Another vivid memory I have from my stay is Tony’s cat. For some strange reason, it loved to shit in the bathtub. During one stretch, all the guests went without showers because no one wanted to clean it up. The situation was discussed among us and somehow emerged as an endurance contest, to see who could stand to go without showering the longest. After four days the tub was full of cat turds, and finally, Bucky, not being able to tolerate the situation any longer, lost. He cleaned out the tub and showered. Even though he lost the contest he was revered as the hero of the situation as the rest of us celebrated and took showers.
In the following years, I traveled the country to skate with the Powell Peralta team for audiences at demos and contests and signed autographs for fans and little kids. I owe it all to Bucky Lasek.
In telling this story to Mr. Leeper, I stop to take a deep breath and to assure myself that he is still following. The counselor is staring at me in complete silence, looking lost. I laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Mr. Leeper asks.
“Nah, it’s nothing,” I reply.
“No, sir, Mr. Novak, if we’re working on building an honest relationship, I want to know what’s so funny.”
“It just seems that the table has turned for us.”
“What do you mean?” Mr. Leeper asks.
“The look on your face. You look exactly as I felt when I first stepped in your office this morning.”
Until this point, Mr. Leeper had a pen in his hand, taking notes. He places the pen in his folder, which he closes and lays on the table beside him. We stare at each other and I understand that, as experienced as he is in his profession, he is at a loss for words. The fact that my case has presented a challenge to this man fills me with satisfaction. Mr. Leeper is an authority figure, and I have stumped him.
“Well, I’m not going to lie to you, Brandon. That wasn’t the type of background story I’m used to hearing. So, you really know what it’s like to have some things going on in life. You had a great career, only to give it up for a ten-dollar pill of Dope.”
“Yes. I went from skating in front of thousands of people and signing autographs to begging for spare change on the corner.”
“Okay, Mr. Novak.”
“Call me Brandon. If we’re gonna get personal, I prefer we’re on a first-name basis.”
“I got you, Brandon. From now on, call me Guy then.” Guy then tells me, “I have a question for you.”
“Go ahead, Guy, shoot!”
“Up till this point, your role model was the professional skater Bucky Lasek. At what point did that change?”
“I’d say at around the age of seventeen. As my skateboarding abilities progressed and my talents increased, I became somewhat of a celebrity. Whatever I did, I had fans behind me. As the cliché goes, the world was in the palm of my hand.” Then I told him the following story.
One afternoon, I was at the skatepark reviewing some footage I had just shot for a skate video. My eyes were accustomed to peering into the luminescent viewfinder of the hi-8 camera, so my retinas were a little burned out. Suddenly, almost mysteriously, a metallic-blue Mercedes pulled up. Through my affected vision, it seemed to cast a radiant sapphire glow. I squint as two figures, washed out in the bright sunlight, step out of the car. I’m curious.
My eyes regain their sight and focus on the girl. Twenty-something, dark hair, red lipstick, gorgeous. The man is white, in his late twenties, a bit overweight, receding hairline, long hair in a ponytail. He is dressed casually—sweatpants, old T-shirt, new sneakers. On his wrist dangles an expensive diamond-studded gold Rolex.
The two of them approach. I can’t imagine what they might want.
“What’s going on?” the guy calls out.
“Not much.”
He reaches out and we shake hands. “I’m Dwight. Pleased to meet you.”
“I’m Brandon.”
“I know all about you,” Dwight tells me in a laid-back manner. “As a matter of fact, I think we might we be quite valuable to each other.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Let’s just say that we should get together and talk sometime. Here’s my number; give me a call when you think the time is right.” He hands me a plain white business card that reads “Dwight,” and lists a phone number.
“Cool man, I’ll give you a call.”
He gives a knowing look, expressing a deep implication. “You definitely should. It’ll be worth your while.” Then, in the same blue aura in which his Mercedes arrived, it made its departure.
chapter twenty
A Conflict of Interests
In the next week I found myself thinking about this mysterious man named Dwight. The picture of him was still clear in my memory. His Mercedes, his Rolex, his beautiful girlfriend. I had lost his business card, and in a way I was glad. If I didn’t have a way of calling him, I wouldn’t give into any temptations that I might not be able to resist.
In the folds of the bottom layer of clothes were the objects that had not been taken from my pockets prior to the wash: a pen, a dime and pennies, a piece of plastic unrecognizable, and last, Dwight’s business card.
The card. I examine it: plain and white, warped but legible, the name “Dwight,” followed by a phone number and no indictaion as to what business it represented.
Guy Leeper breaks into the story. “So, I take it you called Dwight.”
“Yeah, I called him. I don’t know why. I mean, here I was doing great in my skating career. I had it all. But for some reason, I thought I needed more.”
I knew that whatever business Dwight was in, it wasn’t legal or positive. But in my lifestyle, the risks and the danger had always secretly appealed to me. Beating the odds, and doing what most consider impossible, the psychology that had driven me to become a skater, was also calling me to engage in other risky behavior. Every time I ask myself, “What might I gain? What might I lose? What might I become? How might this affect future events?” I find a way to reassure myself that in the end things will be all right.
I make the call to Dwight.
“Hello?” the voice answers.
“Is this Dwight?” I ask.
“Who’s this?”
“Brandon.”
“Right on, bro, I been waiting for you to get back to me. You around today?”
“I’m headed to Highland and Eastern Avenue to the skate shop.”
“What’s the name of the shop?”
“Sports Elite.”
“I’ll be there in twenty-five minutes. Wait for me,” he says.
An hour later, outside Sports Elite, I climb into Dwight’s metallic-blue Mercedes.
“Pop the trunk?” I ask.
“Why?”
“For my skateboard. I don’t want it to fuck your seats up.”
“I don’t give a fuck about this car! Just put it on the floor in the back!”
“Okay, if you say so.”
“You hungry?” Dwight asks.
“A little.”
“Good, we’ll go to Ruth’s Chris,” Dwight smiles.
“Ruth’s Chris? That costs like sixty bucks!” I tell him.
“Don’t worry about cash,” Dwight replies. “When you’re with me you won’t ever spend a dollar.”
“Well fuck, yeah, let’s go to Ruth’s Chris!”
Upon our arrival Dwight is, and therefore we are, given VIP treatment. After an hour or so of conversation, I make several observations about Dwight:
His behavior does not reveal the signs of stress exhibited by most men.
He makes no references to having any deadlines or people to answer to and he seems to be his own boss.
He has plenty of money and does not give a damn about spending it. He has ordered me the most expensive cut of meat on the menu, seemingly out of principle.
As I examine his character and lifestyle, I find myself intrigued.
“Anyway, there’s a point to this lunch,” he tells me.
“Right on. What’s th
e deal?”
“I have an offer for you and I think you’ll be interested. I think you know as well as I do, you’re at a great point in your career. You’re well known and have respect. I know you do a bit of traveling. Unlike myself, at airports you probably have it pretty relaxed through security. Every time I’m at the airport I get harrassed, searched, questioned. It’s just a fucking hassle. In cars, or in a tour bus, I’m sure you rarely get pulled over. You look innocent. Not me. Cops pull my ass over all the time. That’s why I never travel with anything on me. That’s why I pay other people to help me out. That’s why I found you.”
He answers the next question before I ask it. “I’m willing to pay you to transport cash for me. I’ll schedule the deliveries around your trips so nothing looks out of the ordinary. At the most, the amounts will be around a hundred thousand or so. For any trip you take, I’ll give you ten percent of whatever you transport for me. It’s basically risk free, because the last thing anyone would associate you with is drug money.”
This proposition is far too complicated to consider right away. “I’m not really sure, man.”
Dwight assures me in a relaxed voice. “I’m not expecting you to make a decision right now. There’s no pressure here at all. No rush. You have my number. Think about it and give me a call.”
Before leaving me in front of my mother’s house, Dwight shakes my hand, palming me off some cash, which I count after he drives away. Five hundred dollars, in fifties, just for listening to the proposition.
Less than a week later, I am again on the phone to Dwight.
“Yo, it’s Brandon.”
“Hey, what’s goin’ on?”
“Not much. I was calling to let you know I’m going to California next week.”
“Right on,” he replies. “Well, why don’t we meet up in about twenty minutes?”
A few hours later, we are seated in a five-star restaurant with his girlfriend. He orders a round of after-dinner drinks for her and himself, and, telling her we will soon return, leads me to the parking lot.
In the comfort of the metallic-blue Mercedes, Dwight hands me a piece of paper with a phone number written on it. “This is the number of the guy who will come to pick the money up from you once you’re in L.A. Call him as soon as you touch down. This is very important. They will be positioned next to your hotel and will come as soon as you call. They will be waiting. If you stall, it will cause problems.”
Referring to a bag in his backseat, Dwight tells me, “There is one hundred ten thousand dollars in there. Ten is yours for transporting the rest. But there’s one thing I need to say. I don’t say it to insult you, or imply that we don’t have confidence in each other, but it has to be said. I’m trusting you with a lot of my money, so it would be in your best interest to make sure it finds its way to the proper owner.” As he says this he lifts the bottom of his sweatshirt, revealing a handgun in a belt holster.
My defenses take over. “Look Dwight, I’m not out for any of your cash! Remember, you found me. You’re the one who came to me. I never asked you for anything. Don’t go accusing me of trying to steal from you.”
Dwight holds up his hand silencing me. “Those are strong words you just threw out. Now look, Brandon, let’s back up and relax a second. One thing we don’t need is for us, this partnership, to get off on the wrong foot. I’m not trying to insult you or make accusations, but those are things that just have to be acknowledged. It’s just business. Okay? You cool?”
“Yeah, I’m cool. I understand.” I sigh, letting go of my emotions.
“Cool,” he replies.
It is at this point that Dwight becomes my hero.
chapter twenty-one
The Initiation
Guy Leeper asks, “So that’s when your role model changed from Bucky Lasek to Dwight. When you traded in your skateboard for drug money.”
“I guess you could say it like that. It’s sad. I knew it was wrong, but I did it anyway.”
“Just curious,” my counselor says. “How did it feel for you to smuggle the money on the plane, knowing you were jeopardizing your skateboarding career?”
“Well, it was hard work, and it made me so stressed that I almost threw up a few times, but somehow I enjoyed it. I actually got a satisfaction from it.”
The airport. I approach the security line and wait my turn to go through the metal detectors, trying to project the appearance of someone who’s not nervous or paranoid, which is difficult because I have a hundred thousand dollards of drug money strapped to my body. Is a guard going to ask me questions? When I reply, am I going to stutter or swallow? Can they tell I am nervous? Do they suspect? Am I blushing? Will I be chosen for a random pat down?
In my head, I review the meticulous preparation I had performed less than three hours ago, prior to my ride to the airport, I stood in my room naked, fresh out of the shower. On a table before me were the following items:
Ten bundles of ten thousand dollars, all in hundreds, wrapped in cellophane plastic wrap
Five rolls of black electrical tape
Two boxes of kitchen plastic wrap
As I prepared for the trip, I repeated Dwight’s instructions in my head, as if I were reciting a newly learned prayer: “Brandon, now I want you to listen to me very, very carefully. The instructions I am about to give you are more important than any test you took in high scool, more significant than the fine print written on your skateboarding contract, more crucial than making your first Holy Communion. Okay?”
“Okay,” I told him, giving my utmost attention.
He continued. “To successfully smuggle this money through the airport, you will have to fasten it to your body with electrical tape and plastic wrap. So, before you pack for your trip, go to Kmart and buy a few boxes of plastic wrap, the kind that your mom wraps food in before putting it in the freezer. Not the waxed kind, the cellophane, the kind that is impossible to tear in a straight line even though there is a serrated metal strip on the box. You’ll also need a few rolls of electrical tape, the black kind that stretches. Get ten rolls so you don’t run out, just to make sure.
“Now, when you get home, first, wash your hands. They need to be clean for what you are about to do. This has nothing to do with fingerprints. It has to do with dirt and sweat from your hands, which will cause the tape and cellophane not to stick. Now, wrap each ten-thousand dollar bundle in plastic wrap. Not too tight. They should be flimsy and able to bend to the shape of your body. Then shower. Get real clean, make sure all the dirt is off your body, and use deodorant soap, because you don’t want to sweat too much. Moisture will make the tape and plastic wrap not stick to you. When you get out of the shower, dry off real thoroughly, and don’t use powder. Powder will also make the tape and plastic wrap not stick to your body. Again, I can’t stress enough how important this is. You don’t want to find yourself in a position where a ten-thousand-dollar bundle of cash falls out of your pants leg, while a bunch of security guards are staring at you. Got it so far?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“Okay, now that you’re clean and dry, the idea here is to use the electrical tape to fasten the wrapped ten-thousand-dollar bundles to your body. You have ten of them. Tape one on each calf, one on each inner thigh, and one on each back of your upper arms. As you fasten the bundles to your arms and legs, wrap the tape around each limb three times, so that the money is strapped to you by each end and the middle. Then, tape the remaining four bundles onto your stomach, long ways, wrapping the electrical tape around each bundle separately, all the way around your trunk, just above the hip bone. Then, when all four bundles are fastened, wrap a piece of electrical tape three times around all four bundles, again all the way around your trunk. Once the tape is secure, pull the plastic wrap around those parts of your body where the money is so that it is firmly in place. Three times should do it. Remember, when you secure the money to your body with the plastic wrap, the end result should not leave the money feeling stiff, it must bend to your
body shape, just in case a guard pats you down. If the money feels too stiff, undo the whole thing and start over, rewrapping the original bundle in the plastic wrap so it feels a bit looser. After you’re done, put on baggy clothes. A long-sleeved T-shirt and an oversized sweatshirt. Baggy “home-boy” pants. Make sure they’re too long so you have to cuff the bottoms. This will make sure they don’t show any shape except the fat wrinkles in the denim. You’re thin, so it will appear as if it’s all a part of your body frame. And the baggy clothes will appear as if they are part of your dress style.”
I snap back to reality as I near the front of the security line. It is almost my turn to pass through the metal detector. I hope to God I don’t set this thing off. I should be okay; I followed Dwight’s advice to a T: “Wear no metal. Make sure of this. No belt buckle, no boots, no watch, no necklace, no pocket change, no pens. Make sure the pants and shirt have no metal snaps or buttons. Wear sneakers without metal lace holes. Your objective is to pass right through the metal detector without setting it off, without a security guard looking at you twice.”
The guy in front of me steps through the detector, sets it off, and it emits a series of beeps. He is pulled to the side and frisked, and it is discovered that he has forgotten to remove his watch.
My turn to walk through the metal detector. I wait for the guard to wave me through. He looks at me. I feel the urge to swallow, but I cannot let myself. The guard waves for me to walk through. Here I go. I step through the machine. No beep. Thank God! But wait, are they suspicious because I was the only one in line who did not set the damn thing off?
As I walk to my gate, the rest of Dwight’s advice rings in my head: “Undercovers never wear business suits. Look out for people in windbreakers, jogging gear, or sweat outfits. Undercover cops love wearing any kind of sportswear because it enables them to move fast for a takedown. And especially, above all, watch out for guys with hip packs. This is where undercovers keep their cuffs and shield. There’s nothing cops love more than to tackle someone, cuff them, and shove that badge right in their face.”