Isle of Dogs

Twenty-eight

Hey! Shut the fuck up!" The hostile voice came from inside a cramped, stinking, dark cell. It was late at night now, and the lights had been turned off inside the city jail.

"Shut yourself up!" Major Trader snarled back at the tedious bandit who called himself Stick and had ended up in jail after supposedly bumping his head, which had been covered with a bag, and then faking unconsciousness, assuming he would get a free ride to the hospital and then escape. It hadn't worked.

"Shut up!" another inmate chimed in, and Trader wasn't certain, but he thought the offensive voice belonged to Slim Jim, a repeat offender whose specialty was picking car locks and stealing toll money and sunglasses.

"You shut up!" Trader answered back. He was in far too foul a mood to be intimidated by anyone.

"No! You shut up, you motherfucker!" And it was Snitch who was awake now and irritable.

"Si, " the Mexican boy piped up. "Everybody shut up, par favor. "

"Stay out of it, spic, " Trader warned.

"Huh!" the Mexican boy replied, offended. "I seen you jumping around the Dumpster. "

"Whoa, " Stick said. "I knew that man was crazy as shit. What he be jumping around a Dumpster for?"

"I think he was jerking off, " said the Mexican boy, who had yet to reveal his real name to his cellmates or admit to the police that he was a juvenile. "See, I'm hid-ing from the police behind this bar, you know? And I seen him jumping around in the alley and he's holding his dick and jumping and making all kinda noise. So I run off 'cause he's loco. "

"Ain't you lucky as shit to end up in the same cell with him, " Snitch sarcastically said as he shoved the flat pillow under the back of his head. "Ain't all of us lucky to have some crazyass stinking fat loco in the cell with us?"

"Yeah, what you jumping around for, huh?" Stick prodded Trader.

"None of your damn business. But I have a reason for everything and do nothing without a motive. "

"Whoa. Loco-motive, " Slim Jim said in a mocking voice. "We got Locomotive on the next bed. "

"Please. Let's not fight. It's bad enough to be in here. For the love of God, let's show a little consideration and pray for peace, " said Reverend Pontius Justice, who had dropped off several videotapes at Barbie Fogg's house last night and then had made the mistake of negotiating for a blow job on his way out of her neighborhood, only to discover that the woman he had decided to solicit wasn't a hooker but a spinster whose car had broken down after the battery had died in her cell phone.

"What would I want your twenty dollars for?" the spinster had inquired in a strange accent as Reverend

Justice motioned her to come closer to his Cadillac. "If you offering me taxi money, babe, that sure is nice, but I don't take no money from strangers. "

"I don't care what you spend it on, " replied Reverend Justice, who was intoxicated and worn out and unfulfilled from promoting his new neighborhood watch program that so far had not prevented a single crime. "You climb in and take care of me for a minute, and you can do what you want with this brand-new twenty-dollar bill I'm holding. See?"

The spinster, who turned out to be Uva Clot and was infinitely older than he had thought when he'd first spotted her in the distant darkness, approached his Cadillac, wrote down his plate number, and started yelling for help. As Reverend Justice sped away, the police were on his butt with their sirens screaming and lights throbbing like his head.

"So, what you in for?" the reverend asked the dark area of the cell where Trader filled up the bed like a huge sack of potatoes.

"I'm a pirate, " Trader said in an ugly tone.

"Lord protect us all!" the reverend exclaimed in shock. "You ain't one of them pirates that beat on that poor truck driver and stolt all his pumpkins, I sure hope?"

"None of your business!"

"Lord help us!"

"And I take pleasure in harming small animals, " Trader added, for he knew enough about psychopaths to be aware that all of them began their monstrous lives of violent crime by tormenting helpless creatures.

He, for example, had never felt a hint of remorse when he'd torched the crab plantation, murdering mothers and little babies and other molting crabs who were temporarily without their protective shells. He didn't care a bit about the bateaus that had burned up, and it wouldn't have bothered him at all if Hilda's Chesapeake House had gone up in flames or if most of Tangier Island had. Nor had his peace of mind been disturbed when he had set up Hammer's Boston terrier to be stolen by Smoke and his ruthless road dogs. Trader hoped Popeye had long since been put to a cruel end. It would serve that bitch-superintendent right.

"Whoa, " Stick's disapproving voice sounded in the dark cell. "That one thing I never done and never would. I think we should drown him in the toilet, " he said to the others. "Two of us hold him and whoever's hands is free can shove his head in. "

"Someone run over my puppy when I was still in the eighth grade. " Slim Jim sounded sad and upset. "I never did get over that, and the asshole who done it didn't even stop. "

"What'chu mean, still in the eighth grade?" Snitch was curious as he sat up in bed and shoved the pillow against cinderblock to support his cramping back.

"You know, I just couldn't get out, " Slim Jim replied. "Kinda like this place, you know? Every year, they said I had to repeat the eighth grade, all 'cause of that Mrs. Knock, my homeroom teacher. "

"Bet they was all kinds of knock-knock jokes flying around the eighth grade, " Stick observed.

"Un huh. That was one of the things that pissed her off, " Slim Jim replied as he drifted back to that frustrating time in his failed life. "Knock-knock?"

He waited for a response from his cellmates. Finally the reverend caught on.

"Who's there?" he asked.

"Shut up! "Trader blurted out in disgust.

"Shut up, who?" the reverend asked, relieved that a distraction had presented itself.

"Shut up the fucking pirate in the toilet bowl and flush his fucking brains out!"

"Yeah, how I know it wasn't you who run over my puppy?" Slim Jim accused Trader's bed.

"Because, for one thing, " Trader's voice coldly replied, "it is highly unlikely I frequented your trashy neighborhood. No doubt you lived in federally subsidized housing and spent all of your time on the street eating free cheese and wearing stolen sneakers. "

"You dis me one more time, " Slim Jim threatened, "and I'm coming over there and popping you in the head before I stick it in the toilet and flush your soul to the sewer where it belong!"

"Please!" the reverend protested. "This is a time to pray for forgiveness and seek peace and love thy neighbor as thyself!"

"Ain't never loved myself, " Snitch admitted, getting morose.

"Me, neither, " Slim Jim said sadly. "When my puppy got smashed in the road right in front of me, I quit loving myself. I 'cided never to love nothing again after that, 'cause if you love something, look what happens. "

"Tell it, " Stick chimed in.

Possum was alone inside the RV, because Smoke and the other road dogs were out cruising, and Possum had used the excuse of adding finishing touches to the

Jolly Goodwrench flag so he could stay in with Popeye.

"You've got mail!" his computer suddenly announced.

Possum's adrenaline surged in excitement. Most of the people he e-mailed were other pirates who were usually drunk, stoned, and away from their computers at this late hour. Possum got up and sat on the wooden crate, clicking the mouse to see what was in the e-mail box. He was thrilled and nervous when he saw that the sender was Trooper Truth:

Dear Anonymous,

You must be a good person to provide me with the important information you sent. I've been waiting to hear back from you, and since I haven't, I decided to try to contact you now. You will be pleased to know that Captain Bonny (a. k. a. Major Trader) was apprehended earlier and is now in jail. I made sure this was accomplished, and now must ask you to hold up your end of the bargain.

What is the big plot that involves Popeye? And how do I know you're telling me the truth? I'd like to believe you don't intend for anyone else to be hurt. Where can we meet to resolve this, and how can we rescue Popeye?

Trooper Truth

Possum sat for a moment, excited but afraid for his life. If he set up Smoke and the road dogs and failed, he would be dead and so would Popeye. Possum petted Popeye, who had jumped up in his lap and seemed to be reading Trooper Truth's e-mail, although Possum knew this wasn't possible. No dog could read. Most people Possum knew couldn't read, including the other road dogs. Even Smoke and his weirdo, nasty girlfriend had a hard time reading and usually got the information they wanted either from Possum or the TV news.

"What do I do, Popeye?" Possum whispered.

Popeye grabbed the pencil with her teeth and tapped the keyboard. Possum watched in disbelief as three words appeared on the screen in bold: JUST DO IT.

"Why didn't you let me know you can read and write? You even know the Nike ad!" Possum whispered as he hugged Popeye.

Popeye licked his neck. Oh, please save me, she silently begged.

"What you want me to do?" Possum asked again as the three words seemed to pulse on the screen like emergency lights that were roaring in for the rescue.

Popeye jumped out of his lap and up on the bed and began pawing the Jolly Goodwrench flag.

"You think that will really work?" Possum asked her. "I mean, that was my idea, too. How'd you know that was what I made that flag for? But what if it don't work, Popeye? What if Smoke end up shooting all of us?"

Popeye curled up on the flag and went to sleep, as if to suggest she wasn't worried in the least. She knew what Possum did not. Trooper Truth was really Andy Brazil, and Andy was fearless and would always prevail over evil. Popeye's owner would, too. What Popeye wasn't sure of was what might happen to Possum. She didn't want him locked up or punished in any way. She woke up and jumped off the bed. She pawed at the bedroom door, indicating Possum should open it, which he did. Popeye trotted into the living room and dug through a pack of crumpled cards until she found the ace of spades, which she carried back to Possum.

"I ain't sure I understand, " Possum whispered to her. "Oh, wait a minute. Maybe you telling me I got to have a card up my sleeve?"

Popeye just stared at him in a way that suggested he was getting warm but was missing the point.

"Or maybe I should play a game?"

Popeye didn't react.

"I should bluff?"

Popeye was getting impatient. Why did humans have such a hard time understanding animals? Animals were explicit and didn't lie or even shade the truth. Unless animals were sick or had been treated savagely, they had no agenda beyond surviving and being respected and loved. Popeye snatched the playing card out of Possum's fingers and tossed it on the keyboard repeatedly, as if she were dealing.

"Deal?" Possum scratched his head, and Popeye licked his bare foot, voicing her approval. "What you saying? I make a deal with Trooper Truth?"

Popeye jumped back up in Possum's lap and licked his face with enthusiasm. Possum blew out a loud, tense sigh and began to type, just in time, because Andy was about to give up on getting a response.

Dear Trooper Truth,

I swear you can trust me. But my problem is, is I gonna get in trouble if I help you out? See, I'm sort of trapped by Smoke and the road dogs and if I set them up and even if it works, I'm afraid I'm gonna end up in jail.

See, it was me who shot Moses Custer in the foot, knocking his boot off, 'cause I had no choice or I would have been hurt bad. by Smoke and maybe shot, too. And Smoke always be saying he gonna hurt Popeye if I don't do what he say.

I don't know what to do.

Andy read the e-mail and realized for the first time that the son of a bitch Smoke was behind Popeye's dog-napping. Andy knew that Smoke was not to be taken lightly. Andy also realized with relief that he was in a perfect position to make an honest bargain with whoever this anonymous road dog was, so he fired back an e-mail to him.

Dear Anonymous,

The bullet you say you fired at Moses missed. He was in the hospital because the road dogs beat and cut him up so badly. Did you beat on him, too? Or cut him?

Trooper Truth

Dear Trooper Truth,

No! All I did after trying to shoot him was help dump the punkins in the river. As for the cutting, that was Unique. I sure is glad that bullet missed! Maybe now I can forgive myself and Hoss won't be mad at me no more.

Andy was unclear about the Hoss reference and didn't understand what Anonymous meant by the cutting's being Unique, but he decided to take a risk.

Dear Anonymous,

Surely you must know that Hoss would want the road dogs caught so nobody else, including Popeye, is in harm's way. I doubt very much that Hoss has been mad at you, because he would know that bullet missed Moses. Hoss knows everything. He's possibly been disappointed in you for not turning in Smoke and the road dogs. Now is the time to make things right, and a place to start is to tell me how I can find Smoke and the other pirates without them figuring anything out. By doing so, you will be granted immunity in exchange for your assisting the police. And I think you know by now that I always tell the truth.

Trooper Truth A reply landed in the mailbox moments later.

Dear Trooper Truth,

Go to the race and look for a pit crew with a Jolly Goodwrench flag. That's us pirates. I'll have Popeye and do my best to stay out of the way, but you should know that Cat been taking helichopper lessons from the state police and plans to fly all of us to Tangerine Island after Smoke kills a lot of people.

"Jesus, " Andy muttered as he stared at the message. There was only one state policeperson he could think of who might be giving anyone flying lessons right now, since the state police were so critically short of pilots at the moment. "Macovich. You stupid son of a bitch!" Andy said out loud. "What the hell are you doing?"

Macovich wasn't a saint, but he wasn't terribly bright, either, and Andy tried to work through Macovich's motivation. He dug through his briefcase until he found the paperwork on the Bag Man case he had worked last year. He dialed Hooter Shock's home phone number.

After much clunking and groping and coming to, Hooter groggily answered, "Hello?"

She assumed it was Macovich, who had been calling her a lot and stopping at her tollbooth, even when he didn't need to. That man was sex-addicted, she angrily thought. She had never seen anything like it. Most men she dated for the first time gave her at least an hour or two to figure out whether she might be remotely interested in holding hands or digging tongues halfway down each other's throats. But Macovich had kept grabbing at her under the table when they were drinking in that booth at Freckles. It was a shame, really. Hooter had liked him a fair amount when they'd chatted out by the traffic cones.

"I told you to quit calling me!" Hooter snapped over the line before Andy had a chance to say a word.

"I haven't called you recently, " Andy replied. "Let me guess, you think this is Trooper Macovich. "

"Well, you don't sound like him, " Hooter said, calming down.

"This is Trooper Truth, " Andy boldly said.

"Naw… You pulling my leg, " Hooter replied with suspicion. She didn't recognize Andy's voice because

most white folk sounded the same to her. "Ain't no way Trooper Truth be calling me. "

"Well, I am, " Andy said with confidence. "And the reason is because I need your help. It has come to my attention that you had drinks with Macovich at Freckles the other night. "

"Yeah. That was the night from hell, I tell you. "

"Did he take the check?"

"I didn't see no check, " Hooter replied. " 'Cause I left to get me some air in the alleyway, then this crazy man started trying to shoot his privates off… "

"Yes, I'm aware of that, " Andy politely interrupted her. "But I'm wondering if you ever saw Macovich pull out his wallet?"

"Uh huh. He paid for each round, 'cause we was the only Afric-Americans in there, and I'm assuming they didn't trust us enough to start a tab. "

"I sincerely doubt that was the case, " Andy reassured her. "The people in Freckles aren't like that, and it's easy to assume the worst if you've ever been treated unfairly. Maybe Macovich didn't ask for them to run a tab because he likes to flash his money, especially if he was trying to impress you. "

There was a pause on the line as Hooter pondered this.

"Well, " she finally conceded, "I guess you must be right, 'cause he sure was flashing his money, which I didn't like a bit 'cause money's just full of germs and he knew how I felt about it and then kept trying to grab at my legs under the table when we was drinking in the booth. But now that I think of it, I don't remember his asking for a tab, so maybe you right and I was jumping to 'clusions. You know; I got people at the tollbooth who never say 'Thank you' or 'Have a nice day, ' even after I say it first. And I just always assumed it's 'cause of my non-white status. "

"Many people are simply rude and consumed with themselves, " Andy pointed out.

"Yeah, I guess that's so, " Hooter said. She had softened considerably and seemed wide awake now. "But he did have money he was flashing around, " she added, returning to the subject of Macovich. "Now you gotta understand there was a lot of smoke in there, but he was flashing away and I caught a lot of twenties and at one point, what I could swear was a hundred-dollar bill, which I never seen in the Exact Change lane and ain't never had in my entire life. "

So Macovich was giving Cat helicopter lessons and possibly being paid a hundred dollars in cash for each one. Macovich was probably doing this at night or off hours when he knew no one else would be at the state police hangar. Andy walked into the kitchen to check the time. It was a little past 1: 00 A. M. He dressed in civilian clothes, took his gun and portable radio, and went out to his car.

It was just as he'd suspected when he arrived at the airport. The Bell 430 was not inside the hangar, and there were what appeared to be fresh Salem Light cigarette butts all over the tarmac, even near the fuel truck. Andy switched his radio over to the state police aviation frequency.

"Four-three-zero-Sierra-Papa, " Andy said over the air.

Macovich was startled and unnerved when Andy's voice tilled his headset, as Cat, dressed in NASCAR colors, tried to fly the helicopter level and steady in a pattern around the nearby Chesterfield airport.

"Thirty-Sierra-Papa, " Macovich replied, trying to sound innocent and busy.

"Who's calling us?" Cat demanded to know.

"Stand by, " Macovich transmitted to Andy. "It's the tower, " Macovich told Cat over the intercom because he didn't want to make the same mistake of broadcasting what he was saying in private.

"Let me talk to 'em, " Cat said as he missed his approach. "I need to practice the radio. "

"Not now, " Macovich said through his mike. "You're gonna have to do a flyover 'cause you was way too high for that approach, and I got a feeling the tower's gotten a complaint about the way you're flying, so the best thing is let me deal with them and you just take your headset off for a minute, 'cause it ain't gonna be pleasant, whatever the tower's got on its mind, I can tell you that! Don't get so damn close to the fence! Pull it up to eight hundred feet and just fly the damn helicopter while I deal with this!"

Cat took off his headset and squinted through his Oakley sunglasses, trying to make out the very dark shape of trees looming ahead.

"Thirty-Sierra-Papa, " Macovich transmitted to Andy. "I'm busy right now. "

"Roger. I'm well aware of that, " Andy's voice came back, and his tone boded that he knew exactly what Macovich was doing. "Your student is in violation, " Andy used aviation vernacular.

"What you mean?" Macovich was getting increasingly alarmed and pulled up on the collective to clear the trees, a reflex he scarcely noticed anymore because he had to fight for the controls routinely when giving this NASCAR dumbshit a lesson.

"Just inform your student that the tower needs you to return to the ground ASAP, " Andy ordered Macovich.

"Roger, " Macovich reluctantly replied, and he tapped Cat's headset, indicating for him to put it back on. "We gotta problem, " Macovich told Cat. "It's my ship. Don't make me tell you again to get your hands and feet off the controls! We got us a big mess with the FAA and I'm gonna have to deal with it so you don't get in any trouble and we don't end up grounded. "

"Shit!" Cat exclaimed. "The race! There better not be any fucking problem! The world-famous driver I work for ain't gonna put up with no problem, and he's good friends with the gov'ner and the president of the United States and will get your ass fired!"

"Don't you worry, " Macovich said, speeding back to the Richmond airport. "I'll handle it. "

The only thing that got handled was Cat, who within the hour was in the city lockup, crowded inside a dark cell full of inmates who kept telling each other to shut up and continued to go on and on about some puppy that had gotten flattened in a hit-and-run. Andy called Hammer the minute he got home. He informed her of everything that was going on, including the reassuring news that Popeye might be alive and would be rescued at the Winston Series race.

"That rotten snake, " she said of Macovich. "He can just turn in his gun and badge when he gets to headquarters. You call him and tell him to report to my office at eight sharp. "

"I respectfully disagree, " Andy said. "Smoke and the other road dogs don't know Cat's identity has been revealed and he's now in jail. "

"And he's also missing in action, as far as they're concerned, " Hammer reminded him. "Don't you think they're going to be a bit suspicious when he doesn't show up to fly them to the race?"

"I think I've got a way around that. "

"Let's hope so. "

"I'll fly the governor in a four-oh-seven and make sure he, Moses Custer, and whoever else, get safely in their box, " Andy laid out his plan. "And we'll have at least twenty troopers and EPU in plain clothes strategically stationed. Macovich needs to fly Smoke and his road dogs as expected. Don't worry, I'll get it all arranged. "

"Balony, Andy!" Hammer wasn't convinced. "There will probably be a hundred and fifty thousand fans at that damn race. Twenty troopers can't begin to protect the governor and his guests and manage such a crowd if something bad goes down. The first shot fired and there will be a riot and people will get crushed in the stampede. Cars will run off the track and crash. It will be a terrible disaster, and I just don't think we're equipped to control it.

"And what if Tangier Island decides to be a problem, too? I don't think anything will dissuade them of the ridiculous notion that NASCAR plans to take over their island, and a perfect time to launch some sort of hostile move on their part would be during the race, " she continued to paint negative scenarios. "We ought to have troopers posted on the island, too. Frankly, I wish you could write something in an essay that would convince those people to behave and settle down, but I doubt anyone on Tangier even has a computer. "

"I've received no communications from anybody on the island, " Andy informed her. "So you're probably right. No one there is reading me. But based on all the satellite dishes I noticed, they certainly watch TV. So why not create a diversion on the island? I can plant something in my next essay that will end up being broadcast in the news before the race. "

He thought of Fonny Boy and the rusting piece of iron, and decided that nothing captured an Islander's attention more than items of value that they feared outsiders might try to take from them. Andy began to write a carefully worded e-mail that instructed his anonymous pirate friend to leave his or her computer logged on to Trooper Truth and watch for the next essay. In addition, the anonymous pirate was to inform Smoke that Cat was busy practicing autorotations and getting his check ride and would meet them at Tangier Island after the race so he had time to do a high recon of the area and set up their new headquarters.

"Tell Smoke and the others that Cat got word of a huge stash of treasure, and his instructor was going to drop Cat off on the island early and would fly Smoke and the dogs to the race as planned, then whisk them to Tangier Island where Cat would already be out in a boat, securing the treasure before anybody else found it, " Andy e-mailed the anonymous pirate. "Assuming Cat doesn't have a computer or know how to use one, just say that the e-mail alerting them about all this came from the helicopter instructor, Trooper Macovich, who has decided to throw in his lot with you road dogs and be your pilot and get you guns and scuba gear, set up money laundering, and make runs to Canada and whatever else you need, in exchange for his being cut in on a modest share of the treasure. "

Possum was slightly confused and a little frightened when he got Trooper Truth's latest communication, but he would do as he was instructed and leave the computer logged on to the website and pass on the information to Smoke. But Possum did have one final question:

Dear Trooper Truth,

This is the last time I write you but I was wondering if you could take that picture of Popeye in her red coat off the front page of your web. See, if Smoke see that picture, it will be the end of Popeye 'cause he don't know anybody still looking for her except the lady supintenderent Popeye got stole from.

P. S. My name is Possum but I use to be Jeremiah Little before Smoke made me join his road dogs or else kill me, he said. Can you call my mama and tell her I'm o. k. and ain't in any trouble and find out if she still living with my daddy, 'cause if she is, I can't go back to the basement and won't have no place to go when I get free of Smoke and move out of the RV?

P. S. P. S. Don't forget your promise!.

Andy replied with an Instant Message assuring Possum that Popeye's photograph was being removed right that minute, and of course, Trooper Truth would call Possum's mama and keep all promises. Andy also wrote:

When you are about to leave the racetrack, be the first one to climb into the back of the big helicopter that Trooper Macovich will be flying. Then slide across the seat with Popeye and rush out the other door and run as fast as you can toward a camper that is flying a Virginia flag and has six traffic cones in front. The camper will be easily visible on the other side of the fence surrounding the helipad, and I will be sitting in a lawn chair in front, disguised as a drunk NASCAR fan. Please stay clear of the tail-rotor!

Good luck! Trooper Truth

The recent arrest of Dr. Sherman Faux (a mendacious dentist who should be avoided by all) has resulted in a shocking revelation that is exciting maritime historians, archaeologists, and treasure hunters around the globe.

If you, my faithful readers, are wondering why you have never heard of the famed Tory Treasure, I now offer you a fairly obvious explanation. The notorious and untrustworthy Major Trader is known for manipulating all official news that circulates throughout the Commonwealth and goes out over the wire to other states and nations. So clearly, the imminent recovery of shipwrecks in the Chesapeake Bay, which will no doubt lead to the discovery of the remarkable Tory Treasure, is information that Trader and others would not want the general public-and especially the Islanders-to have.

During the American Revolution, the most notorious and dangerous Tory raider was Joseph Wheland, Jr., who began his violent, greedy career in 1776 by seizing and plundering on behalf of the British crown. Soon enough, Wheland commanded a small fleet and struck wherever he pleased, burning plantations in Chesapeake Bay country and making off with livestock, slaves, furniture, family silver, jewelry, and any other valuables that he and his men could find-their true motivation having little to do with military victory or loyalty to the crown. In short, Wheland became an out-and-out pirate and chose Tangier Island as his winter quarters.

From his pirate's lair on Tangier, Wheland would set sail with his growing flotilla of gunboats and board other ships to steal and slash and shoot. There is insufficient documentation as to how much loot he amassed or how many vessels he sank or how many of his own sloops went down off the shores of Tangier and neighboring islands, but it is safe to say that for more than two centuries, a fortune of undiscovered Tory Treasure has lurked in the silty bottom of the bay. The reason for this deduction is one of pure logic.

Pirates as desperate and ruthless as Wheland not only preyed upon the innocent, but they gave no thought to raiding and slaughtering each other, provided they could get away with it. So if another pirate vessel laden with plantation loot was in the area, Wheland most certainly would have gone after it, unless he feared he might be overpowered. In this regard, Wheland and his pirate crew were no different from the drug dealers of today. When drug dealers stop off in Virginia during their travels from New York to Miami, it is not uncommon for one drug dealer to buy handguns or heroin from another, and then pull out a pistol and open fire. The point is, whoever wins not only gets the booty, but also the money or contraband that was the intended payment. Extra bonuses include cash and drugs from the victim's pockets, his gold chains, diamond-encrusted watch, rings, and means of transportation.

Drug dealers, like modern highway pirates, are simply land pirates. If you can imagine, for a moment, a band of drug dealers spinning back in time to the eighteenth century and waking up on a gunboat off the coast of Tangier Island, then you can pretty much envision what an encounter with another ship would have been like back then. You can be assured that an ensuing battle between seafaring drug dealers would be no different from Wheland's attacking another pirate vessel in days of old. Let's even go so far as to cast Wheland himself in the role of a time-traveling drug pirate. The story would go something like this:

On a crisp October night, Joseph Wheland set off in his black Mercedes with its spoiler, purple-tinted glass, gold mag hubcaps, fleece seat covers, souped-up sound system, and dangling air fresheners. Smoking a cigarette and nicely buzzed from pot, he left New York and headed down to Richmond with several other vehicles and armed crew serving as his convoy. Wheland was known on the street as Wheelin' Bone, because he was always in his car, didn't play hoops or lift weights, and was bone-thin and physically unimpressive. But his appearance did not diminish the terror he struck in the hearts of his victims and other land pirates when they learned that Wheelin' Bone was in the neighborhood.

Arriving in Richmond in the early morning hours, Wheelin' Bone and his mates parked along a trash-cluttered street in the federal housing project Gilpin Court, and proceeded to an apartment that was the lair of a local drug dealer other land pirates called Smack.

When Smack looked out the window and spied Wheelin' Bone dressed in a long black coat, black Nikes, and a black warm-up suit that had skulls and bones all over it, Smack got a little uneasy.

"Shit, I don't know, " he said to several of his lieutenants. "Man, he look bad. Look like he might be packing an Uzi under that black coat a his, 'cause I can see the barrel poking out. "

"You sure that ain't a buttonhole?"

"I say we don't take no chances. "

"Shit no, we ain't taking no chances, " Smack agreed. "I say we shoot 'em through the door. "

Pistol slides snapped throughout the lair, and then the inexplicable happened. Wheelin' Bone and his crew were about to knock on the door when suddenly they vanished with a strange crackle of static and a flash of intense white light. This frightened Smack and his pirates, and they responded with a salvo of gunfire that ripped up the door and shattered lamps and beer bottles. They fired until magazines were empty. When the smoke cleared, they peered out in astonishment at the dark, empty street.

Wheelin' Bone and his crew spun through the Third Dimension, passing through the Wrinkle in Time, and landed softly on a gunboat called Rover, which was loaded with eighteenth-century antiques, jewelry, and sacks of gold dust and silver coins.

"Where the fuck are we?" Wheelin' Bone asked as he stared out at the peaceful waters of the Chesapeake Bay and the distant shadowy shape of Tangier Island. "Man, I ain't never seen a boat this old. It don't even have a motor or a flashlight. "

"Shit, look at these guns!" one of his mates exclaimed, as he inspected a huge cannon. "I sure would like to shoot one of these at a police car!"

Wheelin' Bone and his crew laughed at the image, and set about to figure out how to safely handle cannons, make homemade grenades, and sail. As days and weeks passed, they were indiscriminate in seizing other ships and celebrated with drunken nights of Madeira wine and rum, because they had quickly run out of pot and crack cocaine and could find no one who had ever heard of either. Wheelin' Bone and his men became expert at attacking other pirate ships and setting them on fire after they had been pillaged and their crews shot, hacked to pieces, and dumped overboard to be eaten by crabs.

Years passed and the American Revolution ended, but Wheelin' Bone became only more powerful and lustful. He terrorized the bay and the shores of Maryland and Virginia, and became even more feared than Blackbeard was in his day, although there is no record that Wheelin' Bone ever had a beard or set it on fire. His modus operandi, which he no doubt learned from stories about Blackbeard that were passed down from pirate to pirate, was to blast his cannons at the broadside of an unsuspecting vessel, which was followed by the hurling of Blackbeard-style grenades that were case-bottles filled with powder, small shot, slugs, pieces of lead, and iron- rather much like modern pipe bombs, except the grenades were ignited by a small, quick match that the pirates lit before quickly tossing the massively destructive devices into enemy ships. Wheelin' Bone and his mates would then board the disabled ship, step over the dead and finish off the wounded, and raid to their hearts' content.

Wheland or Wheelin' Bone (whatever you prefer to call him) faded from historical documentation toward the end of the eighteenth century, and by 1806, piracy had pretty much come to an end in the bay, although those otherwise peaceful waters and neighboring shores became vicious and volatile again six short years later during the War of 1812. Indeed, the Chesapeake and the nearby Patuxent River to this day remain a focal point of military activity, thus explaining the inconvenient restricted areas I mentioned in an earlier essay that make it so difficult to fly to Tangier Island.

One can only imagine the number of ghostly, broken hulls of ships and chests of loot that have littered the bay floor since John Smith settled Jamestown. Antiquities Law clearly states that found pirate treasure belongs to the location, which in the case of the Tory Treasure is Virginia. Of course, if the treasure can be traced back to the vessels from which the loot was originally seized, then the vessel's point of departure is highly likely to unfairly claim the treasure, and there will be a long, drawn-out battle in court. I strongly suspect that Wheland's remarkable stash will be claimed by North Carolina. But all of this is moot if individuals can find the treasure first and quickly pass it off to dealers at a very high price. I am stating the obvious to mention that no one is more capable of rapidly locating and seizing the Tory Treasure than the descendants of pirates who now live on Tangier Island and know the ways of the bay better than any other human beings.

It is my contention that the treasure belongs to the watermen, and we should allow them to have it. Tangier's economy is depressed. There are strict limits on the number of blue crabs they can trap, and the crab population has been shrinking for years. I am asking everyone, including the governor, to stay away from that crab pot marked by a yellow buoy that is approximately 10. 1 miles off Tangier's western shore. Let decency prevail and greed vanish as you consider that most of us don't suffer the hard, often unrewarding lives of the watermen. Since their ancestors suffered so much when Joseph Wheland set up his winter headquarters on their island long ago, it would be only fair and right for today's Tangiermen to profit from that evil pirate's ruthlessness. It may very well be a perfect example of poetic justice.

Anne Bonny and Wheland never met the punishment they deserved. Even Blackbeard didn't get what was coming to him. Hacking him to death and impaling his severed head on a gunwale was light punishment compared to the way some pirates were dealt with in other parts of the world. Before piracy was first romanticized in modern times and then mundanely reduced to armed robbery, it was taken with grave seriousness in past centuries. All you need to do is flip through the pages of the two-volume 1825 edition of The Terrific Register: or Record of Crimes, Judgments, Providences and Calamities, and you will be shocked and sickened to see what I mean.

By way of example, I offer what was the typical fate of Russian pirates on the Volga, which in centuries past was so infested with pirates that merchants stopped transporting any cargo of value down the river unless the ships were accompanied by an armed convoy. These

Russian pirates, who were not nearly as cold-blooded as Bonny, Wheland, or Blackbeard, were taken alive and no doubt became quite unsettled as they observed soldiers building a float and erecting gallows on it that were equipped with huge iron hooks.

The captured pirates were stripped naked and hung by their ribs on these hooks, and the float was sent slowly drifting down the river, allowing one and all to view the ghastly sight and hear moans of pain. If anyone in the bordering villages and towns the floating gallows passed showed a whisper of pity by offering the wretches water or liquor or a merciful death by gunfire, the punishment for being a Good Samaritan was to suffer the same slow, tormenting death as the pirates. This threat was sufficiently severe to prevent the public from intervening, and in fact, when one pirate managed to escape from his hook and, nude and trembling from pain and blood loss, came upon a simple shepherd, the shepherd's unsympathetic response was to beat the pirate's brains out with a stone.

I'm sure the shepherd was quick to loudly boast throughout the village about the unkind thing he had just done, otherwise the story would never have made it into historical records. This is not to say that I believe in vigilantism or torturing prisoners on death row. Nor should you assume I approve of the way the Russians dealt with piracy. But my point is that Bonny, Black-beard, and Wheland, and their bloodthirsty sea dogs were just lucky they weren't caught in Russia.

It is quite likely that a piece of iron from one of Wheland's grenades has led to the discovery of at least one of his sunken ships, and one can only imagine the mysteries and treasures that have rested for centuries at the bottom of the bay in the area of the yellow buoy I previously mentioned. I realize that some maritime historians will insist that there is no evidence of a Tory Treasure, but I must remind my readers and Governor Crimm that Wheland "Wheelin' Bone" did not leave a list of all the ships and plantations he raided, and we can't be certain what ships sank, including his own, and what was on them.

Be careful out there!