**

My father became wealthy importing timber from Southeast Asia, mainly teak but other hardwoods too. He was one of the first to farm it, which meant that when he died the company still prospered. My brother, Hank, and I inherited everything, the big company and a considerable income.

My visits to the plantations got me interested in Asian antiques, and when I began to sell them, I was so busy that I needed Hank to help me out. Soon I saw that he was taking trips to Asia purely to buy drugs. Like Dad, he wan an innovator-- an early smuggler of heroin inside little Buddhas and carved temple finials in small, hard-to-detect amounts, for his own use. His wealth ensured he'd never have to resort to dealing or relying on dealers in the States. He injected: his arm, his foot, his neck. He said, "I have it under control," meaning that he could afford it.

But over time the heroin ate up most of his money, and he borrowed from me for a while. A very expensive habit, and destructive too, or so I thought.

I made him a promise. I said, "If you give up the heroin, I will hand over half of my own inheritance." I had doubled my money with my antiques business anyway.

Hank said, "Leave me alone. I'm like a person with an illness. Just leave me to my illness. A lot of people are in worse shape than me."

But I begged him. Finally, he agreed. Here is the weird part. As soon as he gave up heroin-- a long, painful process of rehab and treatment-- he became very weak. As an addict, he had been full of life; as a clean straight guy, he was pale, feeble, prone to colds, and sometimes could not get out of bed. This went on for a few months. Very worried, I brought him to a specialist, who diagnosed cancer.

He said, "Your brother has had cancer for years, but his heroin use has masked it. If he had still been using it, he would have had a happy death-- sudden anyway. Heroin has been keeping him out of pain."

The next weeks were awful. He died horribly a month later.