It was the recession of the 60's. Cass and his best friend Mario were struggling for work and their families were living in poverty. They were under employed in the construction industry where work in the San Diego County area was scarce. They needed a breakthrough and a chance conversation at a friend's birthday party about quick money lead the best friends on a journey that they could have never imagined. Little could they have known that their meeting at a rest stop overlooking the California-Mexican border would not only bring untold wealth, but would tear one of their families apart and threaten their very lives.
THE ILLICIT AMERICAN
Stunning and gripping until the final moment.By RAYMOND C. ARCHULETA MANUEL VIC VILLALPANDOAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 Raymond C. Archuleta, Dr. Manuel Vic Villalpando
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4634-1631-7Chapter One
The wide and long shadowy alley was litter-strewn, and a narrow stream of shallow, murky water ran the length of the pot-holed pavement that separated the graffiti-covered walls of the old brick buildings. Darkened windows reflected the distant street lights at both ends of the ghostly corridor, and tense cats and a scraggly dog stopped feeding from toppled trash cans to stare suspiciously at the new 1969 metallic brown Dodge Coronet that inched past them without lights on the damp, November night.
"Dammit, Will, I'm gonna kick your ass if you ever do this again!" snarled Cass from the spacious back seat of the car. "I better not be out ten grand because of your fuck-up!" he added while shoving a clip of bullets in the butt of his .45 caliber gun.
"But Cass, Estrada jammed a gun in my face and wouldn't pay," Will implored from the passenger seat. His tall body was pretzelled so he could face his glaring boss who had harangued endlessly since the four headed north to Santa Ana from San Diego.
"If that scared you, maybe I should shove this gun up your ass so you'll remember not to do it again!" Cass threatened and cocked the gun to punctuate his anger. He barked, "¡Gringo pendejo! You know you don't let any bodies outta your car `til you get paid for them!"
"C'mon, Cass ... cool it," said the annoyed Mario from his place next to Cass. "Will isn't just another driver, he's a cuate ... a buddy. Hell, the three of us go back to when the hair on our balls was peach fuzz."
"First off, Mario," Cass said to his friend and associate, "you've never had any balls. And as for Will being such an asshole buddy of ours, that doesn't give him a license to be a baboso!" And turning to glare at Will, he added, "¡Gringo baboso! I should take the money outta your cut ... cuate or not!"
The insult jolted the twenty-seven year old Will like a kick to the groin. He spoke fluent Spanish, having taken it in school, but learned most of it on the streets of San Diego. Yes, he was a gringo, he told himself, keeping his anger in check. And perhaps he was stupid for not collecting from Estrada before delivering the illegals, he admitted to himself, but he took exception to being called a baboso—Spanish for `drooling idiot.'
Will's brawny six foot six inch frame battled the urge to retaliate against his shorter friend and boss, but he knew that to challenge Cass meant to also challenge Mario. He had learned in his formative years that the Chicano friends were a formidable duo. Most people who met them believed that the two were brothers because they were inseparable companions and protected one another like family.
If they had been anyone other than Cass and Mario, Will would have responded instantly with a barrage of punches from fists that measured five inches across the knuckles. The thought of a fight against two opponents was not a concern. He often took on three and four foes at the same time, and he had never lost a skirmish. His stomach roiled, however, at the thought of losing this very lucrative job if he pissed Cass off further with a futile argument, because Cass always had the last word. Smuggling illegal immigrants in the trunk of his car for Cass' syndicate earned him twice the income he had ever made as a construction worker, and he weighed the price of frittering that away over a wounded ego. Unlike Cass and Mario who were married and had families, he was single. For the first time in his life, he now had money to squander on himself and the numerous women he dated. But other than a surfeit of sex with women who were infatuated by his muscular physique and a face that bore a striking resemblance to a young Robert Redford, his main delight was serving the clandestine empire as `the enforcer.'
Will's perpetual boyish grin was a ruse, for he was a ruffian at heart who felt a rush when he saw his fellow drivers cower at his imposing stature and the threat of a blow from his anvil-like fists. As `the enforcer' he received an additional two-thousand dollars a month to maintain discipline over the regiment of calloused misfits of all ages who had no regard for the law nor people in general. He would have done it gladly without compensation because the confrontations exhilarated him. Hardly a day passed that he did not have to take a driver or two to task for violation of rules established by Cass and Mario.
Screw it ... forget your wounded ego, Will advised himself. I'll show the sonovabitch that I'm no baboso by not losing my temper, which he no doubt expects so he can have a reason to dock my pay, chintzy bastard. Shooting Mario a quick glance of appreciation for his effort to shield him from Cass' wrath, he lowered his blond head and blue eyes in capitulation to his boss' piercing stare. Cass and Mario were equal partners in one of the largest smuggling rings of human cargo in the nation. But, it was the methodical, calculating, seemingly passive, but volatile Cass, who was the driving force of the covert operation that had baffled INS agents for over a year. And it was Cass who was on the FBI's `Most Wanted' list even though he was only twenty-six. He was amazed that someone so young would be so notorious, and it seemed that the indictment had added impetus to Cass' already strigent character. So with the hope to avoid any more barbs from his chafed boss, he knew that silence was his best option.
"Dammit, Cass!" complained Mario. "Put down the gun before it goes off and you either kill Will or you blast a hole in Phil's back while he's driving! Hell ... I'll make up the fuckin' money myself, but let's head back to San Diego! Fuck! Our take last week was over a hundred grand, so ten grand ain't shit!"
Cass lowered the dull-black gun to his lap while turning to face Mario and said, "But it is to me, Mario, `cause I'm the one who busts his ass keeping the operation afloat! You know damn well what it takes to manage six holding-houses jammed with stinking wetbacks, but you don't seem to care anymore! Half the time you don't—"
"It's `cause I hate what I'm doin', that's why!" Mario interrupted, wrinkling his mustachioed face in disgust. "I nearly puked when we first started doin' this, but I swallowed my pride `cause we were flat-ass broke and our families were hungry! We were gonna quit and go back to construction as soon as we made enough money to get back on our feet. We've made tons of money, Cass. We don't need any more, but you keep hiring more drivers. We're up to fifty-six. Let's hang it up, man, before our luck runs out. We can't outsmart the feds forever."
"Mario is right, boss," said Phil in a Filipino accent from behind the steering wheel. "You gotta know when to fold `em."
Cass had great respect for the genial old man who had spent thirty years in the U.S. Navy as a Chief Cook, and whom he and Mario had hired as a cook and chauffeur when no one else would employ him because of his race and pronounced accent. "You're probably right, Phil," said the suddenly composed Cass, valuing the diminutive man's counsel. "But what pisses me off the most is that we had to leave the operation in someone else's hands to come all the way to Santa Ana to collect on a fuckin' delivery of twenty-two mojados." He shifted his eyes to Will and said, "That's...
