Jacumba Connection Read online

  Enter the smuggling broker who can smell misery and spot a dark horse across a smoke-filled casino. He saunters over to the high roller in Reeboks and says, “No luck? Hmmm. You got a car? A truck? SUV? You want to make a thousand bucks in two hours?”

  The image of your wife with a butcher knife in one hand and your penis in the other looms in your frontal lobes. This is a no-brainer. You look to the heavens and mouth the words, “Thank you, Jesus,” and even thank your sinister broker for the chance to commit a federal felony.

  The trap snaps shut. Bam! The sound bounces around your empty head and echoes out your ears.

  But no one else hears it.

  -- -- --

  There are five major casinos and two smaller ones in San Diego, California. At least one has an 18-hole golf course. Many have six-story hotels with VIP suites, swimming pools, and movie stars. Some are just glorified to-go holes with smelly, nappy carpet and abusive drunken Indians.

  The Golden Acorn in Campo, California, is a combination casino and truck stop. It caters to the commercial freight industry that services San Diego from the Imperial Valley (a.k.a. the salad bowl of America) and all points in between.

  Located at the top of the grade on Highway 8, south of the beautiful Cuyamaca Mountains that run parallel to the old Butterfield Stagecoach Line, the Golden Acorn resides on a well-traveled route that predates the Union Pacific Railroad. This enticing gateway to prosperity saw thousands of settlers who attempted the daunting task of completing the “pass” through the desert, by going up and over the boulder region, and through dry-ass uncertain mountains. You can still see the ghostly track from the expansive parking lot/gas pump area of this hilltop Indian gaming facility.

  It pays for these tribes to have their own casinos. All this revenue has been a blessing to the tribes; most have spent wisely, subsidizing new healthcare facilities, childcare, schools, and other social programs. And some do a good job of reflecting their native culture while relieving you of the burden of carrying around too much cash while on the reservation. A few casinos even have large shopping malls with Gap stores and arts-and-crafts boutiques that sell Native American pottery made in China.

  The Golden Acorn casino is off the beaten track for the “runners,” but still caters to a decent crop of not-so-lucky, downright desperate targets. Kind and helpful lifesavers (better known as brokers of the game) harvest the down-and-out from the Golden Acorn’s loud, exciting interior like migrant workers picking ripe tomatoes.

  This is not to imply that any of the tribes condone criminal activity of any kind. On the contrary, they are vigilant against any form of corruption, ranging from organized crime to petty theft. In fact, they employ a collaborative of cameras to watch what’s going on. However...these cameras have no microphones. Imagine that? And because they do not hire a squad of lip readers to mindlessly stare at security screens, it is safe to say, it’s safe to play the broker game at The Golden Acorn.

  But that is a story for a later chapter in this saga of money, loss, crime, sex, VIP gambling, drugs, hot-tubbing, and crying-in-your-beer drama.

  And it all begins with Charlie and Denice DeVille – that’s “DeVille” as in Cadillac, baby.

  YIN TO MY YANG

  Chapter 1

  Charlie and Denice were a team in the true sense of the word. Few couples can spend almost every waking moment within arm’s reach of each other without ending up knee-deep in divorce court or worse.

  The love they shared ran the gamut of emotion, commitment, and trust. Their relationship continually evolved into something better with each change in, shall we say, lifestyle. Both in their 40’s and in excellent shape, they’d raised their children past their 20’s and gently booted them out of the nest. Now they could finally abandon the nine-to-five, middle-class, my-lawn-is-greener-than-your-lawn, PTA-ish neighborhood. Now they were free to partake in something a little more exciting and bold, if not downright crazy.

  The bonds of trust and the longing for adventure were forged by years of hard work, dodging financial bullets (instead of real ones), and raising three daughters, which included dealing with a multitude of boyfriends and ex-boyfriends. Hard to tell which is worse? Imagine at 1:00 a.m. you awaken to BINK, BINK, BINK on your bedroom window. You patter to the window only to find some young man, pants around his thighs, heroin eyes, a ring through his nose and an eyebrow, throwing pebbles at the glass. Of course Charlie’s response was to raise the window and shout, “Hey, genius, wrong freakin’ window. Didn’t do your homework, did ya? My girls don’t date the brain-dead so beat feet before I shoot you in the dick. If you even have one.”

  Charlie was known in the neighborhood as an old-school kind of dad. If you wanted to date Mr. DeVille’s girls, it was “Drivers license and proof of insurance please. Your ride got current registration? No Japanese fast and furious crotch rockets. Harley Davidsons are acceptable with clean DMV. A firm handshake scores important ‘man points’ and a little sit down with a ‘tell me a little about yourself, son,’” kind of lecture. You passed if Mr. DeVille said, “Have her home by 12:30, do not turn off her cell phone, and make sure you compliment her mother on the way out the door or there won’t be a second date.”

  The fact that these girls weren’t his biological kids meant nothing to Charlie. He loved his girls with the overprotective ferocity of a lion, but at the same time he provided the soft-spoken heart and strong shoulder that Daddy’s little girls need to grow up feeling safe and secure.

  For those who have never lived with four women under one roof, their combined cycle is one of the great mysteries of the universe. It’s a fact: a group of females living as a family unit will get their freaking periods all at the same time, almost to the hour. “So shut up and leave me alone, dammit.”

  Charlie will tell you that there are a few days every month that he was not in control of the girls or his household. Period.

  The DeVille family circus was a happy, warm, and inviting place the other 26 days of the month.

  So the bonds of love ran deep in all directions. Charlie would step in front of a bullet for Denice and vice versa.

  Having both been born and raised in San Diego, California, Charlie and Denice were the hip parents. Their house was where the cool kids hung out.

  Charlie made his living with his hands. He could build or construct anything he could break, blow up, or tear apart. Not that he could have ever been a success in any white-collar career. Instead of hacking away at a keyboard, he loved twisting wrenches, pounding hammers, sawing wood; basically creating anything handmade – a true motor-head and Renaissance man combined.

  Denice was raised Catholic in San Carlos and surfed her way through high school. Charlie was raised Episcopalian and lived just ten miles away in Fletcher Hills along the canyon edge of El Cajon (where home base is now).

  But in the way of magic and universal good things, their paths would not cross until years later...at San Diego Harley Davidson, no less. A great place to start a ride into the sunset.

  LIFE IS SHORT - MAKE IT SWEET

  Chapter 2

  So we jump ahead about 10 years. Charlie and Denice have sold their little, white-picket-fence, suburban dream, even throwing in the lawn tractor and hedge trimmers at the closing table.

  If you stay abreast of things like the Southern California real estate market, you learn that 10 years equity in a 1,700 square-foot home with a large yard ends up being a nice chunk of change. Enough, in fact, to outfit the two of them with some of the niceties they’d always dreamed of.

  To start, they bought a 30-foot Airstream travel trailer, and then Charlie set about restoring a 1990 K-5 blazer with a removable fiberglass top.

  Needless to say the outfitted Airstream was crammed full, but you could not tell how bloated it was until you opened a cabinet. Which Charlie was never allowed to do, owing to his in
ability to put said items back in the same box from which they came.

  Charlie and Denice leased a perfect little commercial space from Timmy One-Hit’s mother, a friend of the family since forever. She was a widow now, blessed wealthy by Timmy’s dad, who also left Timmy a fat trust fund. Though it had only taken him a mere three years to smoke his fund away.

  But even so, Charlie and Denice loved Timmy and took care of him on and off. Tim’s mother was extremely grateful and proved to be very loyal by returning the favor later when Denice and Charlie ran into some rough patches.

  But at this point, times were fabulous.

  Right after closing on the old house, Charlie began working on Denice’s Camaro. When Charlie had completed the ’71, split front bumper, muscle car, it shook the pavement at idle. Safeway Foods was only a mere 8.6 seconds away.

  Living out of a commercial space takes a special kind of tolerance for the inconvenient. But once they were on the road it was bliss. Of the things they loved most, traveling to casinos with RV parks and nice three-star hotels was tops on their list. If they got on a winning streak, they could comp a VIP suite. If they lost, they cozied up in the Airstream and then it was on to another destination, be it Las Vegas or Sturgis, North Dakota, or anywhere in between.

  It was on these trips that Denice discovered her uncanny ability to win at the one-dollar Blazin’ Seven machines. Charlie’s take on it, should anyone ask was, “She’s got a lucky horseshoe in her ass. I know, ‘cuz I put it there. If she sits down, she wins. It’s that simple.”

  Charlie and Denice were well-known at Barona and on a first name basis with just about everyone, from the VIP concierge to the cashiers who knew and loved them. When they won, everybody won. They tipped like crazy. Charlie and Denice were very superstitious about that. Every gambler has their lucky talisman, such as a rabbit’s foot, special hat, or whatever. Denice’s was in her ass (according to Charlie).

  Everybody loves a winner. And to show their gratitude, the casino suits took pictures of the victors standing next to their winning machines before they were reset. Denice and Charlie had been in this position so often, they had a bedroom in the Airstream with one wall covered in Polaroids and 8 x 10 color glossies of their triumphs.

  Friday and Saturday nights were crazy in the casinos, even the VIP high rollers were packed in. Around 4:00 or 5:00 a.m. the machines were audited, meaning all the cash was removed and the machines reset. Federal and state regulations mandate a certain rate of return for each dollar inserted, but when it pays, that’s the gamble.

  Realizing the video games were audited every 24 hours, Charlie and Denice found a way to improve their odds of getting lucky. They kept an eye on the big spenders and which games they were playing. At the same time, they would spend their gambling money slowly until 3:00 a.m. Then they would hit those stuffed machines, knowing they had to pay out before 5:00 a.m. at the latest to meet regulations.

  They called these machines fatties as in “I watched that dumb-ass put 11 one-hundred-dollar bills in that triple diamond machine, spit a booger on the glass and walk out.”

  “Cool. You got a wet nap in your purse? I’m going to toss it twenty, talk nasty to it, and see if I can make it cum.” WINK. WINK.

  On this particular night, Charlie strolled over to a machine, sat down, pulled out a cancer stick and did his best Andrew-Dice-Clay-lighter thing. And as was customary in casino etiquette, he looked over at the guy sitting next to him (the poor schmuck’s face was paved with bad decisions) and said, “Wassup? Winning?”

  The guy positioned his forefinger and thumb at 90° to form an “L” at his forehead, indicating he was a loser.

  “I feel your pain, man,” commiserated Charlie. He then extended his hand. “Charlie.” The guy tentatively shook it. “Like this fancy carpet? Yeah, I bought it,” joked Charlie.

  “I hear ya,” the loser replied. “Been payin’ the light bill here forever. Enjoy the AC, it’s on me.” He then stared blankly at the machine. “Got a bazillion dollars in this piece of shit.”

  “They’re like video crack whores,” agreed Charlie. “Whether they have a flat screen or pretty face, they’ll leave ya with your pants around your ankles.”

  “Nice meetin’ ya,” said the loser, obviously ready to move on. “Charlie was it?”

  “Yeah. Right back at ya.”

  “K. Hey, and just so you know, I’m a sign painter. You need a sign, here’s my card.”

  After coming up this side of 500 big ones on the fatties, Charlie called the sign painter dude. “Hey, you still up here at Barona?”

  “Yeah, my son’s coming up. Thinking about waiting for him. Besides, headlights ain’t working. And I don’t need a ticket on top of being a broke dick dog.”

  “Hey, my wife and I love The Uninvited. How much to paint ‘Love Bus’ on my Airstream?”

  From that day forward, the RV was appropriately called The Love Bus: “It’s a honey-dripping love vibe on a funky little bus…”

  THE LAW OF UNINTENDED CONSEQUENCES

  Chapter 3

  If you stop betting, you never have to lose. But all winning streaks must eventually come to an end. It was a slow death for the DeVille Family Trust. Not quite like a bad stock investment or a low yield portfolio, it just couldn’t sustain Charlie and Denice’s life’s-a-gamble-when-you-ramble attitude forever.

  It started with: “I’m sorry, Mr. DeVille, but your card was declined.”

  “Run it again.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Charlie glared at his wife. “You pay the bill?”

  “I thought I did,” she answered.

  The waitress returned with a stern look. “Do you have another card, sir?”

  “Leave it. We’ll pay cash.” Charlie looked to Denice for help. “How you fixed for cash?”

  She handed him two twenties. He slipped the bills into the black leather check valise. “Hey, babe, maybe we should take a walk back to the Love Bus, jump on somebody’s wi-fi and find out what the hell’s going on.”

  “Good luck with that,” she answered. “Up in these mountains?”

  As they exited the smoke filled circus atmosphere, the sky was painted in violet and orange. The smell of night blooming jasmine gave the promise of spring. They both inhaled deeply, tasting the crisp evening air. And as gamblers do, they lit up a smoke.

  Sitting on a bench tucked back off the trail to the campground, they watched the sun sink into the western sky. Both knew the answer to the question Charlie had posed in the café – they were running out of mad money, draining the last golden drops from their fund fountain.

  Charlie looked over his right shoulder at Denice. “How close are we to fiscal oblivion?”

  Denice sighed. “I can hear the bomb whistle from where we’re sitting.”

  “Should we even bother to Google it?” he asked sarcastically.

  That was Charlie’s action word for research, depending on his mood. Go fucking Google it. Very seldom did he talk that way to his Pumkin, and never when it came to cash flow.

  His inquiry brought an unwanted response. “To tell the truth, honey, we’re screwed. Let’s face facts. We can’t retire at 42. That’s a gamble in itself.”

  “Well. Too much analysis means not enough time to live,” summed up Charlie.

  Unfortunately that philosophy would come back to haunt them as, at that very moment, a cyber thief was knee-deep in their 401(k). And like a ringmaster, the culprit expertly diverted dollars from their crazy-ass circus to his PayPal account.

  And with that, the party was over.

  It was time to circle the wagons.

  -- -- --

  The conversation on the drive to home base was tense. “How the hell did this happen?” he asked. Charlie wondered if he should update his resume.

 
“I’m not sure,” countered Denice. “But paying bills online, slingin’ plastic all over hell’s half acre. Not to mention those cheesy ATMs in every casino. Someone must’ve...Shit I don’t know.” She turned both palms up and shrugged her shoulders.

  Charlie pounded his fist onto the wheel. “Okay, well, we’ll fall back ten and punt. Regroup. We’ll drop off the Love Bus and go see Mr. Moneyman at Melon, Morrison and what-the-fuck. Find out what our options are.”

  “By options, you mean what?”

  “You know, call the cops. File a report. Have a nervous breakdown, I don’t know. Jesus, honey, we can’t just pretend it didn’t happen.” Deep down Charlie felt his manhood had somehow just had its ass kicked.

  Denice turned away from Charlie, stared out the window, and with a kind of guilty childlike voice said, “Not my fault, babe, please don’t yell at me.”

  And as if Jesus were the disc jockey, right on cue Billie Holiday started to sing Cry me a River on the radio.

  -- -- --

  Walking out of the attorney’s office, the sky was a noncommittal gray. Maybe rain, maybe not. The concrete jungle of downtown San Diego, with its horns blaring and panhandlers begging, the smell of moist concrete and exhaust fumes was a perfect backdrop to receive bad news. No ifs, ands, or buts. They were a short one-month away from holding their own sign that read, Will work for food.

  The conversation with their moneyman, Mr. Morrison, went like this:

  “Mr. and Mrs. DeVille,” adjusting his glasses upward on the bridge of his nose, “I’m afraid we have some rather bad news.”

  Charlie mumbled sarcastically, “Great.”

  Mr. Morrison continued, “There’s been a breach of security in the credit line side of your 401(k), which as you know, can be accessed through your credit card.”

  Denice fidgeted in her chair, hung her head chin to chest, stared at the ten-thousand-dollar Persian rug, and let loose a small sigh.