I am driving Morgan’s Cadillac down Century Boulevard. I glance at Morgan, who is counting money—a lot of money. He looks at me and asks, “Know where all this cash comes from?”
“Your offshore investors?” Morgan has alluded there are people overseas who send him serious money. He owns an aviation business at Mojave Airport in the high desert. It is not a large operation, but everything in it is first class. Burt Rutan owns the hanger next door, he is building an aircraft called Voyager to fly nonstop around the world.
“But do you know why they send me so much money?” he leers. “It’s because I fly their cocaine.”
“You what?” I ask stunned.
“I’m a smuggler. I fly coke from Colombia through the Gulf of Mexico a quarter ton or more at a time.” He reaches into his satchel and greedily stirs the bundles of money, like a toddler with his arms buried in a toy box. “So much money,” he chuckles, “it’s like being a king.”
Morgan’s eyes narrow as his head snaps to me. He adopts a sly look then holds up two thick bundles of cash. “This is fifty thousand,” he boasts. “It’s yours! All you have to do is copilot a plane to Colombia for me.”
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