Folly Cove. Kermit Schweidel
these plants were huge. So we were walking along, and all of a sudden our heads turned at the exact same time. About four rows in, there was a plant that looked like nothing else we had ever seen. First of all, the leaves were much darker green. They were obviously the same leaves and everything, but this particular plant had blood-red veins—it was a natural sin semilla (without seeds).
It was the most beautiful pot plant we ever saw. We told the guys that were there, “We want this plant kept separate from everything else, and we’ll give you $100.” We gave him the $100 right then and there, “Keep this plant separate. I want it taken care of.”
When it finally got up to Juarez and Hector saw it, he wouldn’t give it to us. He gave us a little bit of it, but he told us, “Fuck no. I ain’t giving you this plant.”
And I told him “Hector, we paid for it. That’s our plant.”
He just flat said, “I ain’t never seen nothing like this, and I don’t care what you want. This is my plant.” He did give us some of it, and it was very, very good.
You might think doing business with a Mexican drug lord was something akin to a rattlesnake massage. Not true. If you kept your word, paid your bills, and refrained from cheating, the Mexicans would not only be loyal and generous, but totally invested in keeping you alive. On the other hand, if you didn’t deal with them squarely, they would not hesitate to punch your ticket. It was a simple code.
Just as Mike and Jack had been feeling their way along, learning on the job, so had their supplier on the Mexican side, Hector Ruiz-Gonzales. The bloodshed that would mark the ascension of the brutal cartels was still a few years away. Actual violence was surprisingly rare. Hector, in fact, ran his empire without much in the way of competition. He owned the biggest fields and was untouchable—the grandson of la Nacha and heir to the first family of Sinaloa. It’s good to be the King.
Mike Halliday spent most of his time in Juarez with Hector. El Paso in the 1970s was not what you’d call cosmopolitan. But the difference made by crossing a river was like riding a time machine twenty years into the past. On the streets of Juarez, law was a rumor, order was an accident, and violence a way of life. On the U.S. side of the border, Mike was just another dealer, living in a modest rental home and blending in with the crowd. But on the wide-open streets of Juarez in the company of the King, he was Don Miguel, the powerful jefe who resided beyond the reach of law and walked with the swagger of a pistolero.
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