This event took place sometime in January 1970, on a private stretch of beach belonging to Claudio. Pi de la Questa was a sleepy, donkey-riddled haven for dope smokin’ Canucks and Chicago gangsta-types back then. Probably not much different now, eh! Anyways, I was renting a hammock on the beach, a shower in the outdoor stall (the best showers I’ve ever had), and a bowl of shrimp each and everyday from Claudio for a buck.
The fateful day was perhaps the sixth day of my time with the Chicago gangsters. There were two guys and a Spanish speaking, dark-eyed beauty who did the translating. Both the guys sported tiny little .22 caliber automatic handguns. After a couple of drinks and some body-surfing, we’d take target practice and then watch the sun sink behind a curtain of surf.
I had been under their command for a week now, working hard to screen out the seeds, sticks and crappy leaves from the raw pot that they purchased from different farmers here and there. They paid me in pot. It was late in the afternoon of a hard day and all was quiet. There was only a ripple of gentle surf murmuring on the beach. We were sitting under the thatched cabana and having some drinks, smokin’ a joint, when the strange sound of an engine drifted to us. All turned to see the blue Lincoln, still gleaming silently in front of the room with the 120 kilos of screened and bagged weed.
The dark eyed gangster’s moll sat to my left and the Pistolaros with the pee shooters were to her left. The sound of an engine soon multiplied into a convoy of army vehicles carrying enough well-armed Federalies to fight a small war. We were in shock and didn’t move a twitch as they swung into the court yard and emptied out of the troop transports in double time.
Luckily, we were surrounded before my bad Chicago friends had a chance to brandish their pee shooters. All of us had just been laughing and hauling back on an ice cream cone-shaped gagger. Now it burned neglected and intrusively as the lieutenant made his way to stand before us and bark orders. He was a man not to be taken lightly, especially in front of his men.
We were surrounded by about a dozen troops with their rifles pointing at us, while the rest were searching the rooms. The General was now demanding that the Chicago lads be searched and relieved of their silent artillery. These soldiers knew everything. Then the little Hitler was before me, as I sat astride my hammock. He was jabbering authoritative like, at me and stopped all of the sudden. The dark-eyed translator said to me, “He wants you to spit.”
When I looked at her with a puzzled expression, she said,“It’s their test to see if you are stoned.” Now I understood why they were looking for my stash which I had buried a few feet away. I was going to be arrested for smoking pot and possession if they found it.
Don’t ask me why I did what I did next. I don’t know. My mouth was suddenly dry and so I dug deep into my hork-reservoir and came up noisily with something vile from deep in my gut. I made a production of it and as I looked for a place to launch it to, the lieutenant’s eyes and mine locked. He was standing to my left between the girl and I. His troops formed a ring around us. As my eyes traveled to the ground searching for a delivery point, his shiny shoes pleaded with me to spit on them. So I did.
Of all the things I had done in my short life up until this point, this was about the dumbest. His expression changed from smug satisfaction to extreme outrage in a micro second. The insulted officer was so furious that his fingers fumbled at the task of un-holstering his Browning .45 automatic. He then pulled the slide back and jacked a round into the chamber. Next he pointed that big ugly hole, with its lands and grooves, right between my eyes about a foot away.
Everyone else cocked their weapons in a ringing of steel. The lieutenant was red in the face and talking heatedly. In the next instant we were ordered up and began marching, under guard, off the beach.
Now Claudio, who had befriended me because we had the same name, stepped up and began speaking heatedly, on my behalf, with the still-excited lieutenant. After a couple of minutes of gesticulating and shouting, the last two soldiers literally cut me out of the line, by motioning with their rifles. The Chicago girl turned to me as they began to march again and said, “This is your lucky day.” That was the last time I saw her.
