Kidnapped at the Fontainebleau Hotel
By Robert Elliot
Platshorn ...
The Black Tuna
Early 1978........I spent the day at our headquarters in the Presidential Suite of the Fontainebleau Hotel on Miami Beach. It was almost five when I phoned home to tell Lynne I was on my way, I took the elevator to the lobby, put the money I had collected from two of our Philadelphia customers into the hotel safe, and headed out the wide glass doors. The doorman waved and sent a valet to bring up the Ford E-350 van that was my ride. Coming up the entrance ramp, waving and calling my name was Rigaberto Santana. His older brother, Fello Santana was a major marijuana smuggler; a big shot from the CIA trained Cuban Brigade that invaded Cuba at Bay of Pigs. We had once brokered a big load of poor quality pot for Fello. I didn't much care for his macho tough guy demeanor and refused his recent offers to sell the cheap crappy weed he bought at bargain prices in Colombia. His younger brother Berto was likable, but I couldn't imagine what he wanted.
"Take a short ride with me my brother wants to have a drink with you and talk about some business, It won't take long, and then I'll drive you back." He looked uncomfortable, besides I had no desire to discuss anything with Fello Santana.
I shook his hand and smiled."Look, it's almost dinner time, I'm headed home, maybe some other time."
Berto looked around, opened his jacket and gestured to the ugly chromed .45 automatic tucked in his waist band, "It's OK hermano, we just go to my brother's house for a short talk."
I didn't think he'd shoot me on the steps of the biggest hotel on Miami Beach, but I didn't want him or his brother's goons showing up at my house. I walked down the ramp and got into his BMW. The conversation on the short ride was awkward. Fifteen minutes later we turned onto a cul de sac in south Miami. All six houses on the horseshoe street belonged to members of Santana's family or a close associate.
Fello's house was the big one in the center. We went through to the Olympic size indoor pool in the rear and circumnavigated to the long bar against the far wall. Complete with barstools, it looked like a private cocktail lounge. To the right was Fello's office. I could hear him on the phone arguing loudly in Spanish. When I heard him say "la subasta", the auction, I realized he was referring to me. Robby and I owned the South Florida Auto Auction. Sitting at the bar, six big Guajirans from the Rio Acha area of Colombia. A couple of them looked familiar, but I was too distracted to think about it, I returned their smile, refused the drink Berto offered me, and stood waiting for Fello to get off the phone. Then the light went on! These guys were the Colombians that had loaded my DC-3 with 5000 lbs of Santa Marta's best pot, on a jungle airstrip above Lake Cienaga where we were all captured by the Colombian army, who wanted to take us to the nearest town to shoot us (see "Death by Firing Squad'") A minute later all six of them were laughing, shaking my hand, and giving me hugs.
When Fello come out of his office and saw the happy reunion he looked confused. He didn't know anything about our DC-3 adventure and none of us were about to enlighten him. The Guajirans were there to intimidate me, or that was his plan. He didn't like what he was seeing.
"Just tell me what's on your mind, I'm late for dinner," I was feeling braver now that I figured had allies.
He put on his macho face. "My yerba, 40,000 lbs, its missing. The entire shipment disappears from the behind my fish house in the Keys. Except for my people, you and your people were the only one's who knew where it was." He pointed to the Colombians. "These people come for their money. Now you and your partners have to pay. You stay here until they bring the money."
Now I had the picture. The Colombian suppliers never trusted Santana. The Guajiran crew where there to collect from Fello.
A week earlier Fello had come to the hotel and offered to sell us the load suspiciously cheap. The yerba was sitting dockside behind his fish house in the lower Keys. All we had to do was get a couple of trucks and pick the stuff up. Yeah right! It was obvious he was afraid to bring it out of the keys himself. No doubt the load was under surveillance by the Coast Guard or DEA, or he would have brought it too Miami himself and gotten $50 more per pound, than he wanted from us. Two days later there was a very small article, buried in the Miami Herald local section, about a big load of marijuana that was busted by the Coast Guard behind a fish house in the keys. Fello didn't want the Colombians to know he didn't have the cojones to move the goods before it was busted, so he was selling wolf tickets, to pass the blame.
Problem solved. The rest was too easy. I picked up one of the two phones on the bar, asked Berto to put it on speaker phone and to translate for the Guajirans. I got the number for the Coast Guard and dialed.
"This is Elliot Roberts. I'm with the Atlanta Journal, Could I please speak to your PR guy, Jim Dingfelter ". A moment later he was on the phone, "Hi can I get some info on the load you guys busted in the Keys a few days ago"
"Mr. Elliot, there aren't many details. Who ever unloaded it ran away. We watched for three days. When no one showed up to claim it we took it down to Key West to the confiscation compound. We didn't arrest anyone because the fish house where we found it had been closed for months." I thanked him and hung up.
Now there were six .45 automatics on the bar and I knew they weren't there to scare me. Fello was trying to claim he didn't know anything about the bust. The Guajirans weren't buying his story. They told him they knew who I was, that we had been together in the jungle, I was their friend, and could get all the Yerba I wanted without putting up a penny.
Without another word, I gestured to Rigaberto and headed for the front door. It was no further business of mine. I have my doubts whether Fello ever paid the Colombians. A few months later a bomb went off in a hotel room in Coral Gables. Mr. Santana, a loose cannon who was always at odds with other members of the anti-Castro factions, was scattered in tiny bits across Coral Way.
A pity.....couldn't happen to a nicer Fello.
Copyright Platshorn 2008