Chapter 4

Jill lay across her bed sobbing her heart out and feeling very sorry for herself. Chris and Wendy! No wonder her sister was so evasive about him. No wonder he didn't answer her letters. She had been betrayed by both of them... the two people she felt closest to. And there she was, all by herself in San Francisco!

A knock at the door interrupted her tearful reverie. Then Josephine cautiously opened the door a crack and peered in, her face wan and ghoulish in the dim hall light.

"What's the trouble, dear? Are you homesick?" the old lady asked. Josephine had a psychic sense that unnerved the innocent Midwesterner.

"Y-yes, that's... yes, Josephine. I'm a little homesick. I just talked to my boyfriend," Jill answered wistfully, fresh tears coming to her lovely eyes.

"Aw, that's too bad. I know how you feel, dear. It's tough to be away from all your loved ones. Maybe you should just forget about that school and go home."

"No!" Jill shouted vehemently. Then, softening her tone, "I mean I couldn't bear to do that now, with only another six weeks to go. Besides, I'd feel like a real baby," she whined.

"Sure, sure. I understand, dear," the septuagenarian answered sympathetically. "I'll make you a nice hot cup of tea... herb tea. It's a special recipe I found in this ancient book I picked up at the Goodwill. It'll do you a world of good. Then we can have some supper together, if you don't have nothin' better to do."

"Oh!" Jill cried, sitting bolt upright.

"Whatsa matter?" Josephine's nonexistent eyebrows arced and her watery eyes popped open wide.

"I do have something to do, something very important Josephine." She showed the old lady Garcia's card.

"Read it to me. I don't have my glasses on, dear. "

Jill proceeded to tell the whole story to the wide-eyed Josephine. "... And he wants me to bring samples of my work tonight, isn't that terrific?" she asked breathlessly.

"That's wonderful, dear," Josephine said without enthusiasm. She was studying Jill's face curiously. There was evident apprehension in her searching look.

The young girl's hopeful smile turned slowly to a look of dismay. "What is it, Josephine? Aren't you happy for me?"

"Of course I am, Jill. I'm tickled pink. But I want to tell you something. You be on your P's and Q's with that foreigner. I've read about young girls being shanghaied into white slavery with characters like that..."

Jill couldn't suppress a giggle. She covered her mouth with her hand. "I'm sorry, Josephine. I apologize for laughing, but if you'll pardon me for saying so, I think you're a 'character.' You've been watching too many late movies on the tube, I'm afraid."

"Maybe so, maybe so. Take it for what it's worth," she answered with a shrug. "But if I was you, I'd be very, very careful. Don't mind me buttin' in, willya? I'll go make the tea." There was an ominous tone of foreboding in her voice that made Jill shiver.

In his sumptuous suite at the Fairmont Towers, Ernesto Garcia was having a quiet but intent conversation with the burly printer, Jack Dawson. They were examining a lithograph together.

"Genius. Absolute genius, Jack. This is your best device to date," Garcia enthused. He had carefully peeled back the outer bond paper on which the Miro painting had been lithographed. Under that was a sparkling film of evenly distributed white crystals, which looked much like a thin layer of sugar. The granules were perfectly adhered to a special plastic film; not one minute particle could be shaken from the adherent. Yet, when Dawson passed a small magnetic device resembling an old fashioned upright vacuum cleaner over the surface, every granule instantly disappeared into a thin rubber bag, leaving the adherent intact. The lithograph could then be remounted without any sign that it had been removed.

The white particles were pure heroin. Using Dawson's process on a litho approximately 24" X 30", it was possible to adhere ten ounces of the pure stuff. At market value of $2,280 an ounce, that was almost $23,000 for each litho. A very profitable "gimmick," to say the least!

The system was simple. Lithographs are always print and series numbered. Dawson would select certain numbers and treat their mountings for dope. The treated mountings were then shipped to Mexico City as part of the collection of finished reproductions. Through an elaborate coding system known only to Dawson and Garcia, the gallery owner was able to select the treated lithos and have them filled with smack or coke -- the process worked equally well for both drugs, and while cocaine brought in more money on the street, its wholesale value was less than pure heroin -- about $18,500 for the ounces.

The lithos containing the dope were then carefully distributed in Garcia's three galleries and selectively sold to "messengers" (men who posed as art collectors) at the established litho price and noted in the books as normal sales. When the "messengers" delivered to the real collectors" (the dealers' dealers) the rest of the money would be forthcoming -- in cash, and under the table. Care had to be exerted to keep the sales people from selling a "hot" litho to an innocent customer. But Garcia had devised a way to get round that, too. A man in his business couldn't be too careful. He knew the CIA was constantly on the prowl, as well as the FBI and several other crime-busting organizations. How he despised those professional "snoops" for their deceit and hypocrisy. Many of those flat-footed flunkies had grown quietly rich from drug payoffs. And how many murders had they committed in the name of "justice"? How many political assassinations had they engineered? How many peasants had they paid to strike against the prevailing governments of impoverished Latin countries? Pigs!

But none of the intelligence agencies had been able to trace a shipment to him; Ernesto had an elaborate network of go-betweens in front.