I struck up immediately with Steve, recognizing a kindred spirit. A jailbird, of course. My mates go to the most distinguished jails. In Steve’s case, he’d recently been released from the prison outside Sydney, Australia, in Botany Bay, where Captain Cook landed. He was there, sentenced to hard labor, for eight years, of which he did three and a half, locked up twenty-three hours a day. Part of the reason Steve survived its brutalities untouched was that it was known he had kept his mouth shut and taken the rap for two friends who got away. That’s the kind of bloke he is. For such a sweet-natured man, hard though he is, Steve’s taken a lot of beatings. One day Spanish sailors, cracked out of their heads, came into his bar at three a.m., and he told them he was closing. They nearly killed him. He was in a coma for some days, suffered aneurysms, lost nine teeth, couldn’t see for two weeks. Why had they beat him so badly? The last bit of dialogue exchanged was Steve saying, “Come back later today and I’ll buy you a drink.” He turns to the bar and hears, “I fuck your mother.” So Steve says, “Well, somebody did. What do you want me to do, call you Daddy?” He suffered for that.