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Drug Smuggling Catholic Saints

Half Moon Bay II Part I – Drug Smuggling Catholic Saints

Luke 24

The moonlight hits St. James softly in the face lighting his way as he walks toward dock number 2311. Over at the dock, the boats are parted with the moonlight as it shines off the darkened water and moves in a dance along with the boats.
He looks at the paper from God, and holds his wrist to the scanner at the gate. The dock creaks as he walks toward the Old Endeavor yacht. Sister Maria opens the hatch and looks at him. The moonlight sparkles in her eyes, and they each see each other and smile.
“I’ve been waiting on you,” Sister Maria says.
St. James follows Sister Maria into the living quarters of the yacht. St. Peter smiles and hands him a bible. St. James opens it and reveals a half-pound of marijuana. “Welcome to the family,” St. Peter says, with an enlarged smile. The three of them pack bibles filled with drugs into boxes.

St. Peter walks to the bow of the boat, examines the music choices, and with a smile, pushes play on the machine. In the background, Jimi Hendrix’s “Purple Haze” plays, and St. Peter bobs his head and mimics the words as if he were Jimi. He walks back to help St. James and Sister Maria pack the boxes with paraphernalia.
“I heard that the purple haze is actually a reference to Hendrix seeing Jesus, and then he called it purple haze,” St. James says as the others look at him, rolling their eyes at his attempt to make friends. They pack the drugs quickly into bibles and then into boxes. Under only the light of the moon reflecting off the moving water, they walk the boxes from the boat, and place them into a hearse that is parked in the marina parking lot.
A local Sheriff, Officer Coolidge waits at the end of the dock and smiles at the crew. St. Peter hands St. James an envelope with cash in it. “Create the economy,” St. Peter says. St. James timidly hands the officer the money, and the officer looks at it and smiles. “Thanks kid. You new here?” The officer asks in a jovial manner.
St. Peter starts the hearse’s engine. St. James shakes the officer’s hand and remains silent. He runs to the hearse with his head down.

The moonlight shines off the rear of the hearse’s window as St. Peter drives away from the marina. He adjusts the rearview mirror and watches St. James in the backseat, looking out the window at the officer.
“It’s okay bud, we own the local fuzz. It’s the Feds you have to stress about,” St. Peter says with confidence.
St. James continues to look out the window at the different department stores and strip malls that they pass by. Sister Maria puts her hand on his shoulder.
“There’s no going back,” Sister Maria says.
“How long have you been doing this?” St. James asks as he looks to both of them for an answer.
“I started in order to pay my school loans off.”
“Really, so you’re going to leave us then?” Rick says as St. Peter’s attention moves to Sister Maria with a laugh of condescension. “Yeah so when are you leaving us, Sister?” St. Peter asks.
“What, am I supposed to get a regular job? I’m good at this shit.” Sister Maria says as she looks out the window. “I don’t exist in that society anymore,” she adds in a somber tone as they continue past the department stores and restaurants on the streets. The sound of the hearse is heard, as everyone is quiet with each passing light that reflects off the car.

The hearse pulls into the back of the church. St. Peter scans the barcode on his wrist at the sensor next to the gate, and the gate opens. They pull into the back of the church. St. Peter parks the car. He gets out and walks to another sensor on the back of the church that is covered by a piece of sheet metal, painted to match the color of the church. He slides the sheeting to the side and scans his barcode under the sensor.
An underground garage opens. He gets back in the car and slowly pulls the hearse into the underground garage. The garage closes, and the three of them get out of the vehicle.
St. James takes a deep breath, his breath visible as he exhales. Sister Maria points to the thermometer that reads 34 degrees Fahrenheit. St. James rubs the goose bumps on his arms.
“The temperature is to inhibit infrared and heat detection.” St. Peter says.
Sister Maria flips an electrical switch and lights the underground passageway with phosphorescent light bulbs, which are domed and don’t create heat. St. James turns and looks at the pallets upon pallets of drugs in an area the size of a football field. The pallets are wrapped in saran wrap, opaque black to keep the light out and maintain freshness.
“My mother would have a field day in this place,” St. James says.
“Yeah, your mother was eating into your father’s margins,” St. Peter replies as Sister Maria pokes St. Peter and tells him to be quiet. St. James looks at both of them.
“The damn kids gotta know sometime. Until last week he thought his dad was a construction foreman,” St. Peter says to Sister Maria as St. James looks to Sister Maria for answers. They all start to unload the boxes of drugs from the hearse. “Did you know my father?” St. James asks Sister Maria.
“Yeah. He worked on big jobs with us, then he’d go back home. I assume to your place. He talked about you often.”
“What the hell really happened to him, then?”
St. Peter looks at Sister Maria and places a box on a pallet between the two of them. He clears his throat in an attempt to change the subject. “Supply and demand my boy. God creates the demand, and we hold the keys to the city,” St. Peter says as Sister Maria points to the barcode on his wrist.
“It’s your key to the city… it’s God’s thumbprint. He knows everything, trust me.” Sister Maria says.
“Regardless, my mother would be proud…” Rick replies.

In a large office building that rests atop the skyline of San Francisco. Windows are portioned throughout the interior of the FBI building overlooking the vast city through the office. In every corner there are desk cubicles and the sounds of papers being filed and the continual background noise of the persistent phone rings.
A sharply dressed detective, John Samuels, walks through the office with a coffee mug in his hand. He sits at his desk and looks at his partner, Detective Halloway, in front of him. Detective Halloway looks at the file in front of him.
“Tell me good news,” Detective Samuels says.
“I’m waiting on a call from that subject Matt, the one that goes by Disciple. He should be meeting his drop off here shortly,” Detective Halloway says as John takes a bite of an apple. He chews and talks at the same time, trying to multi-task.
“Has he gotten some concrete evidence yet?” John asks.
“Balls in his court he’s working for us now,” Halloway says.
“Keep me posted. I want to take that call.”

Inside God’s office he sits in his plush leather chair and twirls a one dollar gold coin between his fingers. Jerry Steinhauser, a fast-talking Jewish man with a big body, sits in a chair in front of his desk. He clears his throat and lays some documents stamped with Big Dream Ventures on God’s desk. Jerry points to where he wants God to sign.
“This is golden I tell ya we’re all golden,” he says, eyes wide. “GOLDEN! By the end of the month we’ll be able to throw an IPO to New York,” Jerry says with the flailing of the ring on his pinky finger to accentuate every new vowel in the sentence. God remains quiet, and Jerry continues to rant about the future of his company and inches the papers closer toward, him pointing at the place to sign.
“Stop ya schlepping… I mean this is another win here. Come on…” Jerry continues. Both men are quiet and God stares him in the eyes. “You like to talk,” God says, making Jerry sit back in his chair and letting some of the gas out of his enthusiastic tone.
“The Super Bowl is this weekend. We should be able to bring in enough cargo before the game is over. What is the new venture?” God asks.
“It’s silicon and it’s able to conduct electricity. This is the future. Five mil invested from your end and I’ll get ya some equity. Trust me, it’s money in the bank,” Jerry says, still flailing his pinky finger in an omnidirectional fashion. God stands and shakes his hand.
“I will have my people ready,” God says.
St. Peter walks into the room and looks at God. “Oh I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had company,” St. Peter says.
“It’s okay, my friend here was just leaving,” God says as he scribbles some instructions onto a note card on his desk and hands them to Jerry. He stares him in the eyes again as they shake hands.
“Let the Rabbis know the dock and information,” God says.
Jerry walks toward the door, smiles at St. Peter, and walks out of the room. St. Peter walks to God’s desk. God pulls out a small barcode scanner and scans St. Peters wrist, and St. Peter points to the top of his head where a Yarmulke would be.
“What’s the caps’ deal? Isn’t he part of the competition?” St. Peter asks.
“The Super Bowl is the weekend. Make sure the team is ready. We’re making a merger.” God says as he points to the barcode tattoo on St. Peter’s wrist. “Coordinates to meet the Disciples will be on the yacht. Take St. James with you…”

The sun shines in the middle of the day as St. James and St. Peter float on the Old Endeavor yacht in international water. The coast of Half Moon Bay is barely visible in the distance. St. James baits his hook and tosses the line overboard. They look around at the empty ocean.
“Where is this fucker? These Disciples are never on time,” St. Peter says with a note of disdain in his voice.
“Hey, aren’t the 49ers in the Super Bowl this weekend?” St. James asks.
“Yeah, the animals and the fuzz will all be worried about something else.”
“So how did you get involved with God?” St. James asks.
“Basically, bud, it was either this or the streets, and God gave me this option.”
St. Peter grabs a pair of binoculars and looks off into the distance. He only sees one yacht, which is slowly sailing toward their location. He forcibly hands the binoculars to St. James. “Fuck!” St. Peter yells as he runs to the radio.
“What’s going on?” St. James asks, and he looks through the binoculars at one yacht that is approaching their direction.
“There’s only one boat.” St. Peter replies, and he squeezes the radio mic to talk to the approaching boat.
“Happy Trails, Happy Trails, this is the Meassis Dragon, come in, over?” St. Peter yells over the radio. The radio beeps, indicating an incoming message. “This is the Happy Trails. Permission to dock next to you?” The Happy Trails boat says.
“Comply, out.” St. Peter says forcibly hanging up the radio. The Happy Trails rests its starboard side to the Meassis Dragon’s port side, and they tie the boats together. A man that goes by the name Disciple boards the Meassis Dragon in a frantic state. He puts his hands on his head in despair, and a small barcode tattoo is revealed on his wrist.
“Where the hell is the other boat?” St. Peter yells at the Disciple. The Disciple continues to shake his head and look at the ground as if something isn’t right.
“They got it man. They fucking got it.” The Disciple says, almost tearing up as he is overcome with emotion.
“Who the hell are they?” St. Peter says. He gets in the Disciples face. St. James stands between them, trying to calm them both down.
“It’s ok fellas let’s relax. What happened man?” St. James says.
Shaking, the Disciple lets out a deep breath, pulls out a cigarette, and lights it. “I knew I should of taken that job at my Grandpa’s farm,” The Disciple says.
“The kids right, let’s just relax and grab the cargo. Then we can figure this out,” St. Peter says while the Disciple smiles a hesitant smile.
“Cargo? I was the dummy boat. All they put on me was a tumor,” The Disciple says between sporadic puffs of his cigarette that is narrowing toward the filter.
“Man, I’m sorry you have a tumor. My buddy back home had cancer,” St. James says.
St. Peter shakes his head. “A tumor is an attached capsule to the bottom of the boat full of cargo. He releases it if he’s in the shits…” St. Peter says and takes a deep breath. He turns to St. James, with an entirely different look and a changed demeanor.
“Take us back to the bay,” St. Peter says, raising his tone. St. James takes the helm. St. Peter looks closely at the Disciple. “There was no instruction for a dummy boat with a tumor. Who gave you the instructions and who gave you the other boat?” St. Peter asks as the Disciple takes a puff of the cigarette that has burnt to the filter. St. Peter takes a long deep breath and closes his eyes.
“What would my therapist say?”
The Disciple raises his brow, and there’s a silence between the two men. The only sound is St. James trying to start the boat, and the waves splashing against the side of the yacht as it wades in the ocean.
“Fuck it!”
St. Peter pulls out his Glock 9, and puts it right against the Disciple’s cheekbone. St. James quickly starts the engine to the boat. “What’s really going on here, mother fucker?” St. Peter says, and the Disciple drops his cigarette and immediately raises his hands in the air.
“R-relax, m-my man. We’re all friends here.”
St. Peter pushes him to the side of the boat and the Disciple has a seat.
“I left right after they put the tumor on the bottom of the boat. Shortly after I got to international waters I saw the other boat getting hailed by the coasties. Then I cut comms as instructed,” the Disciple says. He shakes his head and tries to pick up his cigarette and take a puff. St. Peter pushes him to the edge of the boat.
“You’re bringing in your boat behind us and you’ll have to answer to God,” St. Peter says.

Approaching dock number 2311, the Meassis Dragon and The Happy Trails both dock and tie up their boats. Sister Maria walks down the docks with a small envelope in her hand. She smiles at St. James and hands the envelope to St. Peter.
“What’s this?”
“God told me to give it to you. That’s all I know.”
St. Peter reads the letter. St. James looks across to dock number 2310. There are three Hasidic Jews carrying boxes down the dock. “Who are these guys?” St. James asks as both him and Sister Maria look at the apparent Jewish Mafia. “Competition… look I’ll see you later,” Sister Maria replies in a bit of a hurry, looking at her watch.
St. Peter finishes reading the letter. He folds it up and puts it in his pocket. Everyone walks down the dock. “What about the tumor?” the Disciple asks, looking back at the yacht. “I’m not touching nothing ‘til God says. Let’s meet for breakfast at the Full Moon in the morn,” St. Peter gives an authoritative answer.

End of Second Book Part I

You can read all of this tale later or buy the ebook in the link provided. I would always love feedback.

Half Moon Bay II: Part I

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