Breaking fast with thugs

OCT 21 — It certainly felt like a moment out of the Last Supper. With Azhar seated at the middle of the table — calm, unassuming, surveying all of us, smiling at the right moments — I had the impression that we were in the company of a benevolent being. Though in this case, benevolence is subjective.

If the casual onlooker had seen the ten of us that night, he would have thought that we were a motley group of friends, breaking fast together, in a kopitiam based in one of KL’s many red-light districts. Perhaps he would have thought we were a family. We salam-ed each other, we laughed and talked, we were the picture of friendship.

With the exception of two colleagues — Bob and Dr Hartini Zainudin — and I, who have known each other over the years, it was the first time we met the rest of the group. That we got along so well, on our first meeting, is still short of miraculous. We were not there to be friends. We were there on business: to forge a working relationship with the area’s top “captains”, Ah Longs and pimps.

The reason behind this partnership was to gain their trust and help when any child from the ages zero to 18 was being trafficked, forced into sex work, or becoming a drug runner. Many of these children do not have documents, hence making them ripe for syndicates to sell them.

They can be sold to childless couples; they can be sold into sex work and even the beggaring business. Child trafficking is an extremely profitable business, and will soon overtake arms and drugs, as each child has many uses and can be resold many times for whatever purpose the trafficker has in mind.

We needed them more than they needed us. We were a liability: who’s to know if we were to squeal on them to the police? Did we, too, want to involve ourselves with criminals? It was a Catch-22 situation, with us conceding to the fact that we had to work with them. And that we were at their mercy.

We met them at a kopitiam at 6.45pm. They had initially wanted us to take them to The Ship in Bukit Bintang, because they wanted steak and there was dancing. Due to fasting month, and the fact that it rained in the evenings and the traffic jams were atrocious, we decided to meet at the kopitiam. The Ship could wait for the next month.

We met Ho first at his shop. It started raining as we crossed over to his area. Mobile stalls lined up the sidewalks, selling sex aids and stimulants. Penis rings were sold blatantly, guaranteeing the buyer longer staying power. More pills invite the buyer. Hookers all ready to work, looking around for food to eat. A few young men ate openly in public; they knew the fatwa squad would not dare to touch them.

Ho came down from his shop. Ho was not the picture of thuggery and vice.

Truth be told, he looked like an “uncle”. More like the ebullient relative with an opinion on everything. He wore a simple t-shirt and plain khakis.

“Hah, tala pigi Ship hari ini, ah?” he asked loudly.

“No time! Ini sudah hujan, traffic jam lagi…” my colleague, Bob, explained.

“Hor, hor… OK. Kita pigi itu kopitiam la. Itu buka puasa sana manyak lauk ok.”

We’re joined by Azhar, who nodded at us. He’s well-dressed, quiet and bespectacled. His wife was waiting for us at the kopitiam, he told us.

We arrived to meet Ho’s female friend and Azhar’s wife, a pleasant woman in a flowered tudung. Ho had been living in the area since he was born. He had seen KL when it was a mere babe and its rise as a city. He was older than Kuala Lumpur and bemoaned at modern life and “… ugly tall buildings.”

“Wah Uncle Ho…”

“Aiyah jangan ‘Uncle-uncle’ la. Rasa tua la. I still young and handsome you know?”

“Ok-lah… Mr Ho ok arr?”

“Mr Ho ok…” he grinned.

“Mr Ho, you got picture or not, old-old one, want to see KL zaman dulu-dulu la…”

“Haiya. Dulu saya manyak foto tapi saya habis buang koyak… takut itu polis cari saya,” he laughed.

Ah yes. It was easy to forget that Ho was one of the powerful thugs in the neighbourhood. He extorted money, he beat men and women up, he had runners to do his bidding.

Azhar, who all this time remained detached but observant, was not a man to mess with. Despite his calm manner, Azhar had a menacing air about him, which was later confirmed by Bob. The predominantly Malay area may be “owned” by the Chinese, but Azhar was one of the major kings there. In fact, Ho ranked much lower than he.

If Azhar hated you, you’d find an Achenese man at your home, and your hands would be cut off. Azhar’s area was devoid of crime. Azhar was also a successful tradesman. Azhar had no qualms killing you. Azhar’s wife knew but like all wives the world over, she pretended not to know. At the end of the day, he was a good husband.

Two young Chinese boys joined us later. They were Ho’s disciples. They were pimps. Yes, these 26-year-olds sold women for sex and money. Business was tough these days and they were on their toes 24 hours a day. Like all successful young men, they had no time to be in a serious relationship with girls their age, one of them complained how it was so difficult to get an understanding girlfriend.

His other friend, on the other hand, and I had an interesting conversation about puasa. He had Malay friends back in his kampung, and he was familiar with tahajud prayers and sahur.

Ho waved at us, and asked me to help find him a wife. Tall or thin, fat or crazy, I asked. It didn’t matter as long as she took care of him, he said. “Aiya, very susah to find good women these days!”

But the dinner took a serious turn when Dr. Hartini spoke about her young ward who had run away with her baby. Ho spoke, “You know how it is. Sometimes these babies are stolen, and then rented out by the hour so the person can use the baby when he begs.” It only cost RM30 per hour to rent the baby for beggaring purposes.

Azhar chimed in, “What’s wrong with selling babies anyway?”

Hartini replied, “Look, we can only do so much. But if we know the baby will be sold to a good couple… we have to help the babies…”

Azhar was nonplussed.

The men killed if it had to be done. They engaged in questionable businesses, though they did not sell sex or drugs. (The two younger men did.) Like in the movies, these men abided to a code of honour. During the dinner, we, the “guests”, were served first. The men, despite their “rough” demeanour, used their flatware well. They did not slobber as they ate. They were gentlemen.

It was a short dinner though. It was never about networking or pleasantries. Night had fallen and there were things to do. They had to leave, likewise us. We promised to take them out for steak and dancing one of these days, and that was a promise we had to keep. These men had long memories, and promises must be kept.

A Mercedes-Benz SLK was parked behind Bob’s Proton. The owner was Malay, and reputedly even more cruel than Azhar. Bob shrugged as he said, “This is a Chinese area, and the two most frightening ‘taikors’ are Malay. Steady, babe.”

This was going to be the beginning of a cold, wary friendship, and their trust would have to be earned.  Could we do it?