Dragons & Butterflies

by Shani Krebs

  It was time to move on or to get a new car. I compromised and had my car spraypainted a metallic charcoal. I also removed the back registration plate. Try and catch me now, you fuckers, I thought. But I avoided the escort agencies for a while.

  I remember another incident, this time with the drug squad.

  For a short while I lived in a flat in Norwood, opposite the Hyperama, with my lifelong friend Morris, the kid I had taken under my wing all those years ago at Arcadia. My merchant from Durban, Glen, had just arrived with two suitcases filled with Durban Poison. In the middle of our lounge we had this heavy wooden rectangular table with an added square section to it that was hollow inside. That day we packed approximately 2 000 rolls into it, wrapped in heavy black plastic bags. Glen was a coloured gangster from Redhill, in Durban, and he was also a Mandrax addict like me, so, naturally, when doing a drug deal, how much better to conclude matters than by smoking a white pipe. Fortunately, a friend of mine, Joseph, was at our spot that day. He drove an 1100cc Kawasaki, so off we went to score some buttons, me riding pillion. Weaving through the traffic, we got to Newclare in record time. We entered from the main road close to Coronation Hospital, which wasn’t too far from where we were going to score. When we got to the house where I normally scored, the streets were unusually quiet. I thought it was strange because it was always a hive of activity. One of the kids braved serving us, though, and at the same time he warned me that the cops had just been around. I was not too concerned, as the cops didn’t usually hang around, but I remained alert, just in case.

  We pulled out of the residential area and headed back to the main intersection. While we were stopped at the traffic light, I noticed an unmarked vehicle without registration plates and realised that it had been following us. Protruding from the centre of the car’s roof was a short radio antenna. Drug squad. Fuck. They were onto us. Digging Joseph in the ribs, I told him, ‘Don’t turn around, the pigs are following us. As soon as the lights change, kick down and let’s get the fuck out of here.’ The lights turned green, and as we pulled out onto the main road, the cops turned on their siren, overtaking cars until they had fallen in right behind us.

  I was shouting at Joseph, ‘Go, man, go!’, but instead he slowed down and pulled over. So I’m thinking, I have four Mandrax tablets in my hand, here is a window of opportunity to get rid of them. My hands were heavily stained from the resin of when we’d smoked a pipe, it was obvious that I was an addict, and no doubt the cops had also observed us scoring. I knew that even if I managed to dispose of the Mandrax, they could very well force me to take them to my place of residence. I was also carrying my gun and didn’t have my ID book on me to prove that I was a licensed gun owner. Over and above this, there were people back at my spot and then there was all that fucking weed there! If I got bust with that shit, I would be charged with dealing. At that time, dealing carried the maximum sentence of seven years.

  I still couldn’t understand why the fuck Joseph had pulled over, but, as I weighed up the odds, I decided I had to take the fall. Two plainclothes cops jumped out of the car and ordered us off the bike. By now I had slipped the pills into my jeans, pushing them deep into my money pocket. They frisked me and found my gun, which they took away, and instructed me to get in the cop car. They let Joseph go. Once I was in the back seat, the cops told me that I should make it easy on myself and hand over the pills, as they had just seen me score. I dug out the Mandrax and gave it to them. At the police station, I was fingerprinted and charged with possession of four Mandrax tablets. I was allowed the usual one phone call, so I phoned Morris. Joseph had just arrived back at the flat. I told Morris to bring my ID book and come fetch my gun. Morris was there in no time, and I had to sign a letter of authorisation allowing him to carry my gun. Then we arranged that he would meet me in court in the morning and bring bail money. I also instructed him to move all the weed in the flat to a safer spot.

  The following morning, I was released on bail. A month down the line, I went to court and was sentenced to a fine of R500 or four months’ imprisonment, plus a further eight months’ imprisonment, which was conditionally suspended for five years.

  I now had a criminal record.

  I have to admit that at first it really bothered me. If I was caught again, I would automatically get a minimum of eight months in prison, which in itself, to me, was a fucking long time, plus whatever penalty the other offence carried. Now that the stakes had been raised, I couldn’t help thinking that if I had been the driver of the motorbike I would never have pulled over. On the other hand, and also at the forefront of my mind, was the thought that if Joseph had attempted to lose the cops and had opened up the bike, a high-speed chase could have resulted in an accident and our being killed. Fate has a sick way of teaching us lessons.

  One day, out of the blue, Morris came to me with this crazy idea, claiming that it was something he had always wanted to do. At that time we were just managing to make ends meet, but somehow we always found money for drugs and gambling. At first, I thought he wanted to do something outrageous, like rob a bottle store. It was a Saturday morning – not the ideal day to pull a robbery.

  ‘So what do you have in mind, china?’ I asked him, a bit nervous about what he was going to say.

  Morris began to explain that he had always wanted to steal a sheep.

  ‘A sheep.’ I looked at him.

  ‘Yes,’ Morris replied.

  I kept looking at him.

  ‘We could eat from it for a week,’ he added.

  It was not like people in the city kept sheep in their gardens. To even see a sheep we would have to drive out into some rural area. For Morris, however, this was not a problem. He had grown up in Benoni, east of Joburg, and he knew of a couple of farms in that district. So we decided to make an outing of it. We took a six-pack of beers and, before we left, scored a couple of Mandrax, which we smoked. Then, numbed out of our skulls, we took a drive out to Benoni.

  Forty minutes later, we found ourselves in the heart of the outlying farming area. After scouting around, we came across a farm that appeared to have a small flock of healthy-looking sheep. The land itself couldn’t have been more than about one and a half hectares. There was a long driveway beside a wire fence leading up to the farmhouse, and separating this property from the neighbouring one was a row of trees that stretched to the far end. The plan was to drive halfway up, park the car, and then one of us would go and knock on the front door, while the other would go around the back and knock on the back door. This was Morris’s suggestion. The place was quiet; nobody answered either of the knocks and the doors remained firmly shut. Morris then instructed me to go and turn the car around and to keep the engine running. I was beginning to think that this might not have been the first time Morris had pulled such a move. I sat there with the engine idling, looking around to see if anyone was coming.

  Then – a sight I will never forget – Morris came running from out of nowhere carrying a full-grown sheep that was almost as big as he was. It was the funniest thing I’d ever seen. As he got closer, his face all red and his eyes about to pop out, he shouted breathlessly, ‘Open the back door, open the back door.’ I was laughing so hard I could hardly do it, but I leant over the seat, grabbed the handle from the inside and pushed the door open. The sheep was bleating loudly and Morris threw the poor animal onto the back seat where it landed heavily behind the passenger door. He quickly jumped into the car, but, just as I was pulling out of the driveway, a couple of farm labourers came running in our direction. I pulled away as fast as Morris’s Toyota Corolla 1300 allowed me to. In the rear-view mirror, I noticed one of them, a woman, writing something in the sand with her finger – the registration of our car, no doubt.

  The sheep was all panicky and was bleating loudly. I kept telling Morris to push its head down so that the people in the cars passing us wouldn’t see it. The creature must have been terrified, and it promptly shat all over the car. It made me think about how somebody must feel when they�
��re being kidnapped or taken against their will. As we drove through central Benoni, the place was crawling with traffic cops, and I expected to get pulled over any second. But somehow we made it back safely to Joburg, bleating sheep and all.

  Our parking spot was directly beneath our flat and right next to the stairway. I quickly went upstairs and opened the front door while Morris followed with the sheep in his arms. We closed it in the kitchen, but before we could decide who was going to kill it, the fucking sheep started making this dreadful me-e-e-eh-ing noise. Morris was quick to suggest that I shoot the fucker. I didn’t think this would be a smart move as the noise of the gunshot was bound to attract somebody’s attention. Instead I thought I would try and knock it out, so I punched the sheep really hard, square on top of the head. Its legs buckled and it fell to the ground, but within seconds it lifted itself up and resumed the me-e-e-eh-ing noise, which was beginning to drive me crazy. We had to kill it, and kill it fast. Morris refused, saying that there was no way he could slit its throat, although he didn’t mind cleaning it once it was dead. So I was left with the task of taking the poor sheep’s life.

  I took the breadknife, which had a serrated edge but wasn’t very sharp. Morris carried the sheep upstairs to the bathtub and, while he held it, I grabbed the animal by its ears, and tilted its neck back. The sheep was looking directly into my eyes; instinctively it knew its death was imminent. I gave it a long look and felt a brief moment of pity. Then I began to saw its neck. It was an arduous and slow process. The animal’s skin was really tough and the breadknife was so blunt it felt like I was sawing through the bark of a tree with a nail file. As the wool parted and I began to cut through the flesh, blood started to spurt all over the place. The sheep was still staring at me, only now that look of fear seemed to have been replaced with something more resigned, even peaceful. Eventually, I cut through most of the tissue in its throat; there was blood everywhere, and all over my face and clothes. A pretty sight I must have been, like some psycho killer or something. Morris then proceeded to skin the creature and take out its intestines, which we put in big black plastic dustbin bags. Then, with an axe, we chopped the sheep into a couple of dozen pieces.

  Later that afternoon, we invited a few friends around and had a braai. The meat was still warm when we put it on the fire.

  My Durban connection from Redhill delivered weed to my doorstep on a fortnightly basis. The price of Mandrax at the coast was double the street value of Mandrax in Johannesburg, so every time Glen came up I arranged for him to take a couple of packets containing 1 000 tablets each back with him. Eventually, Glen and I became partners. I even managed to organise a stolen .357 Magnum for him. I was now regularly moving the drugs with him to the coast. I also met his family. When I was in Durban, most of our days were spent running around in the coloured areas delivering Mandrax to Glen’s runners, who operated on a similar basis to the dealers in the townships of Johannesburg, and collecting money.

  Wherever we went, we smoked with whomever a deal was being made. At night we slept in an abandoned house, just like squatters. Glen’s addiction was worse than mine, so no matter how well we were doing, our profits went up in smoke. That’s the futile existence of a dealer who is also an addict. With all the risks we were taking, at the end of the day we had no money to show for it.

  One time, on our return to Durban from a run to Johannesburg, we arrived there after midnight. Glen’s chick was with us. She was a young black girl, very pretty. So we went to this roadhouse called the Blue Lagoon, which was always open until the early hours. Glen and his chick went to order us a couple of bunny chows. I got out to stretch my legs and stood leaning against the front of the car, just staring aimlessly out at the ocean. The next thing I heard an altercation break out between Glen and some youngsters. Before anything could even register properly with me, one of these kids came running at me, swinging a baseball bat. What the fuck was going on? I pulled out my .38 Special and, taking a firing stance, shouted at my attacker.

  ‘I’ll blow your fucking brains out if you take another step!’

  The kid froze in his tracks. I fired a shot in the air. The distraction gave Glen and his chick a chance get away. We all jumped into the car, and, as we drove off, I fired another few rounds into the air just for good measure. Then Glen and I looked at each other, dumbstruck.

  ‘What the hell was that about?’

  We shook our heads. I still don’t know.

  A few weeks after that we did quite a big deal, which turned sour: Glen got ripped off a couple of packets. On this particular night I had planned to visit my mother, who was living close to the nightclub where Glen was going to have a meeting with the people who had conned him. The club was near the harbour and a lot of sailors used to hang out there. He made his own way there because he said he wanted to sort the problem out himself, and so I arranged to stay over at my mom’s place. Early the next morning, I went to find Glen at the abandoned house where we’d been sleeping, but he wasn’t there. One of his boys told me that the night before, at the club, he had shot somebody at point-blank range with his .357, straight in the face. Glen had gone into hiding.

  I went to his parents’ house and they were really distraught by the news. Glen was from the old school, a real gangster who lived by a strict code of honour: you fuck with me, you get fucked.

  After that there was no point in me sticking around. For all I knew, I could be implicated in a murder, as I was the one who had given Glen the .357 Magnum, so I left Durban in a hurry.

  Back in Joburg, I hooked up with another prostitute who I knew from before. She had once hired me as her bodyguard after the violent ex-boyfriend she’d arranged to have stabbed had survived and threatened her with revenge. Wherever she went, I would go. I even moved into the tiny, rather dingy cottage she rented and shared with her huge St Bernard. I hated that dog. He kept dribbling spit all over me.

  Like me, she never stayed in one place for too long, and so we moved around a lot, sometimes staying in hotels and occasionally even sleeping in the same bed. I watched her bathe, and there were times when I would be in the room right next door and could hear her fucking some steamer. Through all this we stayed friends and we never mixed business with pleasure. In the end she met a nice Jewish guy, a lawyer, who became her boyfriend and who really loved her. Eventually he convinced her to change her life. She stopped being a hooker and they got married. They both remained clients of mine. Their code names were Burt Reynolds and Goldie Hawn. They lived in the posh suburb of Houghton.

  Chapter 6

  Dancing With Death

  Like clothing styles, drugs go in and out of fashion, too. In the late 1980s cocaine became the drug of choice among Johannesburg’s elite. Everybody was ‘doing coke’ and I saw an opportunity. When I took my first sniff of cocaine, I couldn’t quite understand what all the fuss was about. Apart from my gums going numb and a slight feeling of euphoria, it didn’t do much for me.

  One night when I was at a club, I was approached by a member of the Narcotics Bureau. He knew me by name and he also knew that I dealt drugs. He assured me that he wasn’t there to bust me, but told me that, if I wanted, he could supply me with the best coke in town. At first I was sceptical. No way was I going to trust a pig. At the same time, for some reason, my instincts were telling me I could trust him, and what better contact to have than somebody in the drug squad? To cut a long story short, we arranged a meeting point – these were always in the parking lot of a shopping mall – and we started doing business. The coke was from Peru, with a slightly yellowish colour to it, and it was very good. On top of this, I was getting the shit on credit.

  Having an addictive personality, I did everything to the extreme. Before I even realised it, sniffing did nothing for me, and I became hopelessly hooked on freebasing cocaine. The whole ritual of preparation, in anticipation of that first hit, made me a slave of the white powder. How freebasing works is you take cocaine in its powder form, mix it with bicarb and boil it in
a spice bottle with a little water. Then you heat it on the stove; once the powder turns to oil, you put a small piece of ice in the water and twirl it around. As the water cools, the oil forms solid rock.

  As a drug dealer and an addict, one constantly needs people from all walks of life in your world. Addicts get to know addicts, and the dealers get to know who’s doing what. But it’s almost impossible to connect with the top guys who are moving kilograms. There’s always a second party in between. For me, the ultimate goal was to deal with the top guy. Clubs were good places to meet such people and it was at a club that I hooked up with an old connection of mine, Renaldo, who, years back, had supplied me with LSD and who was now in the cocaine business. We’d first met back when I was running wild in Durban and hanging out with Flattie. Renaldo was a South American Jew who had pulled a heroin stint in Israel and ended up doing a seven-year stretch.

  As a rule, I would only take coke on credit in the event that it had been cut or laced with another substance. Generally, I had a good name for moving a lot of drugs, and procuring drugs from different sources was never a problem for me. I was happy to work with my new connection, as he was reliable and never stood (cut or laced) on the coke. In the beginning, and for the first few months, business was good and I was moving a lot of coke. But then I made the fatal mistake of smoking with my customers, some of whom were also my friends. So often when smoking socially, especially doing something as addictive as freebasing, one ends up giving credit. When an addict owes money for drugs, the second he gets his hands on cash, paying his debt is the furthest thing from his mind. He would rather make a score somewhere else than pay the person he owes. Alternatively, if he does pay you, in good faith as a dealer you’d be expected to give him more credit, until eventually he will owe you so much that it is almost impossible to collect your money. That is when the dealer resorts to violence.