Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [41]
“That is no answer. There is too much violence, too much confusion. The police are everywhere—we cannot buy them all. We could lose everything.”
“You could lose everything,” the old man countered quickly.
“If I lose, you lose, don’t you see? You cannot distribute effectively in the United States from two thousand miles away. And the people you send to try, they are as ignorant as your flower girls.”
“Perhaps,” the old man said. “Of course, Ignacio, what you conveniently do not mention is that the profits in the United States are much greater than the profits for us here in Colombia. We send high-quality merchandise, and then it is diluted and diluted some more. Each time it is diluted the price doubles. We cannot dilute here for obvious reasons—the merchandise becomes bulkier and much harder to transport. But we are not stupid. We can dilute cocaine with sugar in Miami as well as you can. It is really the same old story—Latin America has always been cheated by the United States, hasn’t it? We sell our raw materials for a pittance and the gringos finish them and make all the money. That is why we are poor and they are rich.”
“OPEC dealt effectively with the gringos, did it not?”
“Is that what you have come to suggest, Ignacio? A cocaine cartel?” The old man laughed, and bits of saliva flecked his white mustache.
“Not a cartel but a partnership between producer and distributor. There is profit enough for all. Los yanquis will pay anything for their precious white powder.”
The visitor from Miami warmed to his task.
“Look, you control about seventy percent of all the merchandise that leaves Colombia, do you not?”
The old man said nothing. It was a shrewd guess.
“And the other big shippers are all friends of yours who will listen if you tell them there is a better way to do business—more profit and less risk. Is that not true as well?”
The old man remained silent.
“What I propose is a partnership in which we share profits and assure greater profits through two simple strategies. First, we organize the distribution efficiently so that everyone has an agreed territory and there is a standard of quality and a standard price.”
“And second?” the old man asked.
“We limit the supply until it is just below the demand.”
“Interesting.”
“And there is a third point as well.”
“Which is?”
“While we work out the agreements, we shut down the supply altogether for a month or so. That will panic the freelancers and force them to the surface.”
“What will that accomplish?”
“While they are milling about in confusion, we will make an example of one or two for all the rest to see. They will not trouble us further.”
“That might work,” the old man conceded.
“It will work,” his visitor insisted. “As evidence of my good faith I have taken the liberty of setting an initial example already.”
The old man looked at him quizzically.
“Do you remember the three hips de puta who tricked your freighter captain one night a little while back? You caught one. We took the other two.”
“Ah, yes. Capitán Veredo. He had served me for a long time. It was a pity. He will rest easier if they are dead, too.”
The old man and his visitor talked for a long time that morning in a restored farmhouse with a commanding view of the flowers. Girls in household livery of white blouses and plaid skirts brought venison, truffles and exquisite Chilean Riesling so dry it puckered the mouth.
It gradually became apparent, as the old man understood the beauty of the alliance, that he would agree to meld two organizations, competitors until now, into one powerful unit. That would make the two men dominant and impregnable. The visitor could hardly contain himself. He would take back with him to Miami that afternoon an agreement that would in time make him rich beyond his wildest dreams. The violence and disorder that had plagued and weakened him would vanish forever. It was the most exciting day of his life. It was the stuff of history.
“Bueno, Ignacio, I believe your plan will work. I will curtail the supply and give