CONVERSATIONS WITH A DEAD MAN

Allan woke up that morning handcuffed to a dead man. The dead man attached to Allan's right hand was a dear friend, a Mexican citizen by the name of Joaquin Reyes Magalone. He was a good, honest man. A simple farmer who Allan had hired two years earlier to grow pot for him. Allan called him Jack. He called Allan Gringo. The year was 1977. The place was a police compound in the small mountain town of Uruapan in the Mexican state of Michoacan. Allan had just turned 24.
When Allan went to sleep the previous night, after three days of torture at the hands of the Mexican Federales, Jack had seemed hurt but not too badly. Jack's last words on this Earth were, roughly translated into English, "son of the one who got fucked, these Federales are real pieces of work but don't worry Gringo, in the morning all will be better." Didn't happen. Jack died in his sleep.
In the morning, Allan awoke to Jack's dead eyes, wide open and staring at the ceiling of their small adobe cell. Allan knew instantly that Jack was dead, but at first refused to believe it. He began to talk to Jack, hoping somehow it would bring him back to life. During the next two days, while Allan was handcuffed to Jack's dead body, they had many conversations. The dead, under the right circumstances, can be quite talkative.

In The Begining

Like a giant orb, the full moon rose slowly over the Sonoran hills. It shone down upon the 200 year old saguaros', who stood like sentries, their arms raised to the sky, as the bags filled with kilos of pot were unceremoniously thrown over the three foot barb wire fence which separated the United States from Mexico. The year was 1970. The place was Organ Pipe National Monument. Allan was a junior in high school. He was there with four of his buddies whom he had known since he was six years old. Ira, his most trusted friend, was at this time in Gila Bend Arizona at the Space Age Lodge, a cheap motel, poised to do as told. Unlike the others, Ira had been given a dress rehearsal.
"Alright', Allan said, "just grab up the bags and follow me, we need to get the fuck away from this fence."
About 100 yards from the fence, Allan stopped and told his friends to begin strapping the bags of dope onto the backpacks he had brought along. Pea Brain knew the most dangerous part of this adventure was over but he did not tell this to his friends. They did not know that Pea Brain had already made this journey twice by himself, once with nothing, the second time with five kilos which had now been sold and were financing this trip.
"You Fuckers Ready?" Allan asked once all the bags had been tied onto the backpacks.
"Just follow me and be quiet," said Allan, "Bobby, I want you to be last and make sure no one gets lost, we'll be cool if we stay close together but we can't let anyone get separated from the group." Bobby looked at Allan and simply nodded.
Allan knew all his friend could easily do the relatively short hike ahead, that was not what worried him. All of them were athletes and in great shape. Three of them were first string varsity football players and one was an undefeated high school state wrestling champion. Still, he was nervous. Allan was all too aware that both his friends safety and freedom depended on him getting this right.
"You guys see those lights?" Allan said, "that's where we're headed".
"Jesus", Bobby said, "looks like it's two blocks from here."
"Yea I know", said Allan, "out here you can't always trust your eyes, we've got about a two hour hike ahead, just stay close and if any of you pussies get too tired just say something and we'll stop and rest."
This is how it all began. It did not end well.

(Warning; Do not try this at home. This is an all too real story but do not try this. The 1970's are long gone and you will get busted if you attempt this now.)

PROLOGUE

1984

The twin-engine Piper Navajo came roaring in at a steep angle and executed a perfect three-point landing on the remote airstrip outside the small town of Young, Arizona. The fifteen-hundred-foot runway had been built by local cattle ranchers but was not often used. The sun had just risen.

Immediately upon touching down, the pilot shut down his left engine and applied the brakes, keeping the still-speeding plane centered on the runway by using his rudder.

As this was happening, the copilot scrambled from his seat back to the cargo door located on the left side of the plane behind the wing. Turning a small wheel on the door, he released the airlock. Once the air blast from the left engine had sufficiently subsided, he pulled the cargo door back towards him a few inches and then slid it back out of the way to the rear of the aircraft. He then began to quickly unleash the cargo netting which was securing the freight they were hauling.

It took only about three-quarters of the airstrip for the plane to slow enough for the pilot to completely spin the Navajo around and having now done so, he began to slowly taxi back up the runway using the power of his still-running right engine.

Three vehicles were also present at the small airport that morning. Two were Chevy Blazers. One was a three-quarter-ton Ford four-wheel-drive pickup with a fiberglass shell camper on the back, its tailgate already open.

One Blazer was parked sideways across the one-lane road leading to the airstrip, blocking the path for any unfortunate soul who might happen to hear or see the plane land and attempt to satisfy his curiosity. This particular morning, that would be a very unhealthy thing to do.

The pickup and the other Blazer sat, engines running, at the far end of the runway. As soon as the aircraft had spun itself around on the runway, the pickup and then the Blazer moved up behind the plane, following it like obedient children as it moved up the runway. Two passengers leaped out of the cab of the pickup and began to trot alongside it.

By this time, back in the aircraft, the copilot was hurling sealed duffle bags out the cargo door two at a time, one in each hand. Each bag weighed about 70 pounds. There were 24 of them. The copilot was a huge mountain of Mexican muscle, standing at least six-foot eight and weighing 300 pounds. He would soon be quite dead.

The two men running alongside the pickup began tossing the duffle bags into the truck's shell camper as quickly as they could manage.

As soon as the last two bags were thrown from the plane, the copilot slid the cargo doorback in place, sealed the airlock, and headed back to his seat while the pilot fired-up and restated the left engine.

At the end of the runway, like a graceful ballerina, the Navajo once again did a quick pirouette and the pilot set the brakes while he rapidly throttled up both engines to full power. He then released the brakes and the now empty plane leaped forward and was again air born after traversing slightly more than half the runway. The plane climbed steeply upward into the morning sky, banked once, then headed due south. In less than two hours it would be safely back in Caboraca, Mexico, a sleepy small farming community 60 miles below the border.

From touchdown to takeoff this well-rehearsed little drama took little more than five minutes, not a record time but not bad.

The first Blazer quickly left the small airport. Five minutes later, the pickup followed with it's load of duffel bags. A few minutes after that, the second Blazer also left the now empty airstrip. Just outside of Young, Az., the second blazer stopped a gas station long enough for the passenger to make a 30 second phone call to a bar/restaurant at nearby Roosevelt Lake called the Sportsman's Haven. When the phone was answered, all he said was,"the fishing was good". Indeed.

1680 Lbs of pure cocaine had just entered the United States Of America.