Survival of the Fastest by Randy Lanier

Author:Randy Lanier [Randy Lanier with A.J. Baime]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hachette Books
Published: 2022-08-02T00:00:00+00:00

15

The Golden Gate

Spring 1984

In January, Ben and I flew down to Colombia to negotiate the deal. We were chartering private jets for these flights now, with our own pilot and copilot. This meant when we flew into Santa Marta, we no longer bothered with customs. Guys met us at the gate and escorted us around customs and right out the front door. Usually, there’d be two cars and drivers waiting for us, but this time there were three. We noticed something unusual right away. All three cars had drivers dressed in nice suits and ties. That was not how they usually appeared.

One of the drivers started speaking Spanish. I asked Ben, “What the fuck is he saying?”

Ben grimaced. “He’s saying there’s been a tragedy.”

The farmers had brought a lot of weed down from the mountain, and they were storing it in a cave outside Santa Marta. The cave had apparently collapsed with two people inside. One of the guys made it out, but the other didn’t. The day of the funeral happened to be the day we arrived in town.

I was floored. Ben was too.

Off we went in this caravan, three cars through the bustling streets. Ben and I weren’t dressed for a funeral, but we were going anyway. I remember honking horns, humidity, and flies buzzing around my face. When we got near the church, the streets clogged. There were cars and trucks parked everywhere, and I was thinking it must have been raining a lot because so many of the vehicles were splattered with mud.

Our driver maneuvered right to the front door of this little white steeple church. All these people were milling around outside. Some were dressed in suits and dresses, while others were laborers wearing the only kinds of clothes they owned. Our drivers escorted us into the crowded church. Every seat was taken. There was no air-conditioning, and it was sweltering. Many of the women were fanning themselves with cardboard fans decorated with religious images.

I felt so little, so ashamed, because we were mixed up in something that had gotten a young man killed. We walked to the church’s front row, and I could tell that this was where the family of the deceased was sitting—this young guy’s parents, his sisters and brothers. The drivers who brought us walked up to these people and bent down, eye level with the family. I could see the family members listening and glancing in our direction. I thought: These people are going to blame us for their son’s death. They are going to spit at us, maybe worse, right here in a house of worship. And they’d be right.

We were told to approach this grieving family, so we did. Every muscle in my body tensed up. They spoke to us in Spanish in melancholy voices, and our guides translated. To my surprise, the family members wanted to shake our hands and thank us. These bereaved people wanted to shower us with kindness because of all the good they believed we had done.

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