by Howard Marks
HOWARD MARKS
Señor Nice
Straight Life from Wales to South America
VINTAGE BOOKS
London
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First published in Great Britain in 2006 by Harvill Secker
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Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
Dedication
About the Author
Also by Howard Marks
Acknowledgements
One The Show
Two Welshmen
Three The Caribbean
Four Seeds
Five Panama
Six Jamaica
Seven Brazil
Eight Busted
Nine Patagonia
Ten The End of the World
Eleven Wales
SEÑOR NICE
During the mid-1980s Howard Marks had forty-three aliases, eighty-nine phone lines and owned twenty-five companies trading throughout the world. At the height of his career he was smuggling consignments of up to thirty tons from Pakistan and Thailand to America and Canada and had contact with organisations as diverse as MI6, the CIA, the IRA and the Mafia.
Following a worldwide operation by the Drug Enforcement Agency, he was busted and sentenced to twenty-five years in prison at Terre Haute Penitentiary, Indiana. He was released in 1995. Señor Nice tells the story of what happened next.
ALSO BY HOWARD MARKS
Mr Nice
The Howard Marks Book of Dope Stories
Dedicated to the memory of my mother, Edna Rhyfelgar Marks
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Giles Cooper, who has been my close friend and a perfect manager of my live shows for the last eight years. Without his tenacity, kindness, and understanding, this book would never have been started.
The following family members, friends, and associates deserve far more than mere acknowledgements. You know what you did. Thank you so much.
Jamie Acott; Richard Allen-Turner; Martyn Baker; Angelina Basco; Dave Beer; Dafydd Bell; Crofton Black; Martin Blackhall; Scott Blakey; Ernesto Blume; Leroy Bowen; Charlie Breaker; Mike Broderick; Arthur Brown; Alun Buffry; Tina Butler; Mary Carson; Anna Collings; Tim Corrigan; Dave Courtney; Tel Currie; Bernie Davies; Suzanne Dean; Dirty Sanchez; George Duffin; Briony Everroad; Emily Faccini; Claudette Finnegan; Mark Gehring; John Goad; David Godwin; Goldie Lookin Chain; Maria Golia; Adenor Gondim; Simon Greenberg; Lee Harris; Lisa Harvey; Rhys Ifans; JC001; Les Johnson; Ian Johnstone; Justin Kerrigan; Jimmy Knight; Marty Langford; Christian Lewis; Nick Linford; Kelly Major; Patrick Marks; Amber Marks; Francesca Marks; Myfanwy Marks; Polly Marshall; Mike and Claire McCay; Biff Mitchell; Amanda Monroe; Les Morrison; Claire Nicolson; Observer Travel Section; John Oliver; Jimmy Page; Jason Parkinson; James Perkins; Johnny Pickston; Werner Pieper; Joey Pyle; Justin Rees; Mark Reeve; Bruce Reynolds; Charlie Richardson; Sharon Robbins; Susan Sandon; Jim Shreim; Phil Sparrowhawk; Frank Steffan; Stereophonics; Super Furry Animals; Pauline Townsend; Marcus van der Kolk; Hywel Williams; Stuart Williams; Clare Wilshaw.
A very special thank you to Caroline Brown and to my editor Geoff Mulligan.
When a person endeavours to recall his early life in its entirety, he finds it is not possible: he is like one who ascends a hill to survey the prospect before him on a day of heavy cloud and shadow, who sees at a distance some feature in the landscape while all else remains in obscurity. The scenes people events we are able by an effort to call up do not present themselves in order but in isolated spots or patches, vividly seen in the midst of a wide shrouded landscape. It is easy to fall into the delusion that the few things thus distinctly remembered and visualised are precisely those which were most important in our life and on that account were saved by memory. Unconscious artistry sneaks in to erase unseemly lines and blots, to retouch, colour, shade, and falsify the picture.
Far Away and Long Ago, W. H. Hudson
One
THE SHOW
Wherever I travelled, whatever scam or profession I was engaged in, I always returned to my birthplace Kenfig Hill: as an Oxford student on vacation, a source of pride to my parents and no doubt mystery and resentment to my friends; in the 1970s before skipping bail while awaiting an Old Bailey trial for smuggling tons of hashish in the equipment of rock bands such as Pink Floyd; in the 80s celebrating my acquittal, having been charged with importing fifteen tons of Colombian marijuana into the UK (I persuaded the court I was working for the Mexican secret service); in the 90s, having served a lengthy sentence at the maximum-security US Federal Penitentiary, Terre Haute, Indiana, to spend time with my parents, who had hung on to life just long enough to share my experience of freedom.
Winter 2001. Paddington, looking like an airport with its check-in facilities, escalators and shopping malls, was wet and windy – a foretaste of South Wales, to where its trains, on the hour every hour, were constantly bound. I bought a ticket to Bridgend, 200 miles away, gateway to the coal mining valleys and the nearest railway station to Kenfig Hill. Notices depressingly announced that all Great Western services were now strictly non-smoking. Outside the ticket office a conveyor belt of sushi and sashimi plates trundled around in front of delayed passengers. I sat down, took half a spliff out of my top pocket, lit it, and stared at the raw fish and rice whizzing around.
‘Sorry, sir. No smoking,’ the sushi chef commanded abruptly.
How could anyone purporting to be Japanese disallow smoking? Japan has always had the highest cigarette consumption in the world and the lowest rate of lung cancer, a fact I found most comforting.
‘Are you Japanese?’ I asked the menacing, knife-wielding chef.
‘Korean.’
‘Maybe that explains it.’
Irritated, even slightly enraged, I ambled off to the platform, got on the waiting train, and sat down at an empty table as the train began to fill with people off to see Wales play England at rugby at Cardiff’s Millennium Stadium.
‘Swt Mai, Howard?’ It was Gruff Rhys, lead singer and guitarist of the Super Furry Animals, on his way to Cardiff to record his next album. ‘Going to see the folks or down for the match?’
‘No. Dad’s dead, and Mam is very ill. She’s living in Yorkshire now with my sister. And these days I’ve completely lost faith in the Welsh rugby team. In the 1970s no one could beat us; now, we can’t win a match.’
‘It must have been great back then. Did you play when you were at school?’
‘I was never any good, Gruff, but yes, I did.’
‘What position?’
‘Second row forward. In fact, two of the school’s front row, John Lloyd and Geoff Young, went on to play for Wales and the British Lions when they beat the All Blacks.’
‘So you’ve had your head stuck between a couple of very famous arses.’
‘That’s one way of putting it, Gruff, but I’m not here for sport; I’m doing a show tonight at the Pavilion, Porthcawl.’
‘Yeah? Great! Can me and a couple of the boys come?’
‘Of course. I’ll put you all down on the list.’
‘Diolch, Howard. I’ll get us a couple of beers now.’
My rehabilitation has taken a curious path which never ceases to branch out in unexpected directions, of which one is a career as a stand-up comic. This evolved from fulfilling vaguely contractual commitments to promote and publicise my autobiography, Mr Nice, by appearing on TV and radio shows, being interviewed by book reviewers and other journalists, and reading passages from the book in bookshops. Many authors arrogantly take the view that their creative output speaks for itself and excuse themselves from such duties. I couldn’t begin to take that risk and am a firm believer in blatant self-promotion, but I found it difficult to come to terms with bookshops as suitable venues for any event. First, the reading has to take place during normal working hours, when most of the staff want to get home and most of the potential punters can’t attend. Second, the booze is in short supply and of poor quality. Third, the reading takes place against a background of all the competition, which seems to me an absurd marketing strategy. Admittedly, some bookshops go out of their way to create a sensible ambience at an appropriate hour, but generally book readings are sterile, boring affairs. Getting a laugh from the audience always helps, so I included as many funny passages as I could find. The reading would be followed by a question-and-answer session, which was invariably more stimulating than the reading itself.
This was during the mid-1990s, when other writers such as Irvine Welsh, Nik Cohn, Roddy Doyle and Nick Cave were beginning to do readings in pubs and clubs. I attended a few and was encouraged to do the same, but I felt the authors invariably made two important errors: they would insist the bar till stayed inactive when reading so no booze could be purchased, and they would read passages precisely as they were written. Very few if any authors write prose with the thought that one day they might have to read it standing on a stage in front of an audience hell bent on having a good time. I modified my extracts severely, bearing the listeners in mind, and let the cash tills ring and the booze flow all night. It worked.
Mr Nice did not draw a veil over my consumption of drugs and my desire to see them legalised, so much of each question-and-answer session was devoted to that topic. This suited me perfectly as probably for the first time in my life, I had a sincere social agenda. Organisations devoted to drug legalisation invited me to speak. Universities asked me to debate. At the end of each debate or talk I would be asked to sign copies of Mr Nice. It couldn’t have turned out better if it had been planned: I could use the book readings to advance my social agenda and use my agenda to sell books.
I did both talks and readings without charging – it never occurred to me to even ask for a fee – but in August 1997 I read at the Edinburgh International Book Festival and was approached afterwards by comedy promoters Avalon, who offered to finance a series of one-man shows and pay me £500 a gig. I agreed. Within a few months I had sold out at Shepherd’s Bush Empire more times than anyone except Abba. A year later, I did twenty-three consecutive shows at the Edinburgh International Festival. I enjoyed learning how to banter with audiences, battle with hecklers, cope with cock-ups and experiment with multimedia.
But tonight would be the real test. I had to perform in front of a home crowd at the Royal Pavilion, Porthcawl, four miles from Kenfig Hill, where I was born. I was last there thirty-five years ago as one of a number of drunken yobs participating in an Elvis impersonators’ contest. I came close to last. Would they remember? I was now playing the part of a prison-hardened gangster in front of people who terrified me as a schoolboy. How could they possibly take me seriously? Worse still, the whole performance was going to be filmed for a Mr Nice DVD.
Gruff stepped down from the train at Cardiff, lighting a cigarette as soon as his foot touched the platform. Twenty minutes later, I did the same at Bridgend and took a taxi to Kenfig Hill. The semi-detached house in Waunbant Road had been empty for just a few months, but already the home-made weathercock was dangling from the rotten chimney, and the front gate had almost come off its hinges. A carpet of decaying litter covered what used to be the front lawn. I knew there was a garage behind the brambles and ivy; I just couldn’t see it. My key still turned the lock, but the damp door didn’t want to open. I forced it and stumbled through a pile of mail to switch on the light then walked up the stairs and into the infinite familiarity of my parents’ bedroom, where fifty-five years previously I had first breathed in harmony with the universe. Now both my parents had gone. Just the house lived on. It couldn’t stay empty forever; it would have to be sold or rented. No rush. First, it would need to be emptied of boxes and several generations of memorabilia – but some other time. It was mid-afternoon, and cameraman Martin Baker, son of Welsh actor and director Stanley Baker of Zulu fame, was due any moment.
The doorbell rang.
‘Who is it?’
‘Martin.’
It wasn’t Martin Baker but my oldest friend and first dope-smuggling employee, Marty Langford. I had been home for twenty minutes. Word gets around.
‘Julie from the shop just told me you were home. Why didn’t you call me? All this author and performer stuff has gone to your head, hasn’t it? Put the kettle on, then. I’m dying for a brew and a blast. Got anything decent?’
‘I’ve got some excellent hash for a smoke, Marty, but there’s no milk in the house for tea.’
‘I knew I should have bought some milk at Julie’s. And hash is no good for me, Howard. I don’t smoke tobacco, and I can’t be messing with pipes and buckets and things at my age. Haven’t you got any skunk?’
‘A bit, just a third of a spliff, actually. We could smoke it and go down the pub.’
‘What! For a cup of tea?’
‘I thought they sold everything in pubs now from Thai food to cappuccino.’
‘Not round here, Howard; it’s still just beer and crisps. But we might as well go down. I fancy a walk. Haven’t been for months and months. I usually stay in these days – on the computer.’
The pub was a good twenty-minute walk. On our left we passed the furniture shop, once Kenfig Hill’s only cinema, and then the Institute, where we had been taught snooker by miners working nights and where I had first dared imitate Elvis in public. The skunk hit hard. Marty and I looked at each other and started giggling like the children we still were. On our right we could see the Prince of Wales and the old Victoria Inn, both smothered in scaffolding on account of their being converted into flats.
When I was in my mid-teens Kenfig Hill had a population of just over 5,000, one church of Wales, one Roman Catholic church, four Welsh Nonconformist chapels – Baptist, Presbyterian, Methodist and Welsh
Congregationalist – and nine pubs. Since then, housing estates and new streets have sprung up but the population is approximately the same; the accommodation is just less crowded. Television keeps the elderly at home while cars and motorbikes have enabled the young to get away from the prying eyes of family and neighbours. Accordingly, there are now two fewer pubs and one less place of worship. The chapel that bit the dust was the Welsh Congregationalist one, named Elim, the first chapel in Kenfig Hill. Members of my family attended Elim for several generations, preaching, deaconing, singing hymns and playing in the tiny orchestra, but lack of interest closed its doors a few years ago. At the tender age of ten, I was taken to Elim and introduced to the serious side of God. Until then he had been little more than a powerful Father Christmas figure from whom one occasionally asked for serendipitous gifts and various forms of assistance. Learning that God is everywhere at once and saw everything had conjured up the idea of a wonderfully active and clear-sighted person.
Unlike my father, my mother was deeply religious, and she insisted I went to Sunday school in the afternoon and to either the morning or evening service. My mother also insisted my father went with her to the evening service. I hated both Sunday school and services. I opted to attend in the morning alone rather than go in the evening under the watchful eyes of my parents, partly to get the chore behind me, but mainly because I could get away with not going at all. I would leave the house at 10 a.m. and go to Marty’s place for an hour to chain-smoke cigarettes and listen to 78s on his impressive radiogram. Eventually I was grassed up by one of Marty’s neighbours and forced to attend the evening service.
Thousands of unhappy Sunday walks flooded through my memory as Marty and I turned the corner at the Victoria Inn. This used to afford the first sight of Elim, a dull grey roof pointing hopelessly at heaven.
