47

MONEY WORRIES

As soon as he came back into the prison the following morning, Rusty knew that something had happened. Usually, he sent a taxista ahead so that I could come and meet him at the gate once he had got past the security check. This time, I didn’t meet him. He let himself into my room using the key I had given him, which had belonged to Ricardo.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked with concern, when he turned on the light and saw that I was still lying in bed. Then his tone changed when he noticed all the used tissues on my bedside table: ‘Have you been up sniffing all night with Roberto again?’

I still didn’t want to tell him about my case, even though I desperately needed money to fund my defence. I knew he wasn’t rich. Besides, it was my responsibility to fix my own problems.

‘No. I’m just tired, man,’ I said, sitting up. ‘I think I’ve got a cold.’ I was happy that Rusty was there with me, but not being able to tell him about what had happened with the Velascos made things very difficult. He didn’t understand why I was in a bad mood. I also got sick very easily because I was so stressed, but he thought it was because I was taking cocaine. We had our first disagreement the following day when I asked for some money to buy cigarettes from the shop. He hadn’t minded giving me money on previous occasions, but this time he refused, saying, ‘I’m not a millionaire, you know.’

‘Hey, man. A whole packet of cigarettes costs less than one dollar.’ ‘Well, if they’re so cheap, why don’t you pay for them yourself?’ ‘But Rusty, you’ve got to help me out here. I’m in prison.’ Rusty raised his voice at me for the first time. ‘Thomas, I don’t mind helping you out with your food and medicine. But I’m not here to pay for your drug addictions, OK?’ I hadn’t seen him angry before and I tried to calm him down.

‘Hey, man,’ I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. ‘Let’s not start a fight about one dollar, OK?’

Rusty jerked his shoulder sideways and pushed my hand off. ‘What’s gotten into you, Thomas?’ Then he started lecturing me. ‘Have you been doing coke today?’

‘No. I promise I haven’t.’ He narrowed his eyes and looked at me like he didn’t believe me. He knew that I was hiding something, so I finally decided to tell him the truth.

We sat down at my table and Rusty listened patiently. I had never mentioned the Velascos to him before, or the fact that I had been in solitary confinement, so it all came as a shock to him. When I finished, he didn’t speak for a long time. Eventually, he said quietly, ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

‘I thought I could fix things myself. And I didn’t want you to worry about me.’

He shook his head. My reasons for not telling him had been good, but he made it seem like it was because I hadn’t trusted him.

‘You should have told me. I had a right to know,’ was all he said.

Rusty didn’t stay angry for long, but I knew that this wasn’t the right time to ask for his help with money. I was thinking about buying us a few beers on credit and bringing up the subject afterwards, but I never got the chance. Rusty told me he needed to leave San Pedro early that day to meet some friends outside.

‘Hey, man. Aren’t you going to stay tonight?’ I asked. I really wanted some company.

‘No. You probably should rest if you’re not feeling well.’ He put five bolivianos on the table. ‘Here’s the money for your cigarettes.’

When he left that time, Rusty shook my hand rather than giving me the usual hug. I could tell that he was disappointed with me for not being honest. Roberto came around, but I didn’t feel like doing any coke with him.

Eighteen months before, I had been having the time of my life. Now, it was like someone was punishing me for every single crime I’d ever committed. Things started to go badly in every part of my life. Rusty and I were arguing. I had no money. I was doing coke every night with Roberto and not sleeping well. Ricardo had left me. And, worst of all, I was facing another prison sentence. I tried to concentrate on working hard to save up enough to be able to pay my lawyer and maybe send a bribe to the judges, but it didn’t work. The restaurant business actually began to lose money. Although I never blamed him directly, I suspected that the reason was Mike.

When he took coke only occasionally, Mike was a good friend and the best worker I ever had. When he was back on it heavily, he cost me more money than he made. The restaurant ceased being profitable. I couldn’t explain why. We had customers. I had done all the figures and worked out the profit margin on each dish. But the business kept going backwards.

‘You’re too generous. You give them too many fries,’ Mike said, as I ran my finger over the accounts and scratched my head, wondering why I wasn’t making a profit. Mike always did the cooking, but I was in charge of deciding on the menu and portion sizes. ‘Look at those Bolivians. They are fat enough already. Stop feeding them so much.’

I was no longer in the mood for his jokes. ‘Potatoes don’t cost anything,’ I snapped back, but Mike had an answer for everything.

‘True, but the oil we cook them in is expensive. And the gas. Have you factored in the gas? I had to replace that valve, remember?’

‘What valve?’ I demanded. The main thing that annoyed me about Mike was that he didn’t write anything down. Not orders, not money coming in, nor expenses. It was all recorded in his head. He also became angry quickly.

‘Are you accusing me of lying?’

‘No. I didn’t say that. I just think we should write everything down.’

‘It’s all up here,’ he said, tapping his forehead with his wrist because his hands were dirty. ‘I haven’t got time to write things down and I don’t need to. My memory is perfect. Ask me any question.’ I couldn’t directly accuse Mike of taking drugs since he still claimed to be clean, but eventually we had a falling out over money. I had to get Sergio in to start cooking for me, but even then, the money I made barely covered my living expenses.

With the restaurant no longer so profitable, I needed to find another way of making money very quickly in order to bribe the judges. The most obvious way was to do some negocios with the other inmates. However, I was afraid of getting busted or being set up again. Besides, there was no real money in it. Ricardo used to tell me a joke he’d made up: ‘Selling snow to a Bolivian is like selling ice to an Eskimo.’

Occasionally, tourists came in to visit me and I did consider selling cocaine to them. However, having Westerners take merchandise out of the prison was too risky; the other tour operators might tip off the guards at the gate. Besides, even if I sold coke at double the price I bought it, I’d still make next to nothing.

As I already knew, the real money was in exporting the stuff. In San Pedro, you could buy cocaine at three or four dollars a gram, and once it had arrived safely in any country outside South America, that same amount was worth more than a hundred dollars. However, since Abregon had died, there was no one on the outside I could trust to help me set up deals. I decided to do it on my own, but on a smaller scale, just in order to make enough money to fund my case and get by. I decided to send cocaine the old-fashioned way – by ordinary post.

People have been mailing small quantities of drugs in letters for decades. They put hash, heroin, opium or LSD in a letter and just hope it gets there. If the letter doesn’t arrive, then that’s the risk they were prepared to take: they simply lose the money they paid for the drugs. Or so they think – many people also get busted that way. My method was a lot cleverer and a lot less risky. It used the same principles I had used for packing the five kilos in Santa Cruz. I placed cocaine between two sheets of transparent plastic that were cut to fit exactly within the dimensions of a standard envelope, and then rolled the sheets flat with a bottle. I would then melt the four edges using a laminating machine, or by holding a hot guitar string to the edge. In order to prevent the contents from settling, it was best if the merchandise was slightly moist so that it would stick to the plastic. You could use any kind of spray to do this, as long as it wasn’t toxic.

Finally, when I had made sure the whole package was airtight against sniffer dogs, I would wrap it in paper and insert it into an official-looking envelope, preferably one with a logo and a clear plastic window for the typewritten address. My favourite envelopes to use were the ones that Yasheeda had stolen from a local establishment and given to me as a joke, which read, ‘With compliments, La Paz Hotel.’

In a standard-size envelope, I could fit ten grams. Anything more and it started to look suspiciously thick. However, ten grams were enough for the tourists to have a good time with. Most of them weren’t doing it to sell, they just wanted to get their hands on some pure cocaine.

Obviously, there was always some risk involved; customs do have sniffer dogs and X-ray machines. However, with millions of letters from overseas being processed each day, they can’t check every single item closely. Sniffer dogs are also very expensive to train and the authorities are more likely to concentrate their efforts on bigger parcels, or at airports and seaports. Why would they look for a few grams being sent by standard envelope, when there are tonnes of the stuff being smuggled in by plane and boat? And even if the cops found the envelope, they would still have to prove in court who was responsible. This would have been difficult, since the envelopes were usually addressed to a false name at an abandoned building or a post office box. Sometimes I would send it to someone’s apartment, but always in the name of a previous tenant.

Of course, these precautions didn’t make it one hundred per cent safe. The authorities aren’t stupid. When they do intercept drugs, they often allow them through and then put surveillance on your house. The best way around that was to write ‘Return to Sender’ on the envelope as soon as you received it, and then leave it on your kitchen bench for a few weeks. The worst thing you could do was to ring all your friends and tell them to come around for a big party.

Customers placed orders for my special envelopes by phone or by email. Up-front payment was sent by telegraphic transfer in the name of one of the inmates’ wives, who would pick up the cash and bring it to San Pedro for a small propina. I would then send the envelopes out to be deposited in a street mailbox. During the whole time I did this, no one ever got busted. A few of the envelopes didn’t arrive, but I suspect that’s because some of those customs agents had their sniffer dogs trained not to bark too loudly when they found something.