This changed when as Androcles, he’d taken a thorn from the paw of a lion; he’d lied for Copper. Copper had been the archetype “Don”, powerful, beloved, dangerous, but intelligent.

Sure he’d seen Copper shoot Mealy, but when the Police asked him, asked this little High School boy what he’d seen, Herbie had described Copper’s main enemy, Bally. Speaking so honestly, so clearly, if Bally had been caught, Herbie’s testimony would have gotten him hung.

After that unprovoked “kindness”, Copper tossed a security blanket over him. Herbie maintained and cultivated this protection by becoming prime slave. “Send Herbie”, was the chant.

“Send Herbie” , to move a gun, ganja, carry a message, buy cigarettes, food, see if the coast was clear. “Call Herbie,” if you have anything you needed a flunkey to do.

When Copper was killed, Herbie was inherited by Army. When Army was murdered, he went to Tego. When Herbie’s mother took him to America, he kept contact with Jamaica. He set up ganja shipments, made links, behaved as if he had connected with some powerful Brooklyn posse, when in truth, the only thing behind Herbie was his own small shadow.

As time passed, Herbie needed a “front”. He helped Tego fly to America on an unscheduled flight, helped him set up his kingdom in Brooklyn, just as he’d done in Jamaica. Tego had no sentimental value to Herbie, he was just a name, someone to be the Boss. By being The Boss’s toady, never The Boss, Herbie survived.

People like Blake, who thought to take liberties with a smaller man, would be punished. People like Dave who stepped the line, would be killed. Be killed by the “Boss”.

Herbie disliked everyone equally. His men, his enemies, all a shade beneath indifference, but just a shade. And when it came to women, it was cash and carry. Thinking of women, Herbie walked the four blocks to the whore house and took what was available. He walked back and was home for the eleven o’clock news to hear the carnage. The police were getting too involved in the gang war. Already three cops had been injured, one probably would die. This was bad for business.

Herbie got on the computer, sent an e-mail that the coke was to be sold in Philadelphia when it arrived. He rang up Simpson, a Philly youth, told him, in The Boss’s name, that he was to carry a portion to Winston in Bed-Sty. He rang Winston, then took a few calls from his minions. He checked his e-mail, everything was on track.

With a gang war, with a dead cop, however, Herbie considered a trip to Jamaica. This was two fold; firstly to remove himself from any possible, albeit unlikely connection to the current ‘war’. Secondly, replenishing his stock of “mules”.

To move drugs required mules. If they die, if they live, it doesn’t matter. With VISAs tight, the only way into America was via unscheduled flights. A plane would land in a field in Westmoreland or St. Thomas in Jamaica. Drugs would be loaded with a few warm bodies.

The plane would fly under radar, land in Georgia or South Carolina, be off loaded. Drugs and mules would continue by car to somewhere else. His pilots were rich white boys who owned planes and would legally land at some respectable airport.

The warm bodies Herbie imported were hopeless boys from Rockfort. Boys who were wanted by the police or who had nothing to live for. Boys who could jump on a plane Monday night, unaware that afternoon they were going to travel. These boys would load cars with drugs, ganja or cocaine, be driven north, given access to tenements, allowed to sell. If they lived, they could move up in the ranks. If they were stupid or unlucky, they died unknown deaths.

Selecting mules gave Herbie power, chosing men to select mules, doubled it. Considering the current war situation, he’d need to replenish his stock of mules. Hence, he needed to visit Jamaica.