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Overview
Robbert Sabbag’s Snowblind, the true story of an American smuggler whose intricate, ingenious scams made him a legendary figure in the cocaine world of the late sixties and early seventies, is a modern classic. In this “witty, intelligent, fiercely stylish, drug-induced exemplary tale” (Los Angeles Times), Sabbag masterfully traces Zachary Swan’s Roman-candle career, from his first forays into smuggling marijuana to his jaunts to Colombia to buy pure cocaine, and his ever more elaborate plans to outwit the police and customs officials. Updated by the author, this captivating portrait of a dashing antihero and enthralling look at a turbulent age is sure to reach a new generation of readers.
“A flat-out ball buster. It moves like a threshing machine with a fuel tank of ether.” —Hunter S. Thompson
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780802197658 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Grove/Atlantic, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 09/01/2018 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 368 |
| Sales rank: | 474,430 |
| File size: | 3 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
INDIAN SUMMER
Zachary Swan is not a superstitious man, but he is a very careful one. Like any professional gambler, he has survived by taking only calculated risks. So, in October of 1972, when he decided to throw a party to celebrate his most recent return to New York, he decided to throw a small one, and his caution was inspired less by the fact that it was Friday the thirteenth than by the compelling reality that on the mantelpiece above his suitcase there were three and a half kilograms of 89-percent-pure cocaine.
The cocaine had entered the United States that morning in the hollows of three Colombian souvenirs fashioned out of Madeira wood. They included a long, colorfully painted rolling pin, the symbol of marital bliss in Colombia; one rough-hewn statue, twenty inches high, of the Blessed Virgin; and a hand-wrought effigy of an obscure tribal head, about the size of a coconut. The fill had been made a week earlier in Bogotá. The load had passed U.S. Customs at Kennedy Airport, New York. It was carried through and declared: "Souvenirs."
The arrival of these artifacts at Zachary Swan's beach house in East Hampton, Long Island, launched a celebration which would not end until the following morning. It began at eight p.m. when the Madeira head was cleaved top-dead-center across the parietal lobe with the cold end of a chisel. Within minutes of this exotic lobotomy — a procedure reminiscent in equal measure of desperation combat surgery and a second- rate burglary attempt — the skull yielded up 500 grams of high- grade uncut cocaine, double-wrapped in clear plastic.
By the time the skull, which looked like that of a shrapnel victim, was reduced to ashes around the andirons of the fireplace, the celebration had assumed ceremony and the coke was performing fabulous and outlawed miracles in the heads for which it had been ultimately intended. They belonged to Swan himself; his girlfriend Alice Haskell, twenty-four, a children's fashion designer; Charles Kendricks, thirty, an Australian national and sometime employee of Swan; and Kendricks's girlfriend Lillian Giles, twenty-three, also an Australian. The Bolivian brain food they had ingested was only one course in a sublime international feast which featured French wine, English gin, Lebanese hashish, Colombian cannabis, and a popular American synthetic known pharmacologically as methaqualone.
It is difficult to verify at exactly what point in the proceedings (possibly over dessert) Swan's originally calculated risk became a long shot. The party went out of control somewhere in the early hours before dawn, and the steps he had taken in the beginning to minimize his losses were eventually undermined by the immutable laws of chemistry — his mind, simply, had turned to soup. He was up against the law of averages with a head full of coke. The smart money pulled out, and the odds mounted steadily. By sunrise, Swan was beaten by the spread.
Amagansett, New York, is situated 120 miles due east of Manhattan on the coastal underbelly of Long Island. One of several oceanfront resorts on the fringes of Long Island's potato belt, it owes its maritime climate to the temperate waters in the leeward drift of the Gulf Stream. The region was abandoned by Algonquins in the wake of colonial sprawl, a mounting overture to Manifest Destiny which brought New England to the outer reaches of the Empire State, and Amagansett, a tribute to the Indians in name only, is the custodian of a Puritan heritage. The whales are gone but the weathervanes remain. An occasional widow's walk acknowledges the debt to the sea. Anchors and eagles abound. George Washington would have been proud to sleep here.
In the off-season, order prevails. Time struggles to stand still. But when the weather breaks and the trade winds come in, the elders of Amagansett, like their colonial predecessors and the Algonquins before them, find themselves volunteers in a counterassault on cultural blight — minutemen knee-deep in the onslaught of souvenirs, fast-food and ersatz antiques. A kind of thug capitalism asserts itself. The tourists who come screeching down upon the town and the local retail sharks who surface to feed on them provoke an embarrassing display of provincial paranoia; and every summer, the town fathers, helpless, unhinged, watch their community move one irreversible step closer to the dark maw of the twentieth century, visibly shaken by what they consider to be a pronounced threat to Amagansett's Puritan soul.
Their dread has taken an inevitable turn. Amagansett has become a working model for an aggression/response approach to municipal government. Symptomatic of such an approach is a curious brand of frontier law enforcement, characterized by an allegiance to the principle that "... we got a nice quiet community here, son ...," dialogue resonant of hanging judges, pistol whippings, and the application of rifle butts to the dental work. You've got until sundown, as it were. In Amagansett the Wyatt Earp spirit runs especially high between the months of May and September, but a residual strain lingers through late autumn, tapering off appropriately around Thanksgiving, after which only the locals have an opportunity to break the law.
This is what Zachary Swan, forty-six, a pioneer whose embrace of the Puritan ethic had never been an all-encompassing one, would come up against on the morning of October 14. He and his friends would be arrested on the beach at sunrise and charged with public intoxication. And out of this circumstantial confrontation between the energetic bounty hunters of Amagansett, still juiced on adrenalin generated in the summer tourist- hunts, and a man who in six months had spent more money on cocaine alone than he had paid in state and local income taxes in twenty years — out of this head-on collision would grow a Federal investigation spanning at least two continents, twice as many international boundaries, and criminal jurisdictions as diverse as those covered by the United States Department of the Treasury and the traffic division of the East Hampton, Long Island, Police Department.
At five a.m. Zachary Swan, surrounded by $100,000 worth of cocaine, was smiling. He was smiling at the Madonna over his fireplace and dreaming of an island off the coast of Ceylon. Sprawled on the floor athwart three sleeping dogs, struggling to stay conscious, he looked like a besotted country squire out of the pages of an eighteenth-century novel.
Dawn was approaching. The room was quiet. The party had downshifted dramatically. All motor activity not essential to life had been suspended in the interest of the cardiac muscles. The body, in the grip of the downs, was making sacrifices.
Somebody had an idea (remarkable under the circumstances).
"Let's go to the beach and watch the sunrise."
A response, identifiable only in the deepest methaqualone funk, struggled to solitary life somewhere across the room. It contained many vowels. It was affirmative. Call it a sentence. A phrase. Someone had answered.
(We are on the threshold of human interchange here, speech, verbal commerce along the barren avenues of Qu??lude. City. Communication at this level, although sophisticated in its own way, can best be described as haphazard. It is a kind of space-age remodeling of traditional counterintelligence techniques — scrambled messages, predistorted transmissions, sympathetically programmed transceivers — a kind of mojo cryptography which contains no universal cipher and is efficient only when two people are doing the same kind of dope.)
Out of the chance marriage between this one remarkably conceived idea and the crypto-response which followed, there blossomed, like a flower in time-lapse motion, what was soon to be a legitimate conversation. It was force-bloomed according to the principle governing the first law of psychogravitational dynamics: The quickest way to come off downs is to do some ups. Follow the Qu??ludes with two or three lines of coke and you can throw even the most desultory dialogue into high gear. There is order in the Universe.
Monosyllables became murmurs:
"The ... sun."
An odds-on favorite to rise.
Murmurs became phrases:
"See ... the ... sun."
But nothing was taken for granted.
That the sun would not rise was a remote possibility, but one which nevertheless marshalled a certain amount of attention. Unnecessary risks, such as standing up, were postponed while an analysis of the odds for and against the sun's coming up at all was made. This delay was characteristic of severe psychochemical shock, but surprisingly it provided the first hard evidence of progress. (It marked the appearance of key polysyllabic words — participles, certain adjectives, an occasional predicate nominative — and diphthongs. A subordinate clause was pending.) The Qu??ludes were still throwing their weight around, but it was a futile display of power; their defeat was imminent, and signaled moments later:
"We haven't got much time," someone said.
A clear, audible statement. The cocaine was closing in. A decision, the final factor in the psychogravitational equation, was inevitable now. It would lead to activity and thus certify the successful application of Newton's first law to the infinite possibilities of drug abuse. In fact the decision came almost immediately, a tribute to the quality of this particular blow of coke:
"Let's go," someone decided.
And so, at the zenith of the cocaine ecliptic, activity was resumed. Status quo. What goes up must come down; what goes down must come up. Q.E.D. Physics, man. But now, with four people behind some heavy coke (one of them a certified Frank Sinatra fan), anything was possible.
Phase II ... Overdrive. Out-and-out mobilization. Tide tables were checked. Weather information from around the world gathered. Analyzed. Data was collated and patterns were charted. An expeditionary force was provisioned.
"We'll need plenty of drugs."
Yes. Of course. Consider the possibilities. Imagine the appropriateness of it. Standing in the Atlantic tide, welcoming the sun back to the United States of America. We, the people, bent, holding enough dope to fix three Kentucky Derbies. Enough to capture the imagination of ... yes ... even the Miami Dolphins. How fitting. How just. (How dangerous.)
They chose the Volkswagen because it was aimed at the beach, not unanimously unaware, certainly, that they were also choosing the only car in the driveway that could float. With their ranks bolstered, and their oxygen supply severely depleted, by the added company of three hyperventilating Labrador retrievers, a total, then, of twenty legs, each jockeying for position, any two feet at the ends of which might have been operating the accelerator and the clutch (the brake, reportedly, was used rarely, if at all), Swan and his friends reached the ocean through the combined application of dead reckoning and the gratuitous hand of God. (It is whispered in the cloakrooms of America's drug underground that He looks out for the heavy user.)
A joint, eighty-dollar Colombian, passing clockwise around the cockpit, outlined their efforts in a surreal, purple haze, and acting as a sort of gyroscope it provided slight, but presumably adequate, stabilization. It also pushed everyone's carboxy-hemoglobin level to the red line, bringing on that shameful and subversive Reefer Madness (manifest only in the Labradors, however) hinted at in arcane government manuscripts. It was quality dope, and its sharers were suffused with the magnificence and intergalactic splendor of star travelers. But at their energy/output ratio, given the specific gravity of their load and the negligible horsepower of the Volkswagen, they looked more like the Joads leaving Oklahoma.
Hark, hark,
The dogs do bark,
The beggars are coming to town;
Some in rags,
And some in jags, And one in a velvet gown.
"Hark, Hark,"
from Mother Goose
They erupted like circus clowns out of the overstuffed automobile and onto the beach, a tumbling agglomeration of weird, multicolored ragamuffins. For a moment it was hard to tell the humans from the quadrupeds. And then the dogs hit the water. It was not long before the idea caught on, and within minutes they were all stripped down, ready to celebrate the Rites of Spring — late.
The sun was on the horizon and all seven were bobbing in the surf when in the distance an intruder appeared. A jogger. He approached, moving at an even pace along the water-line, his face flushed, his breathing steady, his body drenched with sweat and glory, radiating that all-American, infinite faith in the cardiovascular benefits of discomfort. He was about fifty-five and well-fed. Swan recognized him as the owner of a local nursery. It looked as if he were going to pass by, until he saw the strange variety of clothing, like a forbidden invitation, leading to the water. He stopped. And then he looked. When his eyes met Swan's, chivalry was dead. He did not return the smile — admittedly a bizarre one, glassy at best, but everything Swan could muster — he simply stared, squinting against the sun, saying nothing. He was still, and he remained that way, in mute confrontation.
And now Swan, forsaking the smile, staring back in mute defiance, returning the look ... yes, we're out here swimming ... stoned ... Immaculate ... spawning on the current ... all of us ... breeding tiny and rebellious monsters ... the Enemy ... us ... go on, ... lock up your daughters ... scream ... you sad and friendless man ... you'll dream of us tonight ... I know you're going to turn us in, you son of a bitch.
Without a word, the man left. He continued along the beach and out of sight.
"He's going to turn us in," Swan said.
And he was right.
Somewhere in the accumulated misspending of what was someday to become known as his youth, Zachary Swan was taken aside by a man much older than he and confronted with what, at the time, was quaintly referred to as the cold truth about life. "Son," he was told, "there's no free lunch." He did not believe it then, and now, for the first time in forty-six years, Zachary Swan had hard evidence to show in support of his opinion.
"Mine was rare without the pickles," he said, "and give me a side of fries with that ..."
The chow wagon moved rapidly along the cell block, and Swan was left with Suffolk County's answer to winning the hearts and minds of the people.
"... hold the ketchup," he mumbled.
Three days in Riverhead and he was as close as he had ever come in his life to an overdose ... another jailbird, DOA/HAMBURGERS, poor bastard didn't even get the tourniquet off, cover him up, nurse ... the mayor must be from Texas, Swan thought, cow country; a Hindu would starve here ... Hare Krishna, pardner.
Swan washed the dry lump down with a calculated intake of jail coffee, a 70-percent solution of refined sugar, viscous, the consistency of syrup. A diabetic would not last an hour in the slammer — one shot of this coffee in the right place and you could throw an eight-cylinder Chevy onto the scrap heap forever. Swan swallowed the slush and felt the soft embolus of the hamburger suzette skidding down his esophagus into that vast wasteland once remembered as his stomach.
On Saturday afternoon, just prior to its second ration of ground beef, that same stomach had taken the punch that was to slow it down for the next two years. It was delivered by a police officer in plain clothes. He was looking at Swan:
"We found drugs in your house," he said.
Swan's established digestive patterns changed radically and forever at that moment. It was the beginning of a progress report. One that would grow tedious. He would become indignant at what the same detective delivered in the way of an uppercut:
"The word is out that you carry a gun."
The word is out? This cop either watches a lot of tele -vision or he reads The Daily News. I'm an executive, for Christ's sake. I belong to the Westchester Country Club. Charlie, I own stock in some of the largest corporations in the world. My wife was on the Dick Cavett Show. What is this guy talking about? The air duct, Charlie, drop it down the fucking air duct.
While Zachary Swan was parting with his stomach, Charles Kendricks, code name the Hungarian, was parting with a sterling silver coke spoon of great sentimental value. He dropped it through the grill of the air shaft that ventilated his cell on the second floor of the Suffolk County courthouse. His nose twitched goodbye. Where had he gone wrong, he wondered.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Snowblind"
by .
Copyright © 1990 Robert Sabbag.
Excerpted by permission of Grove Atlantic, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
BREAKAWAY,
1. INDIAN SUMMER,
2. TALKING TO BOSWELL,
3. BROWNSVILLE BREAKDOWN,
4. AFTER MATH,
5. AESTHETICS AND ANAESTHETICS,
GOING SOUTH,
6. A RAINY DAY IN SANTA MARTA,
7. A WAY WITH THE SPOON,
8. SNOWBOUND IN CARTHAGE,
9. THE CARPENTER SAID NOTHING BUT ...,
10. ALKALOID ANNIE/POWER OF THE PRESS,
11. HORSE LATITUDES,
12. WHY DID YOU WRITE MY NAME IN THE SNOW?,
RUNNING BLIND,
13. BACK TO THE BORDER,
14. JOURNEY OF THE MAGI,
15. BLUES IN THE BOTTLE,
16. THE HAWK AND THE HIRED MAN,
17. AFTER THE FOX,
EPILOGUE,
1. NEW YORK,
2. SOUTH AMERICA,
APPENDICES,
1. QUAA LUDES,
2. CREDIT CARDS AND TRAVELER'S CHECKS,
3. MEXICAN BROWN,
4. SPEED,
5. MARIJUANA ABROAD,
6. A SWAN LEXICON,
7. COLUMBIA AND BIG BUSINESS,
8. AIRLINE SECURITY,
9. DAY OF JUDGMENT,
AUTHOR'S NOTE,
AFTERWORD,
INDEX,
What People are Saying About This
One of the most dazzling and spectacular pieces of reporting I have ever read.
A flat-out ballbuster. It moves like a threshing machine with a fuel tank full of ether....Sabbag is a whip-song writer.
The ultimate slide down the precipice of hip.
One of the first books about the cocaine trade and it is still among the best.
One of the best books about drugs ever written.