In the winter of 2022, Nico Weissenberg became Miami’s kingpin. He learned early that if he cooked his stuff at a lower temperature, he could make it whiter and more powerful than anything else on the market. Weissenberg would only sell in kilos and make drop offs. His clientele called him El Cima, because his stuff brought people to the highest point.
His days started at 4 AM, with phone calls from bodegas, where he would leave white bricks and bags with the owners and employees who paid him in cash before the sun could shed a ray over SoBe, while the phone sounded with endless sales. By sunrise, Nico had the tendency to walk to the water and back, pacing in front of the Flamingo high-rise where he resided at his waterfront property.
Beep beep—beep beep. He looked at his phone. Beep beep—beep beep. “+39? Who’s calling me?” Though unknown callers were seldom picked up by others in Nico’s position, Weissenberg thought of unfamiliar phone calls as a welcomed business opportunity.
“This is Nico.”
“Ahlo Goomba, my name is Jimmy Montagne. Are you El Cima?
“How can I help you.”
“I run few spots in Italy that need your bianca forte”
“Is that so,” Nico chuckled?
I just send you round-trip ticket to your phone. I need you to fly 4 kilos of your best bianca forte into Milan, tomorrow morning. You do that?” Montagne questioned, very matter of fact.
Changing his tone to a more business casual, Nico replied “Absolutely, papa.” He glanced at his watch. It was 11am.
“Your plane flies out at 3pm.” Nico’s phone dinged with the tickets in his Messages. “I will see you at 6AM, our time.”
Nico looked at the tickets.
“Dale.” The phone beeped; the call ended. Weissenberg pocketed his cell, walked back to his penthouse taking the elevator up.
As the silo opened, he exited to the first door on the right. Nico typed in his keycode and opened the door to his place. Before the smell could permeate into the halls of his building, he shut the door. He walked to the entry closet left of the door taking out his tried-and-true orange duffel bag. It was his regular business trip bag for making national and international drop-offs. He walked into his kitchen and turned off the heat racks. The smell became less emanating. He crushed and taped 4 bagged bricks of the white, bricking it up and throwing each package into his duffel. One—thud—two—thud—three—thud—and another one —thud.
He zipped up the duffel and carried the bag back towards his shoe rack. He put it down, preparing for his trip: pulling on his maroon loafers, taking out his baby blue sports jacket from the same closet his bag was in, and finishing his fit with a beige fedora from the shelf above his suit. He spritzed himself with some Versace cologne, and like clockwork, was out the door. He clicked the buttons on his phone summoning an Uber for MIA.
He turned right to the elevator taking it downstairs. When the silo opened, Nico’s Uber was waiting outside his building. He left the Flamingo and got in a black sedan with his orange bag. His Uber drove off.
As the Uber pulled up to the Miami International, Nico took the bag with him into the crowded airport. He checked in and headed to the TSA checkpoint line duffel bag in hand. Off came his loafers and he placed them with his bag onto the x-ray machine conveyor. He walked through the machine that checked his person, Whoosh, went the machine. “Step down,” said one of the TSA conducting the checkpoint line “move forward”.
Nico walked to the conveyor and waited for his bag. As his stuff passed through, he grabbed his shoes, and another TSA took the bag from behind the conveyor— “Is this yours,” the TSA asked motioning the orange duffel to Nico.
“It’s fine,” Nico said, playing it cool.
Before he could say another word, the TSA opened his bag exposing the taped bricks. Over his walkie talkie the TSA called for backup, “We’re going to need police at the checkpoint.” Nico waited relaxed.
The police came up to Nico, directing Nico’s arms behind him. “Hands behind your back,” the 2 officers said, cuffing Nico. They guided him behind a black partition for questioning.
“What’s with the bricks in the bag” the older officer asked going through the motion of protocol.
“I think we already know. It’s obvious—” the younger police officer was spry with Nico, who cut off his sentence.
“It’s not what you think,” Weissenberg tried to explain, as the police officers cut one of the bricks with a knife exposing the white powder to the air.
“We’ll decide that.” The officer put the bricks on a scale. “You have kilos of this stuff. Is it coke? Is it K?
“Something like that. It’s—” Nico tried to finish.
“You can go to jail for a long time,” expounded the officers.
Nico shrugged and maintained an unbothered countenance. This bothered the younger officer. The more experienced officer took a knife to the brick, knifed a dab from the slit, and proceeded to taste-test Nico’s white package. The older officer smiled letting out a sigh of contentment. “Let him go.”
“What?!” the inexperienced cop questioned.
“Yup, its only coffee,” smiled the officer
“White coffee?” The younger 5-0 was puzzled.
“Yup, coffee,” laughed Nico. “I tried to tell you.”
The older officer nodded in confirmation. “This stuff tastes pretty good,” laughed the older officer, plopping the bag and the open brick by Weissenberg before he uncuffed him.
Nico replied. “Thanks,” messaging the freedom from the silver bracelets.
“What do you call this type of coffee” asked the officer?
Nico flashed him one last charismatic smile. “It’s the best white in Miami.” He took his orange bag and headed for the terminal.
