Each of the docks is unionized—-after a fashion. Unlike the U. S., these unions don’t bother giving themselves fancy names. They are known simply as the “South Dock Gang” and the “North Dock Gang.” And the rivalry between them is extreme.
The “South Dock Gang” gets the government labor contracts. The “North Dock Gang” provides the labor for commercial shipping. This much of the harbor pie they’ve managed to split. But there’s a lot more apples in that pie, and that’s where the trouble comes in.
Both gangs claim jurisdiction over the additional commercial shipping that frequently must be handled on the south dock. Both gangs claim the right to unload military supplies from private shippers on the north dock. Add to this that both gangs consider all the black-market shipping that flows through Manila harbor to be rightfully theirs, and you get some idea of why so much violence arises over the whipped cream on the pie.
This violence is ever-present. Each gang stakes out its side of the dock with armed sentries. There are actually makeshift bunkers with machine guns in them. Rival gang members wandering onto the other gang’s turf are shot on sight. The reason is that the feuds which have sprung up between individual members of each of the gangs have resulted in such individuals occasionally sneaking into rival territory and silently knifing the one who may have offended them. Rare indeed is the Manila morning which doesn’t turn up at least one corpse with a bola or baling-hook sticking out from between the shoulderblades. And total strangers, nonparticipants, have frequently been shot down for innocently wandering across the invisible line from one side of the dock to the other.
At this particular time, the “North Dock Gang” wasin the ascendancy. They were the ones who controlled most of the lucrative smuggling operations. Their leader was a pint-sized but murderous man known as ‘Baby Torres.
This was one “Baby” diapered by death. Not too long before I hit Manila, he’d been involved in a gun battle in one of the many honky-tonks that line Dewey Boulevard. It was a labor dispute, in a way, but it had nothing to do with shipping. It involved the hourly rate of a “hostess” in the joint, a “hostess” to whom Baby had taken a fancy.
She claimed she got $7.50 an hour for going upstairs with a customer. He wanted the courtesy of a professional discount and offered her five bucks. The hustler told him she had another customer anyway, and cold-shouldered him.
“Baby” wasn’t used to that kind of treatment. He was the big man on the docks. The hustler should have known better than to treat him that way. But the story is that she was new to the game and didn’t know who “Baby” was.
Anyway, he slugged her. Then, when one of the bouncers in the joint came up to remonstrate with him and suggest that perhaps that was no way to treat a lady -- even a lady-0’-the-night -- “Baby” pulled out a pistol and shot off the top of the bouncer’s head. A second bouncer who approached was likewise blasted. A third dropped behind a table and killed two of Torres’ men before “Baby” decided he’d had enough entertainment and left the joint.
Following his departure, the smoke cleared and the pride of the Philippines, the Philippine National Constabulary, arrived. They immediately arrested the one bouncer left alive and charged him with murder. Didn’t they arrest “Baby”? Not on our life! More than any other police force in the world, the Philippine National Constabulary knows which side their daily bread soaks up the butter from. Why, taking in the “Baby” would be the equivalent of cutting their incomes in half!
Such reactions on the part of the Philipine National Constabulary are instantaneous. Not a night goes by but what there’s a gunfight between members of the “North Dock Gang” and members of the “South Dock Gang” in one or another of the Dewey Boulevard clubs. And if a cop wants to get ahead in Manila, he’s damn careful who he arrests in these fracases. The safest thing is to prefer the charges against the dead man—no matter which side he was on. That way no toes get stepped on and the cop doesn’t find himself transferred to a jungle patrol.
All this was to concern me directly. It was to have an almost immediate effect upon the circumstances of my arrest. And, although I was never to meet “Baby” Torres, he was to be the instrument of that change in circumstances.
It seems that in addition to his other activities, “Baby” was a gambling man. While the cops had been taking me into custody, “Baby” had been making a substantial wager on the outcome of a balut-eating contest. The contest was being held in a small, quarter-block park area on the city side of Dewey Boulevard. It was already well under way when “Baby” placed his bet on which of the two competing eaters could cram more baluts down his throat than the other without upchucking.
A balut, I should explain, is a half-formed duck embryo. For some reason which remains incomprehensible to me, baluts are considered quite a delicacy in the Philippines. Also, there are frequently contests to see who can consume more of the raw baluts. The championship is held by a U. S. Marine who got some seventy of the slimy things down his gullet.
The trick is in swallowing the balut without stopping to taste or chew it. Sort of a cross between the egg and the chick, it has the consistency of melted vaseline. The expert balut-eater slides the foetus down his throat directly by throwing his head way back and dropping it in without letting it touch either his lips, his tongue, or the roof of his mouth. When experts compete, as was the case now, it rarely ends with either of them admitting he’d had enough. They just go on gulping baluts until one vomits. Then the other is declared the Winner.
What happened in this particular contest was that both men threw up at the same time. When the judges declared it a draw, “Baby” Torres protested vehemently. He claimed that his man had eaten one more balut than the other before the upchucking. The dispute was reaching riot-like proportions when the paddy wagon I was in drew abreast of the park on Dewey Boulevard.
There were already cops on the scene. Typically, they were trying to prevail on the judges to change their decision before “Baby” Torres’ wrath exploded and the hoods he had with him began shooting up the street. Meanwhile, “Baby’s” men were closing in on the bookie who’d taken his bet. But the bookie wasn’t alone, and when those with him started flashing guns, the “North Side Gang” displayed its arsenal in turn. A crowd had gathered and was watching with interest. It was this crowd that blocked the way of the paddy wagon and forced it to stop.
One of the cops on the street called to the three in the paddy wagon to come and help dispel the crowd. From the slit in the rear door of the van, I watched. The cops in the front of the paddy wagon drew their guns as they climbed down to the street. The way the tension was mounting, I couldn’t blame them. But just as they hit the pavement, one of the bystanders shot another a sly grin and stuck out his foot. The last cop out of the wagon tripped and sprawled forward flat on his face. As he fell, he must have tightened his grip on his pistol by reflex. It went off.
Across the park, an onlooker standing a little behind “Baby” Torres began spurring blood from a large hole that suddenly appeared in his throat. Immediately, Torres’ men opened fire and began clearing a path to remove their leader from danger. Some of the gamblers answered the fire, and they were soon joined by some members of the “South Dock Gang.” More “North Dock Gang” members also came up on the run.
In an effort to break it up, the cops made too hasty a judgment. They’d spotted Torres and kept in mind the payoffs he made to them. So they began trying to round up some of those opposing him. They were partially successful. After a few moments, the rear door to the van was opened and three “South Dock Gang” members were tossed inside to join me.