pulling off capers when I’m his age.”
“Something to look forward to. What do you think? You interested?”
“Fuck, yeah, I’m interested. How much does he want?”
“Let me put you through to our business manager.”
While Gloria went into negotiation-mode, I joined Don Lupe and Doña Donna in the library. “El Cabezon liked your plan.”
Looking up from his book, Don Lupe smiled. “Of course he did. He is a good businessman, no?”
“He was surprised that you offered your runway.”
“I’d do anything for Gloria.”
I considered that for a second. “Are you saying that was Gloria’s idea?”
He joked, “You’ve infected her with your outlaw ways, Señor Bueno.”
“I’d like to take the credit, Don Lupe, but I suspect it comes from closer to home.”
Giving Don Lupe a side-eyed glance, Doña Donna said, “You are right about that, Mikey.”
Don Lupe took a sip of cognac. “Gloria feels she missed out on the adventures her crazy brothers and I had.” After a thoughtful pause, he added, “Judging by how the boys turned out, it was probably for the best.”
Second wife Doña Donna nodded affirmatively. Thirty years older than Gloria, her step-brothers were no longer boys. On the other hand, they were still crazy.
“No offense, Don Lupe, but I have to agree with you.”
“That’s why I’m glad you two are together.”
“Because we agree about your boys?”
Don Lupe chuckled, which always made me feel good. Lacking a sense of humor, my other dad didn’t get jokes.
“I’m pleased because you are happy together. And with your poor decision-making skills, she gets to have the adventures she’s always wanted.”
My little voice asked: Did we just get dissed?
I told it, “Yeah, but in a nice way.”
Don Lupe took another sip, then said, “I see you two having fun and I miss the good old days.”
“You and Doña Donna still have fun.”
“Yes, but traveling with a bunch of old people on cruise ships lacks the adrenaline rush of near-death on a smuggling run.”
“Thank God,” said Doña Donna.
Though in his mid-nineties, in his mind, Don Lupe was still a younger man. Same went for his imposing appearance. His posture still erect and his hair still dark, he looked thirty years younger. He offered some advice. “Have as many adventures as you can while you’re young, Mikey, because some day that will be you and Gloria on the cruise ship.”
In my mid-fifties, I wasn’t particularly young. Immature, yes, young, not so much, and my adventures had taken a toll on my body. So I told him, “To be honest, a nice relaxing cruise doesn’t sound bad at all.”
He gave me a dismissive wave. “You’d be bored in no time.”
“Maybe so, but some of these adventures lately. . .”
“Having the Mexican Army gunning for you gets the blood going, no?”
He made it sound like fun. Take it from me, it wasn’t. But with a phony reputation as a fearless lunatic to protect, I said, “You got that right, Don Lupe.”
“You think a bunch of soldiers will be shooting at you while you lounge on a cruise ship with your tropical drink?”
“Um. . .”
He shook his head. “No, the most dangerous thing on a cruise ship is a listeria epidemic. Either that or the dinner conversation. Where’s the excitement in listening to geriatrics talk about their medications? You might as well hang out in a nursing home.”