by H. L. Valdez
“Even if you had the list, you couldn’t read it. All target lists are coded flight patterns,” he said, casually smelling his dirty fingers. “You need to learn Spanish. Dealers in Mexico shipped 200 tons of cocaine and heroin last year. Mexico is coming from behind. Last month, a pilot friend of mine was arrested with three tons of cocaine and black tar heroin at the Brussels National Airport in Belgium.
“Mexican heroin?” Butch thought outloud, frowning.
“Yeah, Mexican. If this conversation goes right, I may give you a lead with a money laundering ring in Mexico that handles up to $5 billion a year.”
“What group is that?”
“Can’t tell you that.”
“I don’t like that answer.”
“Hey, Japanese police always withhold intelligence.”
“Only from Americans. But Japan’s privacy laws prevent police from sharing intelligence about criminals. And since you’re a criminal, I won’t rat you out.”
“You have no hard evidence.”
“Do you want to die here?” he asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
“Better here than out there. Here, it’s a slow death. Out there, its instant death,” Terry said, rolling onto his side on his bunk.
“Why would someone want to kill you?”
“Because I’m here. That’s enough reason!” he said, pointing at Butch.
“Here, have a smoke,” he suggested, pulling a pack of Seven Stars cigarettes from his briefcase and shaking a filtered cigarette loose from the half-full pack.
“No smoking allowed in here,” Terry said, adjusting his small dirty pillow.
“You’re with me.” He smiled.
“I feel secure, man,” Terry replied, extending his hand for the cigarette. “What a joke.” He snorted.
“When I walk out, your last chance for freedom walks out with me,” Butch said lighting Terry’s cigarette with his Zippo as both men stared at each other, wondering what he could get from this conversation. “I personally don’t care if you die here. But, I’m going home to my wife when I leave here and you’ll still be here.”
“Sounds serious,” Terry replied, exhaling the smoke through his nose. “So why me?” he asked, staring cautiously at Butch, trying to sense his intentions.
“Why not you? But, no need to be hard headed,” Butch stated, lighting his cigarette while returning Terry's intense gaze.
“I’ve got nothing to say," Terry said after a long pause. "I can’t help you,” he replied, taking a deep drag from the cigarette. "Any other questions before you leave?" He asked, exhaling the cigarette smoke at Butch.
“When the harbor police stopped you, they found a kilo of heroin in your boat. Where did you get it and where was it going?”
“Oh sure, just like that," he laughed with a malicious smirk. "You’re joking! Are you serious? I said I’m not a rat."
"The kilo had the initial "S" stamped on it. What do you think that means?" he asked, ignoring his response.
"Here, give me your gun; I’ll kill myself now,” he said, tapping the ashes onto the dark concrete floor.
“Talk to me, Terry. You have something to say,” Butch stated, puffing his cigarette as Terry lay back on his bunk. Butch watched Terry's emotions and facial expression take him to a distant place. He was retracing his contacts in the heroin distribution route and the primary sources of the heroin. This shipment was black market in a black market industry.
“All I know is that the Triads are expanding many of their operations from Hong Kong to Japan, Los Angeles, and possibly Mexico and Marseilles.
"Who knows you're here?" Butch asked, taking a deep drag from his cigarette.
"Nobody. Why?"
“Just following my hunch," Butch said, exhaling the smoke in his face.
"What hunch?" Terry asked, waving the smoke away from his face.
"I lived in Hong Kong. We probably know some of the same people,” Butch stated, trying to access Terry's self-motivating interests.
“Lot’s of people in Hong Kong,” he replied. “Everybody knows everybody. No privacy. That’s the problem,” he said, shaking his head.
“What makes that a problem?”
“You figure it out. You’re the cop,” he said, pointing his dirty index finger at Butch.
“Heroin was on your boat."
"There was?" he gasped, holding his hand to his chest.
"You must be with the Triads,” Butch accused, pointing his cigarette at him.
“A light was out on my bow. Can you believe I was stopped for something so petty-assed, and chicken shit?” he said, flicking his ashes to the floor.
“Life is petty, you know that,” Butch said, drawing deeply on his cigarette. “What were you doing with one kilo? That doesn’t seem right?" Butch asked, tapping his ashes into an empty cigarette pack. "A kilo is a lot of junk just for recreational purposes.”
“I have a big nose. I was going to snort it all, really,” he said defiantly, rubbing his nose.
“What were you going to do with it, really?”
“Oh sure, just like that!” he answered, irritated, snuffing the cigarette out on the bed's steel frame. “You’re joking!”
“Work with me, Terry, I need your help; that's no shit,” Butch said, taking a miniature bottle of Japanese sake from his brief case and handing it to Terry.
"Now you’re smuggling alcohol into a prison?" Terry replied, sitting up, shaking his head while accepting the small bottle of sake. "Man, you're some cop."
“Call it operational case management. I'm stuck man, no shit. I need help," Butch sighed, prying the cap off the small bottle with a key chain can opener.
“No reason to help you. No payoff for me,” Terry replied, popping the cap off on the corner of the steel bed, watching Butch take a pack of Mild Seven cigarettes from his case.
“To your health,” Butch toasted, holding up the bottle. Terry tipped the bottle toward Butch, sipping the smooth dry sake without a word. Shadows of moonlight moved across the floor as both men sat in silence, drinking and smoking while sorting their thoughts and feelings.
“Are you working with the Yakuza?” Butch asked, suddenly.
“No. Besides, Japanese police know nothing about Yakuza.”
"What do you mean?"
"Japanese police are busy with how many guns and drugs are being seized in Japan. They have no grasp on how organized crime has become an integral part of the economy, or how to prevent it, or reverse it," Terry said, smirking.
"Sounds like you lack confidence in Japanese police."
"The weakest of all police operations is the anti-Yakuza section. They have little information and few contacts. They have no perspective on the Yakuza presence in society. None!” Terry said, pointing the sake bottle at Butch. "They depend on tips, like you do. It’s just telephone call police work. They never leave their desks; they just wait for the phone to ring. They’re Keystone cops.”
“Were you delivering heroin samples for the three Yakuza designated groups?” Butch asked, ignoring Terry's statement.
“No.”
“Were you meeting someone?”
“No.”
“Do you have a point of contact in Tokyo?”
“No.”
“Were you on vacation?”
“Yes.”
“Do you ever lie?”
“No,” Terry said, gulping down the remaining sake.
“Now here comes the fun part of the interview,” Butch said, taking three photographs from his brief case and handing them to Terry Ming.
“What’s this?” He asked, setting the empty bottle on the floor, reaching for the photographs.
“Do you recognize these men?” Butch asked in a low tone, pausing to sip his sake and stare at Terry Ming’s reactions as he studied the pictures.
“What's your point?” Terry asked, drawing deeply on his cigarette, while staring at the photos.
“A month ago these three men were found dead in the Ginza district of T
okyo. They were murdered with the same weapon. A .380 Walther PPK 9mm automatic,” Butch explained, as Terry intently examined the photos with deep interest. “A .380 makes a big hole,” Butch said, removing the bottle cap from another small bottle of sake and handing it to Terry.
“What’s your point?” Terry asked, accepting the sake.
“The hit man who killed these guys will eventually kill you," Butch said, influencing his thinking. "This could’ve been you if the cops hadn’t picked you up.”
“That’s not right,” he blurted, taking a long gulp of sake.
“You think so? The fat guy on the restaurant floor was shot three times. The guy in the front seat was shot through the heart and temple, at close range. The guy in the trunk got a big one to his right eye and the round came out the back of his head. Whoever killed these guys was really pissed. He was right on top of them, in their face.”
“Everyone knows this is a dangerous business.”
"The guy in the trunk still had his diving suit on."
"Shit, a big so-what?" Terry said defensively, dropping his cigarette butt into the empty clear sake bottle, shaking his head. “Still can’t help you cop.” He quipped rudely, with a worried expression.
“Your boat is circumstantial evidence in the murders.”
“Still can’t help you cop,” he replied, setting the bottle on the floor.
“We’re not finished,” Butch replied, taking a small plastic packet from his brief case.
“What’s that?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I need help,” he sighed, handing Terry a tiny plastic envelope filled with China White heroin. “I think this belongs to you. It was found on your boat," Butch said.
“What the hell are you doing, Butch?" Terry asked, nervously standing up. “Don’t blackmail me, man!” he shouted, angrily clenching his fist.
“Don’t panic -- relax. Just sit down,” Butch suggested calmly as Terry paced suspiciously, surveying the empty jail corridor for guards.
“This sample comes from the evidence locker.”
“You’re a wild cop, man. You’re crazy. I never met a cop like you,” he mumbled, shaking his head sitting on the edge of the bed, as his legs quivered anxiously.
“The sample comes from your boat.”
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Test it! Make sure it’s yours.”
"Are you sick or crazy?" Terry replied, taking the bag, squeezing it between his fingers.
“Operational case management, again.” Butch grinned.
“You’re spooky man, real spooky,” he said, opening the small plastic bag, inserting his long dirty curved nail of his right pinky finger into the refined powder. Slowly, and carefully extracting the potent heroin, Terry admired the narcotic.
"Careful now, don't sneeze," Butch warned, opening a fresh pack of Mild Seven cigarettes and tapping one out.
"Don't make me laugh, man. Not now," Terry answered grinning, raising the heroin to his nostrils.
"You're gonna hurt your sinuses doing that shit," Butch stated, lighting his cigarette. “And, your heart and your liver.”
“Nope, this stuff ain’t mine,” Terry said after snorting heroin into each nostril, then rubbed his nose as the drug was absorbed through the soft tissue in the mucous membrane of his sinus cavity, traveling straight into his blood stream causing a fast onset and rush. “No, this ain’t mine,” he repeated, sniffing back the remaining heroin particles stuck in his nose.
‘‘So, you’re sure you never met the person who owns this batch of heroin?“ Butch asked, tapping his fingers together as the heroin in Terry’s body was being converted back into morphine, binding to molecules on cells of his endorphin-opioid receptor sites. Heroin was bathing Terry’s brain and being distributed by his bloodstream, depressing his central nervous system and spinal cord. At the same time, his blood pressure and body temperature are slowly dropping. Endorphins are flooding the synapses, the gaps between neurons in his brain, inhibiting neurons from firing, producing euphoria and a warm cozy state and removing any apathy toward Butch and their conversation.
“See the fat man lying on the floor?” Butch asked, exhaling the smoke into Terry's face.
“What about him?” Terry asked, looking at the picture, rubbing his nose.
“Forensics picked up small particles of powder near the body. And guess what?” Butch asked, sipping his sake. “The chemical structure is exactly the same as what you're snorting," he said, taking a drag from his cigarette. “In fact, it came from a kilo like yours. And here's your kilo," Butch said, pulling a kilo of China White from his brief case.
“Aw, man, don’t ruin my high. You're a real desperate cop man, I mean desperate or crazy. This is fucked up,” Terry said nervously, sitting on the edge of his bunk, feeling warm, and scratching his arms repeatedly. “Holy shit. Someone call me a cop. I need protection,” he sneered, as his legs began quivering.
“Relax. I'm not desperate; I'm possessed," he said, pointing the brick of heroin at Terry.
“What ever you are, you’re too much. You’re over the top. Get out of here man; fuck this. I’m confused. Where’s my gun?”
"Look closely at the “S” stamped on this wrapper, do you know what it means? Do you know who owns it? Or where it comes from? And, how did you get it?” Butch asked calmly, intently staring at Terry, manipulating his emotions.
“Can’t answer all those questions,” Terry lied, scratching his arm slowly, a reaction from the heroin.
“It’s obvious there's an organizational leak," Butch said with cool detachment, staring at Terry, taking a drag from his cigarette. "Only a matter of time before you get hit. These guys got caught red-handed with stolen junk and paid the price. Otherwise, no reason to kill good couriers or good soldiers,” he said, setting the heroin on the floor close to Terry.
“Okay man, save me the nightmare,” Terry answered, staring down at the heroin while gulping his sake.
“Mr. Ming. You know these guys and how they work," Butch said, as Terry stared at Butch, sipping his sake. "Here’s the deal. You become part of my informant network. You work with me, call me once a week, then I sanitize the books; you keep your China White and return to Hong Kong,” he suggested, handing Terry a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Terry lit another cigarette, inhaling deeply, considering the offer. Lying down on the steel cot, he turned his head toward the wall, reading the date inscribed into the dirty concrete, “1938,” and rubbing his finger over the numbers. Contemplating the moment, his body was continually metabolizing heroin into morphine and was binding to his brains opiate receptors, increasing his euphoria.
“The prisoner who had this cell before died in the bed you’re lying in. He was a lifer,” Butch stated, puffing his cigarette. Both men remained silent for about ten minutes, smoking cigarettes, drinking sake, and lighting more cigarettes. Terry snorted more heroin and studied the pictures while Butch thought of his wife, wondering what made her so tired all the time. In three or four hours he would be home in her arms. That was a nostalgic feel-good-feeling.
“I didn’t know the fat man in the restaurant,” Terry said breaking the silence, slowly rubbing his face. “The two Japanese guys were low level Yakuza soldiers who were trying to make it on their own,” he said, sitting up, handing the pictures to Butch.
“Where did you get the heroin?”
“A mid-level distributor in Saigon,” Terry said, drinking the remaining sake.
“Where did he get it?”
“I have some ideas, don’t know for sure,” he answered, shaking his head while accepting another small bottle of sake from Butch. “I heard some Army guys wanted a fast sale. But, lots of distributors out there.”
“You don’t know the full distribution picture, do you?”
“Nobody knows the full picture unless you’re at the top of the pyramid,” he answered, opening the bottle. Both men sat quietly pondering the significance of what was happening. An allegia
nce was forming. A deal was being brokered in the name of justice, law and order, and self-interests.
“I need operating room. I need to push amphetamines. Screw the heroin,” he stated, rubbing his face feeling warm, experiencing an intense rush, and an acute transcendent state of euphoria.
“I didn’t hear that. Just so you know, my father died in Hong Kong when I was thirteen,” Butch volunteered. “He was on a heroin bust with an American detective. They were both murdered,” he said, drawing on his cigarette, attempting to personalize the situation and draw Terry into his confidence.
“It’s a rough business,” he replied coldly.
“It was a difficult life without my father,” Butch revealed, sipping his sake. “I was working in Kowloon making small time heroin deliveries for the Triads to vice dens and businessmen. My mother worked in greasy chop suey restaurants cutting chickens for noodle soup,” Butch stated, as Terry stared at him in studied silence.
“You have to work to survive.” He said, in a low tone.
“Was you father around when you were growing up?” Butch asked.
“In a way,” he answered after a long pause as his heart functioning and breathing slowed down. “He was abusive and mean to my mom and us kids. He was always gone; he was either drunk or high on opium. He never had a regular job," Terry said with a pained look.
“Is he alive?”
“He was killed when I was thirteen. But we were happy he died,” Terry said, pausing to drink his sake, as the alcohol increased his high. “Me and my three brothers were free from his madness,” he said, wiping his dry mouth.
“How did you survive?”
“Same as you, only there were five of us working. We all quit school and expanded our smuggling business,” he said, putting out his cigarette in the empty sake bottle.
“Did he ever say he loved you?” Butch asked, risking his emotions while offering Terry another cigarette.
“No,” he answered, shaking his head emphatically pulling a cigarette from the pack. “He wasn’t affectionate. He was distant and cold. He was emotionally bankrupt. He didn’t know how to feel. I hated him,” he concluded, as Butch reached over to light his cigarette with his cigarette.