Sunday, November 19, 2017
Lee Pitts: Drug Lords
He walked into the dump of a diner the regulars called "Aphids Place" and quickly surveyed the landscape. There were only six tables with six more seats at a dirty counter. He was there because an anonymous snitch said a major drug deal would be going down. The undercover cop quickly saw the suspected perps sitting in a booth tucked away in the back near the kitchen door.
It was a seedy hole in California's San Joaquin Valley, the milk and meth capital of the world. The cop had been in hundreds of such places, the kind frequented in early mornings by truck drivers, farmers, ranchers, and heavy equipment operators. He must admit, the druggies fit right in. Sitting on one side of the table was a man in his twenties, wearing a dirty, sweat-stained straw hat, cheap jeans he probably bought off the clearance rack at Target and a tee shirt that was frayed at the collar and on the front showed a funny car at the Famoso Drag strip with flames roaring from its fenders. Colorful tattoos peaked from beneath his shirt.
On the opposite side of the table sat a man and a woman who appeared to be married. Maybe, or maybe not, to each other. He wore a ball cap, long sleeve shirt and boots that had never felt a shoeshine. She was a fairly attractive woman who wore sunglasses rimmed in rhinestones with gaudy turquoise surrounding her wrists. Admittedly, not your typical looking crackhead but the deadly addiction attracts all kinds. Now they were all three trapped in the tight grasp of a worldwide cartel that sold premedicated murder.
The narco cop took a seat at the far end of the counter with his back to the drug buyers. It was as close as he could get without sitting in their laps. He placed an innocent looking pen on the greasy counter, clicked the directional microphone on and aimed it in their direction.
They spoke in hushed tones but he knew he'd hit pay dirt when the talk turned to "how good the grass was" and how they "sure had to have a lot more of it."