Jill lay across her bed sobbing her heart out and feeling very sorry for herself. Chris and Wendy! No wonder her sister was so evasive about him. No wonder he didn't answer her letters. She had been betrayed by both of them… the two people she felt closest to. And there she was, all by herself in San Francisco!
A knock at the door interrupted her tearful reverie. Then Josephine cautiously opened the door a crack and peered in, her face wan and ghoulish in the dim hall light.
"What's the trouble, dear? Are you homesick?" the old lady asked. Josephine had a psychic sense that unnerved the innocent Midwesterner.
"Y-yes, that's… yes, Josephine. I'm a little homesick. I just talked to my boyfriend," Jill answered wistfully, fresh tears coming to her lovely eyes.
"Aw, that's too bad. I know how you feel, dear. It's tough to be away from all your loved ones. Maybe you should just forget about that school and go home."
"No!" Jill shouted vehemently. Then, softening her tone, "I mean I couldn't bear to do that now, with only another six weeks to go. Besides, I'd feel like a real baby," she whined.
"Sure, sure. I understand, dear," the septuagenarian answered sympathetically. "I'll make you a nice hot cup of tea… herb tea. It's a special recipe I found in this ancient book I picked up at the Goodwill. It'll do you a world of good. Then we can have some supper together, if you don't have nothin' better to do."
"Oh!" Jill cried, sitting bolt upright.
"Whatsa matter?" Josephine's nonexistent eyebrows arced and her watery eyes popped open wide.
"I do have something to do, something very important Josephine." She showed the old lady Garcia's card.
"Read it to me. I don't have my glasses on, dear."
Jill proceeded to tell the whole story to the wide-eyed Josephine. "… And he wants me to bring samples of my work tonight, isn't that terrific?" she asked breathlessly.
"That's wonderful, dear," Josephine said without enthusiasm. She was studying Jill's face curiously. There was evident apprehension in her searching look.
The young girl's hopeful smile turned slowly to a look of dismay. "What is it, Josephine? Aren't you happy for me?"
"Of course I am, Jill. I'm tickled pink. But I want to tell you something. You be on your P's and Q's with that foreigner. I've read about young girls being shanghaied into white slavery with characters like that…"
Jill couldn't suppress a giggle. She covered her mouth with her hand. "I'm sorry, Josephine. I apologize for laughing, but if you'll pardon me for saying so, I think you're a 'character'. You've been watching too many late movies on the tube, I'm afraid."
"Maybe so, maybe so. Take it for what it's worth," she answered with a shrug. "But if I was you, I'd be very, very careful. Don't mind me buttin' in, willya? I'll go make the tea." There was an ominous tone of foreboding in her voice that made Jill shiver.
In his sumptuous suite at the Fairmont Towers, Ernesto Garcia was having a quiet but intent conversation with the burly printer, Jack Dawson. They were examining a lithograph together.
"Genius. Absolute genius, Jack. This is your best device to date," Garcia enthused. He had carefully peeled back the outer bond paper on which the Miro painting had been lithographed. Under that was a sparkling film of evenly distributed white crystals, which looked much like a thin layer of sugar. The granules were perfectly adhered to a special plastic film; not one minute particle could be shaken from the adherent. Yet, when Dawson passed a small magnetic device resembling an old fashioned upright vacuum cleaner over the surface, every granule instantly disappeared into a thin rubber bag, leaving the adherent intact. The lithograph could then be remounted without any sign that it had been removed.
The white particles were pure heroin. Using Dawson's process on a litho approximately 24" X 30", it was possible to adhere ten ounces of the pure stuff. At market value of $2,280 an ounce, that was almost $23,000 for each litho. A very profitable "gimmick", to say the least!
The system was simple. Lithographs are always print and series numbered. Dawson would select certain numbers and treat their mountings for dope. The treated mountings were then shipped to Mexico City as part of the collection of finished reproductions. Through an elaborate coding system known only to Dawson and Garcia, the gallery owner was able to select the treated lithos and have them filled with smack or coke – the process worked equally well for both drugs, and while cocaine brought in more money on the street, its wholesale value was less than pure heroin – about $18,500 for the ounces.
The lithos containing the dope were then carefully distributed in Garcia's three galleries and selectively sold to "messengers" (men who posed as art collectors) at the established litho price and noted in the books as normal sales. When the "messengers" delivered to the real collectors (the dealers' dealers) the rest of the money would be forthcoming – in cash, and under the table. Care had to be exerted to keep the sales people from selling a "hot" litho to an innocent customer. But Garcia had devised a way to get round that, too. A man in his business couldn't be too careful. He knew the CIA was constantly on the prowl, as well as the FBI and several other crime-busting organizations. How he despised those professional "snoops" for their deceit and hypocrisy. Many of those flat-footed flunkies had grown quietly rich from drug payoffs. And how many murders had they committed in the name of "justice"? How many political assassinations had they engineered? How many peasants had they paid to strike against the prevailing governments of impoverished Latin countries? Pigs!
But none of the intelligence agencies had been able to trace a shipment to him; Ernesto had an elaborate network of go-betweens in front.
He received the raw dope at Acapulco, through contacts on cruise ships, mostly. The best cocaine came from his native Colombia, and it was easy enough to get that. But he had to depend on shipments of heroin from the Far East; from China mainly, though Burma and Korea were good sources, too. Some of it was transported on freighters or tankers, though the narks were particularly thorough with such vessels, and once in a while, a valuable shipment was confiscated. But the poppy fields were flourishing, and there was always more, always more of the lucrative white stuff.
If anyone suspected Ernesto Garcia of illicit dealings, it was as a white slaver. At one time he was into high-priced procuring in a big way. But once he began to realize an immense profit from hard drugs, he confined his procuring to wild and orgiastic exhibitions, in which the subjects became "art objects" to be auctioned off to the highest bidder, for relatively short periods of time. His "clients" were usually men with whom he dealt in narcotics, his "collectors", though he often held private exhibitions for his personal friends. On these occasions, he would act as the gracious host, not allowing financial transactions to sully a party.
The "models" were young and gorgeous girls from countries all over the world. Many of them entered willingly into the arrangement – they were very well paid for their services and had a mini ranchero of their own in which to live, with studios and art supplies, and all kinds of recreational facilities to pamper them. There was a huge pool, and horses to ride, a sauna and tennis court. It was very much like an exclusive resort, except for one thing – the buildings and grounds were under constant guard. Not in a military way, but it was evident that the "ranch hands" and other personnel were employed to prevent the girls' escape. Occasionally, a desperate young woman would make a break for it, but to no avail. Such exemplary misbehavior was rewarded with exemplary punishment… most discouraging. Sometimes the girl would simply vanish in the night, and the others would be told that she had truly been allowed to go home, and that they, too, could leave any time they liked. At other times, the poor escapee would meet with a tragic and maiming accident… her "suicide" usually followed within a few days.
But there was another reason why the majority of girls stayed on: each of them was hopelessly hooked on drugs. They knew well enough what kind of horrors awaited them in the legit world if they were let loose on their own.
"What about the girl, Don Ernesto?" Dawson piped up. He used the Spanish title of respect for an aristocrat on occasion, especially when he wanted a favor. The big man leaned forward in his chair and rubbed his beefy hands together in salacious anticipation.
Garcia gave him a cool, steady smile that came suspiciously close to a sneer. He had a way of doing that when he was annoyed, or when he wanted to gain the upper hand with another person. Dawson shifted nervously in his chair. "I haven't decided," he said matter of factly, as he drew elegantly on a thin Havana cigar. "It is risky. The girl is living with a widow; surely she has given the woman her family's address and phone number."
"But Don Ernesto…"
"… And she is a student. The school will have her particulars as well. Besides, she looks too straight."
"Well, so what? Once she gets a taste of that Mexican hospitality, she ain't going to want to go back home for a while! Especially when she gets hooked on them 'persuaders' you got for her. Anyways, I just know that under that innocent little kitten face of hers there's a ragin' she-cat dyin' to be let loose!"
"But have you forgotten, Jack… she-cats have long and dangerous claws, claws that scratch rather painfully. And the wilder the cat, the sharper its claws. I detest the sight of blood, don't you?"
"You can always keep a box of Band-Aids handy, Don Ernesto. That's what I do," the printer wise-cracked. "C'mon, pal. I can't stand to think of you passin' up a juicy little cunt like that. Goddamned, I get a hard-on just thinkin' about her. I bet she's got the sweetest little twat this side of heaven!" The big man chuckled lewdly and rubbed his hands together again.
"Spare me your pointed cliches, Jack. It's time to go fetch her," the Colombian said, cocking his arm to look at this diamond-studded gold Piaget watch. "I'll give you my decision at dinner – when she goes to the ladies room."
"Ladies room?"
"Young girls always go to the ladies room during dinner; they are so boringly insecure." (Garcia much preferred mature women, finding them far better lovers than inexperienced females, regardless how fresh and innocently beautiful they were – though he always had to try one once, just to satisfy his ego. But he never took one of them out; never had any kind of real relationship with them other than business that was also risky… young girls were invariably jealous because of their youth and immaturity. And they had nothing to say.)
"Well, if you don't mind, Don Ernesto, I'm gettin' in her pants tonight whether we take her south with us or not. This one's too good for me to pass up."
"And your wife?"
"No sweat – I put Merle on a 5:00 o'clock plane, and with hardly a fight. She spent so Goddamned much money in them bo'tiques that she was worn out just from carryin' the parcels. 'Sides, I explained how you and me was goin' to have to talk a lot of heavy business stuff, and that bores the shit out of her."
Garcia winced. He loathed vulgarity of every sort, and if Dawson weren't the technologist that he was, Garcia would long ago have terminated their "partnership". Rising to his feet, Garcia tamped out the half-finished Cuban cigar. This was Dawson's signal to be on his way. The lusting printer was all to happy to comply.