from the screen. "They just went into a holding pattern, waiting for the right time to strike back and regain control of a dirty business that they thought they had the rights to."
"Besides," Loughlin drawled, "the Mafia has any number of other quite profitable enterprises to keep the troops occupied. Gambling, prostitution, even legal businesses."
"Right again," Carol said. "But lately, the Cubans have been making so much money that some of the Mob guys, particularly some of the younger ones, have been getting jealous."
She tapped the screen once more, her nail striking another name.
Charles Lucci .
"They call him Crazy Charlie," she said. "With good reason. I understand that he keeps alligators for pets and feeds them animals he buys from the pound."
No one said anything.
"Anyone who gets out of line is likely to take a visit to Crazy Charlie and not come back. The rumor is that Charlie doesn't have to visit the pound very often."
"A real sweet guy," Loughlin breathed.
"Right. He's the son of old Don Vito Lucci ." Carol's nail tapped the screen again. "Old, maybe even beginning to slip into senility, but still in charge of the family here. Mainly thanks to Crazy Charlie. As long as he's around, no one's going to cross the old man."
"How about the old man and the drug picture?" Stone cut in.
"He doesn't care much. He's got his fortune made a hundred times. But Charlie is itchy. He wants in, and he also wants to show the Cubans who the real bosses are."
"Sounds explosive, all right," Stone admitted. "No wonder the D.E.A. isn't happy with our being here. This thing could blow up any minute."
"I got a question," Hog said, glaring at the monitor screen as if the answer might miraculously appear there. "How come the drug trade got so profitable all of a sudden?"
"The Cubans have worked some kind of deal with the Colombians," Carol said. "The Colombians are bringing in thousands of kilos of raw coca paste and converting it to cocaine at a secret site somewhere in the Everglades."
"Paste?"
"Much easier to transport than the leaves of the coca plant," Carol said. "You dissolve the plants in kerosene. What's left is the paste. It comes into the country in planes, ships, fishing boats, suitcases, you name it. In the lab, it's cooked, strained, treated with hydrochloric acid and acetone. After that, it's whitened, dried, and sold."
"Now I have a question," Stone said. "Where does Jack Wofford fit into this picture?"
Carol gave him a steady look. "I don't know," she said. "But I'd be surprised if he's still alive."
Chapter Four
W offord felt nothing but pain. Flies buzzed around his face, lice crawled in his hair, mosquitoes feasted on his chest and arms.
He didn't notice.
They had beaten him with clubs that day, and then made him watch while they disemboweled a man named Creel, a man who, like Wofford , had dared to strike back at his captors.
Creel had been tied to the bars of his cage in the form of a rough "X" and made to watch while the Cong sharpened their knives. As the first man had sunk his blade into Creel's abdomen, Creel had spit in his face. The man ripped sharply upward and Creel's bowels fell out steaming, but the spit had done its job. The VC had killed him much more quickly than they had intended.
The major had come to Wofford after it was over. Wofford had never learned his name. "So how do you like your friend now, Yankee piece of shit?" the major inquired, slashing Wofford across the face with a leather strap. "Will you try to escape with him again? I think not!"
They left Creel tied to the outside of the cage, his stomach carved open, his entrails stinking, and threw Wofford inside.
"You and your friend try to escape together. Now you can live together," the major said.
"Fuck you," Wofford snarled. It came out more like " Ffuuuhh uhhhh " because his jaw was broken and his lips smashed. He knew he would try to escape again.
Soon.
As soon as he could walk.
He had told them nothing, he
"Besides," Loughlin drawled, "the Mafia has any number of other quite profitable enterprises to keep the troops occupied. Gambling, prostitution, even legal businesses."
"Right again," Carol said. "But lately, the Cubans have been making so much money that some of the Mob guys, particularly some of the younger ones, have been getting jealous."
She tapped the screen once more, her nail striking another name.
Charles Lucci .
"They call him Crazy Charlie," she said. "With good reason. I understand that he keeps alligators for pets and feeds them animals he buys from the pound."
No one said anything.
"Anyone who gets out of line is likely to take a visit to Crazy Charlie and not come back. The rumor is that Charlie doesn't have to visit the pound very often."
"A real sweet guy," Loughlin breathed.
"Right. He's the son of old Don Vito Lucci ." Carol's nail tapped the screen again. "Old, maybe even beginning to slip into senility, but still in charge of the family here. Mainly thanks to Crazy Charlie. As long as he's around, no one's going to cross the old man."
"How about the old man and the drug picture?" Stone cut in.
"He doesn't care much. He's got his fortune made a hundred times. But Charlie is itchy. He wants in, and he also wants to show the Cubans who the real bosses are."
"Sounds explosive, all right," Stone admitted. "No wonder the D.E.A. isn't happy with our being here. This thing could blow up any minute."
"I got a question," Hog said, glaring at the monitor screen as if the answer might miraculously appear there. "How come the drug trade got so profitable all of a sudden?"
"The Cubans have worked some kind of deal with the Colombians," Carol said. "The Colombians are bringing in thousands of kilos of raw coca paste and converting it to cocaine at a secret site somewhere in the Everglades."
"Paste?"
"Much easier to transport than the leaves of the coca plant," Carol said. "You dissolve the plants in kerosene. What's left is the paste. It comes into the country in planes, ships, fishing boats, suitcases, you name it. In the lab, it's cooked, strained, treated with hydrochloric acid and acetone. After that, it's whitened, dried, and sold."
"Now I have a question," Stone said. "Where does Jack Wofford fit into this picture?"
Carol gave him a steady look. "I don't know," she said. "But I'd be surprised if he's still alive."
Chapter Four
W offord felt nothing but pain. Flies buzzed around his face, lice crawled in his hair, mosquitoes feasted on his chest and arms.
He didn't notice.
They had beaten him with clubs that day, and then made him watch while they disemboweled a man named Creel, a man who, like Wofford , had dared to strike back at his captors.
Creel had been tied to the bars of his cage in the form of a rough "X" and made to watch while the Cong sharpened their knives. As the first man had sunk his blade into Creel's abdomen, Creel had spit in his face. The man ripped sharply upward and Creel's bowels fell out steaming, but the spit had done its job. The VC had killed him much more quickly than they had intended.
The major had come to Wofford after it was over. Wofford had never learned his name. "So how do you like your friend now, Yankee piece of shit?" the major inquired, slashing Wofford across the face with a leather strap. "Will you try to escape with him again? I think not!"
They left Creel tied to the outside of the cage, his stomach carved open, his entrails stinking, and threw Wofford inside.
"You and your friend try to escape together. Now you can live together," the major said.
"Fuck you," Wofford snarled. It came out more like " Ffuuuhh uhhhh " because his jaw was broken and his lips smashed. He knew he would try to escape again.
Soon.
As soon as he could walk.
He had told them nothing, he
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