didn’t take off for the summer either. So there were fewer dealers and more cops—too many cops.
But Larry was insistent. He had parlayed the first few hundred dollars he made early in his sophomore year into about forty thousand dollars, and he saw a chance of closing in on his fifty-thousand-dollar goal before the summer off-season. He went to work on L. A., ragging him about being such a doper that he had gotten lazy and unmotivated, threatening to cut him out of the business next year—which was okay with L.A. because he was due to graduate in a few weeks anyway—and otherwise needling him. When Larry was able to put together thirty thousand dollars for the buy, L.A. gave in.
So Larry’s reluctant partner flew to Fort Lauderdale. He called his main contact, a would-be pro golfer named Sammy whom he had known in high school in California. Sammy hooked him up with a dealer who was selling Hawaiian, which was the current favored brand of potent weed—$280 per pound. L.A. liked to buy Hawaiian dope because it meant dealing with Americans, usually Californians like himself. He was always frightened by the Hispanics. L.A. spoke very little Spanish and never quite felt in control of the situation. But with his own crowd he felt he could relax. So he met with the Hawaiian dealers and right away they all got blitzed. The next morning he woke up in his hotel room with more than a hundred pounds of ragweed. He had been had.
“Larry, I can barely get high off this stuff,” he said, in a mournful long-distance phone call.
“Then why did you buy it?”
“I didn’t know. I was wrecked . . . what can I say?”
Disgusted, he said, “Maybe we can still sell it.”
But L.A. said no. “I think I can trade out of it down here,” he said.
So L.A. spent several more days, all the while exposing himself to greater and greater risk, calling around to all of his contacts trying to dump the lousy weed. He got rid of about nine thousand dollars’ worth of it, and recovered a lump of cash, but the bulk of the so-called Hawaiian just sat in his hotel room like a bad joke. So L.A. called Sammy and threatened him every way he knew how. The golfer was unsympathetic—“Don’t you try it before you buy it?”—but he agreed to help. He called L.A. later to say he had set up a meet with somebody who would take the rest of the load off his hands.
L.A. drove out to an apartment building outside of Fort Lauderdale, the same place where he had picked up the dope two days earlier. He parked his car outside the building and walked upstairs,leaving three plastic garbage bags full of pot—seventy-five pounds in all—in the trunk of his car. As he crossed the lobby the crowd made him nervous, but he knew that he had to dump this stuff or he and Larry were going to take a beating. It was even more alarming when, inside his friend’s apartment, there were three other people L.A. had never met before. Sammy introduced everyone, which calmed L.A. somewhat, and then they sat down and counted out the money. It was all there. So Sammy and L.A. walked out to the parking lot. Sammy went to his car; L.A. went to his. They drove to a prearranged spot off to the side of the apartment building, where L.A. was to get out of the car and move the bags to Sammy’s trunk.
But just as L.A. got his trunk open and reached in for a bag, he heard, “Hold it right there!”
He stood up, startled, and there were cars pulling up all around him, and two young men pointing shotguns at his head.
L.A. thought,
Oh, shit, we’re being ripped off!
But after a closer look at the men with guns, a worse thought occurred.
Oh, shit, we’re busted.
Poor L.A. He was back in Philadelphia to graduate in June, but beyond that his whole life was on hold. He was afraid to see his parents for fear they would see how down he was and work the truth out of him. So even though his mother fell seriously ill in Los Angeles, he spent the summer of 1976 laying low in Philly. His
But Larry was insistent. He had parlayed the first few hundred dollars he made early in his sophomore year into about forty thousand dollars, and he saw a chance of closing in on his fifty-thousand-dollar goal before the summer off-season. He went to work on L. A., ragging him about being such a doper that he had gotten lazy and unmotivated, threatening to cut him out of the business next year—which was okay with L.A. because he was due to graduate in a few weeks anyway—and otherwise needling him. When Larry was able to put together thirty thousand dollars for the buy, L.A. gave in.
So Larry’s reluctant partner flew to Fort Lauderdale. He called his main contact, a would-be pro golfer named Sammy whom he had known in high school in California. Sammy hooked him up with a dealer who was selling Hawaiian, which was the current favored brand of potent weed—$280 per pound. L.A. liked to buy Hawaiian dope because it meant dealing with Americans, usually Californians like himself. He was always frightened by the Hispanics. L.A. spoke very little Spanish and never quite felt in control of the situation. But with his own crowd he felt he could relax. So he met with the Hawaiian dealers and right away they all got blitzed. The next morning he woke up in his hotel room with more than a hundred pounds of ragweed. He had been had.
“Larry, I can barely get high off this stuff,” he said, in a mournful long-distance phone call.
“Then why did you buy it?”
“I didn’t know. I was wrecked . . . what can I say?”
Disgusted, he said, “Maybe we can still sell it.”
But L.A. said no. “I think I can trade out of it down here,” he said.
So L.A. spent several more days, all the while exposing himself to greater and greater risk, calling around to all of his contacts trying to dump the lousy weed. He got rid of about nine thousand dollars’ worth of it, and recovered a lump of cash, but the bulk of the so-called Hawaiian just sat in his hotel room like a bad joke. So L.A. called Sammy and threatened him every way he knew how. The golfer was unsympathetic—“Don’t you try it before you buy it?”—but he agreed to help. He called L.A. later to say he had set up a meet with somebody who would take the rest of the load off his hands.
L.A. drove out to an apartment building outside of Fort Lauderdale, the same place where he had picked up the dope two days earlier. He parked his car outside the building and walked upstairs,leaving three plastic garbage bags full of pot—seventy-five pounds in all—in the trunk of his car. As he crossed the lobby the crowd made him nervous, but he knew that he had to dump this stuff or he and Larry were going to take a beating. It was even more alarming when, inside his friend’s apartment, there were three other people L.A. had never met before. Sammy introduced everyone, which calmed L.A. somewhat, and then they sat down and counted out the money. It was all there. So Sammy and L.A. walked out to the parking lot. Sammy went to his car; L.A. went to his. They drove to a prearranged spot off to the side of the apartment building, where L.A. was to get out of the car and move the bags to Sammy’s trunk.
But just as L.A. got his trunk open and reached in for a bag, he heard, “Hold it right there!”
He stood up, startled, and there were cars pulling up all around him, and two young men pointing shotguns at his head.
L.A. thought,
Oh, shit, we’re being ripped off!
But after a closer look at the men with guns, a worse thought occurred.
Oh, shit, we’re busted.
Poor L.A. He was back in Philadelphia to graduate in June, but beyond that his whole life was on hold. He was afraid to see his parents for fear they would see how down he was and work the truth out of him. So even though his mother fell seriously ill in Los Angeles, he spent the summer of 1976 laying low in Philly. His
Similar Books
