ROLL CALL ~ A Prison List (True Prison Story) (10 page)

Nicole had also said that Sarah had started hanging out with a gang member lately. She said she thought Sarah wanted to feel protected and guessed they were looking for Bob to smash him. Detective Maltobano wondered if she was right. He also wondered if narcotic detective Pincher was having any luck finding Bob Prescott. The plan was for him to nail him on a drug charge. Maybe then Sarah would feel comfortable enough to testify against him.

Detective Maltobano drove through the parking lot at Salt Creek’s beach looking for Sarah’s Lexus. It wasn’t there. He pulled back out to P.C.H. to see if she was at the more local Strands parking lot a mile away. At Selva Street he took a right. A quarter mile down Selva Street the detective passed the Chart House restaurant on the cliff to the Dana Point harbor. The street hooked to the right into the wetlands. Another quarter mile down the street it dead ended with enough room for about eight vehicles to park. Sarah’s Lexus wasn’t there either but there was a Buick with a couple of occupants in it that looked suspicious.

CHAPTER 21

Inside the Buick Todd lit a fresh bowl full of the Hawaiian Kush bud in the pipe. After he got the cherry going he coughed and pointed to the other two samples on Damon’s lap. He asked, “What are those samples?”

Damon picked up one of the samples. “This one is the chocolate tye and the other one is the golden tye. I like the golden tye better. The chocolate tye burns you out.”

Detective Maltobano pulled up thirty feet behind the Buick and parked. He observed a smoke cloud escaping from the windows with two male occupants and their surf boards in between them. It reminded the detective of that movie, “Fast Times at Ridgemount High.” Detective Maltobano got out of the car with the intention of doing so loudly. As expected, the occupants reacted lethargically. The driver casually looked over his shoulder and then told the passenger something. Then the passenger freaked out.

Damon heard the car door slam behind his and calmly looked over his shoulder. He saw a big strapping man with suspenders and a shoulder holster walking slowly toward the car. Damon grabbed his two samples and told Todd, “We’ve either got an F.B.I. agent or some kind of mobster coming at us. Get rid of the pipe!”

Todd wasted time by having a look himself. He saw the giant just in time to see his boots and pants and panicked. “That’s an F.B.I. agent!”

Todd tapped the pipe against his hand and the burning embers went everywhere. A good sized cherry landed in his lap and melted right through his board shorts and burned flesh. He screamed, threw the pipe and flailed his hands against his lap to escape the pain.

Detective Maltobano pulled his service revolver out and reached the Buick. He yelled, “Get your hands in the air where I can see them!”

The driver was complying and had what looked like the end of a couple of plastic baggies sticking out of the waistband of his shorts. The passenger was desperately slapping at his shorts in obvious pain. Upon closer inspection he had a large hole in his board shorts right in the middle that looked like it was a burn mark. Right then the pungent odor of marijuana reached the detectives nose and he realized his earlier conclusion was right. He looked at the floor on the passenger side and saw a pipe laying there with some ash next to it. Studying the two occupants, they were both about twenty years old and looked local to the area. The driver had a Volcom hat on backwards over almost no hair. His eyes looked aware and observant and didn’t appear to be stoned. He had a sun bronzed body that looked over six feet and in good shape. Right under his chest was a tattoo of an iron cross with the letters O.C. tattooed underneath it in a rounded font.

The passenger had wild sun bleached hair. His skin didn’t absorb the sun as well and was freckled and chapped. His eyes looked perpetually stoned and red from too much sun, pot smoke and possibly allergies. His lips looked puckered like they were sunburned and swollen. He had a small wiry build without any tattoos.

Detective Maltobano got both drivers licenses and checked the driver Damon Smith’s registration and insurance. After a check for warrants came up clear of any he had Damon and Todd step out of the Buick.

“I’m going to give you a chance to be honest with me. Give me anything you have on your person or in your vehicle that is illegal.”

Damon pulled out his two samples that were partially sticking out of his shorts.

Todd rose his hand like he was in class and said, “That’s my pipe on the floor of the passenger seat.”

While Todd gathered the pipe, Damon remembered his Hawaiian Kush sample. He reluctantly pulled it out and handed it over.

Detective Maltobano accepted the third bag of pot and asked Damon, “Are you a dealer?”

Damon just looked at the detective. He didn’t vigorously shake his head no, or even say no.

Detective Maltobano stared at Damon for over a minute until Damon finally just looked at the ground. Detective Maltobano said, “You don’t like to lie do you?”

Damon immediately responded, “No.”

Detective Maltobano asked, “Am I going to find anything else inside the car?”

Damon looked into detective Maltobano’s eyes and said, “No.”

“Then you won’t mind if I look?”

“Go ahead.”

Detective Maltobano said, “I’m going to put you both in the backseat of my car while I look.”

While Damon and Todd got into the backseat of the Crown Victoria Todd asked, “What kind of cop are you?”

Detective Maltobano flashed his Orange County Sheriff’s badge and said, “I’m with the rape and sex crime branch. Sit tight.”

Damon and Todd watched the detective search the Buick for over twenty minutes. He searched the interior, the trunk, under the hood and even under the car along the frame. When he was done with the search he walked back.

“Okay guys get out and let’s take a walk to check the waves while I figure out what I’m going to do with you two.”

Damon and Todd walked ahead of the detective to the cliff line overlooking the ocean above strands point. The path down the cliff was a couple hundred feet to the sand affording a good view up and down the beach. There was a south swell pushing four to six foot waves for the surfers to play on. Directly below at Strands point seven surfers were packed together awaiting their turn, down the beach for another half a mile around twenty heads bobbed more spread out and at Salt Creek’s point two thirds of a mile away another twenty or so fought for position in another pack.

Detective Maltobano watched the surfers and thought to himself that possibly half of them had smoked some pot before their surf session. He also ventured a guess that about 90% of the surfers in the water had at least experimented with pot. He wondered if it was really a good way to police the community to start criminal files on as many of them as possible for doing so.

Damon and Todd’s attention was torn between watching the swell peel down the beach and the three bags of pot in the detective’s hand.

Detective Maltobano asked, “What do you two do for work?”

Todd answered first. “I bar back and wait tables at the Chart House around the corner… I’m also hoping to make the pro surfing tour this year!”

Detective Maltobano nodded his head and looked at Damon. “What about you?”

Damon answered. “I used to own my own landscaping business until the Mexicans underbid almost all of my clients. It turns out they will work for a lot less then we will because they will share a house with twenty people. I guess it’s better than struggling in Mexico.”

Todd chimed in, “The Mexicans are coming over so fast it looks like they are reclaiming California.”

Damon breathed a sigh of relief. The detective dumped the pot out of the bags onto the ground. He used his boot to grind the pot into the dirt until it was no longer salvageable.

When he was done he said, “You know there are two good ways to look at our border problem. You could get in touch with our local politicians or our governor in writing to state your claims, or you could get creative and start another business to put their cheap labor to work for you.”

Todd said, “I think we should seal our borders.”

CHAPTER 21

Mark and my brother weren’t there but Mark’s Mom let me in. I went into mark’s room and pulled my U.P.S. package out of my backpack. There were two vacuum sealed bags of pot inside. The smaller of the two was the size of a finger across the bottom of a sandwich bag. The larger one was about the size of two of my fists. I tried to smell any fragrance through the plastic wrap and couldn’t. I sat there looking at my money I didn’t have to spend and the pot and couldn’t believe I’d pulled it off. I pulled out Bill’s phone number and wondered if that’s how it was for the big timers in this business… Was it that profitable that they could help a kid like me with that kind of assist? People helping people, I didn’t know it was going to be like this.

Mark and my brother showed up and stood in the door way staring. I watched their eyes go from me, to the U.P.S. box and then to the pot. I broke through their shock with an explanation of my adventure. Mark looked like he couldn’t believe it and my brother was smiling like he could.

Mark took over as resident expert on matters relating to marijuana and broke open the bigger vacuum sealed bag. He pulled layer upon layer of tightly condensed nuggets apart from each other until he found a prized one to examine. The buds were green and now we could all smell the fragrance. Mark’s expression looked excited, and that was making me excited. It felt like I’d just struck gold.

Mark made his conclusion. “These are the Mexi-Indi’s, they’re very rare. Some of the Mexicans are getting smart and cross breeding their Mexican weed with Indica and coming up with this. It’s way better. The Mexican weed is brown like dirt, it’s seedy and full of stems, it’s packed like a brick and when you smoke it you get all burnt out and you’ll end up with a head ache. You only smoke that swag when there’s nothing else to smoke. This stuff right here though.” Mark pinched his prize bud and smelled it. “This stuff is going to sell like hot cakes. This is the best Mexi-Indi I’ve ever seen.”

Hearing Mark talk about my product like that was music to my ears. He filled me in on pot dealing 101 and I was a sponge. I was so grateful to have met Bill and been afforded this opportunity that the big Mexican with the badge didn’t seem as important.

Mark explained that the Mexi-Indi’s hadn’t been around for a year. Someone who went by Gumby was the last person to have it. He sold his from $900-$1,500 a pound. I did the math on what I was holding and asked Mark what he thought mine was worth.

Mark broke that pot into parts and explained as he worked. “I can sell this eighth of an ounce for $30. There’s eight of those in an ounce so that’s $240 if we sell it all that way. That would make your quarter pound worth $960. You might not want to sell it all that way though because it would take too long and you’d have to deal with too many people. Once I start making some calls there will be people lining up for quantity. We’ve got to decide on what kind of break we’ll give on quarter ounces, half ounces, ounces and larger. If I was you I’d call your business man and ask him how much is in stock so you know how to break it down. How much will you sell me a quarter ounce for?”

My mind was racing with excitement. I had a thousand dollars worth of product dropped in my lap and a bunch of new doors opening up for me. I told Mark, “I’ll give you that prized bud you’re holding and the rest of a quarter ounce for $50.”

I studied Mark’s expression to see if I was off to a good start and he reacted positively and got on the phone and showed me his marketing ability.

“Hey, bro! You should see this Mexi-Indi I’ve got my hands on! It’s so stony I can’t believe it… I’m smoking a joint of it right now.”

I heard the other end of the conversation asking questions until Mark continued.

“Yeah I’m sure it’s the Mexi-Indi! Come on bro, you know I know my product. It’s got that lime green color, it’s not all seedy, and when you pinch it, it has that skunk smell.”

I was a sponge taking in Mark’s marketing style. He kept making calls and the buyers started arriving.

The first guy to arrive was the first guy Mark had called. He immediately explained he was a good sized dealer, told me how popular he was, that he ripped at surfing at all the right surf spots, had all the right sponsors, was in all the surf videos and on and on. Mark had explained to me earlier that he was spoiled rotten and lived in a mansion where the Nixon estate used to be. I studied the perfect looking guy that should have been a girl with his perfect skin and blond hair. He studied the product and tried to take over as the resident expert.

“Hey bro…This is the Mexi-Indi. I haven’t seen this stuff in years.”

I watched his real expression of interest change to a more controlled one so he could barter for a better deal.

“It’s not quite as good as the Mexi-Indi Gumby had a few years ago… I think his were going for $900 a pound if you bought one and down to $700 a pound if you bought ten or more at a time. I moved like fifty of them for him and we did some good business together. What are these going for?”

I stopped looking at him and looked at Mark so he wouldn’t try to do business directly with me. I didn’t like how he dropped Gumby’s name like that on the airwaves so carelessly. He had an attitude that said he only cared about himself. Mark had explained to me that Gumby’s product wasn’t as clean as mine was and it was more expensive than the pro sponsor had just mentioned. He took over and handled it like a champ.