Fluke of the Day

Even now, after all these years, I don’t really understand why the authorities had such a tough time finding us.  It’s not like we were master criminals...  or even sworn to the Italian omerta.  We were just a bunch of crazies with a modest amount of common sense and a little more balls than normal.  Virtually every bust that happened was a fluke.   Were there people who spilled the beans?  Sure.  Did people go down from it?  Yes again.  But it was almost always a fluke that started the ball rolling.

Frequently, someone was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.  It could be a traffic stop gone wrong or a cop inhaling a whiff of smoke that escaped from an open window.  It could be a cop mistakenly thinking you were a robbery suspect but then finding a pocket full of cash or a box of pot.  And the funny thing was that we were so damned obvious.  It got to the point where I’d pull into a diner, look at the vehicles in the lot and know instantly if a deal was going down.  You could go to a phone booth and just know that the person hanging out there was doing business.  I never quite understood how we got away with so much for so long. 

We had car phones before the cops could listen in.  The serious smuggler types had satellite phones but we were fine with payphones and beepers.  Occasionally, I’d see someone I didn’t know hanging at a payphone but managed to make eye contact with.  We’d just smile and nod, knowing that we were both in the same game.  Surprisingly, I don’t recall ever doing business with someone I met like that but it was more from paranoia than anything else.  Even though I was sure I was clean, I wasn’t sure of the other guy.  It’s tough to work with tons of contraband and rely on blind intuition.  We always thought we were vulnerable but it was almost always the fluky moments that got people busted.

I could swear I previously wrote about this incident but in re-reading the material I can’t find it.  So here’s a ‘fluke of the day’ story...  We had rented a loft-type space just north of Union Square West on 17th Street in Manhattan and were using it as a stash and central location for a while in the middle 70s.  The building was five floors with a loft on every floor.  There was an elevator that opened into each loft.  (Although it wasn’t uncommon since these loft-type areas had originally been commercial spaces, it was still pretty nice to have a private elevator with a key lock that you could turn on and off.)  Our space was on the fourth floor and the elevator opened into a relatively small office area with a desk, a few chairs and some shelving.  The main section of the space was separated by a flimsy faux wall that had a door opening onto a huge living area.

This main space was probably 40 feet long by 20 feet wide and perfect for what we were doing.  The big Ohaus scale could be covered and all our other equipment could be hidden when not in use.  In truth, it was a typically perfect spot to deal from with a locked elevator, locked staircase, storage space that was isolated from the entry, windows that only revealed the space up to the faux wall.  The streets below were always crowded and busy, but up in our loft it was an entirely different story...  the ultimate in space management...  which was something that we grew to appreciate more and more as the business expanded.  Controlled access was essential to staying out of harm’s way.  It prevented everything from rip-offs to fluke busts.  Fluke?  right...  back to the fluke...

So it’s a nice fall day and we had taken in a couple of bales of top-notch Jamaican weed.  As usual, we were breaking it down into five pound bags, weighing them on the Ohaus, making sure the mixtures were fair, and checking the overall weight to confirm what we were paying for.  A customer and his girlfriend came by early to pick up a few bags.  (They had folks that were in from out of town and had cash to spend.)  Meantime, we’re hanging out, tasting the stuff, getting high as usual.  The weed was very very good.  In those days, good Jamaican rivaled anything from South America and we loved it.  Ganga was good.  A few other friends stopped by to check out the stuff and we’re having a grand time.  This isn’t like other drugs...  You can’t smoke that much weed where it affects the overall weight.  Even a dozen joints wouldn’t change the deal...  so we proceeded to get down and get high. 

Meantime, one of them, Joey, (who it later turned out secretly had a hard drug habit), shows up and joins the party.  It’s a beautiful day...  We’re going to make some dough while hanging out and partying with friends.  The product is great and we’re having a jolly old time.  Until, that is, the elevator door opens and out steps a huge bald guy who looked very much like Kojak (Telly Savales) the tv cop.  Joey, in his state, forgot to lock the elevator door and I, in mine, had forgotten to turn it off.

We were mostly all sitting around in the front area by the elevator, smoking, laughing, having a good time and suddenly, we know we’re all going to jail.  Dead silence...  not a word...  Without thinking, I jump up and get in the open doorway to the back space to block his view of the open five pound plastic bags that are lined up on the floor.  It was like a production line of pot and there was absolutely nothing to prevent him from seeing it, smelling it, and knowing 100% that we were dealing from this loft.  I look around and nobody is laughing any more.  It’s dead silent in the loft.  And Kojak is more than big enough to see past me into the big room.  He’s got Kojak’s bald head, is wearing a Kojak trenchcoat over a suit (like lots of plainclothes cops) and I’m waiting for him to whip out handcuffs or pull his weapon or line us up against a wall.  After all, we’re just pot-dealing hippies, not violent criminal types.  Escape is impossible since the stairs are locked and there’s no running to the elevator.

I look up at Kojak and he focuses on me.  The guy is like 6’4” and 280...  I mean he seemed as wide as a truck in that small space.  But so far, he hasn’t said a word.  He just stepped into the room and slowly took it all in.  At this point, he opens his jacket and reaches inside...  I’m flinching, getting ready to present my hands for the cuffs...  He takes his hand out of his pocket and holds something up in front of me...  It looks like a pen.  I mean huh?  a pen?  And attached to the pen is a little card that says:  “Hello, I am a deaf mute.  Please buy my pen so I can support myself.”

I’m not making this up.  Not only isn’t he a cop, but he’s unable to speak or hear.  After about five poignant seconds, I’m reaching in my pocket for money and pressing a few 20s into his hand...  taking his pen...  and when he reaches back in his pocket, taking all his pens...  then giving him another $50, taking his arm and walking him back to the elevator, pressing the ground floor button...  and riding down with him.  Meantime, he’s got this confused look on his face, possibly wondering what just happened.  He hit the deaf mute pen sales jackpot but he’s not sure why.  

When I get back upstairs, we’re like ‘huh?’  and ‘did that just happen?’  and then I begin pantomiming what he could do...  like find a cop, do a charades version of smoking a joint...  pointing to our doorway...  etc. etc...  A moment later, we’re all in nervous hysterics, wondering what planet we’d landed on.  Believe me...  that Jamaican was some seriously good stuff.  And nobody got hurt.