The Brass Ring

© 2006 Gordon Dickie. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 7/18/2006

ISBN: 1-4184-2112-X (e)

ISBN: 1-4184-2111-1 (sc)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

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Contents

PREFACE

8:07 a.m.

8:28 a.m.

9:03 a.m.

9:45 a.m.

10:35 a.m.

1:15 p.m.

3:45 p.m.

6:05 p.m.

7:15 p.m.

8:03 p.m.

9:17 p.m.

9:40 p.m.

10:15 p.m.

10:43 p.m.

11:04 p.m.

11:25 p.m.

3:15 a.m.

7:45 a.m.

10:13 a.m.

11:55 a.m.

1:45 p.m.

2:50 p.m.

4:40 p.m.

6:30 p.m.

7:07 p.m.

8:05 p.m.

8:52 p.m.

9:12 p.m.

10:15 p.m.

10:52 p.m.

11:23 p.m.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PREFACE

Every man has a story to tell, especially if he has been an active participant in the great game of life. A significant number secretly nourishes an illusive quest. Only a few brave souls will challenge their calamitous fate, roll the dice, put everything on the line and reach for the Brass Ring.

Fifteen years ago one such competitor was at the Mauna Kea Beach Hotel on the big island of Hawaii.

All his life he had stoically accepted his capricious existence until one momentous weekend. During two turbulent days he encountered unpredictable hostile and dangerous circumstances that triggered his inherent survival instincts, energized his aggressive juices and motivated him to reach for the Brass Ring.

This is his story.

8:07 a.m.

Bright, crisp, refreshing, invigorating and exhilarating was how Jason always described an early morning beach in southern California.

As he stepped out of his 84 Honda, he stopped for a moment and sucked in the mesmerizing beauty of the rugged coastline with placid Pacific swells gently lapping against the beckoning rocky beach below. It was something that had been in his blood ever since he left the Midwest in his teens.

For the last thirty-five years Jason had crawled around the weathered crags and into the salty brine every chance he got. And this weekend was going to be another opportunity to explore the murky depths with his closest friend, Larry, and maybe even find a few abalones if they were lucky.

Jason slammed the car door and headed towards the front of Corky’s restaurant where he and Larry had planned to rendezvous. Clad in his customary button-down white shirt with upturned sleeves and blue cords and loafers, Jason looked pretty much the same as he did in those early days except for the sprinkling of graying hair around the temples. He stopped as he saw his reflection in the glass door and wondered how all the years could have passed so quickly.

As he glanced around the parking lot, he didn’t see Larry’s car and realized that he was the first to arrive. At least it would give him a few moments to have some breakfast before Larry got impatient to begin the dive.

Larry was the motivator, the organizer, and was the strict taskmaster that kept everything moving. They had remained intimate friends ever since their fraternity days at USC, but Jason could only tolerate so much of Larry’s perfidious personality. When he had enough, they would not see each other for several months until the next skin diving or sailing or whatever Larry organized.

Corky’s was fairly busy for an early Saturday morning. Jason looked around for a booth overlooking the bay. He smiled at the attractive brunette waitress as he made his way between the tables of the aging roadside café.

Good solid, sexy body, he thought to himself. Maybe he could get something going, but small-town girls were usually so naive that after a spirited romp in the sack there was nothing to talk about. Most had been so cloistered and seen so little of life’s mystic. She probably had never even been up the coast to San Francisco or down into Mexico.

The six men in the booth next to Jason never gave him a glance as he sat down. He couldn’t help noticing what a scruffy lot they were, ruthless types that oozed sleaze and sadism. They were all wearing dark sunglasses inside the restaurant. Rather odd but it takes all kinds to make a world. If the sun bothered their eyes or they wanted to be incognito, that was their decision. Jason could have cared less.

The waitress hurried over to his booth, poured a cup of coffee and handed him a menu. He smiled up at her, and then stared at full breasts heaving under a brown candy-striped uniform that was two sizes too small, and murmured, I’m waiting for a friend.

Don’t get too lonesome, she replied with a giggle, then raised an eyebrow and smiled and wiggled off to another table.

Maybe I should pursue that tonight, Jason thought. She seemed receptive.

I’ve got five hundred grand in hundreds in this briefcase, snarled a gruff, uncultured voice from the booth behind him.

Jason almost dropped his coffee.

Five hundred thousand dollars in the next booth! Christ’s sake, he thought, that’s half a million dollars.

As he turned his head slightly to hear more of the conversation, he glanced down and realized the briefcase was right next to his leg. A half a million bucks.

Jason was stunned, like he had been given an electric shock and was struggling to recover.

A half a million bucks, he murmured to himself. That would solve all my problems. But who were these guys?

The gruff voice continued.

I was told to bring the money to this little beach town and look for a guy wearing a blue Dodger baseball cap and a Levi jacket. The contact would tell us where I could make the buy.

You dumb shit! another voice exploded. That’s all you’ve got to go on?

Stick it up your ass, Al, growled an indignant reply. I’ve been working on this bust for over a year. If you can’t ride along with me for a few more days, then go find your own. I’ve followed this lead all over the country. Our agents in South America claim this contact is the key to their whole operation.

He paused, and then snarled. The only reason I offered to cut you in on this was because of that tug boat bust in San Pedro last year, the one where you confiscated the boat and sold it for a few thousand to my brother at the auction. I’m just trying to pay you back.

Okay, Okay, Okay! I’m sorry, the man profusely apologized. I was just hoping that you weren’t being taken for a ride.

No way! This is a beautiful set-up. I make the contact, I make the buy. You help with the bust and we keep most of the coke. I’ve got my own outlets.

But what if we lose the money in a shoot out? came a thin high pitched, reedy, sniveling voice.

Yeah, what about that? interjected a heavy, Spanish accented, guttural utterance. The office always gets upset if there’s any chance of losing the money.

You don’t know the trouble I went through to get this dough, snarled the man with the briefcase. Lucky for us I got it from another bust and didn’t take it back to the office. Besides, they think there’s a lot less. Only you guys know how much I’ve got here in the briefcase.

Jason had not moved a muscle. His ears were riveted on every word. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. These reprehensible thieves had a half a million dollars and had arranged to buy cocaine, then arrest the poor bastard, throw him in prison and sell his merchandise after they had given enough to their home office to justify the bust. What an atrocious bunch of cold-blooded, demonical bastards! The absolute most loathsome, heinous scum of the earth.

Jason had reason to be bitter because the last few years had not been good to him. Five years ago he had spent a year in a Federal prison and had lost his wife and business in the process. He hated anything to do with government types and their constant and flagrant abuse of power.

He thought back on how a government agent had come into his office one day and told him he was going to be indicted for fraud. And the bastard enjoyed telling him how their records showed that he had flown to Washington seven years previously at government expense and had not done any government business.

And how could he refute their charges? He couldn’t remember anything that far back.

Jason had built up a small but profitable business as a representative for several electrical companies to sell their products to the government. He frequently flew to Washington to sign contracts and to meet and pursue potential clients and other sources of business.

And there were times when he had been reimbursed by the government for his flights, but mostly it came out of his own pocket. And then the vultures had the temerity to accuse him of not doing any governmental business on one occasion. What a bunch of whores. He knew he had no way to prove his innocence.

His lawyer prudently informed him that they just wanted to make an example out of him so others wouldn’t abuse government travel expenses, and that he probably had been randomly selected by a computer.

Jason had also been told that if he fought the case in court and lost, even though he was innocent, he would get a stiffer jail sentence. Also, it would cost him a couple hundred thousand dollars, if he won or lost. And if there was a hung jury, the government would try the case again and again, which would cost him more and more money until they had totally eviscerated him.

They would continue their overwhelming assault until they had either bankrupted him or put him in jail. They would do anything to get a conviction so they could celebrate at their prosecution party.

Jason had been advised to plea bargain. The prosecution agreed to recommend to the judge that his offense be considered a misdemeanor. He would be fined $2000 and given six months probation.

But the judge was a judicial activist type who hated businessmen. Since no judge is bound by any plea bargain, he hammered Jason with a year in prison and a $25,000 fine. Jason spent ten months at Boron Federal Prison Camp near Edwards Air Force Base in the California Mojave Desert.

The business collapsed and his wife of twenty five years left him for another man, probably someone she had all along since he had to spend so much time on the road for his business.

Since there were no children it had given her more time for her to pursue her carnal pursuits.

After three years out of prison, Jason was barely able to make a living as a representative for a few electrical products since his old clients were still reluctant to have anything to do with him.

And to listen to this riffraff behind him made his blood boil. If he could have stuck a gun in their faces and walked off with all the money and gotten away with it, he would have done it in a minute. But the thought of going back to prison, and this time behind the walls, kept him in a rational state of mind.

But what if I just stole the briefcase, he thought. I could reach down, slide it under my table and just nonchalantly amble off with it.

Impulsively Jason reached down and touched it. The cold imitation leather sent an electric spark up his arm.

A half million bucks at the tip of my fingers.

Take the damn thing and run, screamed a little voice deep within his brain.

But while in prison Jason had heard numerous rather frightening stories about how ruthless and blood thirsty the DEA types were. He knew they all carried guns, usually strapped to their lower leg. The more tyrannical and sadistic types tried to show off their weapons at every opportunity with their vain and arrogant childish attempt to impress everyone.

Jason thought that maybe some of those dyke feminists were right when they preached that the bigger the gun the smaller their cock.

Jason had always respected the FBI because at least those men had to be educated. They had to have a law or CPA degree. One could deal with them as rational and intelligent human beings.

Whereas the DEA types were thugs, straight out of high school, usually with some type of criminal record or antisocial behavior pattern. They were placed in a position where they had unlimited police power with governmental blessing. Like the Mexican police, the DEA was allowed to steal as much as possible in the line of duty. However, it was preferred that they make an occasional bust to make their thieving endeavors appear legitimate.

More hot coffee? interrupted the waitress.

Jason nodded and stared at her firm breasts again. They were the only things that could distract his attention from the conversation a few feet away. It used to be sex and money, in that order. Now the flames of passion were more subdued, so it was reversed, money and then sex.

Money had taken precedence over sex, and both were at his fingertips. The waitress turned and Jason’s eyes followed her swaying hips. He would have liked to have taken her to the nearest motel, but there was a half million dollars sitting next to his leg. At that moment it required some very serious thought.

Ridiculous, you dumb bastard, came that contemptuous inner voice of his ever present conscience. Forget it! With the girl you’ve got a chance, but with those scum bags, they would just as soon blow your head off and laugh about it.

Why don’t we all put on blue Dodger caps and Levi jackets, came the high-pitched reedy voice, and we’d have a better chance of making contact.

What an idiot, Jason thought. Then the contact would know who and how many DEA agents were in town.

Another agent promptly told him what a stupid ass he was, and that he should be confined to drug busting the L.A. hookers.

Jason wanted to turn and look at the little weasel to confirm his suspicions. Probably a paranoid faggot, he surmised, who was out to get his deserved revenge on society’s ‘straights’ for all the imagined grief they had caused him during his miserable, resentful, shallow life.

The more Jason listened the more disgusted he became as the motley den of contemptible thieves began discussing past busts amid squeals of exuberance. The mountains of bounty that they had stolen made the Barbary pirates look like pious choir boys by comparison.

Jason surmised that this group had known each other for some time because of the various wives, children and common associates that were mentioned in their rambling and grandstanding discussions. But the general theme was to get into the game, steal as much as possible, and get out before one of their episodes backfired or blew up in their faces or before they got killed.

From their conversation Jason thought they were probably all in their late twenties or early thirties. None of them had been to Vietnam. They were not the disgruntled soldiers embittered because opportunistic politicians had sent them to do their dirty work and then brought them home to face a red-baited unsympathetic society. No, these were street thugs, the fringe sociopaths that circumvented laws and society to achieve their own malignant malfeasances.

Then the conversation turned quite serious as they discussed the strategy of the bust itself.

Make sure you see the coke first, said the heavy-set Latin with the guttural Spanish accent, and test it and make sure it turns a deep blue.

He doesn’t have to do that, chirped the reedy-voiced flake. The Supreme Court says all we need is intent to sell. It doesn’t matter what purity or even if its coke.

I’m not wasting five hundred grand on no poor quality coke, snapped the briefcase man. This bust should be worth several million. There’s no damn way I’m going to blow it. I’ll kill the son of a bitch if he tries to pass off cheap dope.

Jason was amused. They planned to bust the poor bastard anyway and put him in the slammer for twenty years. He might as well be dead.

Then Jason began thinking about other potential scenarios. What if one of the major drug rings was actually here in this town with all their heavy guns, and what if there was a wild shootout? A lot of people could get hurt. Then this sleepy little town would definitely not be the place to be anywhere near. Maybe he and Larry should go further on down the coast. If they ever got caught between the crazies and the ruthless drug runners, it could be disastrous.

Jason had already had enough problems in his lifetime without having a few bullets pumped into him. It was fascinating listening to those thugs. But when the fireworks started he preferred to read about it in the newspapers in the safety of his own living room."

Suddenly the six men moved out of the booth and walked towards the door. The man with the briefcase approached the cashier, placed the briefcase on the floor and reached in his pocket for some money. He fumbled for a few seconds and then slowly counted out the bills.

But to make sure he took off his sunglasses and scrutinized the check as if he half expected the waitress to try and cheat him. It was comical. There he stood with half a million dollars, and he was worried he might be gypped out of a few cents.

Jason watched him closely and studied his features. That was one man he did not want to ever see again. If he did he would go in the opposite direction.

It was the thick black bushy eyebrows that first caught his attention. They seemed to be almost plastered on his forehead, and then cascaded down over beady brutal pig eyes that burst out from a swollen pock-marked face like a frog.

Then there was the mustache, always the macho mustache to give the Marlboro machismo look, but on that thug it typified more of a Stalinist brutality. And it was thick and dark and bushy like the eyebrows, but scraggly. There was no beard. None of the group had a beard, but five of the six had the mustache with their dark sun glasses. Anything to cover their Mephistophelian demeanor and shield their anonymity.

The briefcase man suddenly turned and scrutinized the restaurant, drilling his pig-eyed hatred into everyone’s soul.

Jason buried his head in his hands and slowly rubbed his face as if his brain had not completely awakened and was waiting for the coffee’s ingredients to do their job. Subtly he separated the fingers of his left hand to peek.

The briefcase man was staring directly at him. Jason’s heart froze. Slowly he closed his fingers and began methodically massaging his facial features to keep them hidden.

After several seconds, yet what seemed like several minutes, he carefully looked again. His tormentor was gone.

Jason could see the agents huddled at the far end of the parking lot gesturing at each other. As they continued to talk it was obvious there was a mounting hostility in the group. But it ended quickly. They split up and went off to their respective cars.

The briefcase man opened the trunk of his blue Chevy Nova and carefully placed the brief case inside and shut the lid. He turned and shouted a few more things at his brethren and even took a few steps in their direction before he realized that any more discussion would be futile. He promptly walked back to his car, opened the door, got in and drove off, squealing his tires as he went, leaving a whiff of acrid white smoke as a souvenir.

Jason shook his head and reflected on the encounter. He had heard many stories while in prison but had always taken everything with a grain of salt and a liberal bit of skepticism. But eavesdropping on that sordid group confirmed everything he had ever heard.

One account suddenly came cascading down to his mind about a drug dealer who had amassed several hundred thousand dollars of South African Krugerrands and buried them at his ranch on the slopes of Mauna Kea on the Big Island of Hawaii. Somehow some of the DEA thugs had gotten wind of the buried treasure. They came to him in prison and guaranteed that they would slash his ten-year sentence in half if he would reveal the location of the Krugerrands, ostensibly so the agents could turn them into the government as ill-gotten fruits of an illegal enterprise.

Ten years out of a man’s life in prison is devastating, something that no one can fully comprehend until he is there. Everything he has on the outside slowly evaporates until there is nothing left. Solzhenitsyn summed it up in his prolific books about Soviet prison camps when he said a year in prison is punishment, two years is tolerable, but anything beyond that is superfluous and redundant and destroys a man.

Ten years can annihilate anyone and cripple even the most productive and enterprising individual. When the DEA offered the inmate a reduction of five years, it was like a second lease on life.

Charlie was taken in chains from Boron in the early hours of a June morning by the DEA agents and flown to Hawaii. Seven DEA agents accompanied him to his ranch to make sure he didn’t try to ‘escape’.

The search took several hours since the gold had been hidden in an area where some of the landmarks had been altered. Threats almost turned to violence and tempers flared frequently among the treasure hunters. Finally the cache was unearthed.

While Charlie stood handcuffed to a tree, he watched in horror as the frenzied agents ripped open the briefcase and began stuffing the gold coins in their pockets while shoving and pushing and even striking out at each other amidst wild profanities that punctuated the still Hawaiian mountain air like so many gun shots. In a flash the booty disappeared.

Charlie was hustled back to the car, flown to Honolulu, then back to prison in California. He never received a day off of his ten year sentence.

When Jason had heard the story he had thought about it for some time. It bothered him that such injustices do occur, but felt helpless to do anything about it. Now he had witnessed the internal operations of such a scam and had listened to the scammers plot their nefarious deed.

8:28 a.m.

Jason’s day-dreaming was interrupted by a 1978 black Volkswagen Rabbit that pulled into the parking lot and eased its way into the briefcase man’s spot. Slowly it came to a halt. The door opened and out stepped Larry wearing his inverted white sailor cap, his trademark.

For the past twenty five years Larry had driven his trusty, little, black VW beetle. Investing in a new VW Rabbit ten years ago was one of the most momentous decisions he had ever made in his entire life.

As he slowly walked towards the restaurant, Jason’s thoughts reflected on their long friendship and all the things that they had been through together.

Larry glanced over at Jason’s Honda and knew that Jason was already waiting for him. He quickened his pace. At six feet, five inches, his strides were long yet careful to carry his overweight frame. Larry still wore the same tortoise shell frame glasses he had in college. His grayish-blond crew cut looked rather out of place for his age, height and build.

But Larry was an electrical engineer and most engineers seem to exist within a rigid framework, preferring to run their lives and regulate their appearance the same way they operate their multitude of gadgets, with a simple and precise monotonous routine.

Being so rigid, Larry was extremely resistant to any change once he had made a decision. Jason knew that Larry had decided where they were going to dive today, and that was that. No amount of talk about gun-toting Narcs and dope pushers was going to make any difference.

Larry came through the door, glanced around the room, grinned when he saw Jason and walked towards him. As he slid his huge frame into the booth he said, Hi, old buddy. Been waiting long?

Larry motioned to the waitress to bring some coffee.

Jason leaned over and said, Larry, you wouldn’t believe what just happened here. Six narcs with half a million bucks were planning a big drug bust! A half a million dollars in a briefcase on the floor right next to my leg!

Jason pointed down beside him.

The waitress appeared with Larry’s coffee and smiled down at Jason.

Jason smiled back, then impetuously blurted, You free tonight?

The waitress seemed somewhat taken aback as the smile slowly faded from her face. She hesitated for a moment, somewhat at a loss for words, and then responded, I’ll think about it.

She turned and wiggled off, knowing that Jason’s eyes were disrobing her.

Larry chuckled and said, Jason, you’ve only been in this town half an hour and already you’re trying to hustle everything in sight.

Jason quickly collected his thoughts and continued about the narcs, but Larry was not interested and cut him off.

Jason, said Larry slowly, earnestly and methodically, so you listened to those guys. How do you know if there actually was any money or if it was just a bunch of malarkey? Anyway, what difference does it make? Just forget about those guys.

Yeah, but what if there’s a shootout? I sure as hell don’t want to get any bullet holes in me.

You’ve heard too many jail stories, Larry responded as he sipped his coffee and leaned back against the seat eyeing Jason with paternalistic skepticism.

Those guys are nuts, said Jason becoming more irritated with Larry’s insensitivity. They would just as soon blow your head off.

Well, forget about them, said Larry. We’re going to have a great day. I see no reason for you to be so concerned about them. I’m sure you’ll never see them again.

But a half a million bucks, Larry. Can you imagine that? Right next to my leg?

Forget about that too, old buddy. You’ll never see that much money in your life. Ever since they put you in the pokey, your imagination grows by leaps and bounds and is way out of control. But, anyway, let me tell you about this area and why we picked it.

We, blurted Jason. We, he repeated. Is there someone else?

Jason was used to spending the occasional weekend with Larry retelling old stories over and over again, like going back through time together. Larry was like a brother, a father confessor, someone he could bounce his psychological traumas off of and who would always offer a sympathetic ear. And Larry did likewise, even though neither accepted each other’s advice.

Larry had two ex-wives, both with their own children, but he never had any of his own. And those step kids had caused some nasty domestic problems which had eventually broken up both marriages.

After damning all stepchildren with a religious passion, he went off and did it again, married a 35-year old woman with a twelve-year old daughter who was a spoiled, bitchy little brat. No amount of reasoning or cajoling by Jason could prevent the marriage. As soon as the papers were signed, Larry began to wonder if he had made a terrible mistake.

Ah, Steve, this guy in our office, Larry said apologetically. "We got talking one day about skin diving, and he described this place as the last abalone