My Dad and me

London, England
10:30 AM

I pick up my Dad at his hotel, and we take one of those old black cabs the English have. Feels like a fucking movie getting in the thing. I give the driver the name of an intersection in an expensive part of town and off we go, neither one of us saying much. Just dealing with the edge and making sure it keeps us sharp instead of paranoid and twitched. Occassional looks out the back are the security measures.

The intersection has a pub and we sit down at a booth. My dad orders Scotch straight up and I take a pint. We both turn down food.

At noon I pick up the small knapsack he brought, and nod to him as I head out. The place I am looking for is only a couple of blocks away, and after checking out the street I ring the buzzer. British voice answers.
"Who is it?"
I lean forward to the speaker.
"It's Damon. Tom's friend."
"Right" the voice says and the door clicks open.
I walk into a small foyer with an elevator facing me. It is the only choice so I press the arrow for up and get in as soon as the door opens. The only button not taped over is for the sixth floor, so that is where I go.
The paranoia hits hard. I feel the knife up my right sleeve, the point of the blade nestling against my palm, waiting to be dropped if needed.
The elevator door opens and I am in a huge loft facing a couple. The guy is thin, with long hair tied back loose. About 40, he has the look of money about him. His partner is a female in her early thirties. Attractive in that horse faced way of Princess Diana. Good teeth, and in England that detail shouts wealth. It seems I am dealing with an upscale bunch. at least so far. Maybe they are saving the Cockney thugs for later
Hand shake all around and the offer of refreshments. I feel myself being put at ease and tighten up on the blade.
No names are offered.
"Let's get to it eh, " the woman says, and reaches under a table.
The cardboard box she pulls out also brings a wiff of hashish with it.
I make a decision, and while opening my knapsack I also let the knife slide into its interior. In the same motion I pull out 20,000 British pounds or about $40,000 Canadian at that time.
PLacing the money on the table I sit back, feeling good about the deal. These people are giving off good vibes of professionalism, and I trust my instincts.
A scale is added to the table and so are 25 pounds of hashish bagged in white cotton sacks.
A hand indicates I should help myself so I pick up a bag and open one end a bit. The hash is blonde and moist.
Breaking off a small piece I roll a spliff, crumbling the hash into Dutchboy tobacco. Two puffs and I know all I need to know. This is Morrocan double O and is primo quality. I can sell this in ounce form back home and make seven times the family's investment. A quick look at random sacks convinces me all is on the up, and they count the cash.
A total of about ten sentences have been spoken. Putiing the product away in the knapsack I focus on the guy. Show respect.
"If this plays out like I think I am going to be looking for more. Can you people handle more business?"
Instead of answering he reaches into his pants and pulls out a wallet. Fishing around he comes up with a card. A name and number are the only information.
"Phone me a week ahead of time and it should work out"
Smiling, I head for the door.

At the pub my Dad has tucked into another Scotch but he can handle it. Walking in I see him watching me in the mirror for our agreed upon signal of things going wrong. Instead I head for his table and sit.
His Irish face looks at me hard, as if reading his future, which in a real sense is bang on
I give him a cool look back, playing the role. He is new to this business but I am not and I am enjoying the need in this man who is my father.
He starts to smile and I nod at him.
He finishes his drink and stands up.
My Dad's first drug deal is a success.