Authors: Jon Cole
The Junkman Cometh
The seed for an illicit enterprise was conceived years earlier at Bahn Pee Lek’s by some American army brats from ISB and a few GIs. On my third trip back to Thailand, I had stumbled into a couple of ISBers who had been among that original group. It was uncanny how the conversational fantasies we had engaged in those many years ago as kids sitting around a bong in that little shack were becoming a reality. One big difference was that back then we spoke of how to smuggle reefer, but now we were all adult junkies smuggling heroin. Through them, I was introduced to the others who had completed this same unenviable cycle and were involved in the same nefarious endeavor.
In dozens of trips over the next four years, a similar scenario would repeat itself in various and slightly different ways. There were variations on the concealment tricks, differing quantities, sometimes different receivers or players.
I usually operated alone, but at times worked with up to four companions. It was dependent upon whether I was working for myself or for the Group, a loose confederation of a few former ISBers and ex-GIs, most with a history of association with Bahn Pee Lek.
The Group would find mules (couriers) to carry the contraband, then engage my services to score the dope, load them up and teach the expendables how to behave in order to get past Customs. I only lost two mules at the Dallas Customs search.
Sandy was one of the American kids at ISB when I attended there. He was now living in Thailand, married to a local girl and working at a travel agency just down the lane from the Honey Hotel on Soi 19. Having no involvement with the business of the Group even though he knew some of them, he was way outside the loop. We would have dinner, a drink or smoke a joint together whenever our paths crossed, but that was it. I got the feeling that his Thai wife did not care for me, perhaps with good cause. It also seemed that she had him on a very short leash.
When I told him about a list of former International School Bangkok students with their current addresses that I had obtained from one of the former bad boys at the school, Sandy suggested that we should give it to ISB in order to start an alumni association. He had money making visions of organizing reunions in Bangkok through his tour group. I agreed with him, but for different, and nefarious, reasons that had been vaguely inferred from suggestions by others in the Group. Sandy and I went together and spoke with the then school administrator, who accepted the list which was eventually used by another alum, Mimi. She followed through with the creation of an officially sanctioned ISB alumni association. Much to his trepidation, my acquaintanceship with Sandy would come in handy later.
I had changed my cover from gemstone import – exporter to snakeskin import – exporter and was selling hand-selected python hides to bootmakers in El Paso, Texas as quickly as I could deliver them. Even my cover business was making money without much effort. The cash box inside an antique trunk at the Tulsa storage unit was at first growing to overflow levels. I even stopped counting how much I had put into it. Now, however, it seemed to be dwindling at an atrocious rate.
The reason? All the while, I was becoming my own best customer and costing myself more money, not just by my frivolous spending, but also by using up more and more of my illicit product to feed the monkey that was fastened to my back like that first bag of Double UOGlobe.
The dope would start to run out and the yearning for Thailand would kick in. Not long thereafter, I would be off to Bangkok flying in First Class because it made me feel like maybe I was “first class”. The problem with easy money is that it does not spend well. I would tip so much that it could make the waiter almost puke. When haggling for a service for anything, I would suggest that they were not charging enough just to see the expression on their faces. These and other no-class, big-spending-asshole character traits had become typical of me in this period.
The pretty little Arkansas girl whom I had met two years earlier through a fellow Tulsa jewelry store owner and cocaine dealer seemed less excited to see me each time I would surprise her with a rudely unannounced visit. Her name was Deb, an overseas army brat also. Many years later she became my wife and the mother of my children. She could flash her big hazel brown eyes and rivet you with the same disconcerting look that my high school English teacher employed to express her displeasure. In the beginning though, I think Deb may have liked my dog Butchie more than she liked me. In fact, I am sure that she loved Butchie long before she ever loved me. I know that I loved her first.
Butchie died on Halloween night 1984. The next day I bought a two-acre lakefront lot outside of Branson, Missouri just to have a place to bury him. Now the only thing that wanted any attention from me was that monkey on my back and it only liked me when I fed it.
The week after Butchie’s death, I was back on a flight to Bangkok and telling myself, “So what if you like drugs and whores? That’s the mustard & mayo on the sandwich of life.” It’s a big problem though if that is all you have for your effing sandwich.
From Bad To Worse In A Hurry
A few more trips and one year later, I made the last fateful flight to Bangkok, with Dennis in tow. I had purchased both our tickets at Thai Inter in Dallas. The next two weeks passed in the normal manner – buying snakeskins, getting an export permit from The Royal Thai Forestry Department, buying a quantity of heroin through our Thai buyer and, of course, over-indulging in more Bangkok-style R&R.
Dennis left Thailand first with his own load of contraband, running his own sideline business outside the Group’s auspices. Two weeks later, his wife called, all in tears. Dennis had been busted in the DC area on a DEA (Drug Enforcement Agency) sting and was facing Federal drug and gun charges. I told her I would be returning soon to try to arrange his bail.
I assumed the DEA knew that I had purchased his ticket and knew that I was still in Bangkok. I was sure they would be waiting for me at Dallas upon my return. After speaking with one of the other Group members who had spoken with Dennis, I learned that the DEA did not know how we were concealing the dope during transport. They had missed most of what Dennis had, even after tossing his hotel room where it was sitting in plain sight. This was small solace. I knew they would tear me apart as soon as I hit Customs in Dallas.
My new plan was to load up using the currently successful concealment regimen. Then, during the two-hour layover at Narita in Japan, I would walk across the terminal and board a Japan Airlines flight to Vancouver with only my carry-on bag. That flight would have me in Canada before the Thai Inter flight could arrive in Dallas. I would even be off the plane and on a bus and across the border into Washington state before being missed at Dallas-Fort Worth airport. It was all I could come up with. As usual, I thought I was so clever.
First, I had to be sure that I was not going to be detained as I left Bangkok. On the morning I was to depart, I went to Don Muang airport clean, no dope, and stood in line for my luggage check-in and boarding pass. I handed my ticket to the lady there and set my bags on the scales. She started processing and began tagging my bags. Feigning distress, I suddenly told her that I had left my briefcase either in the cab or back at the hotel and could not leave without it. I explained that it had all my documents, export permits, invoices, and other important papers. Collecting my bags and ticket, I walked across the terminal to the ticket office and rescheduled a flight for two weeks later. I caught a cab to the Rose Hotel, where I had rented a room the day before. That room already housed my briefcase and my load of contraband.
With a typical feeling of smug satisfaction that my plan to switch flights at Narita would work and sure that the Thais were not going to stop me from leaving, I settled in for the wait. I spent that time with my Thai friend Joy. She looked like a tiny Tina Turner.
Joy was a retired dancer/prostitute who had saved almost every dime she had ever made. On top of that, now she was a long time go-to heroin buyer for the Group. She owned a barbershop and bar on Soi 19 where she received updates concerning Dennis from other Group people. She was one of the few Group members who was a Thai national; our relationship beyond the drug business was strictly platonic.
The next two weeks seemed like only two days, and then it was time to fly. I prepared for the flight as usual – by taking an injection of smack followed by a few drops of Visine to get the red out of my eyes, and then a few drops of a pupil-dilating mydriatic eye solution that counters the pupil constriction caused by opiates. (One of the signs that drug enforcement agents look for are bloodshot eyes and constricted pupils.) The Valium kept your hands from shaking nervously, which was another telltale sign they look for.
I had always used these tactics in combination with sunglasses. That way I could walk up to the Customs officers, remove my shades and with clear eyes look them in the eye while not exhibiting any nervousness.
Customs agents are also trained to notice where you are looking while they are searching your bags. Your eyes unconsciously want to give you away by reverting back to the location of any illicit thing you may have in your bags. An effective counter-ploy was to make a conscious effort to look almost anywhere else. I used to pretend to leer at the ass of the closest semi-attractive female in sight and seem not to be interested in what the search of my bags may or may not reveal. Having two large bags of snakeskins to be placed in bond for the Customs brokers also helped divert interest from my small carry-on bag where the dope was located..
I had contracted a case of conjunctivitis, or pink eye, in one of my eyes only a few days before. It would turn out to be a fortunate malady later. At the time though, it required another round of different medicated eye drops that needed to be applied.. On the way to the airport, I swallowed a couple of Valium and was soon standing again at the check-in counter for Thai International and almost handed her my Narita to Vancouver JAL ticket. Catching my mistake before it was noticed, I handed the correct ticket to the lady behind the counter, waited while she tagged the two large bags of snakeskins, processed my ticket, and then handed me my boarding pass. I did not know until later that receiving a boarding pass was the proof of intent to leave the Kingdom, something required in order to be charged with smuggling. This is why I had not been accosted on my trial run two weeks earlier.
As I turned to leave, a tall Thai man flanked by a few younger men walked up to me. Introducing himself as Colonel Amarit of the Bangkok Metro Narcotics Suppression Division, he invited me to follow him. His sidekicks took my briefcase, my carry-on bag, and the two large bags of snakeskins. They followed closely behind as we entered a room with a large metal-top table.
In very adequate English, he asked “How much heroin do you have?”
“I have none,” I assured him.
From the opposite side of the room, a very tall, powerful-looking
farang
approached. He handed me his card and said, “Hello, I am also an American.” His card read “DEA special agent Clifford Best”. “We have been waiting for you. Do you know this guy?” he asked, handing me a sheaf of papers with the name Dennis Kennaugh on the cover.
My simple reply was “You know I do.”
Two of the young cops were slowly starting to go through the two bags of snakeskins while another was meticulously sorting through the contents of my small leather carry-on which he had dumped out on the tabletop. The first thing he picked up was my syringe in a plastic bag with a small bottle of insulin. This prompted the colonel to check my arms for tracks, which he found after he instructed me to remove my sport coat. “Looks like he has seen that fake diabetic trick before,” scoffed Agent Best.
When the plastic bag with my assortment of eye drops was being examined, I removed my sunglasses showing my one drippy pink eye. “Does this look like a trick too?” I asked in a derisive tone. To my amazement, the articles were then returned to my leather carry-on bag. Also, after cursory examination, a bottle of nose spray which was heavily laced with dissolved heroin, a small bottle of aspirin, and a small bottle of about four or five Valium were placed back in the leather bag. Meanwhile, a bottle of vitamins with a childproof cap was frustrating one inspector. Upon finally opening it, he picked at the lid and was rewarded for his efforts by finding the small quantity of smack that I had intended for use on the long flight. At that point, the cuffs went onto my wrists with my hands together in front of me, and the luggage inspection was renewed with a vengeance. Box cutters were whipped out and my padded briefcase was dissected. My tube of toothpaste, a travel-size bottle of shaving cream and a bottle of after shave lotion suffered the same fate. Upon finding nothing, the cops placed the contents in individual baggies and returned them to my carry-on, along with toothbrush and razor. The colonel laughed and said that I might need these later in jail.
Then my large bottle of suntan lotion was cut open and it was revealed that the thick contents inside were different from the actual suntan lotion in a tiny separate bladder that squirted out the top. When it was tested and found to be heroin paste, the excitement of the assembled inspectors was almost palpable.
The young cops going through my snakeskin shipment started finding the bags of baking soda wrapped in the taped paper coffee filters that I packed in with the hides to prevent humidity and moisture damage. At that point, you would have thought they were going to wet themselves. It was a cruel letdown for them to discover the true nature of the powder when it was tested. Their excitement was quashed.
The colonel asked if I was carrying anything internally. I told him that I was not, which was true and I suggested that perhaps an X-ray would assure him of the fact. Strangely enough, my response satisfied him. They still had not found all that I had in my small leather bag after they had searched it so thoroughly. I thought that was as odd as it was fortuitous. It was a prime example of dumb luck. The monkey on my back was squealing with delight … for the moment.
I was duly hustled into a car whose air conditioning vents had trouble reaching me in the backseat sandwiched between two young narc cops. It had been hours now since my last fix and I was starting to feel sick. My mind was reeling and still stuck in the “ Is this really happening?” mode.
When the car turned down Soi 15 off Sukumvit Road, I was momentarily dumbstruck till I blurted out, speaking to them in Thai for the first time, “Where in the hell are we going?” The two young men on either side of me were visibly taken aback.
Not so the colonel who turned to me from the front seat with a devious grin and speaking to me in Thai for the first time said, “We are going to see your teacher at The International School, and she will slap you on your head.”
About that time my mind started to go. With reality rapidly slipping away, as if I was dreaming or hallucinating, I felt I was almost in an out-of-the-body experience – except for the fact that the monkey on my back was screeching as my stomach started turning over, reminding me that my body and the monkey both craved more heroin.
The only thing that saved me from completely losing it was the firm belief that Ms Saluga would never slap me on the head. As we passed the Manhattan Hotel and turned through the gate of a compound, I saw a small sign saying “Bangkok Metro Narcotics Suppression Division”. Things started to make sense to me again. I did not know that their offices were in a large house in a compound on the same
soi
where my high school alma mater was located.
The stateside DEA interrogation of Dennis had apparently revealed our old International School Bangkok connection. The coincidence of the colonel’s offices and the International School being on the same
soi
was not lost on the colonel, who obviously enjoyed playing mind games.
Being a world class asshole myself, I enjoyed playing mind games as much as the next guy. Now it was my turn. Once inside, I was interrogated
ad infinitum
and
ad nauseam
by both the Thais and the DEA. Even though I supplied them with an as yet unsigned, handwritten confession concerning that morning’s transgression at the airport, they were not satisfied. They wanted to know about the Group. I told them that they had been watching too much TV.
That smartass remark infuriated the colonel who grabbed me by the shoulders and raised his voice. “Who is behind you?” he demanded to know.
I turned and, looking behind me, saw Cliff Best smiling. When I turned back to the colonel and answered “Clifford Best”, the colonel went ballistic, cursing at me loudly in Thai.
That drew the direct intervention of a uniformed man in an adjacent room whom I had noticed had been eavesdropping for the whole length of the interrogation. He directed the colonel to send me into his office. I entered, carrying my confession statement with me. The door was closed behind me and the officer, whose uniform insignia showed that he was a Thai Police general, told me to sit.
In excellent English, he asked me what my problem was. I told him that although I had written my true confession about being at the airport with heroin, the colonel did not allow me sign it because he was asking me for more information – information that I did not have. I told him that the colonel had threatened to take me to the end of the
soi
and have me beaten. At that point, the general summoned the colonel into the room and asked if he had threatened to have me beaten at the end on the
soi.
The colonel, now very flustered, tried lamely in an attempt to explain the head game he had played with me, but the general cut him off and summarily dismissed him.
The general asked if I was willing still to sign my confession. I indicated that I was.
I explained that the bags of snakeskins were on consignment from a legitimate Thai business associate and asked if I could call him to come pick them up. After I signed the next few years of my life away by affixing my name to the confession, I was allowed that call. When that call was not answered, I requested to call
a farang
acquaintance to ask if he would come pick them up.
I think that since the request involved another American expat, he called Clifford Best into his office. I assured Agent Best that my former schoolmate Sandy, who had a travel agency on the next block over, on Soi 19, was not involved in my illegal undertakings or I would not have ever mentioned his name. This obviously rang true … because it was.
I called Sandy, who to his credit came without hesitation and carried away the snakeskin bags to return them to my Thai consignor. I suppose that I had strained the relationship with Sandy to its limit. I would not see him again for almost twenty- years. He never came to visit me in prison; but then again, I had never asked him to.
From Soi 15, I was transported to Don Muang police station and dropped off with my remaining property. I would be there for one week until my first court appearance. The captain of the station wanted to do his own intake and interrogation. I told him the same thing I had told Colonel Amarit. All my possessions were re-inspected and itemized. A small leather bag containing toiletries, a cut-up briefcase containing business documents, a pair of clear lens glasses in a case, $6,800 in US dollars and a few thousand Thai baht were noted on the receipt. I then signed for my stuff.