Jacumba Connection Read online

  Morrison leaned back in his ergonomic office chair and concluded, “This could be a multitude of things. Cyber theft is the new version of highway robbery. These guys come at us from every angle, from every country on the planet. We’ve got a slew of IT people trying to dodge bullets and build firewalls while running this new breed of conmen into ground. At this point...I just don’t know.”

  Silence.

  “However, our investigations are closing in on the apex of the break. There seems to be a problem surrounding a credit card purchase at...let me see here...” He looked down at a folder on his desk. “Lee’s Truck Recycling.”

  Denice looked sideways at her husband and said, “Lee’s place? Really, Charlie? Really? You know Lee’s a crack head.”

  “Hey, he’s not a crack head. He just smokes some meth once in a while.”

  “Well, that’s comforting,” Denice replied tartly.

  Charlie defended his honor. “Probably not one of my best decisions, but he had the best price.”

  Denice crossed her arms over her chest. “Oh for God’s sake, don’t be a moron, Charlie. Now is not the time.”

  Mr. Morrison, holding up both hands palms out in a gesture of retaining-calm, spoke with a positive inflection in his voice. “Look, who knows? There may be recourse. There’s a chance we might find the bad guys.” But then eager to dodge liability added, “But, honestly, I would not count on it.”

  On the way down the hall to the elevator Denice stopped and said, “Give me your credit cards.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Don’t treat me like a child.”

  “Then don’t shop at the local drug addict’s using our credit card.”

  “Are you saying this is my fault?”

  “What I’m saying is you don’t think things through.”

  Charlie thought about that for a moment. Reaching down to the lizard part of his brain he could not find a way out of this one. “You’re probably right,” he finally relented. Damn, I hate it when she’s got a point.

  -- -- --

  On the ride back from Melon, Morrison, and Bad News Denice suggested, “Let’s make the rounds and call in markers,” which is casino lingo for hit the big five Indian gaming facilities and retrieve monies they lent to other desperate souls just like themselves.

  “Sounds like a plan. How’s the horseshoe?”

  “Ask me later, when I sit down at my favorite machine.”

  “Okay, let’s go to Viejas and find fat Larry.”

  Scary Larry was into them for about five dead presidents, specifically Ben Franklins. Which makes no sense, since Ben Franklin was never president, and was definitely too smart to be your garden-variety politician.

  “You think the sweaty bastard will have it?” Charlie asked.

  “Yeah,” she answered tentatively. “But you’ll probably have to turn him upside down and shake it out of him to get it.”

  Scary Larry. Larry the Fairy. That Larry. Now there was a guy who knew the meaning of “fall from grace.” An ex-vice president at a La Jolla savings and loan, he was an easy mark to spot in a crowded casino; ugly green suit, red tie, sweaty neck stains on his used-to-be-white shirt. Lost his white-collar job in the banking industry, because they frown on meth addicts who gamble and pay for sex.

  Larry moved to Jacumba to be closer to the real love of his life – casinos.

  The parking lot was crowded as they found a spot for the Blazer.

  “It’s Friday. Three more hours and the vampires emerge,” said Charlie stoically.

  “Let’s find Larry before the full moon rises.”

  HOTEL MEXICO

  Chapter 4

  Camacho Cortez, the partially insane proprietor of Hotel Mexico, thought he was the reincarnation of Pancho Villa. In his head the whistle from the film Gunfight at O.K. Corral ran on a continuous loop. His floppy Indiana Jones hat Camacho Cortez, the partially insane proprietor of Hotel Mexico, thought he was the reincarnation of Pancho Villa. In his head the whistle from the film Gunfight at O.K. Corral ran on a continuous loop. His floppy Indiana Jones hat did nothing to shield his face from the intense desert sun. But his huge, droopy, Deputy Dog mustache covered the lower half of his face like SPF 1,000.

  He walked through the unpaved dirt streets of his village, seven miles from the United States border, with that tune bouncing around inside his noggin, looking all-the-world like a gunfighter; including that obligatory stupid hat and $1,100 over-the-top snakeskin boots.

  His father was Lopez Cortez, head of the Cortez Cartel. Infamous smugglers, the family transported everything from people to guns to drugs over the borders of South America and on up into the U.S. Historically, they were the best in the business.

  Camacho, being the firstborn son and next in line to fill his father’s shoes (which were $3,000 ostrich skin boots, by the way) was a hands-on, upper-level operative. He ran the Hotel Mexico Bar and Grill, a two-story adobe and stucco affair with an arched doorway. Windows, crowded with neon signs, fronted a small patio. The signs promised cold beer and air-conditioning, a promise they routinely failed to keep. The entire structure was encased in a lime green and bright yellow lacquer slathered on so thick it could withstand the effects of a low-yield atomic bomb.

  Set back from the dirt road of Main Street, the blue and yellow Corona umbrellas on the patio fluttered in the breeze. And if you looked closely, a decapitated pig’s head rested on a table. You could smell the rest of the doomed animal cooking on a spit around the side of the hotel.

  Yes, carnitas was on the menu 24/7. Camacho loved his roasted pork.

  The hotel accommodations took up the entire second floor of the bar and doubled as a staging area for thousands of people past and present, preparing for Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride to the border fence. Mr. Toad being Macho Camacho Cortez, and the wild ride being his beloved four-wheel-drive Ford Bronco.

  Camacho’s cousin, Pelón, tended the bar. Bald as an eagle and missing his left eye (a direct result of an encounter with an unruly customer sporting a long fingernail), Pelón stood under a three-bladed ceiling fan that moved so slowly it circulated no air at all. As Camacho entered the bar he slurred, “Eh, it’s hotter than your sister when she sits on my mustache.” He preened his mighty facial hair and continued, “Pour me a shot of Patron and a cold Dos XX lager, Cyclops.”

  “Funny, Little Man,” Pelón responded sarcastically. “My sister would come nowhere near you or your filthy mustache. Ugh. Your mouth smells like an Iguana lives in there.”

  “Quiet, you fool. I have more hair on my handsome face than you have on your entire head. Bald men should not be allowed to speak.”

  The sun was starting to set. Twilight gave way to the pink and red from the neon signs flicking Corona, Patron, Tequila, and cold cerveza. They glowed off Pelón’s shiny pate. It looked to Camacho like Pelón had his head in the microwave and that it was just about to burst.

  Outside the wind blew and swirled dust around a ‘62 Impala that belonged to a customer currently asleep under a table. It was a hot, arid wind, perfect for the procreation of cacti and snakes. It shrieked in between boulders and warmed the hearts of a million scorpions.

  “Pelón, the weather is perfect for the run. How many upstairs?”

  “Nine. Two will not make it.”

  Camacho’s face twisted, his brow raised. “Why is that?”

  “They are gay.” Pelón’s one good eye had the special powers of insight into the hearts and minds of men.

  Camacho laughed, “You are gay, too, señor? It takes a gay man to know a gay man.” He was on a roll and would not stop. “Your father was gay or you would have hair.”

  Pelón replied calmly, “I’m just warning you, they shall perish in the desert.”

  Holding his index fing
er straight up at the ceiling, Camacho grumbled, “Just because you play butt darts does not mean you can’t follow a coyote across the desert. You are an imbecile.”

  Pelón remained unflappable. “I have seen it with my eye, el jefe.”

  To indicate that there was no further discussion required, Camacho smoothed his ‘stash and queried, “Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the donkey, are the people ready or not? Are they all here? Have you checked with your all-seeing eye?”

  Doing his best Lon Chaney impersonation Pelón replied, “Yes, Master. I will load them in the Bronco before the stroke of midnight.”

  “That is a perfect accent for you, Cyclops. Now quit this foolishness and let’s have another shot.” Camacho slapped the bar with his hand to punctuate his command.

  -- -- --

  The deal goes down like this: You place an international call to a number in Mexico City from your location in the good ole U-S-of-A. Someone from Ramona Flores’ office answers. You provide them the name of the loved one you wish to magically appear in a shopping mall parking lot somewhere in Los Angeles, California. The friendly operator gives you an account number and a code. You electronically transfer $2,850 into the account. When the transfer is verified your confirmation is a five-digit code. You make another international call to your loved one, wherever they may be in Mexico, and give them the code. All they need to do is find their way to Hotel Mexico, smile at Pelón’s one good eyeball, and hand him the code. Then it’s FOLLOW ME TO AMERICA.

  That $2,850 buys a guaranteed “crossing” no matter how many times it takes, providing the seven-mile bonsai, off-road trip to a hole in the fence, where Wiley Coyote drags you through six miles of sand, cacti, and scorpions. Then, if the trip doesn’t kill you, you get picked up just past the Kumeyaay Reservation by a driver/runner for a clandestine cruise, thick with Border Patrol and checkpoints, to a meet-up in L.A.

  One million things can go wrong running this tricky gauntlet those in the business call the Jacumba Connection.

  WHERE RUBBER MEETS THE ROAD

  Chapter 5

  Charlie put the K-5 in park, leaned over to his right and kissed Denice for good luck on the mouth, like lovers do. Looking her in the eye he said, “You and me baby, till the wheels fall off.”

  “Atta boy, handsome. Give a girl some hope.”

  He winked, “Maybe later, baby. Right now we gotta find Larry.”

  Denice thought, If he wasn’t my man-candy, I just might bring his ego down a notch. But instead she simply said, “Promises, promises.”

  Her sassy grin lit up her whole face and Charlie thought to himself, If smiles were dollars, I’d be the richest man alive.

  They pushed the big heavy glass doors to the casino open and entered. Their senses were immediately assaulted with blinding lights, bings, bongs, and crazy melodies (some engineer, no doubt, who thought a stupid tune spewing from a one-armed bandit would make you want to put more money in it), as well as the smell of 1,000 different perfumes, mixed with smoke, and cheap buffet aromas. Lovely.

  But to Charlie and Denice it smelled like money. Walking hand-in-hand she said, “Let’s start in back and work our way to VIP.”

  Charlie stopped to have a smoke, looked at Denice, and motioned toward his pack. “No, thanks, hon. I’d just wind up burnin’ somebody in this crowd.”

  Charlie smiled knowingly. He’d seen it happen more than once. Guys trying to cop a feel of Dee’s 38 double D’s turned sideways in a crowded aisle. After which they would just happen to get burned by Charlie’s cigarette on accident. Even if the accident was five minutes later.

  Denice didn’t like setting Charlie off by snitching on misdemeanor drive-by perversion. She handled these pervs just fine on her own, and had since high school. But anything more serious than a minor groping and Denice would tell Charlie. About three seconds later the pervert would be introduced to the colorful casino carpet and the wonderful world of good manners. Dumb-ass.

  They found Larry on the dollar poker machines. He was sitting on the end closest to the wall. His suit jacket resting on his lap, a smoldering cigarette dangling from his fat, porky lips. He slapped the touch screen with such a forceful thunk you could hear it over the circus din.

  Beads of sweat collected around Larry’s hairline and the back of his neck. Charlie thought he could smell burnt meat. Probably this idiot’s brain cells. He approached Larry from his left side, and Denice stood behind, holding her nose.

  “What’s up, Larry?”

  “Busy right now, man.” Larry replied without looking away from his machine.

  Glancing at Larry’s money-line, Charlie noticed Larry was up $263 and was betting two dollars a hand.

  “So here’s the thing, Lar, Denice and me, we’re runnin’ low on fun chips. So that requires me to ask you for the five Benjamin’s you owe us.”

  Larry closed his left eye as the smoke curled up into it, which caused him to drop ash in his lap and onto his jacket.

  “Ain’t got it. Not right now, anyway.”

  “Looks like half of it’s on your machine,” piped in Denice from behind.

  Larry shifted in his seat, which apparently made it easier for him put his foot in his mouth. “Hey, Chuck, tell the tramp to put a sock in it, would ya?”

  Words cannot express what a huge mistake that comment was. Charlie could hear the “snap” inside his head. Denice’s eyes rolled as she slowly shook her head from side to side. She took half a step back, knowing full well that Larry had put a match to Charlie’s fuse.

  Charlie grabbed the pointy end of Larry’s tie with his right hand and the knot with his left, and pushed Larry back until his head slammed into the wall, his fat body conveniently shrouding the action from the eye-in-the-sky cameras. Then for all he was worth, Charlie yanked on the pointy end of Larry’s tie.

  Two things happened: Larry’s sweaty collar flat-out disappeared into his fat neck. And then a gurgling sound emanated from his contorted pie hole.

  Without missing a beat, Charlie again pulled Larry’s tie and re-slammed the lout’s head against the wall with a thud that wrung the poor guy’s bell – which brought a smile to Charlie’s face.

  Charlie glanced at his baby-cakes and quietly said, “Hit the button and cash him out, babe.”

  Denice’s hand flew to the cash-out button and gold coins spewed into the tray with a ding, da-ding, ding.

  Turning his attention back to Larry, Charlie commanded, “Now listen up here, bitch. Apologize to my wife.”

  Larry’s eyes bulged and rolled back into his head, like he was trying to look at Denice. But all Larry could manage was a cough, a gag and some pathetic choking.

  “Honey,” Denice offered evenly, “he can’t say shit. You’re choking the life out of him.”

  Charlie snickered. “Oh. Yeah.” He loosened his grip slightly.

  Larry struggled to speak. “Um (cough), Sorry, Dee. Don’t know what I was (cough) thinking.”

  Denice had a paper bucket in her left hand and was quickly digging coins out of the receiver tray with her right. “Okay, Larry, well, Charlie’s kinda protective. You know that. I don’t know why you’d call me a tramp. Sorta stupid on your part.”

  “You still owe us $237, asshole,” Charlie reminded Larry. “Now reach into those fat-assed Dockers and pay the lady.” Denice held the paper bucket about six inches from Larry’s face.

  Charlie released his grip completely and stepped back just enough to allow Larry room enough to dig his hand into his humongous pants.

  Sitting there with his red tie on sideways, Larry whined, “That’s all I got, man. Don’t take it all!”

  Charlie laughed out loud. “I was only askin’ you to share. Just a hundred, so Dee could put her horseshoe to work. But no, you had to go and get your needle stuck on stupid.”

 
Rubbing his head where it had been introduced to the wall, Larry tried to collect himself. “Look, I know how you can make $1,000 in two hours.”

  “I’m listening,” Charlie said.

  “Runnin’ Mexicans to L.A. Easy. You put a couple of ‘em in your truck and...”

  Charlie slapped Larry on the back of the head like a child trying to steal candy. “Look, dumb-ass, I just want what you owe us.” He looked at Denice. “Count me out 36.”

  She did, and he tossed the coins into Larry’s tray. “You still owe me 300. Funny how you didn’t have to kick my ass to borrow it. Maybe you can come up on 36. Otherwise you take your fat ass to L.A. and get the money to pay me.”

  Denice sympathetically put her hand on Larry’s shoulder. “Try to behave yourself, hon,” she said. “Don’t be testing everyone’s patience. Remember, not all girls are tramps. Just the ones that sleep with you.”

  Charlie roared with laughter. “Ha! Burn. She got you, bud. Burn!” He turned to Denice. “Good one, honey.”

  Charlie and Denice walked away confidently. “Yeah, that was smooth, honey,” Charlie complimented his wife. “Burned him. Ha ha. Lard ass.”

  They wandered over to the Blazin’ Sevens and saddled up. Charlie turned to watch his Pumkin play. Unfortunately, Denice’s horseshoe wasn’t working. She looked over at Charlie. Her husband was lost in thought, staring blankly into the Cosmos. She knew that stare well, the internal wheels in motion. Searching for an answer to their current crisis.

  “Whatcha thinking about?” she asked her man.

  “The lease payment on home base. Timmy’s mom’s pissed. She wants the rent.”

  Denice pulled a smoke from her purse. As usual Charlie’s lighter was aflame, as she brought the cigarette to her lips. “Any ideas?”

  “Not a clue,” Charlie confessed.

  “Not easy being king, eh, hon?”

  Charlie smiled. He put the lighter back in his leather jacket. “Heavy is the head that wears the crown.” At the moment he really did feel like a tragic character.