Roger took one last hit off the joint, ground it into the gravel and climbed into the van. Shifting his weight, he settled into the seat for the long drive home to Oregon. His wallet was thick in his back pocket so he pulled it out and set it on the dash beside his coffee mug. He took a sip of coffee and started the engine. He listened to the motor idle.
“I better take one last look around,” he thinks, in the smuggling business you trust no one. He turned it off the engine and stepped out into the warm Virginia night.
It was two AM. The others were already gone, each destined for a different city across the country. Nine rented vans, each tightly packed, floor to ceiling, back door to the driver’s seat, with 10kg burlap-wrapped bales of Colombian Red.
Payment for the trip was one bale. At $100 a pound, it worked out to 10 grand wholesale, and more if he wanted to break it down. The rules were simple: pay cash for gas, don’t pick up hitchhikers, always signal, never speed, and never leave the vehicle. Without probable cause, you would never get stopped.
Like most American boys, Roger had been drafted. But, instead of Vietnam, he was stationed in Portland, Oregon as a drug counselor. His job was to help the traumatized, drug-dependent war veterans make the switch to civilian life. Of course in those days everyone was into drugs, including the counselors, and the vets came home with their pockets full.
War has a way of bonding young men, with the common thread of mistrust for those that put them there. The army had trained them. Those skills were easily adapted to the smuggling business. It wasn’t long before group therapy became a national syndicated dope distribution network. The perfect occupation for rehabilitated soldiers, and a clever adversary for the newly formed DEA who, it seemed were easily duped.
Roger took his last tour around the classy Virginia estate, rented for a whole month for this particular job. The beach looked clean. No evidence visible. All clear to drive home. He stood for a moment breathing in the fresh sea air and listening to the waves. A full moon lit up the beach.
Suddenly the sky was filled with red and blue flashing lights. Up on the road, in front of the house. Then he heard the helicopter and saw its powerful searchlights coming towards him.
Frantically he jumped into the water and dove under the pier. The powerful searchlight blinded him as he peered up through the planks. As it veered away he swam wildly to the next property, he barely made it under that pier before the next pass. He was a bit out of shape, and by the third property he was exhausted. Crawling under the pier he got close to the boathouse, then darted up to the house to the shadows where a motorhome stood under a tarp. He crawled under the tarp and up the ladder to the roof. He shivered more from fear than from being wet. The yelling of policemen and baying of hound dogs surrounded him.
There was a little hole in the tarp and watched the helicopter circle until finally it headed away and disappeared into the night. The commotion continued for some time. He heard the tow truck as it picked up the van.
Too afraid to move he curled up and eventually fell asleep. He awoke to silence in the pale dawn. Slipping out from under the tarp, he scurried along a cedar hedge to the road. A few vehicles passed, none were police cruisers, but that didn’t mean he was safe. He headed away from danger staying in the shadows. When the sun rose higher he found a clearing in the pines and rested. His clothes dried and he took in the sun’s warmth.
“That was a bit too close,” he thought. “I’m too old for this shit. Never again. I wonder who ratted us out.”
There was more traffic and a few folks walking. He tucked his long hair up into his cap and stepped out to the road to hitchhike to Norfolk. A van stopped. It was white, and the same make as his was. He wondered I it was one of the boys. The smell of fresh peaches hit him as he stepped in.
“Where are ya headed,” a man in overalls asked him. “Norfolk ,” Roger replied. “Got room for me in there?”
“Come on aboard, I’m headed to Norfolk to the market” the farmer said. Bluegrass blared on the radio. The farmer, hummed along music and tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. The song ended and on came the morning news.
“Police this morning declared the biggest drug bust in Norfolk history. Ten vehicles containing more than five tons of high-grade marijuana from South America, worth millions on the street, was confiscated on the edge of Norfolk last night, say police spokesmen. Nine arrests have been made, one man is still at large.”
The farmer turned and looked at Roger. Keeping his eyes on him, he reached down under the seat. He came up with a coffee cup.
“You’re not from around here,” he said taking a sip.
“I just got out of the army,” Roger lied.
“Them hippies should all be in the army,” the farmer said. “That would learn them some discipline, cut their hair and keep’em away from drugs.”
“Wow man,” Roger replied adjusting his hat. “ You got that right.”
The farmer took another sip from his coffee mug.
“Sorry, I don’t have another cup for ya,” the farmer said as he placed it on the dash.
Roger wasn’t listening. He was looking at the cup on the dash. His heart was pounding; he remembered his cup on his dash, and felt his empty back pocket.
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