Narc – Part four – An Evening in a Seedy Bar.

This is part four of series I’m doing on my experiences as an undercover narcotics investigator. Here’s links to PART ONE, PART TWO, and PART THREE.

BACK TO THE STORY

“And who are you guys?” the girl asked.

She was a dancer. She was blonde, shapely and could have been the model who posed for the Venus de Milo. Unlike the statue, she was wearing a little bit more.

She’d have been a vision for any young GI far from home. Some of the young men in the bar stared at her like a man crossing the desert might have stared at a distant oasis. But like that oasis in the desert, whatever they saw in her was a mirage. She had a single interest in them and that was to be seen in her eyes.

Those eyes were her most striking feature and if you looked into them, you’d understood what she was after. Had her eyes been blue, we could have said that they matched the ice in her stone hard heart. But her eyes were green, and so they matched the color of the money the young troopers would fork over because she smiled and gave them a little attention. Her god was the almighty dollar, and her eyes telegraphed that for all to see. Her devotion to that god meant she was willing to sell her self-respect and freedom for a few bucks.

But then she fit right in with the men and women who sold what amounted to murder at a few bucks a hit. What they sold killed people, that was true. But more often the casualties were those we never saw. Murdered at the altar of getting high was freedom, marriages, children, and the users future. It was working in these bars that I realized I had more use for a contract killer than I would ever have for a pusher. They both dealt in death, but at least the hired killer is honest with himself about where his money comes from.

And to this day, there are people who insist that drug use is a victimless crime.

The bar we were working was on the main drag of Junction City. As bars go, this place was worse than a toilet. Once, it might have been a restaurant. I could almost imagine the all-American smell of hamburgers and fries blowing towards an open door and the taste of a cold vanilla malt. Someplace in the past, the conversations of long-gone diners and waitress taking orders still echoed.

But not in this current reality. The ghosts of Mayberry past had been cast out by the twin gods of money and greed and this place was now nothing more than a means to separate people from their money. Now, it was filled to overflowing with people drinking beer. Some were in a back room where they played pool for money and every now and again you could hear the clack of pool balls over the music. The front, where we were, was crowded with off duty military personal and civilians alike. Almost everyone had a beer and most everyone had found a booth or table where they could watch the girls dance.

The music was loud enough to make conversation difficult but not impossible. Smoke from a hundred cigarettes filled the room and made rays in the stage lights that lit the dance floor. It hung like a London fog and was bad enough to sting the eyes. I wondered how the girls could dance among the smoke like they did without hacking up a lung.

The front was almost wall to wall guys. With the exception of the dancers, there were very few girls in the crowd. As I became familiar with who worked where, I’d learn that the majority of the women present were dancers at other clubs. It provided a hint that maybe all the operations were interrelated somehow.

We were conducting what’s called “Reconnaissance” which is defined by the Oxford dictionary as “military observation of a region to locate an enemy or ascertain strategic features.”

In plain, old-fashioned English, we were looking to gather information so we could make a buy. We wanted to get a feel for things, try to figure out who was doing what, and how to get in and attack.

The old team had never worked the downtown bar district and contented themselves by going after the more sedate clubs. This bar was prime hunting country. We were most definitely going into the belly of the beast, and it made sense to know what we were getting into. These places were a vending stall for all manner of illegal narcotics and vices and there more than a few rough characters about.

We had a source who was plugged into the streets. He knew who did what and where and had told us this was prime real estate for hunting. Trouble was, he was a black guy and would be someone who wouldn’t dare walk into this club. I could see people with tats, some of which indicated groups who didn’t like minorities much and wouldn’t care to have a black guy in their midst. I was secretly thankful that my ancestry went back to Europe and not Mexico. I could easily pass for someone who wasn’t a member of a minority.

Because of that, I was surprised this place wasn’t off limits like some of the other clubs were. It was clearly a place that preyed on soldiers. Maybe it was as simple as no one had been killed in here yet.

Before we started tonight’s mission, we’d gone to the Junction City Police Department and met with Detective Smith (known to his friends as Smitty).

“My problem is obvious,” he said.

Smitty had been with JCPD for a long time. Every pusher and addict in town knew his face. Getting into the weeds with the pushers was out of the question. But like us, he had people on the street who gave him information. It was information he gave to us, and we took it and ran with it.

The idea was we get the buys, work with him, and he’d get the warrants and JCPD would take the pusher down. It would go into the books as cooperative venture.

He’d been working hard to help shut down the drug trade downtown. It was an almost hopeless task. The drug trade was fairly entrenched, made a lot of money for a lot of people, and was well organized. How organized, we were about to find out. The drug trade is also a little like the mythical Hydra. You take one pusher down and two more takes his place. It was an impossible job and we got to do it.

I didn’t like coming to JCPD for the meeting. It wasn’t all that far from the bar district which we intended to target. On some nights, you could even hear the beat of music from there. It also made me nervous that someone might be watching the PD. Once our faces became known on the street, they might recognize us as we went in for a meeting. Then either they wouldn’t sell to us or worse, paint a target on us.

Smitty handed us a booking picture. The date on it was taken only a few months ago.

“His name is Eric,” he said. Eric was big in every way, but much of it seemed to be the result of an addiction to greasy french fries and cheeseburgers. He had a head full of hair that any rock star would have envied and a boatload of tats. His eyes were surprisingly friendly. I was familiar with booking pictures and usually the person being photographed was anything except friendly looking. “He’s been the DJ there for about six months,” he said.

“What was he busted for?” I asked.

“Bad check at Wal-Mart,” he said.

That made sense. People engaged in fraud were usually nice guys (or gals). The better to get you to trust them. I wondered if that wasn’t part of his superpower.

“How do we get in on him?” Tom asked. He was wearing his colors tonight. Tom felt it made him more credible as a dope buyer.

I preferred to be a “Gray Man” and I opted for simple dark T-shirt and jeans. Drug users look like everyone else, and I didn’t need anything too obvious. It also helped to make me invisible, less a threat, and fewer people would remember me.

Dave looked like any good old boy from Kansas (he was actually from Pittsburgh) and that worked fine for him.

“We busted a couple of guys with drugs on them. One said it came from him but that’s it. He clammed up after saying that and wouldn’t give us anything else. We’ve also heard it from a couple of sources, but saying something and proving are two different things. They suggested the girls acted as go-betweens.”

“And that’s where we come in?” Bill asked.

“Yes, we get a couple of buys off him and we bust him.”

“But we don’t know how to approach him.”

And there was the problem. Getting straight to him was going to prove difficult. Eric wasn’t a complete idiot, and he’d insulated himself well behind a wall of people who collected the money and delivered the dope. It gave him some measure of deniability if things went south.

And that brought us back to the bar with loud music, smoke filled air, and scantily clad girls.

Dave and I were sitting at a table by ourselves and Tom was at another. Since we didn’t look like bikers or wear colors, we thought it best to stay away from him. On a good day, I might be able to spell “Harley-Davidson,” so I wouldn’t even try to pass as a biker.

“I’m sorry,” the girl said, leaning a little closer. It was an interesting maneuver. She got close enough to hear us but was ready to jump back at the same time. I caught a whiff of her. I’d have expected her to smell like expensive perfume. Instead, I smelled sweat, cigarette smoke, and whisky.

“I couldn’t hear you.”

“I’m Danny,” I said. One of our sources had gotten me into a place saying my last name was “Lopez.” Since my brother had a friend named Danny Lopez, I took his name as part of my cover. I even had a military ID saying I was who I claimed to be.

“Josh,” David said.

The girl swayed a little closer. “What do you guys do?”

“I make training films for the Army,” I said.

“A MoPic? (Pronounced Moe-Peck)” she asked.

I was surprised she knew the term. The movie 84C-MoPic which is an absolute classic, wouldn’t be out for a few years yet and the term wasn’t exactly mainstream.

She got a little closer and danced just close enough to talk to us but not too close. The first rule of a strip bar is you can look, but you can’t touch unless allowed. We’d already seen some big guy built like a mountain explain that rule to a young trooper who had grabbed at one of the girls. He was told to leave and not come back. I never saw him in there again.

“That’s me,” I said.

An 84 Charlie Mopic is a combat cameraman. At that point in my life, I could have easily talked film making with George Lucas or Steven Spielberg and it was a good cover. After having learned there was a job out there like that, I’d wondered why I hadn’t enlisted to do it.

The girl swirled around and swayed her body to the music before turning back to us. “That’s cool,” she said. “And you?”

“I’m a truck driver,” Dave answered. “Who are you?”

“I’m Debbie,” she answered. She swayed a little and got an innocent look in her eyes. The girl would have made a great actress. She could turn on the look just like that and almost make you believe it. “I hope you like me.”

We got the hint.

Dave fished a dollar from his pocket. “I do, baby,” he said. The girl came closer for just a second and allowed Dave to slip the bill into her G string.

She smiled. I’m sure she made good money dancing, but the why escaped me.

“You guys interested in something fun?” she asked looking us both over with a smile. The smile didn’t fool me for a second. She was studying us like a person would study bacteria under a microscope. Just like cops or soldiers, Debbie had her own threat analysis going. In her mind she was putting us into one of three files that were labeled Cop, Customer or Not Interested.

I smiled back at her and held her gaze for a moment. She wasn’t suggesting a roll in the back room.

“I could use something to take the edge off,” I said.

So much for recon. We’d just engaged the enemy. In combat recon work, if a tank rolls up on you, you’ve got only a few choices on what to do. Kill it, run like hell, or be killed. Since running away or saying “Not tonight” would interfere with future operations, we had to engage.

“It’s been a tough week, Debbie.” I used her name. it was Social Engineering 101A stuff but it was a nice way to get her to trust me.

That did it.

She smiled as she put me in the “Customer” file.

“What do you have in mind?” she asked, again all innocence and still dancing.

I didn’t look around. “Some tea would be nice.”

“Tea” is one of the many street names for Marijuana.

“Dime,” she said meaning a bag of grass that, as the name implies, cost ten dollars. It’s usually the worst quality of weed, but it was enough to entertain yourself with for an evening or two.

I took my wallet out, took out a ten from my money and held it towards her. In response, she thrust her flat stomach towards me. I took the hint and stuffed the money into the front of her G-string. The booth we were sitting in helped hide what had just happened from a casual observer.

“Be right back,” she said with a smile and danced away.

We watched her go. I wondered if she’d just danced away with my money. She danced over to a couple of other guys and the process repeated itself. Sometimes money went into her G-String. Sometimes it didn’t.

She then made her way toward the center of the room where another girl danced. They danced face to face for a moment. As I watched, Debbie deftly removed the money from her G-string. After several seconds of dancing, the girls parted. As they did, their hands brushed each other’s. If you weren’t watching (and most people wouldn’t be – they’d be watching the girls), you’d have missed it.

What I’d just seen was one of the oldest tricks in the little spy’s notebook. It’s called a brush pass and it’s not all that hard to do. Essentially, it’s a magic trick, a bit of sleight of hand. In the brief instant their hands touched, the money was passed. David Copperfield couldn’t have done it better. When he performed a magic trick, he uses some manner of distraction and that was what was happening here. In this bar, there was lousy lighting to help hide things and the two dancers provided all the distraction needed.

Then, as Debbie kept everyone’s attention with her dance, the other girl left to go to the DJ booth. I looked past Debbie and watched the other girl. She’d stopped dancing in front of Eric and spoke to him. The corner was rather dark, and Eric had a bright light to see his controls by. That helped hide what they were doing in the shadows. But I saw the girl give him what I assumed was the money and he handed her something that she hid in her hand. Trouble was, I couldn’t honestly say what he’d given her.

We never did figure out how Debbie telegraphed the order to the other girl. Maybe the other girl was just good at reading lips.

Now the other girl came back out onto the dance floor and she and Debbie met up again in the middle of the floor. It was a rerun of the dance they’d just done. Another brush pass and Debbie went dancing back out to the edge of the floor. My view and Dave’s was blocked and neither one of us saw the exchange. Neither did Tom.

Now Debbie did something a little different. She came up, and leaning over, her hand brushed the front of my shirt, and I felt something go into my shirt pocket.

The girl had a future in stage magic because even Dave, who was watching, didn’t see the pass it was that well done. But what he did see was a look in her eyes that startled him. It was a look of triumph, like she’d just done something in front of everyone and no one knew.

She quickly moved on, and I acted like nothing had ever happened.

We’d gone in just to do some recon and instead we’d engaged the enemy. Tom also made a buy through her. He came back with ten hits of LSD on blotter paper with tiny Mickey Mouses printed on it.

We stayed about another half hour and then left. None of the girls even came close to us after the buy. It was an interesting setup on their part. Eric had isolated himself from the transactions by having the girls do the actual work. But since I couldn’t see what he’d given the other dancer, he was still insulated from the buy. The man was obviously a chess player. You use other pieces to protect the king, and he’d done it well. The only one roped into the transaction was Debbie.

Some pushers made it insanely easy to catch them. Some went so far as to openly offer their wares and made the exchange in plain sight. Not here. The easy ones were just plain stupid and this kind of work was Darwinian in practice. The smart survived. The stupid went to jail.

And so, it was here. Eric knew the first rule of criminal investigations which I’d adapt into my novels years later and call them “Parkerisms” named for my old patrol Sergent Garland Parker. Garland’s first rule went “We catch criminals because they don’t plan on getting caught.” Eric was doing everything in his power not to get caught, but you can’t cover every contingency. We’d seen enough to say with 95% certainty that he was the source of the drugs in my pocket. But to take Eric down, that would have to go up to as close to 100% as we could get. But now that we had a target, it was only a matter of time.

Of course, the question was, since Debbie had been nice enough to stick her head in the noose, would she rat out the other girl and Eric to save herself. Ideally, we’d want to develop information so we could take all three down at the same time. This would also allow the city to come in and make life difficult for the owners of the bar (either closing the place by ensuring their license was revoked or forcing them to clean up their business).

But first, we had to work the chain. We had to go from Debbie, get in on Eric, and then try to get whoever he got his stuff from. It might take months.

We left for the office where we processed the evidence and then went home. Tomorrow, I’d type up what had happened.

I reeked of cigarette smoke and took a good shower to wash off the smell once I got home.

I went to bed wondering why I still felt dirty.