But almost all morphine.”
“No heroin?” Sanders asked.
“No. At least-was
ioo
Gail interrupted. “It’s the same thing.”
“What do you mean?” Sanders said.
“It is. I edited a book about drugs once.
All heroin is, is morphine heated with acetic acid. As soon as it gets into the body, it’s reconverted into morphine.”
“Then why don’t junkies take morphine?”
“It’s not up to them. They take what the pushers push, and the pushers push what the smugglers smuggle.
The smugglers smuggle heroin because they make more money from it: a pound of pure morphine converts into more than a pound of heroin, and you don’t have to take as much heroin because it’s stronger than straight morphine-something to do with the way it gets to the brain.
Anyway, if you figure that from that cargo you could make half a million doses of heroin, street value somewhere between ten and twenty dollars a dose, you’re talking about a total value of five to ten million dollars. Lord!”
Treece said, “Where was it carried, Adam?”
“Number three hold. The lot of it.
Amidships. I had it bagged about with flour.”
“Was there anything beneath it?”
“Aye, the ordnance. We chucked our ballast and put the cases of shells down there. It was a dicey sail, I tell you. One of the mates went in irons for three days for sneaking a cigarette. And that was topside.”
“She didn’t roll over when she went down, did she?”
“Not so far’s I know. But I didn’t
linger to see how she fell.”
“So if her guts were ripped out clean, it’s likely that the
IOI
shells went down first and farthest. The cigar boxes would be atop them.”
“Those boxes were wood, remember, and flimsy.
They’d be nothing now.”
Treece nodded. “Still, they’d not have been crushed by the cases of shells. And the ampules’ mass in water is almost nothing, so they’d not have sunk deep in the sand.”
“If you ask me, the storms has busted “em all up by now.”
“I’d have thought so, too.” Treece fingered one of the ampules. “Until these turned up.”
“But they were in a hole, you say, protected. The others is gone, I’ll wager.”
“Like as not. But we’re having a look tonight.”
Coffin drained his glass and banged it on the table.
“Damn fine. I’ll be ready.”
Treece smiled. “No. We’ll go. If we find some more, then we’ll need you.”
“But it’s my ship!” Coffin hammered his chest with a fist. “You think I’m not fit, is that it?”
His eyes were bright, his face flushed from the rum.
“I’m fit as a bloody stallion! How old do you think I am?”
Treece said calmly, “I know how old you are, Adam.”
“You, then,” Coffin said, glaring at Sanders. “How old do you think I am?”
Sanders looked at him, quickly matching dates in his mind. Coffin had to be at least seventy. “I’d say … sixty.”
“See that, Treece?” Coffin laughed.
“Sixty!” He turned back to Sanders. “I’m seventy-bloody-two, my boy! Fit as a stallion!”
“Adam,” Treece said, touching Coffin’s arm, “no one said
you weren’t fit. But I don’t want anyone to see you diving on the wreck. You’re too well known.”
Treece warmed to his lie. “You’re a bloody celebrity! If people knew you were diving on that wreck, they’d right away spot something was up.”
Coffin leaned back in his chair, mollified by the flattery. “There’s sense in what you’re saying.
Wouldn’t want to give anything away.” He eyed his empty glass. “I say let’s drink
on it.”
“No,” Treece said, standing up. “I’ve got work to do.”
Coffin followed Treece and the Sanderses down the path to the road. Treece opened the door of the Hillman and-like an octopus insinuating itself tentacle by tentacle into a crevice in a reef-slowly fit one long limb after another into the driver’s compartment.
Coffin said, “Don’t breathe too deep, or you’ll blow the horn with your
“No heroin?” Sanders asked.
“No. At least-was
ioo
Gail interrupted. “It’s the same thing.”
“What do you mean?” Sanders said.
“It is. I edited a book about drugs once.
All heroin is, is morphine heated with acetic acid. As soon as it gets into the body, it’s reconverted into morphine.”
“Then why don’t junkies take morphine?”
“It’s not up to them. They take what the pushers push, and the pushers push what the smugglers smuggle.
The smugglers smuggle heroin because they make more money from it: a pound of pure morphine converts into more than a pound of heroin, and you don’t have to take as much heroin because it’s stronger than straight morphine-something to do with the way it gets to the brain.
Anyway, if you figure that from that cargo you could make half a million doses of heroin, street value somewhere between ten and twenty dollars a dose, you’re talking about a total value of five to ten million dollars. Lord!”
Treece said, “Where was it carried, Adam?”
“Number three hold. The lot of it.
Amidships. I had it bagged about with flour.”
“Was there anything beneath it?”
“Aye, the ordnance. We chucked our ballast and put the cases of shells down there. It was a dicey sail, I tell you. One of the mates went in irons for three days for sneaking a cigarette. And that was topside.”
“She didn’t roll over when she went down, did she?”
“Not so far’s I know. But I didn’t
linger to see how she fell.”
“So if her guts were ripped out clean, it’s likely that the
IOI
shells went down first and farthest. The cigar boxes would be atop them.”
“Those boxes were wood, remember, and flimsy.
They’d be nothing now.”
Treece nodded. “Still, they’d not have been crushed by the cases of shells. And the ampules’ mass in water is almost nothing, so they’d not have sunk deep in the sand.”
“If you ask me, the storms has busted “em all up by now.”
“I’d have thought so, too.” Treece fingered one of the ampules. “Until these turned up.”
“But they were in a hole, you say, protected. The others is gone, I’ll wager.”
“Like as not. But we’re having a look tonight.”
Coffin drained his glass and banged it on the table.
“Damn fine. I’ll be ready.”
Treece smiled. “No. We’ll go. If we find some more, then we’ll need you.”
“But it’s my ship!” Coffin hammered his chest with a fist. “You think I’m not fit, is that it?”
His eyes were bright, his face flushed from the rum.
“I’m fit as a bloody stallion! How old do you think I am?”
Treece said calmly, “I know how old you are, Adam.”
“You, then,” Coffin said, glaring at Sanders. “How old do you think I am?”
Sanders looked at him, quickly matching dates in his mind. Coffin had to be at least seventy. “I’d say … sixty.”
“See that, Treece?” Coffin laughed.
“Sixty!” He turned back to Sanders. “I’m seventy-bloody-two, my boy! Fit as a stallion!”
“Adam,” Treece said, touching Coffin’s arm, “no one said
you weren’t fit. But I don’t want anyone to see you diving on the wreck. You’re too well known.”
Treece warmed to his lie. “You’re a bloody celebrity! If people knew you were diving on that wreck, they’d right away spot something was up.”
Coffin leaned back in his chair, mollified by the flattery. “There’s sense in what you’re saying.
Wouldn’t want to give anything away.” He eyed his empty glass. “I say let’s drink
on it.”
“No,” Treece said, standing up. “I’ve got work to do.”
Coffin followed Treece and the Sanderses down the path to the road. Treece opened the door of the Hillman and-like an octopus insinuating itself tentacle by tentacle into a crevice in a reef-slowly fit one long limb after another into the driver’s compartment.
Coffin said, “Don’t breathe too deep, or you’ll blow the horn with your
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