Who the F*ck Am I? Read online

  Chapter Two

  LATER, REGAN AND THE sexy nurse made their way over to the table where Red, Blue and Bill were sitting, drinking and talking. Regan’s new friend called out to her co-worker to join them. They now had a six-some! The girls went to the bathroom to powder their noses. The four guys started to chat. This is when the second unforgettable thing happened.

  While Regan had been dancing, Red, Blue and Bill had clearly gotten around to talking business, drug smuggling. Red later told Regan the gist of the conversation that took place while he got busy on the dance floor.

  Bill said to Red, “You guys are into a bit of business with shit, right? You’ll have to think about what I said.”

  “Sounds a bit heavy to me,” Red replied.

  “You must have a man somewhere.”

  Red responded, “It’s no good me saying yes or no until I’ve seen him though, is it?”

  “Sure, Ginger, we’re talking about a lot of bread now and in the future. Talking of bread, do you know anyone who will handle jewellery?”

  “Warm?”

  “Hot.”

  “Not really my area,” came Red’s reply.

  Bill carried on, telling Red about a con trick to make $100 a day through his version of ringing the changes. Then he reverted to the topic of cocaine. Telling how he paid couriers $500 a trip, evading customs and using fast boats. Red listened and made a mental note of it all. There was also talk about legitimate businesses based in places like Nassau, Barbados, Antigua, Argentina, Panama, Miami, Georgetown Guyana and Vancouver Island.

  Regan missed all this because he had been getting ‘hot’ on the dance floor. But no sooner had the girls left to go to the toilet, Red announced, “Ask him. I’m sure he will be okay with it.” He nodded towards Regan, his partner.

  Regan thought, but dare not say, what the fuck is he on about!

  Blue spoke up, “Bill wants to know if you two can organize bringing a few keys of snow into Europe from Miami.”

  Fuck me! Regan thought but managed to keep a poker face.

  The girls were away for about thirty minutes so this next conversation happened over ten minutes, more or less.

  “Yeah. It can be done,” Regan said.

  He paused then added, “Obviously depends on a few things but yeah, it’s a go’er.”

  Bill had been quiet since Regan arrived back at the table. It made Regan jump a little when he spoke. Bill broke out from his taciturn shell by drawling on about how he was ‘connected.' And how he was talking to the top echelon of the 'Cartel.' Of course, Regan knew he was referring to the drug gangs of South America. They were some of the most notorious and violent drug cartels in existence. Regan started to feel a little nervous at this point. His earlier ‘lower regions excitement’ now subsided; an ‘excitement’ provoked by his newfound female companion. She had become secondary.

  Bill ceased talking just like he started. No warning. No intros and no endings. One minute there were words and then nothing. It unsettled Regan. Total silence took over the whole table. Regan knew few people can deal with silence that goes on for longer than a few seconds. It feels uncomfortable. Many stupid people feel an urgent need to fill the verbal vacuum. Often with crap. Regan knew this was not an occasion to become a stupid person.

  All kinds of thoughts started to rush around his head. Regan thought,

  What if this? What if that?

  Regan had often maintained no one can train cops about such situations or teach them how to react. He knew it’s not possible to go to undercover class to learn how to cope. He also knew calmness is inbuilt. Regan believed you either have it or you don’t. It’s that simple. Perhaps the silence lasted for about one minute. Or longer?

  During the whole time Bill and Regan stared at each other. Not in any kind of confrontational way – just staring. Holding eye contact between the two of them. Bill’s cold grey eyes gave nothing away. Regan thought he had the eyes of a killer. He could be a killer. He’s a gangster - part of the mob. At that point Bill’s mouth moved again, no warning, not even a clearing of the throat.

  “Are you guys cops?”

  Wham! Fuck! Regan thought. The question rattled around inside Regan’s brain. He knew it was often asked when undercover. Regan knew the first time was the worst. The mind raced, Has my cover been blown? Am I a fucking useless undercover cop? Do I look, smell and talk like a cop?

  Regan also knew it was a test. He decided to react with aggression, “You fucking what? Yeah, course I am, and you’re the fucking Pope!”

  Bill laughed with his facial muscles but not with those fish eyes.

  That took Regan by surprise. He didn’t think humour was part of the Canadian’s repertoire.

  Then Bill’s killer look returned.

  “If you guys are, then...”

  The Canadian raised one hand next to Regan’s head. Then he joined his forefinger and middle finger in the shape of a gun and pointed them at Regan. The 'gun' rested on his head so that Regan could feel the tips of Bill’s fingers against his skin.

  What followed was a simulated assassination. A ‘double-tap’ from a silenced semi-automatic pistol favoured by professional hitmen the world over. A close range execution.

  Regan went cold when he saw the Canadian mouth the silenced spitting sound. Twice, as two imaginary shells splattered his brains out of the gaping exit wounds at the far side of his head. This was personal.

  Pop! Pop!

  Regan jumped up from his seat, pushing Bill’s hand away. Bill rose too, but Regan’s push unbalanced Bill making him stumble on the chair leg. As Bill staggered backwards, he reached down for the gun in the ankle holster. Regan knew it and clenched his fist ready to strike. He was ready to kick Bill’s hand, too. He was ready to do whatever it took.

  By sheer serendipity the girls returned to the table. They had seen nothing. Regan and Bill sat down. The conversation switched to the humdrum. They had another couple of drinks each and the mood was convivial. All six left the She Club about 2 am and a taxi driver dropped them at a deserted illegal drinking den. They carried on drinking until about 6 am. The place served food too, so the night was finished off by all six eating a meal. The mood remained cordial throughout.

  Regan’s newfound female companion returned to the hotel with him and stayed. They did not sleep until about 7:30 in the morning as they took plenty of time in getting to know each other well. Regan woke up about 11 am the same day and found his bed empty. She had gone. He showered and looked in the mirror as his back felt painful. She had left her mark – literally, scratches running down both sides of his back from shoulders to waist.

  Two unforgettable things in one night! Perhaps three? Regan thought I also danced barefooted!

  All four guys left the hotel in Liverpool and drove back to Wales in the van.

  Chapter Three

  LIVERPOOL TO WALES, September 1976

  REGAN COULD FEEL HIS head pounding, body dehydrated. He blamed himself, too much to drink. He forced himself to concentrate. His life, and that of Red’s, may depend on him. The stakes rose during this drive back to Wales. One thought would not leave Regan – should he go rogue? It flashed through his mind like a car blinker. But he couldn’t turn it off. The thought of riches from this connection to the Bolivian and Miami cocaine trade wouldn’t leave him. Images of blondes and Jaguars ran through his head like a constant slideshow. Other images played but he forced them from his mind, images of loved ones past and present. Regan concentrated on the pleasant images. They agreed with him and stirred his inner self save for one image. It was a mental picture of his sick mother.

  It is a long drive from Liverpool to mid-Wales. Wales is a small country and has a long coastline. There are mountains between the coast and the Welsh border with England. Those mountains prevent easy road access to anywhere in the middle of Wales. The four of them crammed into the van for the arduous journey. ‘Shoulder to shoulder’ was an understatement.

  This was going to be a trip la
sting several hours in the company of a gangster, Bill, and two major drug dealers in the Canadian and Blue. Yet, Regan’s main concern was the hangover. Despite the jaded feelings in body and mind Regan knuckled down and concentrated.

  Those hours in the van and the occasional pit stop gave Bill ample opportunity to talk or shut up. He talked, and if anything, his tone was more serious than the previous night.

  With a face set in stone, Bill said, “Guys, this is serious shit. I need a new market and this country is it. You have all these rock bands. All those guys are serious coke heads. They need quality powder and I am Mister Quality. I need good people like you two and Blue to set up the British connection.”

  Red concentrated on driving. Regan nodded along in tune with Bill’s plan but did not speak.

  Blue broke the silence, “No problem.”

  Another silence.

  Blue added, “The south of France too.”

  “Excuse me!” Bill went red in the face and puffed out his already bloated cheeks.

  “Bill, it’s the jet set scene there. Millionaires, big yachts - the whole scene. Like a French Miami. We gotta get our cocaine into there, too.”

  Bill punched the faded roof lining.

  “Fuck me! You nearly made me crash,” shouted Red.

  Bill raised his voice at Blue, “No way! You don’t take on more than one place at a time. If you get caught you only get caught in one place, not three or four! What have I told you before? You are not listening!” Bill, the teacher and Blue the student.

  Bill’s outburst spelled out an abrupt end to the discussion about a new market in the south of France. Bill calmed down and started talking again about ten minutes later. Those ten minutes were uncomfortable. Bill had reinforced Regan’s thoughts of him being capable of killing.

  “I got the source. No one ever forget that. Without me and Bolivia there is no coke. I can put my hands on 50-pound weight immediately. Today. One phone call.

  “I’m talking $24,000 for one pound. I need to know if you guys can do it.” He carried on outlining the plan.

  “A pressed pound weight is no bigger than the average size wallet. It’s easier to ship that way. Less chance of detection. It’s easily hidden. What I need to know is, can you guys do it?”

  But he was in full flow now. He did not pause for an answer.

  “These are some of the basic rules. No rip offs, period. Your cut is what you sell it for. My advice is don’t sell less than half weights. That way you’re not getting close to the street punks. You start at twenty-four for one shipment of one weight. Three weights twenty-three. Five or more twenty-one, maybe twenty. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Regan nodded comprehensively as if this was an everyday occurrence.

  “If you don’t have that kind of bread, find someone who has. But tell him the price per pound and discount for quantity ...

  “... This is pure snow when it leaves me, you can cut it and cut it and cut it. When you buy off me it’s not like buying the shit off the street. Oh, and payment always in greenbacks.”

  There was no shutting Bill up. He was on a high. A high caused by his love of money and a big score.

  They stopped to stretch cramped legs, take a leak and a gulp of fresh air. The pit stop was at a roadside pub. The hangover was still hanging over Regan. He gulped down three swift pints of beer mixed with lemonade. Ah! He felt better.

  This was as good as it gets in undercover work. They were now the dealers – ‘the man.’ The strange thing was that Regan did not feel excited. That was a good thing. He knew it doesn’t pay to show inner feelings when undercover. Besides, he did not feel like a cop. He was now Steve Regan, a wild, irresponsible man prepared to transgress if it produced results. The lack of excitement came naturally to him. A police supervisor’s report once recorded that if he was any more laid back he would be horizontal! Red was equally as cool. He acted with total indifference to events during the pit stop break.

  Bill with his killer eyes set in a piggy face, Blue with Stetson, Red and Regan climbed back into the van. The plan was to drop off Blue and Bill near Lampeter so they could collect a rental car. Blue knew a farmer who rented out cars for hire. Before setting off again, Bill asked Blue how much he needed for the rental.

  “About £20, I guess,” Blue responded.

  Bill reached down to the floor of the van and lifted his expensive looking leather attaché case to his lap. He fiddled with the combination lock until the clasps clicked open. Regan looked inside in astonishment. He saw bundles of £20 notes about one-inch-high fastened with a rubber band, about ten identical bundles. It must have totalled somewhere in the region of £10,000. That was a lot of bread! Something else caught his attention. It lay at the bottom of the case under some documents and folded shirts. It was the unmistakable blue grey colour of a protruding pistol barrel. Regan’s stomach churned as he thought about last night’s performance with the death threat.

  The rest of the journey mainly consisted of Bill talking. Red and Regan listened and carefully made a mental note. Those mental notes ended up as a narrative in their report to Rick Green, the boss of Operation Perfume.

  Bill explained the background to his operation. It was a one-man gig in Bolivia but helped out by two buddies. He always dealt with the same man in Bolivia and spoke with him directly. The Bolivian was not the cocoa leaf farmer. He bought the leaf and cooked it so it ended up as 100% cocaine product. That was what Bill was buying. He used five couriers to bring the product into the States and Canada. One, a former air hostess. Customs in Montreal knew her well, waved her through with a smile and a perfunctory “Hi Dawn.” Bill used a bank in the Cayman Islands to launder his drugs cash and reckoned his profits were $64,000 per month.

  He also sold himself as a promoter or fixer. A man with connections, boasting that with two phone calls he turned over one deal involving heroin worth $1,000,000 in the States. He never saw or went near the smack. Bill trusted Red and Regan. He started to push hard to find a money backer.

  “There is no rush. I’ll be around for the next two weeks,” Bill drawled.

  “You can get hold of me through Blue or the number I gave you,” he added.

  During the journey Bill had written down a Bristol address and telephone number. He gave it to Red as his contact details while in the UK. Not content with a huge plot to import coke into Britain, Bill revisited the issue of dealing in stolen jewellery. But, this time he extended his unlawful activities into diamond smuggling and porn. He was keen to extend his theatre of operations by recruiting the two undercover cops.

  Chapter Four

  SEPTEMBER 1976

  REGAN SIGHED WITH RELIEF when the van reached the farm. It had been a long day. Regan was now ready to say their farewells to Bill before they set off for Bristol. That pleasant English city was to be an overnight stop for them prior to scouring the south coast marinas for a fast motor boat. Bill wanted to stay at the Holiday Inn. Regan guessed it was because it would be a welcome change from the seedy Liverpool hotel. Plus, a well-travelled Canadian would know what to expect from a Holiday Inn whether located in Bristol, Boston, Bangkok or Bolivia.

  Regan’s tall frame shuddered when Bill announced they would follow the van to Bristol. They had earlier told them that was their planned destination after arriving back in Wales. That was looking like a mistake. It concerned Regan. Before the van and the rental car set off, Bill spoke to both men, “Remember you know how to get hold of me, either through that number or Blue.”

  Red, nodding, said, “It may take longer than two weeks.”

  “When you are good and ready,” came Bill’s cool reply.

  Bill walked over to Regan’s side of the van. As he approached he stressed they must find ‘the man’ and as quickly as possible. Regan assured him they would talk to the right people. Bill wanted a swift yes or no.

  The van led the way. After all, it was a route Red and Regan knew blindfolded. In hushed tones and sign language, Red and Regan agreed not to
discuss anything in the van. There could be a bug in here, was their collective thought. They were paranoid!

  The M32 is a short spur of a motorway that leaves the M4 Wales to London motorway, connecting Bristol City Centre with the M4. At the Bristol end of the M32 the motorway changes into a regular main road. Red pulled over in a layby and the rental car containing Bill and Blue pulled in behind.

  Red gave them directions to the Holiday Inn, Bristol and much to their relief Bill and Blue drove off toward the city centre. The normal route to Red’s home in the Bristol suburbs would have taken about ten minutes. Red drove for the next forty-five minutes all over Bristol. The van turned into a dead-end road to check if they were followed and Red adopted every single counter-surveillance tactic he could think of. Finally, content they were not being followed, both cops exhaled a simultaneous sigh of relief and the same exclamation, “Fuck me!”

  This warranted a special journey into the office to brief Rick Green and make a full record of the whole episode. They did just that the next day, the report fulsome and exact. They had also gathered that Bill had a Canadian passport, a British wife and two kids resident in the Isle of Man. It was believed his net worth was about $3,000,000 despite some Canadian tax problems. But Bill did say he wasn’t sure about the exact amount as “he hadn’t counted it lately!”

  The night before seeing Rick Green, Regan had driven to his one bedroom flat an hour’s drive from Bristol. Sleep came easy to Regan. It had been an exhausting two days in the company of Bill and Blue, requiring full-on concentration to avoid any chance of a slip-up. Regan had nodded off. But he had one of those muscular spasms that jerk you out of your sleep. His thoughts turned to Bill and the events in Liverpool and the way back to Wales. He had a sixth sense something did not stack up. Something else bothered him. He could not shift the thoughts from his mind – Shall I go rogue? Can I go rogue?