Purity

I said in a previous post that I never encountered any problems when making deliveries of cocaine for Fabio, my boss. That’s true, but one event—let’s say—made me wonder.

I delivered to a number of groups in a few organizations from Miami to New Orleans, all with established relationships with Fabio. One group was in Kissimmee, Florida, just south of Orlando. It’s near Disney World, but these guys had nothing to do with kid stuff. After the Mariel boatlift in 1980, established coke dealing operations throughout the state of Florida were replaced by Cubans. They called us the “fearless Marielitos” because we would take on anybody. And if somebody tried to stand in our way, he was in big trouble. I have to say I’m thankful that I never got into the really heavy stuff—the killings. Most of the fearless Marielitos were that way because they were molded into that form by Castro’s prison system. They’d been turned into the most angry, violent men you’d ever want to meet.

These guys I delivered to in Kissimmee were a group of Marielitos, but that wasn’t what made me think twice about them. By that time I’d reinvented myself as a bad ass in order to survive the streets of Little Havana. I was one of them. But all these guys in the Kissimmee group were also into Santeria. Santeria is a religion popular in Cuba, but it has a light side and a dark side, much as Voodoo does. After Castro seized power in 1959, during his victory speech a white dove landed on his shoulder. In Santeria that’s a very good sign, and many Cubans took it to mean that Castro had been chosen by divine power to be their leader. Was that a manifestation of the light side of the religion or the dark side? I guess people will form their own opinions about that one.

These Marielitos I delivered to in Kissimmee? They were definitely into the dark side. They took creepy to a whole new level. But even that didn’t bother me. I didn’t care what kind of stuff they believed in. They never messed with me. Not directly anyway.

But there was a girl with them. Her name was Blanca. In Spanish, Blanca means white. It’s a name popular among Catholics because it represents purity. But this girl had nothing to do with purity. She was a dark, delicious Cubanita, and after I made my delivery one night, she pulled me aside. She started flirting with me—and touching and smiling and whispering and laughing. She was like the devil himself, that girl. Smoldering hot. Hot enough to burn any man. And believe it or not, I’m no prude. Another time, another place, different circumstances, I’d have been all over her. But this girl was not natural. Her come on was not natural. I’d had my share of pretty girls, but Blanca was coming on to me like no girl I’d ever seen or heard about.

These people in the Kissimmee group wanted something. Not from me—from Fabio. I knew they were trying to get deeper into his business—the learn about his distribution, his supplier, his way of moving money—something. They were trying to find a way into Fabio, but these Santeria worshippers with their kilos and their white clothing and their pretty girl were going at the wrong guy. Fabio had saved me from the streets of Little Havana. He gave me a job. He paid me good money. He trusted me. There was no way I was ever going to betray him.

Ah, Blanca! She was so beautiful, but she was so bad.