Free Snowing in Bali by Kathryn Bonella Page A

was trembling with rage. ‘I don’t give a fuck.’
    Alberto grabbed his phone, saying, ‘Hold on one second, I’m going to put you on the phone to my friend.’ Alberto called the seller. ‘Man, this is fucked up; the guy just punched me in the face. Now you fucking sort something out.’
    The seller located another kilo of coke for Nanang at the same price. All the dealers knew the Indonesians were volatile – charming one minute, ready to kill you the next – and Nanang was the worst.
    There were also fractious tensions between the cartels that flared up when tentative rules of business were violated. The cartels wanted to keep the price as buoyant as possible, but sometimes it collapsed when a Peruvian undercut, sabotaging the market for self-interest. It was easy for them to sell it dirt cheap, as they bought it for so little at home, and had minimal outlay if they carried it themselves. It was fine if they sold it cheap to the cartels, but not to the Indonesian bosses or other international buyers. The rate was usually around $50,000 a kilo, but if supply was weak it shot up to $90,000 or if strong could drop to $20,000. These were Bali’s market trends.
    Their drug businesses were volatile enough, with busts constantly blowing the bottom line, so when it was one of their own sabotaging the market, it exacerbated the fury.
    Jose Henrici, aka Borrador, was living between Peru, where he had a son, and Bali. His expertise was stitching the bags, often working for Rafael packing coke in Peru or Bali into backpacks and surfboard bags. He’d worked with Rafael on Sparrow’s second run, meeting the horse in Cuzco, Peru, to give him the bag. Borrador was part of the business, but a soldier not a boss. He’d started getting constantly high, sweating profusely from overuse. Now he’d brought in some coke he bought for $1000 at home, packed and trafficked it himself, and was undercutting everyone.
    The Peruvians were putting down the price; that was big fight sometimes with them. We say, ‘What the fuck, you fuck the business.’ We were selling a kilo here for $50,000, $48,000 and in the end they sell for less than $20,000.
    Good quality?
    The best. And they start to fuck us, and then we catch one, one time, and tell him get out of the island, motherfucker.
    â€“ Rafael
    Rafael went out hunting for Borrador the night he discovered his crime. Nanang had been asking Rafael to alert him as soon as he got more coke, but when Rafael offered it to him for the low price of $25,000, as supply was strong, Nanang declined. The boss was now stocked up because Borrador had just sold a few kilos to him for $18,000 each.
    Rafael was apoplectic. It was vital for the Bali cartels to keep the prices above at least $25,000 a kilo. Random tourists who lobbed with stuff often naively sold for crazy low prices to the cartels or professional agents like Alberto, but they didn’t know the big Indonesian buyers, so it was usually only each other they had to watch.
    That night Rafael and his friend and self-appointed bodyguard Jando, a purple belt in Jiu-Jitsu, jumped in the car and went out hunting Borrador. As they drove along a dark narrow road in Canggu, they spotted him going in the opposite direction on his motorbike.
    Rafael did a fast U-turn, tore after the bike, quickly overtook it and swerved in front, forcing Borrador to slam to a stop. ‘Hey, Rafael,’ he waved uncertainly.
    â€˜Fuck you, man,’ Rafael yelled out the window as Jando burst out of the passenger door, rounding on the bike, kicking it over and propelling Borrador to the ground. The Peruvian had no chance to react. Jando grabbed his hand and snapped his thumb back in the Jiu-Jitsu cowhand technique. Borrador writhed in agony with his arm up in the air as Jando snarled, ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing, motherfucker?’
    Rafael stayed in the driver’s seat keeping an eye on