Rick told me a long, rambling tale about how he had finally shaken off his cocaine addiction through clean country living; apparently he was now living on an organic farm in the Dakotas, run by a strange-looking couple. The husband had inherited the family farm, and he and his wife, a former Miami resident, grew organic vegetables to meet the growing American demand for insecticide-free food.

When I  say strange, I mean both physically and mentally. Though the husband had a graduate degree  in chamistry from a university in California, and the wife published some sort of small feel-good newsletter, their weird demeanor was, I would soon learn, the result of their avocation: manufacturing very high-purity methedrine(known as chystal meth) in a building on their farm every month or so. Even though they wore space-age sealed laboratory suits, a sufficient amount of the chemical was absorbed by their bodies to keep them awake for five days, hence their unusual, altered personalities.

Rick had thus exchanged his cocaine addiction for one of a different sort. The farmers needed to stash their illicit profits, as they couldn't make any additional improvements to their farm without attracting attention. My role was to take the profits earned through vending the speed to biker gangs in the Midwest, and hide it offshore.

By then, I already had a box full of shell companies formed in the British Dependent (now known as Overseas) Territories, which is where the money was bulk-cash smuggled into, and it should have ended there, but always expect the unexpected in the world of crime. The farmers' funds were located in the same offshore bank that the DEA and Scotland Yard hit with blanket freeze orders on all accounts owned by nonresidents that I have previously detailed. "Farm" profits were seized, along with those of my cocaine and marijuana smuggling clients.

After the money was liberated (see earlier chapters for the story) through either US governmental negligence or a bribe to the magistrate, the farmers were able to get back the majority of the funds, but the cost of the litigation didn't sit well with them. Then, things got worse, as the husband was indicted for income tax evasion, but he ended up serving only a year or so. A sentence that short was considered by career criminals the cost of doing business.    

These clients were strange, but clearly the most unusual person that I spent time with during my tenure as a money launderer to narcotics smugglers and traffickers was a former marine who associated with one organisation. After serving a tour of duty in Vietnam, upon his arrival in-country the second time, he was assigned to work with our intelligence services, and he spent the second year commanding a group of ethnic non-Vietnamese mercenaries. It was a highly stressful experience, and it changed him.

After the service, and some time in Miami, he worked on an election campaign and then as a draftsman in a construction project in Chicago, where he met J.R. On a subsequent trip together to Florida . J.R. asked him if he knew where he could get some cocaine, and his life was all downhill from there. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, or PTSD, affected countless combat veterans who served in Vietnam, who often went from totally normal post-war lives to self-destruction, and he was but one of them. The drugs and alcohol soon helped him to spiral into total inactivity, just another casualty of the drug culture. 

When I met him, he was living in a messy Coconut Grove studio apartment, with piles of old magazines everywhere, and he spent his days trying to create drawings of things he would never build. We spent countless hours together, talking about history, our war experiences, and life in general. Years later, he rejoined the work force, and spent some productive time working at one of Miami's museums, but his promising future as a draftsman, or even architect, was ruined.  Eventually the Veterans Administration pronounced him disabled due to his war experiences, and he now lives on a small government pension. I often wonder what will ever become of him.

Most of the stories of my clients end badly, with either prison time, death due to drug overdoses,  oblivion because of their self-destructive lifestyles, or fugitives for years, still on the run overseas. Not a pretty picture; I consider myself lucky to have survived.  

Next Week: the beat goes on, but will betrayal end my laundryman career?