Title: Closet Full of Coke
Author: Indra Sena
Publisher: Indra Sena
Pages: 294
Language: English
Genre: Memoir
Format: Paperback & eBook
Purchase at AMAZON
Narrated
by the teenage girl who lived it, Closet Full of Coke tells the true story of
how a New York suburban fifteen-year-old girl's savvy and wit helps turn the
small-time drug business of Armando, a Colombian drug dealer, into a
multi-million-dollar cocaine operation that puts them on the DEA's Wanted List.
This
intimate diary gives readers a fast-paced glimpse of the couple’s speedy rise
to riches, and their inevitable descent.
These
wannabe drug lords of the 1980s New
York-to-Florida drug scene end their story only three
years later with an untimely death, betrayal, and revenge.
Here
is a true account of drug dealers whose obsession with money, power, sex, and
glamour drives them to a lifestyle of deceit and recklessness, ending in
tragedies that destroy lives forever.
Why
Your Self-Published Book Needs a Lawyer
If you’re self-publishing it’s
critical to have your book vetted by a lawyer. Every publishing house puts
their books through a legal team before it’s published and here is why you
should too.
Lawyers will comb through your book
looking at it through the lens of liable and fair-use laws. I cannot stress the
importance of this oft overlooked step enough. A book opens you to lawsuits
from practically anyone. Companies whose brand name you mention, owners of song
lyrics, people who were quoted without permission, people who feel a fictional
character is based on them, and nonfiction books about private people.
Take this example: an angry man
going through a divorce wrote a tell-all book about his estranged wife. He
self-published it and sold five copies. She sued and the judge ordered him to
pay $70,000 in damages for each copy of the book he had sold.
I also used the writer’s legal
reference book. I read it in full before I started writing my book. I wrote a
memoir so it was critical that I learned how you could write about someone
without slandering them. When your book is complete give it to a lawyer who
will then thoroughly review the book’s contents and note any potentially
litigious writing. They will hand you a report of their findings and you can
then edit your book in response to the information. You might also consider
buying book insurance. This can be done from writer’s organizations such as The
Authors Guild. For a few hundred dollars a year you would have coverage toward
lawsuits that could be brought against you.
Self-publishing makes you personally
liable for the contents of your book and a lawsuit can threaten your personal
property including your house, bank account, and future earnings. So make your
work as bulletproof as possible before releasing it into the public domain.
The
Publishing Law Center
Right
of Writers
The
Authors Guild
First Chapter:
One
January 1984
Age 15
Mesc: A misnomer for tiny, hallucinogenic, purple pills. Mesc is
short for the word mescaline, a reference to peyote cactus. The pills do not
contain peyote. They are made from low-potency LSD and fillers.
Buy: A wholesale purchase of drugs by a drug dealer.
“You looking for
someone?”
I was standing on the
porch of my dealer’s house, anxiously ringing the doorbell. I turned around to
see a thirtysomething Latino man standing behind me. I hadn’t heard him come up
the porch steps. He was sleek, and his dark eyes were captivating. His
remarkably handsome face was framed by glossy black hair brushed neatly back.
He appeared regal in a full-length gray wool coat topped with a flowing black
scarf, and shiny black leather shoes.
“I’m here to see Jamal.”
I pushed my hands deep into the pockets of my black leather jacket.
“No one is home.” He
spoke slowly in heavily accented English. “You are looking for something, sí? I can help you.” The cadence of his
voice had a slight hypnotic effect on me.
He kept his dark eyes
locked on me. I turned and walked across the decaying porch planks of the
sprawling Victorian house to peer into the kitchen window. It did seem
unusually quiet.
I was there to make a
buy. I’d been hitchhiking to this house for two years, since I was thirteen,
buying mesc to sell to my suburban classmates. The Lincoln brothers—all six of them—lived,
turned tricks, and dealt drugs here. I often sat in the shadows of the living
room silently watching the freak show; businessmen in smart suits arriving to
pay for sex with black men wearing full drag, teenage girl streetwalkers in
miniskirts buying pills, and hollow-eyed junkies sweating and panting for
heroin.
When I came to make a
buy, I would sit on the red velvet couch smoking Marlboros while the oldest,
Jamal, counted out dozens of tiny purple pills on the coffee table.
“Here you go,
girlfriend,” he’d say while tossing me a miniature plastic bag containing the
pills, “now you gots to pay your daddy.” Then he’d flash a wide, disarming grin
while flipping the blue feather boa he often wore over his shoulder.
I’d take wads of bills
out of my purse that were mostly singles (the lunch money my classmates paid me
with) and hand them to him.
When I’d stand and
announce that I was leaving, he’d jump up and give me a juicy kiss goodbye. He
always flirted with me, but not in a serious way. It was more like he was
teasing me.
He’d say something like,
“Girl, you so fine. We should hang out together some night.”
I knew he was joking, but
I still had a crush on him. He was tall and stately, and he looked like an
athlete with his muscular physique. I thought he was gorgeous.
Living as an unsupervised
teenager, I stumbled into drug dealing. At first, I bought my drugs from high
school seniors I partied with, and then re-sold them to my peers in middle
school for a profit. But then I met Jamal at a liquor store near his house
where I went to buy cheap wine with fake ID. He was charming. We formed an
instant bond, and when he took me to his house full of lava lamps, colored
beaded curtains, and velvet furniture, I thought it was the coolest place I’d
ever seen. I began hitchhiking there regularly to buy all of my drugs from him.
The Lincoln brothers’ house was always full of
people, mostly hookers and junkies. I found them intriguing, especially the
girl hookers who were my age. I became friends with two of them. They called
themselves Spicy and BJ, and they were always forking their hard-earned cash
over to their boyfriends—wanna be pimps with needle bruises covering their
scrawny arms.
Spicy and BJ told me
countless stories of sex for profit. Sex with toothless old men, or with men so
fat they had to climb on top of them by stepping on a folding chair. And sex
with shoe-fetishists who masturbated while the girls pranced around rank hotel
rooms in high heels. They were always bumming cigarettes off me, and asking men
for spare change as we walked down the street together.
I couldn’t quite
understand their choice to hook. As a dealer, there was no sex with sleazy men
for a twenty-dollar bill, and no pimp to take that bill away. I lived like
royalty. Everyone wanted to be my friend. I was phoned constantly, sought out
between classes by kids camping in front of my locker, saved the best seat on
the school bus, and stalked by the Jonesers; those ghosts who think of nothing
but getting high.
When I focused on
something, I tended to excel. I thought about being a lawyer, or a teacher, but
I was afraid I would never fit into the normal world. When I spoke of college,
my mother, Joan, sarcastically called me a dreamer. She suggested I clean
houses instead.
The stranger extended a
gloved hand towards me. “Come with me,” he said, and flashed a movie star
smile. “I’m Armando.”
I took his hand and
walked down the porch steps holding it, teetering slightly on the stiletto
heels of my black suede boots. When we reached the pavement, I jerked my hand
away.
“Where are you taking
me?”
“For a ride.”
Taking a deep breath, I
stared expressionless at him. “No, I’m sorry, I can’t. I don’t know you.”
“Ah, but I know you. I
saw you leaving here once, and I asked Jamal about you. You are the gringa who comes from the country to buy
mesc.” He placed his hand on my arm, and I knew I was going with him.
“Come with me to pick
some up and I will give you the best deal,” he said.
I followed him along the
sidewalk. I thought he was the most charming man I’d ever met. I flirted with
him, smiling and twisting a long dark curl with my finger while we walked.
I suspected Armando was
Jamal’s supplier. Going over your dealer’s head to his dealer is considered a
loathsome crime of loyalty. I loved Jamal, but my ambition had long outweighed
my loyalty; I had gone over my dealer’s head before. Besides, I didn’t go
looking for Jamal’s supplier. I just got lucky.
Armando stopped walking.
He stepped off the curb and opened the driver side door of a brown El Camino,
and then pulled the beige front seat forward. He motioned for me to get in. A
typical Hispanic car, I thought. The Virgin Mary statue glued to the dashboard
completed the stereotype.
Sliding into the
backseat, I noticed a girl up front holding a baby. Her shiny black hair,
pulled tightly back with an elastic band, fell to her waist. She looked about
my age.
“This is Lourdes, she does not speak too much
English.”
“Hola, mucho gusto.” I fumbled to speak the tiny bit of Spanish I
knew.
She replied in rapid-fire
Spanish.
I interrupted her. “Un poquito.”
“The little you speak is
good,” Armando said. “I’ll teach you. Do not learn from her, she is Puerto
Rican. She butchers my language.”
“Is that your baby?”
“Yes. José. He is one
year.”
Armando started the car,
and then jerked it quickly away from the curb forcing us all to lurch. The
unexpected slide across the seat sent me slamming into the door. As we drove, Lourdes clutched her baby
to her chest. I held onto the headrest in front of me.
He soon careened onto the
interstate and floored the gas, weaving in and out of narrow lanes, passing
cars on both sides without signaling, and honking his horn in frustration. He
yelled and cursed in Spanish while angrily tailgating every car in his path.
I had never seen anyone
drive like this before. A man I once talked to in a bar told me people in other
countries drive really crazy. He was from Egypt, and he said there were no
traffic lights there. Maybe Armando had only just come to America?
“Where are we going?” I
hoped talking to him would distract him, maybe slow him down. It only made
things worse as he looked over his shoulder to talk to me without braking.
“114th Street.”
“You mean the city?”
“No, Manhattan.”
“That is the city, and
it’s over two hours away! Why are we going there?”
“To get mesc. That’s what
you want, sí?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t plan
on being away for hours.”
I had hitchhiked to
Jamal’s straight from school. My sister Seely, who was only thirteen, was home
alone with no one to watch her. Our mother had been sleeping at her new
boyfriend’s house almost every night. We had friends who came over to drink and
drug with us daily, so she probably had company, but I didn’t want to disappear
on her for hours.
“I’m gonna give it to you
cheap, muchacha
Half the price you pay
the Lincoln
brothers. I’m getting you a hundred hits for seventy dollars.”
I was thrilled. I
immediately began calculating the increased profits in my head. But dealers,
like poker players, must always hide their true feelings. I remained stoic. He
glanced at my expressionless face in the rearview mirror. I glared at him. “If
you don’t fucking kill us, cabrón.
You drive like a crazy man, slow down.” I looked over his shoulder at the
speedometer. It was punched to eighty-five. “Slow the fuck down or let me outta
this car!”
Armando laughed. “Okay, chica, I’ll try, but you are mine now.”
His gentle bullying
annoyed me. I would never be his—or anyone’s, especially not for a crummy
handful of drugs, not even for a million dollars.
I sat back and rummaged
through my purse. It contained a small notebook where I kept my drug books and
wrote poems, and a small silk bag with pearl-colored rosaries my grandmother
had given me. I also carried two makeup cases. One was a black case housing
cherry red lipstick, black eyeliner, powder, and a battery powered lighted
mirror, and the other was a pink case that functioned as a stash bag with
marijuana, rolling papers, and small glass cigarette holder inside.
“Can I smoke pot?” I
asked.
“Sure, it is okay. Just
relax.” Armando switched on a Spanish pop station and blasted the tinny music.
I rolled a perfect joint.
I placed it in the cigarette holder and lit it, deeply inhaling the thick
smoke. No one wanted any so I smoked alone, occasionally leaning forward to
survey the speedometer.
When we reached the city,
it was night.
“Armando, where are we?”
“Spanish Harlem.”
He parallel parked along
the curb, and then jumped out of the car telling us to lock the doors. I felt
nervous as I watched him walk to the corner, turn, and vanish.
I had heard of Harlem, as in the Harlem Globetrotters. Other than that,
it meant nothing to me. At home, I hung out in what was called “Spanish Town.” Spanish Harlem looked a lot like
it with its painted brick townhouses, and tiny stores lining the streets with
signs advertising Lotería and Licor de malta along with flashing red
and yellow lights circling the windows.
Lourdes and I struggled to converse, then
politely gave up. I wished I spoke Spanish so I could ask her about Puerto Rico. Instead, I passed the time by watching the
people walking by. There were girls swathed in rabbit fur with high, tight
ponytails and huge gold hoop earrings, and young men in parkas walking in small
groups talking animatedly. Occasionally I’d see a solitary figure walking
briskly, seemingly coaxed by the cold wind.
I was drawn to Latin
culture: the exotic sounding Spanish words spoken so rapidly, the spicy food,
the garish décor, and the candles with the Saints on them. When I was twelve, I
liked a boy named Jimmy Martinez. I gave him my number and he called me while I
was out. My mother answered the phone and while taking a message, she asked his
name.
“Don’t you know you can’t
date spicks?” She began yelling as soon as I came through the front door.
“Why not?” I asked.
“’Cause, you go wich your
own kind. You can’t date any boys unless they’re the same as you.”
I went out with Jimmy
anyway. I liked brown skin, melodic accents, and jet-black hair.
Armando finally returned
with small bags full of steaming hot food. “These are empanadas, we eat them in Colombia all the time. You have
never tasted anything so good.” We ate the hot yellow pastries filled with
spiced beef out of grease-stained paper bags.
I said that I needed to call my sister.
Armando nodded and then drove slowly down the street, pulling over when he
spotted a phone booth. He offered me some change. I jumped out of the car
clutching a handful of dimes and was soon pushing dirty buttons with my black
leather gloves.
“Seely? Were you asleep?”
She sounded groggy.
“Nah, I’m just fucked
up.” She then burst into laughter. “Where the fuck are you, you never came home
after school?”
“I had to leave town,
I’ll be back around eleven. Are you okay? Did ma call?”
“I’m alright, just
hangin’ out with Jack. Ma never called tonight.”
“Cool.” I was relieved
she was with Jack, her boyfriend for almost a year.
“Where are you, sissy?”
Seely always called me by the same nickname our father called his sister.
“I’m doing business ...
working, ya know. I’ll tell you later.”
Seely was my biggest fan.
She often bragged at school about being my sister. I felt responsible for her
and even though I was often mean to her, she was the only person I trusted with
my secrets.
When I got back into the
car, Armando asked me where I lived.
“Farmingville.”
“Where’s that?”
“About ten miles from Southbridge.”
“Oh, sí. No hay problema, I will drive you home. Aquí.” He tossed me a tiny packet
containing more mesc than I had ever seen. I pulled the money out of my wallet
and gave it to him.
“You gotta pen,
muchacha?”
I pulled out a pen along
with my trusty notebook.
“Here is my number. From
now on you call me, sí?”
“Sí.”
The ride home was quiet. Lourdes rarely spoke,
though occasionally she murmured to Armando in Spanish, and he answered almost
as softly. I understood nothing they said, but it sounded like music.
Armando looked at me
often in the rearview mirror. Sometimes, I met his gaze and held it for a
moment. His raven eyes made my heart race. Maybe I saw my future in them, a
future more glamorous than I’d ever dreamed, and more horrible than I’d ever
feared.
You
can visit Indra Sena’s website at www.closetfullofcoke.com.
Indra is currently working on her second memoir. It covers two years in her
twenties, where she joined the Rainbow Family and traveled the US and abroad.
Her
latest book is the memoir, ClosetFull of Coke.
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