Mighty Mercury

27

 

When I had been dealing cocaine, and living with Theresa the year before, Rudy, one of the 4 friends who turned informant for the DEA against me, was found dead on the street, a few blocks from his mother's house. He had been stabbed 17 times, then had his throat cut. The warden of the County Jail called me to his office, to advise me that Kay, a female friend of mine, had called jail to ask if I could be furloughed

 

 

I said to the warden that I appreciated the offer but that I would have to decline, because I probably would not report back to the jail. The warden thanked me for being honest and sent me back to my cell.

I had a very good idea about who had killed Rudy.  Just about the time I had found the listening devices at Theresa's house, Rudy had told me that the narcs had tackled him in the alley behind his mother's house as he was returning from making a drug buy. He said that he had been taken to jail, then released a couple of hours later, as the narcs had found nothing on him. But then, why had he been taken to jail? I wondered too, what had been the point of the conversation he had had with me concerning my niece, Janet.

He told me that he believed that she was trying to set up a cocaine dealer, Mickey, whom I had known in prison. It was quite out of character for Rudy to say anything derogatory about anyone, especially someone as close to him as Janet, for she was his lover.

I had had misgivings about him In '85, when I had been busted for dealing. Also, Mickey got busted soon after Rudy told me that Janet turned snitch on Alex, one of his closest friends.

Mickey received a 50 year sentence.  Alex was later released after serving a long time in Cañon City.

Rudy had informed on the wrong person. Now he was dead, killed prison style, 17 stab wounds, and a slashed throat. When someone enters the realm of criminal activity, and deliberately violates the rule of silence, death is the penalty. To avoid doing time for whatever crime he did, Rudy forfeited his life. One can not mourn such a person.

When he had tried to set me up, he had been released from the County Jail, after having been sentenced to prison for 30 months. But the sentence had been suspended with the condition that he go to Pier One, a drug rehab facility. But he claimed the judge had let him go for a few days to celebrate his 32nd birthday, something I had never heard of. Naturally, my suspicions were alerted.

I allowed him to stay with us at the motel, until the day he said he had to surrender himself to Pier One.

On that evening, Anita and I took him to dinner at the Red lobster. I bought him a pair of Florsheim dress shoes, with a matching money belt which contained a couple of $20s.

The few days he stayed with us, I gave him no drugs. Nor would I sell him any. He had gotten clean in jail. I didn't want to be to be responsible for getting him started again.

There must be something wrong with my brain, doing all of this for Rudy, knowing that he might have made a deal with the narcs. Subconsciously, maybe I wanted him to feel shame for his intended treachery.

The subconscious is a mysterious phenomenon. It doesn't operate rationally, as does reason.

Reason operates by concepts of rules, good and evil, right and wrong, all confirmed by principles of space and time.

Sometimes I think that the subconscious is the real power which connects to an eternal realm while existence strives. The God principle, maybe. The more one thinks about it, the farther away one gets.

But humanity strives for progress, for excellence. Each day should and could, be better than the last. In reality, tomorrow is one day closer to the end.  The youth of yesterday is as sand, slipping through one's fingers. But what do I know? What really counts is attitude. Attitude can get you through almost anything.

I dropped Rudy off at Pier One and wished him well. Later on, he was sent to prison after all. He was sentenced to the territorial prison where I was confined.

I first saw him in the mess hall. I got my tray and sat at his table. At first, when he realized it was me, his eyes took on the look of a trapped animal, as if he were looking for a route to get away from me.

But he sensed my demeanor and began to relax. I didn't do anything overt. I greeted him in a manner that anyone could see was genuine. But I knew the moment I saw that trapped look in his eyes that the treachery which  I had only imagined, was real. Since he wasn't the cause of the narcs coming down on me in the first place, I had forgot, and forgiven him.

The night that I had taken him to Pier One, I knew the treachery he was capable of. When he was trying to throw a snitch jacket on my niece when he was setting Mickey up, I should have warned Mickey. But I wasn't sure then. Maybe Mickey wouldn't be serving 50 years.  Maybe Rudy wouldn't be dead. I suppose it would have happened anyway, sooner or later. If you can sense the future, trying to change it may be infinitely worse. It isn't for me to cast light on the darkness in people's hearts.

I served 4 months of a 180 day sentence, and then was released. It sure felt good to get out.

I remember while I was in the Territorial Prison at Cañon City, Gary, a friend of mine, ame and went through the reception center 3 times.

I asked him once, "Why do you keep coming back here, Gary?"

He looked at me in all seriousness, and said, "Because it feels so good to get out."

We both laughed for about 10 minutes after that. One does feel renewed after serving a few months.

 

 

28

 

While I had been serving the sentence in the county Jail for shoplifting, I read in the Rocky Mountain News that Theresa and Carmy had been busted in a major drug deal, along with about 6 other people. According to the newspaper account, Theresa and Carmy were minor players in the ring. The head honcho in the group was named Alex. The paper said that the DEA had infiltrated the ring with an undercover agent who had purchased a kilo of heroin from Alex. About a month later, Alex had taken the agent with him to Sinaloa, Mexico, where they bought a kilo and a half in Caluichan, the Capitol of Sinaloa.

I knew Alex quite well. He was Adolfo's boss when Adolfo had been my supplier from '83 to '85. I believed that Adolfo no longer worked with Alex, or else his name probably would have been in the paper too. Reading about the bust made me wonder if the narcs had been watching Theresa, not me, when I had been dealing cocaine and living with her.

I was homeless, broke and looking for a job. For work, I went to the pay by day minimum wage labor hall. Having been in jail for a spell, I was drug free.

I was about to use a public phone, when Ravi's ex girlfriend, Billie, pulled up to use the phone. She was surprised, but pleased to see me. She used the phone to call her connect, and invited me to accompany her to her house to do some heroin. Since I hadn't been sent out to work that day, I went with her. It wasn't long before I was addicted again.

I had lived with Billie and Ravi before, when Ravi and I were working as a team. I began living with Billie again.

One night, after a hard day at the office, shoplifting, I began having stomach cramps. I thought a good healthy shot of Old Grand Dad, on top of the heroin I had just did, would help to ease the pain. It didn't. The cramps became progressively worse.

I went over to my brother in law, Earl's house. When I drank a cup of luke warm water with baking soda, all hell broke loose. My stomach felt as if I had swallowed red hot coals. The pain was so intense that I could scarcely walk. Earl called an ambulance and I was taken to the hospital.

Almost immediately I was anesthetized. I awoke sometime later, in a dimly lit, closet sized, room, strapped to a gurney. After a while, a nurse came into the small room and asked if I was awake.

"Yes," I answered. "Why am I tied up?"

"You're tied up for your own protection, sir," the nurse responded. "You underwent major surgery yesterday. Right now you are in the recovery room. The reason that you are strapped to a gurney is to keep you from too much movement. You might break the stitches in your abdomen if you move too much."

I was moved to a room. When he doctor who performed the surgery arrived, she told me that my pain derived from a perforated ulcer.

"You had  4 of them. I removed them surgically. You lost a good portion of your stomach, which I replaced with noncorrosive mesh. You were a few minutes from dying. Peritonitus was already occurring. How do you feel, sir?"

"Compared to when I was brought in, I feel fine," I said. "You saved my life. I thank you with all of my heart. I felt sure I was going to die. Thank you, thank you, thank you, doctor."

"When you were brought in, you mentioned that you are addicted to heroin, " said the doctor. "Do you seem to be in withdrawl?" she asked.

"No," I answered,"not at the moment."

She handed me a little electronic box, then said, "If you begin to feel uncomfortable, just press this button, and a quarter gram of morphine will be injected into your I.V. tube."

Before she went about her duties, I thanked her again with all sincerity, for saving my life.

"Glad to help," she said as she left.

I was in the hospital for 6 days, during which time I had many visitors. Billie, and John, my current associate stealing cigarettes, came to see me. They were sick. So I gave them $100 to get well with. I asked them to bring me back some of the heroin, but they never did.

The day I was released, the doctor told me to report right to the methadone clinic, which was situated in the same hospital. I was put on the methadone program for 30 days, free of charge. I sure appreciated the help. There was no way I could support my heroin habit

while recovering from the operation. Hell, I could barely walk.

As soon as the clinic finished processing as for methadone treatment, I called Joo Ju, my heroin supplier, and asked him to pick me up. When be arrived, he took as to his house and give me a freebie.

He asked, "Why didn't you call Billie to pick you up from the hospital?"

"I gave her some money to get herself well with, and asked her to bring me back some," I replied. "She never got back to me."

Joo said, "She called me awhile ago. She's coming over to pick up a gram."

When she arrived, Joo harangued her for not getting back to me at the hospital.

When she was leaving, she said, "Come with me John. You need a place to stay. You can stay at my house. I'll take care of you.

About a week after that, I was riding my bicycle down Federal. It was Saturday  morning, and traffic was bumper to bumper. I was riding in the far right lane, between the heavy traffic, and the curb, when a car struck me, knocked me over to the asphalt, and kept on going. I laid there by the sidewalk for several minutes, recovering from the hit. The wound from my recent surgery had reopened, and was bleeding profusely. No one, walking or driving, stopped to help me.

I walked to Jim's house, the guy I used to roof with, about 4 blocks from the accident.

That month of June was not a very good month for me. I suppose I was lucky to be alive. Badly bruised and battered, but alive. As much as I love and appreciate life, I sure have been careless with mine.

Like Eric Hoffer, the longshoreman, San Francisco poet, I live "a passionate state of mind."

I love learning. I read Emanuel Kant for the past 4O some odd years before I began to comprehend The Critique of Pure Reason. And Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, and Hegel, etc.. But I have yet to find anyone with whom I can discuss philosophy with. Nobody seems to give a damn about history, and stuff like that. But I do, and always will. Sometimes I think I must be dense to the point of stupidity for taking so many years to comprehend the Transcendental Aesthetic. Oh well, at least I try.

Nietzsche's way of thinking has already created the arrogance that has led to two brutal world wars, and who knows how many more in the future? Knowing these authors, and their works, hasn't put a dime in my pocket.

I am getting old now. I certainly can not perform athletic feats of years gone by. If I could find a proper team I know I can plan and execute. But then, I never went out to search for the gamesters. They came to seek me out. If I could find another challenge . . . perhaps I could do something. It's very frustrating, wanting a task to accomplish. I have no desire to break the law anymore.

My concept is to choose a very difficult task, but within the law.

The future is before me. Hopefully, I will live long enough to accomplish whatever I must. It sure would be a disappointment to just grow old and die.

I am married to Carol, a wonderful lady. I've known her almost 50 years. If I could live just long enough to see us through these final years, that would be just fine.

Like the cop who had saved me from Mr. D. and company, and who had later busted me for cattle rustling in the super market, said, "Most hardcore addicts don't live to see 35, the fact that you've survived this long is amazing."

At this moment in history, this country, and half of Europe and Asia are trying to deal with extremists' disruption of the status quo. The Taliban, Al Quaida, Osama Bin Laden and their allies have taken history into a radical turn. This effect  has terrorized the first years of the new millennium which has shaken to the root the stability most of the world has been comfortable with. I am but an observer of this new world scene.

 

 

AFTERWORD by Raoul Vehill

 

In late 2002, John, Carol and one of my brothers financed their addictions from John and Carol's Social Security, brokering small drug buys for petty criminals and shoplifting. John didn't shoplift very much. We lived at my Dad Earl's house. I worked out of labor halls mostly. John probably fenced stolen property as well.

In February of '05 we found a nicer couch on the the street than the one we had in the rec room. We replaced the couch and put the old one next to the garage door. My brother got drunk one night, called everyone out to fight, and angered one of his friends, a firebug. His friend lit the old couch on fire, which spread to the garage door, and then burned most of the roof.

John and I pulled his wife Carol from the basement as the house burned.

My Dad rebuilt the house and sold it. John and Carol got an apartment in Southwest Denver. I went to prison for 2nd degree assault.

Carol died not long after. John went to jail at the Denver Regional Diagnostic Center, where the Department of Corrections decides which facility to send you to, for a year.

Word has it that John pawned a stolen motorcycle for a dope dealer, probably an act born of an addict's desperation.

In DRDC John had a heart attack and received treatment for cancer. They released him right at the beginning of February '06.

John then stayed with my Uncle Richard. He died on February 10, 2006, a little more than a week after his release. The coroner's report said he had coke and heroin in his system. My uncle found hypodermic needles in the trash.

John could blow bubbles into the air from his tongue. This talent earned him the nickname of Johnny Bubbles. He lived to be 66 years old.

 

 

 

VATO MALDITO: My Life of Crime, by John "Bubbles" Gallegos

Now Available!!! from Enlightened Pyramid

A notorious Denver professional criminal tell his story in his own words. Armed robbery, addiction and hard time are just the tip of the ice berg in this career thief's autobio.

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