After Dark Lounge
In the warm glow created from his third zombie, Jacob Tower sat at a table admiring the scantily clad waitresses as they flittered from customer to customer. "Interesting place, this After Dark Lounge," he mumbled. "A mild-mannered fruit bar by day, but a red-hot den of iniquity at night. Good use of square footage, too. Sort of the Jekyll and Hyde of resort lounge architecture."
"Would you care for more, señor?" asked someone next to him. Looking up, Jacob saw one of the lounge butterflies waiting expectantly.
"Oh, no. I haven't finished this one. They're quite tasty. Perhaps later," smiled Jacob.
"Sí, señor. Just call when you are ready," she replied, returning his smile before moving on to the next customer.
He watched the waitress as she maneuvered around the bamboo furniture and through the dark shadows cast from the artificial palm trees.
"Oh, who's that I see being escorted by two tall, dark, handsome Latin men?" chuckled Jacob. "Why, it's that TICoK Iowa district manager, Mary Garrotte! She hasn't wasted any time getting into the swing of things. In a resort like this, the best money can buy is always readily available."
"You shouldn't talk to yourself when you're drunk. You may give away state secrets," whispered a figure in the shadows behind him.
Almost spilling what remained in his glass, Jacob spun around to see Gabriel Israphel, casually dressed as usual, but with a tired and drawn look about him. Smiling, Jacob put a finger to his lips and gestured for Gabriel to sit.
"What took you so long? You're over an hour late!" whispered Jacob.
"I was detained with a case," shrugged Gabe. "Now, what do you want? I need to get back soon."
Giving Gabe a knowing nod, Jacob shared some of the details that his "operative," Dennis Tantara, had uncovered while in Caracas.
"Yes, that's very interesting," agreed Gabe. "And you have documented proof, I hope?"
Feeling a bit hurt by Gabe's question, Jacob's normally tight self-control slipped. With a blush showing on his cheeks that was more than the three zombies had caused, Jacob spurted, "Of course I'm documenting everything! I don't normally have an opportunity for the glamor and intrigue that you experience on a daily basis, but I always have my forms and evidence in order!"
"'Glamor and Intrigue'?" grimaced Gabe as he rubbed the sides of his head as if trying to force something out of his mind. Regaining his composure, Gabe lowered his hands, and looked directly at Jacob.
"You're not very well-informed about what makes up my world. In reality, the cloak and dagger stuff happens only in cheap pulp fiction and B movies."
"But I often see the results of your work in the news," remarked Jacob.
"Yes, I suppose you do," smirked Gabe. "But there's seldom any real resolution in the cases, and many times it's difficult to tell the good guys from the bad ones. Too often the only way I find out which they were is after we close the case or they're dead. Factions and force are what rule this world. Intrigue is just a polite term for offenses against the moral fabric of society."
"Oh, come on, Gabe," exclaimed Jacob as he blundered on, too drunk to see the warning signs from Gabe's expression. "I know you guys have access to the highest levels of government, are invited to all the posh embassy parties, and help visiting rulers sort out domestic upheavals and the like. The news media just love reporting on the FBI. You guys in your black suits and dark sunglasses put glamor in law enforcement."
Shining with an inner fire in the lounge's dim light, Gabe's eyes narrowed as he leaned toward Jacob.
"Let me share a bit of this case I'm currently working on," he remarked slowly and carefully. "None of this is classified, and if you see it pop up in the news media reports you'll understand just how glamorous my job can be."
"Okay, I'm listening," replied Jacob, surprised at Gabe's serious tone.
"We've just assisted with a sting operation at a nearby international airport," explained Gabe quietly. "This was a large drug bust. We're on a constant vigil searching for drug trafficking channels, and once we find them we act as quickly as possible to cut them off.
"Most people think of drug trafficking as their local junkie selling little bags of powder and weeds on street corners, but in reality it's a big international business."
"Yes, I know what you mean," nodded Jacob. "If people would multiply those little bags by the number of drug users, the volume would become truckloads! Those sales create a heck of a lot of money, too."
"What do you suppose the drug cartels do with all that money, Jacob?" queried Gabe. "Buy a château on the Rivera? Purchase farmland in the US? Invest in T Bills? They certainly don't use it to improve the impoverished countries where the drugs come from."
"Well, we see many ways that people use insurance and investment companies to launder money," replied Jacob, his zombie now forgotten. "I never really thought much about how it's done outside the US. I guess I always assumed that drug lords sat in their plantations surrounded by bodyguards, living like kings while the money flowed in."
"Drug lords?" Gabe grumbled. He scowled as if he'd tasted something bitter. "More like warlords. The sale of drugs is a widely used means of funding weapons purchases for rebellions and religious wars. In fact, both factions involved in the conflicts may be selling the same drugs to increase their respective arsenals.
"Since most of the people producing the drugs aren't stupid enough to be using them, they have large quantities to sell to organized crime in the United States and Europe. The biggest problem for them is finding ways to smuggle it. Manpower and especially devotees to a popular cause are the key.
"If one faction is viewed as being Holier or a bigger champion of the People, the 'true believers' are more inclined to sacrifice themselves and their families to sell the drugs. Martyrdom is effectively marketed as a path to God and moves those shipments with religious fervor.
"Both the simple-minded and the devout are sacrificed for the economic benefit of the warring factions," explained Gabe. "The most common means of doing this is for the people to swallow condoms filled with heroin, cocaine or some other drug and transport it to a marketable destination.
"For unknown reasons, the champions of religious or governmental rule buy cheap condoms that often break inside the carriers' digestive tracts. The 'true believers' die painfully shortly after the drug gets into their bloodstreams. Luckily, we've found ways to detect many of the couriers, and with the help of laxatives the truth comes out in the end."
Despite the grim nature of Gabe's tale, Jacob let out a snort of laughter.
"Oh, sorry Gabe," he remarked. "The booze is affecting my reserve."
"Sounds morbidly funny, I know, but the truth gets much grimmer," continued Gabe. "Sometimes wily and desperate drug dealers convince their followers that new sacrifices must be made to ensure victory in their holy war. The drugs must get to market so that they'll have enough money for desperately needed weapons purchases. Now the 'true believers' are asked to sacrifice even their children.
"I just came from an autopsy of a six-month-old baby. All of its internal organs had been removed. Nine one-kilo bags of heroin were sewn up inside its abdomen. After the baby was stuffed with the bags, the child was given back to its mother and she was sent to deliver the drugs. The shipment would have slipped past us if one of our drug-sniffing dogs hadn't also been trained as a cadaver dog.
"The cherubic apparently sleeping baby became nothing more than the most recent sacrifice to acquire the latest in weapons technology. Because rigor mortis had not yet set in on the baby, it was determined that the child had been gutted alive and had been dead for less than two to four hours."
Jacob stared at Gabe in horror.
"And about those 'highest levels of government posh embassy parties,' and helping 'visiting rulers sort out domestic upheavals,' do you really think that work is recreational for me? Those events are just more links in the drug money ball and chain. While drugs are moving down the chain to the users, the money moves up the chain to the producers. After it gets into the producers' hands, the money moves further up the chain to gunrunners.
"Once the payments are made, the weapons are delivered. And during all that black market commerce, more people are murdered, children are robbed of their futures, and lives are destroyed."
Jacob remained stunned and silent as Gabe continued his tale.
"We know that on one end of the chain are the junkie and the recreational drug user. I'm sure you've seen the slick, successful Yuppie in the sharkskin business suit who sees snorting cocaine with a rolled up hundred-dollar bill as a fashion statement. They're some of the ones who pump a lot of money into the chain.
"But who do you suppose is on the other end, close to rocket launchers, automatic weapons and landmines? Mafia? Warlords? No, it's jolly middle-aged men whose names usually start with 'Van' or 'De' and who live in Brussels or Antwerp. Those are the faceless weapons brokers who never actually touch a gun or explosives, but schedule deliveries to both sides in conflicts all around the world.
"Those gunrunners appear to be ordinary businessmen who are sometimes seen at meetings in the 'highest levels of government' and 'posh embassy parties.' They conduct their business of providing the incentives for mindless destruction and stoke the fires of endless conflict. Their innocent-looking business transactions cause tragic losses of life like that of the six-month-old baby I told you about."
"Gabe, I think you've made your point," stated Jacob uncomfortably, shaking himself from his paralysis.
"Oh, I suppose I have, Jacob, but please listen to the rest of my tale," frowned Gabe. "At the end of a typical business day they travel home, having never personally bloodied their hands, and sit down to a nice evening meal of blutwurst and cabbage with their families. Those are the people who 'help rulers sort out domestic upheavals,' not me. I'm just the one who has to watch them 'help' and try to clean up the mess later.
"So, Jacob, the next time you feel envious of me for my glamorous job, think about that heroin-stuffed baby. Imagine how you'd feel watching a coroner pull bags of drugs from the abdomen of a truly innocent victim of petty political power struggles. After all that I've seen and heard, I remain without the capacity to understand how anyone can live knowing they've ordered children murdered for their own personal gain.
"Perhaps you can answer some nagging questions that persist in my glorious job," asked Gabe, leaning close to Jacob, his voice barely above a whisper. "How much blood spilled and how many lives ruined are enough before the end no longer justifies the means? What 'true believer' can justify murdering their own child? What great and benevolent God would ask for that sacrifice to prove fidelity? What businessmen would design their corporate structure around encouraging and supplying the tools to make that possible?"
"Gabe, I…" stammered Jacob as he gazed into Gabe's haunted eyes. Looking down in shock and embarrassment, Jacob released his vice-like grip on the drink he was holding and carefully placed his hands on the table before him.
"Why do you keep doing your job? How can you stand it? What can —?"
Gabe cut him off with a shake of his head. "I do it in the hopes that some day I can, in some small way, make a difference.
"I'll keep in touch with you on your case," Gabe stated frankly, his face lined with fatigue. "If I can help, I'll get back to you as soon as possible. Good luck!" With a nod, Gabe stood and strode off, keeping to the shadowy palms, looking like no more than an evening imbiber who had had a bit too much fun.
Jacob Tower remained silent, watching Gabe as he left the bar.
With a sigh, he took a long drink of his zombie and whispered, "What a big ass I've been!" He sat for a long time under the shadowy artificial palms, trying to adjust to his new awareness of the world around him. Unfortunately for Jacob, he realized his new reality was not an improvement on the old one.