Chapter 5
Pirates

Willie saw camels in Morocco, right in the marketplace. It was hot and dusty in Northern Africa but he preferred heat to cold. You could always tie your hair back, take off more clothes or have an icy drink of water—pour it over your head if necessary; but being cold is harder to fix. The boy remembered childhood winters without a warm coat when the gas company would turn off the heat until remunerations were made.

Jason and his pal were off the coast of Nigeria aboard the La Fayette, in tandem with the Aquitaine, transporting iron supplies. The second ship was needed to share the load because the cargo was heavy enough to sink the old clunker. The young sailor was topside on watch duty when he spotted two speedboats approaching the sister ship. They carried adolescents, teenage boys and men brandishing machine guns and all shouting at once. Willie blew his whistle while running to the upper deck to ring the warning bell. In an instant, Jason appeared at his side.

"Look, pirates!" The boy yelled, pointing off the starboard bow as the ship's siren went off. Jason grabbed his partner and shoved him into his cabin, slamming the door behind them.

"What the fuck're you doin'? We gotta get to stations!" Willie hollered as the deck officer pulled stacks of money from a bag under his mattress, then hauled out his sea chest, removing the false bottom.

"Never mind that, it's every man for himself." He yanked the young man's arm. "Hurry up; help me with this."

His junior partner complied unwillingly and together they stashed the cash in the trunk's hidden compartment.

"Jason," he backed away, whining. "I wanna go."

"Don't be a hero."

"I'm not, but there's—pirates!"

Willie could stand it no longer. He abandoned his task and dashed from the cabin, crashing headlong into the ship's captain as he rushed down the corridor.

"Don't delay, son—you're not the cabin boy." He had an Australian accent.

"No, sir. Seaman Loomis."

"Well, get below, man. We need stokers. This vessel is making a U-turn."

"Aye aye, sir." Willie ran for the hatch.

In the engine room every able-bodied seaman was transporting or shoveling coal as the bosun bellowed orders and tossed a shovel at Willie. The ship lurched and tilted sharply on its pivot, sending sailors crashing into each other and onto the floor. The lights went out as rapid machine gun fire was heard from above. Illuminated only by the furnace, the crew shoveled harder as the ship tilted again on a perilous axis.

The noise from upper deck ceased abruptly. Willie stopped to listen until the bosun pushed his shoulder to continue, then the sounds of automatic weapon discharge resumed with increased intensity.

We're shooting back, Willie thought. I wanna be up there blastin' those bastards outta the water!

La Fayette reached its desired speed of 16 knots and safely harbored late that afternoon in Togo, two countries away. The Nigerian navy had intercepted the pirates, killing half of them. Two of the Aquitaine's crew also died.

The captain congratulated the crew on their successful escape. Willie stood on deck with the other stokers, dripping in sweat and covered stem to stern in black coal dust; only his sun-bleached mop stuck out the top. In lieu of showers, the men dove off the side of the ship and swam in the bay.

That evening, Willie sat with his old partner on the starboard deck sharing a smoke.

"So, now you've fought pirates. Not like the sort on the Jolly Roger, eh?" Jason gazed at the Southern Cross in the sky.

Willie leaned over the rail, flicking chipped paint. "Didn't fight nothin'; missed all the fun."

"Ah, well, it was better to play it safe. Don't worry, there'll plenty more in Singapore and Malaysia."

The young sailor grunted. Only wussies backed away from fights. Not only did he see no action, but his entire steamer turned tail and hauled ass out of there, leaving its sister ship in the lurch. The subject of his partner's personal cowardice was not broached, but duly noted. If push came to shove, would Jason do that to him? Every man for himself, the Irishman had said. Willie decided that would never happen—but if it did, he would do it first.

December 1977

Willie, along with Jason, spent Christmas (and his real 21st birthday) in Hong Kong. They ate Cantonese pizza and drank Too Soo Brew, (5) watched fireworks and joined in a parade in Lan Kwai Fong featuring an Asian Santa Claus—Sing Daan Lou Ya.(6) The street was so brightly lit, it looked like daytime.

To fulfill a long ago promise, the Irishman took his comrade to see the most talented girls in the world. Willie assumed he was referring to Tanka prostitutes, or salt water girls, as they were known, but their actual destination was nothing but a seedy underground nightclub.

British and American rock music blared through cheap, tinny speakers as disinterested, naked women danced on the bar, on the tables and on customers' laps. Two girls were engaged in some sort of bondage activity on a makeshift stage while another young lady demonstrated her prowess with a bucket of ping pong balls.

Most of the girls looked bored or unhappy, and unpleasant memories found their way into Willie's thoughts.

"Happy Christmas, lad." The older man bought them two shots and two beer chasers, wiping the glass rims with his handkerchief.

Willie looked uncomfortable. "I dunno, Jason. This is what ya were braggin' about all that time? It's just—sorta weird."

"Ah, not your cup of tea?" He paid an eager teenager a HK dollar to sit on his lap and said something in Cantonese, making her giggle. "Very well. Finish your drink and I'll take you to Dublin Jacks for a game of darts. Then we'll head over to Yau Ma Tei (7) and find you a pretty Christmas present."

"One that doesn't have the clap."


Now that they were in Southeast Asia, Jason was ready for another layover, so they spent a long time traveling between Taiwan, Australia, Vietnam, Singapore, Korea, New Zealand and Japan. The Irishman was up to his neck in business deals. Sometimes they had a dinky boat, sometimes a beat-up old car or a motorbike. Whatever the mode of transportation, it had a hidden compartment.

Willie's job was to drive, and that's all he ever did. Drive, usually alone, sometimes for days at a time. And he was required to wear a baseball cap or keep his hood up, no matter how hot it was. The kid delivered packages from the secret storage units to Asian contacts, every one of whom was named John Kim.

"What's in the bags, Jason?" his cohort asked as they shared a dinner of rice and stew with unidentifiable ingredients. "Why won't ya tell me?"

"Because it's better if ya don't know," the Irishman replied simply. "To protect you, lad, if you're caught. Just say someone paid you to deliver their car, and that's all you know about it. If they ask who, show them the picture."

Willie pulled the photo of a Chinese man from his pocket. "I know. John Kim; but this isn't any of the guys we deal with. Who is this dude?"

"He's my tailor. It doesn't matter."

After a moment, Willie tossed down his chopsticks and pulled out his switchblade. "Fuck this. I wanna know." He sliced open one of the packages on the table before Jason could stop him. Finely ground gray powder spilled from the container.

"What the hell is this, smack?" Willie asked as the Irishman carefully swept it up.

"Sure."

"I don't like dealin' smack." Willie stared at the row of packages. "Makes me think of them other hustlers I used to know, always shootin' up…made 'em sad or mean or crazy."

"It's not for export," Jason reassured him. "This is local product; it stays right here."

The boy shook his head. "I dunno—" He rubbed the finely ground powder between his fingers. "Wait—this ain't smack. Why are you tryin' to bullshit me? What could be worse than smack?"

"I didn't say it was worse," Jason replied dismissively. "It's a local delicacy that's dear to come by, is all. What have I always taught you? When you can supply somethin' people are willin' to pay for, that's good business."

"So I should be glad we're not haulin' around kids to become sex jockeys." His partner ignored the comment and returned to his meal. "You still haven't told me what this stuff is."

"No need to; you wouldn't understand."

"I dunno." Willie folded his arms. "Try me.

The Irishman shrugged. "It's powdered rhino horn."

The young man stared at him. "You're right; I don't understand. What the fuck? Where'd you get a crazy ass idea like that?"

"The locals believe in it. It'll cure cancer, impotency, hangovers, baldness, you name it."

"Jason, that's bullshit."

Again he shrugged. "Who's to say it doesn't work? Are you a scientist? We're makin' a boatload of money, boy-o. This is goin' to bankroll the big payoff, the one I've been tellin' you about."

Willie pondered the implications for a moment with a look of consternation. "I know one thing it doesn't cure: dead rhinos."

"Nobody'll miss them."

"But it's gross."

"Be glad you didn't open the package with the tiger balls." Willie looked askance, wondering if his pal was joking or not. "Lighten up, will ya? This will happen with us or without. Why shouldn't we make a little middle-man profit? Nobody gets hurt, everybody gets happy and we get rich."

The young man slumped onto the floor, leaning against the wall. "No," he said at length, staring at his stew. "I don't wanna do it no more. It ain't right."

Jason looked with curiosity at his pouting partner, who always had a long list of things he was willing to do and a very short list of that which he would not.

"I didn't realize I was goin' up against your high and mighty moral convictions," Jason goaded him.

Willie was not sure, in fact, if a few less rhinos in the world would matter or not, but he knew when he was being bullied, and the old man was starting to piss him off.

"You'd drown puppies if there was cash involved; they're just dumb animals," Willie retorted. "They didn't do nothin' to deserve it."

"And our other marks over the years, all those nice, friendly folks we conned and stole from. Did they deserve it?"

"Pretty much, yeah…I thought so," the young man answered with simple honesty. "Served 'em right for havin' too much money and bein' stupid enough to let us take it."

The two sat smoldering in silence. Willie debated in his mind what his partner would do. It wasn't likely the Irishman would dump him flat because he wouldn't risk his own hide transporting the contraband. Jason shook his head, thinking that the punk was getting too big for his britches. It was better in the old days when he could just smack the kid around and give orders without being questioned.

"Hey, why don't we deal cocaine?" Willie suddenly said, his face lighting up.

"And doesn't that hurt people?" Jason returned sarcastically.

"But I like coke, and we don't have to kill nothin' to get it."

His partner considered the matter. "You know, the U.S. Government will actually pay a person to peddle coke over here. I hear it's some sort of money-launderin' scheme to backroll an anti-communist movement in Central America."

"I dunno what that means," Willie replied, smiling, "but it sounds to me like it would be our patriotic duty."


(5) Locally brewed beer
(6) "Christmas Old Man" or Santa Claus in Cantonese
(7) A section of town known for its prostitution and "love hotels."