Manhunt. Volume 14, Number 1, February/March, 1966

“I’ll let you in on a secret, Chris. It’s my favorite name for heroin too. I’m even a sucker for a dame who sings the song.”

“Like the blonde we buried at sea, Karl?”

“Like the blonde you buried at sea, Chris,” Gortoff smiled without looking at him.

Padgett listened as Gortoff gave orders to the pilot. “Tia Juana, George.” He turned to Padgett, “I need some sleep, Chris. We can get an hour or so shut-eye before we land.” He tripped his reclining seat in the Beechcraft and was asleep before the plane was cleared by the control tower to take off.

Padgett fought sleep until the plane taxied from the hangar. He peered through the plane window into the fog, seeking some sign of the tail which he was confident had followed him from Geary Street. He thought he saw an unmarked panel truck, a familiar one, at a neighboring hangar, but he wasn’t sure. He felt for his shoulder holster and dropped off to sleep.

The Mexican immigration officers were not interested in documents. “Touristas,” Gortoff began to explain in good Spanish, and laughed when the border official did no more than greet him and welcome two more sought-after American visitors to the border sin spot.

In the short drive south from Tia Juana to Rosarito Beach, Gortoff ran down his Mexican operation to Padgett — who wished dearly for a tape recorder and a witness. “I bought into a casino down here when gambling was legalized a couple years ago. It’s a perfect front for disposition of U.S. currency, hot, cold or queer. Most of our trade is from the LA gambling crowd who prefer the run down 101 to the desert drive over to Vegas. As a result, I can deposit any sort of income in my Mexican bank accounts. I beat the IRS and I also beat snooping federal agencies who might be interested in the source of my income.”

“How’d you get located down here?” Padgett asked casually.

“You’ll laugh when I tell you,” Gortoff expanded. “I was a pusher like yourself. I hustled around the West Side in Downtown Manhattan for a couple years and picked up a proposition to run stuff up from Guatemala. I got in with a Guatemalan pharmacist who operated a refinery on the side and had my own source for heroin. But I couldn’t compete with the syndicate in the East and live. So I came out here. I haven’t gone wrong since.”

“You’ve got it made,” Padgett laughed. “Your own refinery, your own outlets and your perfect fronts and set-up to account for the income.”

“I’ve got it made, as you say, as long as I’m hyper-careful, Chris. And I am that careful. Like on this trip. I’ll introduce you to Garcia. He looks after my casino interests down here, and my other interests. He’ll see that the stuff is delivered to you. You pick it up. You will carry it to the plane up at Tia Juana. You will fly it back up to Frisco. With me, Chris, it’s always a you, a he, or a she. Never me. That trip on the Stardust down and up the coast was an exception. Even then I wasn’t taking a chance. Those metal cannisters would have sunk to the bottom of the Pacific if there had been any sign of heat. And even then, you moved it ashore. And the other two kilos were picked up offshore by somebody else. Like I said, Chris, I never take a chance. And I’m careful — real careful.”

The casino at Rosarito Beach resembled a Spanish baronial hall. At daylight, gambling action continued as it had at midnight. Padgett was left to wander around the swank tourist trap while Gortoff conducted private business with the manager. Garcia, tall, dark-haired, suave and Castillian, had acknowledged the introduction with impeccable front desk smoothness. “It’s a real pleasure, Senor Padgett. I’ll look forward to working with you.” The casino manager walked away with Gortoff, “The house is your own. Just sign for anything you desire.”

“Even chips,” Gortoff laughed as he placed a friendly arm on the N Man’s shoulder.

Padgett wandered from the gambling rooms to the bar, searching for a familiar face or some indication that the Bureau’s communications system had moved at its usual speed and placed Interpol or Mexican official support at the casino. He saw nothing. He strolled casually out to the casino parking lot and saw nothing more than forty or fifty cars, most with California plates. He smiled at a soliciting senorita and rejected her suggestion of love for a price. He moved back to the bar. He saw no one who might be from a cooperating law enforcement agency. In the dining room he ordered black coffee. Gortoff and Garcia joined him.

“You confine your pleasures to our dining room, senor?” Garcia smiled.

“For this trip,” Padgett laughed. “I may have more time and a greater inclination to play the next time I get down. Right now, I’ve business in mind.”