The End Of Time

Bike Crash # 2 - 2020

The other night I rode the A Train to Brooklyn. I got off at Hoyt-Schmeerhorn. The next C train was 15 minutes away and I decided to bike the short distance to Myrtle Avenue. 

I climbed the stairs to ground level and set out home.

Unfortunately a car swerved into the bike lane to alter my path and my front wheel dropped into a grating. My impetus halted instantly and I flew over my handlebars without a thought for self-preservation.

My mouth faceplanted on the pavement. 

Like I had been suckered by Sonny Liston.

I stood up, expecting to spit out teeth.

Several people rushed up and asked if I was okay.

"I'm not okay." I spit out a little blood, but no teeth. Blood spewed from wounds to my legs and arms. "Fuck, but I ain't fucked either."

I straddled my bike and slowly rode to 387.

Hurt and knowing that tomorrow the hurt would only be worse.

Right leg.

Left upper thigh.

Busted face.

We Neanderthals will outlive Homo Sapiens, because we don't care about possessions.

Only love.

Boy Scout Shota

In the summer of 1962 my brother and I set out  with a large contingent of fellow Boy Scouts for a Sixty-Mile hike in emulation of JFK's call for a physical resurgence of youthful health. We departed from Adams Pond Camp south of Ossipee, NH and tramped through burnt forests and passed fields filled with tall cornstalks. The only memorable campsite was atop Evans Mountain next to a supposedly haunted house surrounded by blueberry fields.

None of us was older than twelve and the next day the temperature rose into the 90s and the scout masters promised their weakening troops a swim at New England's most beautiful pond. We picked up our pace and ended up a muddy hole rimmed by thirsty cows. The scout leader shooed away the cattle and the oldest adult explained that tradition required a naked run around the pond.

The boys from South of the Charles River rejected this demand.

"Then you get no food tonight."

"Fuck you then," said a Eagle Scout from Southie.

The rebels outnumbered the obedient, but the leaders and their adherents stripped off their clothes to trot around the waterhole.

We went into the pond wearing our shorts.

That night we ate nothing.

The Scout Leaders and their followers sat around a bonfire and ate fried chicken washed down by 'bug juice' or Kool-Aid. None of the rebels joined them. We slept together with the older boys standing guard. 

The next morning we rose before the dawn and trekked to the nearest road.

A farmer in a big truck stopped for us and asked, "Are you boys on that 'hike'?"

"We were," said a boy from Dorchester.

"I thought as much. Jump in the back and I'll drive to Adams Pond." He looked over his shoulder, as if the Boy Scout Leaders might stop him from aiding thirty-plus boys. 

As we approached the camp, the oldest boy from Southie warned, "Don't say nothing. Those motherfuckers will get you or us. I wish we could stop them from hurting our fellow scouts, but no one will believe us. Be prepared."

1962 was almost sixty years ago.

Not yesterday, but I still see the young boys running naked around a dirty pond.

Fuck the Boy Scouts.

ps the last entry in the Boy Scout Handbook was about 'noctural emissions'.

Frannie Fitzpatrick - A Constant Friend - See You Later

My good friend Fran Fitzpatrick has set off on a distant journey with the stars.

Frannie was my family's auto repair specialist. He knocked out dents and worst on our VW Beetles. 
I attended Boston College from 1970 to 1974. His brother Robert taught THE MYSTERIES OF THE HOLY EUCHARIST and at a family gathering Frannie said to me, "My brother's class will be cancelled if he doesn't get any students. I guarantee you no less that a B and your first crash is on me."

"I'll see what I can do."

The offer of a good grade appealed to several of my less studious friends and six of us signed up in 1973 for the autumn semester, expecting our first class to be our last in attendance, however his brother's lectures were a study on the transmutation of the flesh and our longhair philosophy melded with his brother's knowledge.

I recall his departure with his loving wife Ann to the church. It was a happy day for the Menconis. My brother and I might have been the altar boys.

He lived as a good man, a husband, a father, a friend, a great story and also an 18 year-old Coast Guarder whose landing craft was sunk at the Bay of Pigs. Stranded on the beach he felt bad abandoning the Cubans, but fled across southern Cuba to Gitmo. At the entrance he was confronted by a Marine.

"Who are you?"

"I am an American."

"How do I know that?"

"You ever hear anyone else in the world speak with a Boston Accent."

"I'm from Revere. Welcome back to America." The guard opened the gate to a grateful member of the Coast Guard.

At their Christmas Eve parties my favorite time was a short sit-down with Frannie

A son of Ireland.

Slan a fhagail.

Farewell.

Feicfidh me ar ball thu.

See you later.

I hope where has a bar. Frannie liked a stiff drink.

We are who we are.

Forever more than ever.

foto of Bob Moschowitz, moi, Frannie, and his loving wife Ann.

What Will Be Tomorrow - Kilimanjaro

The 2020 Kili Initiative team left Kibo Hut at midnight. I wished them well on the final stage of the climb. The falling snow turned to sleet. My brother Ma'we said, "You should come, my brother."

"I know." I had failed to summit in 2019. My right ankle was weak and my thin gloves guaranteed little protection from the cold. "Maybe next year. See you tomorrow."

I returned to my bunk bed and snaked into my sleeping bag.

Warmth.

Darkness.

Quiet.

Dawn arrived early and I tramped across the ice-encrusted dirt to the WC.

The sun nimbused the eastern horizon and I turned my head to Kilimanjaro. The team had to close to the summit. I squinted, but failed to spot them on the trail. I blew on my bare hands and returned to bed. My old body took its time getting warm. I reached over to my cell phone and called my family in Thailand. Despite the weak connection I was able to say I love you and hear my son Fenway shouted, "Lak Pah."

My phone still showed bars and I tapped in www.theguardian.com

Joe Biden had beaten Bernie Sanders in Iowa, Britain was leaving the EEU, China's pollution levels had dropped during the spread of Coruna Virus, and the headline was UK FEARS OF UNDETECTED CASES GROW AS 13 MORE TEST POSITIVE.

The park ranger approached with a glance at the rim. We knew each other for two years. He was a LA Lakers fan. He pointed to my phone and then the Maasai Plains.

"What do you think will happen?"

"I don't know, but it will not be good."

The guard pointed to a line of climbers.

"Your friends are at the top."

"I'll be in Marangu this evening."

"We'll drink beer together at the Big Tree."

The two of us exchanged a knowing smile, for whatever awaited on the plains coming today or tomorrow was the future and we were happy enough to know a cold beer might save not so much our lives, especially if tomorrow was not today.

Bahati njema.

THE EYE OF THE STORM by Peter Nolan Smith

In early September of 1960 Hurricane Donna struck New England as a category 2/3 storm. The radio station WBZ announced numerous school closing led by Beaver County Day School and closely followed by my primary school on the South Shore, Our Lady of the Foothills. My older brother and I were happy to stay home. We were new kids in town.

That morning a raging gale whipped through the woods of the Blue Hills. Telephone wires moaned with each gust and the windows ofour split-level ranch house windows vibrated in their sashes. The electricity died at noon and my father lit a kerosene lamp, which he placed on the kitchen table.

Our family of seven huddled around the flame like Neanderthals sheltering in a cave.

Several hours later the howling hurricane abated to a whisper.

“Where are you going?” my mother demanded with hands on her hips, her voice ringing with the authority of a woman, who had carried five babies in her womb.

“Outside to show them the eye.” My father loved a good storm.

“Hurricanes are not a joke.” My mother had experienced the 1938 hurricane. That tempest didn’t have a name, yet hundreds of New Englanders had died in its path.

“I know.” My father shrugged in weak surrender to the truth.

"You act, as if you don't."

Hurricane Edna in 1954 had destroyed his sailboat on Watchic Pond. The hull lay in our backyard.

Six years later he had yet to repair the damage to the mast.

He never had much free time and five kids under the age of ten were a lot of work.

“The skies have cleared." My father looked out the window and then back to my mother.

"We’ll only be a few minutes.”

“I wanna go too.” My two-year old brother bounced off his high chair.

"Not a chance." My mother grabbed his wrist. Padraic had almost died at birth from pneumonia. She wasn't giving Nature any second chances and sternly regarded my father. “Only a few minutes.”

"Maybe even less."

"Then go." My mother trusted my father to obey his promise, since he loved her enough to convert to Catholicism.

“I’ll keep them safe.” My father led us outside.

We lived in the shadow of Chickatawbut Hill.

Branches were scattered across the yard.

Overhead a counter-clockwise swirl of the cloud funnel opened to the blue heavens.

“That is the eye of the storm.”

The three of us 360ed on the lawn to gawk at the storm’s awesome power and glory.

Lightning pulsed within the cloud wall like the Aurora Borealis. If my best friend hadn’t drowned a month ago, the cyclonic display would have reinforced my faith in the Almighty. Instead I said, “Wow.”

Rain dotted the walkway. The wind was soon once more a gale. The raindrops stung our skin.

My mother yelled for us to get inside.

My father lifted his finger to indicate we wanted a few more seconds.

He had fought the Maine’s Great Fire of 1949. I never had seen him scared of anything other than my mother’s wrath. He quickly explained to us how hurricanes formed in the tropics. We were 9 and 8. His meteorological lesson was lost on his sons and the oppressive pressure of the powerful storm weighed heavily on our flesh.

“Remember this for the rest of your life. Few people see this.”

My mother’s next demand was an ultimatum.

“If you don’t come in, I’m locking the doors.” She was serious.

“We better do as she says.” My father guided us inside the house. He gave my mother a hug. She was relieved to have us back inside.

The second half of the hurricane stuck within minutes and lasted into the evening.

The weatherman on WBZ radio announced the all-clear message wagon, as we were going to sleep. School had been cancelled throughout New England. My father was excited as a child on Christmas Eve and he whispered, “Tomorrow Revere Beach.”

The beach there was ideal for watching the storm die against land. Giant waves would slap the concrete flood walls with a force strong enough to make the streets shudder with fear.

The boyish joy in his voice kept us awake for another three minutes, for tomorrow promised to be a day of big waves and wild sea spray.

We could hardly wait.

Shakespeare 101

A middle-aged male teacher had been hitting on a pretty female student. He thought she was a little stupid and during class asked her, "Name three plays by Shakespeare."

The blonde co-ed thought pondered over the question for a few seconds and then replied slyly, "4 inches, 8 inches and 12 inches."

"What's that supposed to mean?" The professor smirked like he had caught her naked.

"Much Ado About Nothing, As You Like It and A Midsummer Night's Dream."

Not all blondes are stupid.

Special thanks once more to Sam Royalle of Pattaya.

He had kept his humor when many of those around him have lost theirs, then again they never had one to begin with. I miss him always.

Never Can Say Good-Bye

Sam Royalle and I mourned the closing of Don Muang Airport. The International Terminal was the scene of so many hellos and good-byes. The new Bangkok Airport doesn't offer a third of the venues for tearful departures and joyous arrivals. Myth has it that many girls timed one boyfriend's farewell to coincide with another's hello. Don Muang was so romantic.

My girlfriend Sirinthep doesn't like airports.

At least not for me and certainly not on my recent voyage.

Her last words were via SMS ie it's over for good.

12/4 No problem. I think I can take care of everything. Good for you. You can take care yourself. You are old already. You choose good for you. I no love you anymore. You are a hurt in my heart. Good-bye my love. Broke heart.

12/5 Just want to say. You have other family. I go work in Germany. Just want to say good-bye.

Working in Germany meant hustling fat krauts and I don't response to any of these emails.

12/5 You play your game. Goodbye. I leave your son with someone. Not easy for me, but I want to take care baby by myself. I not want stupid man. I have passport ready to go. Germany.

I wished her luck.

12/6 I have one heart. I not have heart for someone else. Only you. I not want anyone new in my life. Only work and make money for my babies. Love you big mistake. I want forever love. Why you think I have another man. I never go out. Only take care your son.

I didn't respond, because silence is the only cure for a woman's overactive mind.

12/6 Sorry for last time you come. I do many things bad. I feel sick inside. Then worry too much about your first wife. I worry about have good sex with you, but hurt too much inside. Think all you think about is sex. I want to steal all your heart forever. But I too much scared. Sorry again..

I asked how long she was going to Germany.

12/6 3 months for work. Wait 3 months and go again. Not sure how many times can go.

I wished her more luck. No one ca stop anyone from doing what they want to do.

12/6 I'm really sorry I not good for you. I not think about your feeling. Just think about me. You come long way. I not big girl. Only stupid. I'm so wrong. But I really love you 100%. I not go Germany. I wait for you.

12/6 All my heart. Go to sleep. Love you.

Go figure.

Somewhere there has to be a scenarist for Thai girls telling their boyfriends the 'truth'.

Sly Stone At Franklin Park 1974

Sly and the Family Stone launched funky soul in the late 60s with the Godfather of Soul, James Brown, and Parliament-Funkadelic.

The group hit mega-gold with their 4th LP, STAND and its # 1 hit EVERYDAY PEOPLE. Success was not a friend to Sly. His cocaine habit infected the other band members. He no-showed a third of his concerts in 1971 and passed out at others. Audiences rioted, earning Sly and the Stone a reputation for trouble and more was expected on July 7, 1974, when the West Coast group headlined an outdoor show at Boston’s Franklin Park.

Richard Pryor opened the day. The comedian was followed by Donald Byrd and the Blackbirds with their cross-over hit ROCK CREEK PARK, The Hues Corporation's ROCK THE BOAT, and Tower of Power. 20,000 fans had paid $5.50 to benefit the Elma Lewis School of Arts. I missed the show, because I was working in Cape Ann as a waiter, but my good friend attended the concert and to this day Andrew Kornfeld says that this show was the best concert he has ever seen.

After his peak Sly’s musical efforts dropped down the Billboard charts, although songs from STAND remain a mainstay of 60s rock revival radio stations.

By the 80s he had vanished from the scene.

In 2006 Sly appeared at the Grammy Awards to play I WANT TO TAKE YOU HIGHER.

At the end of the song the once-time superstar walked off the stage and drove off on his motorcycle.

Future outings across the world amplified the singer’s embrace of failure.

Gone were the money, the mansions, the cars, and the acclaim.

Several years ago Sly re-entered the news with the media excoriating his fall from grace.

He lives in a van. His neighborhood was Crenshaw in LA. Friends supported this life style. He maintained that he is happy.

Straight too.

The newspapers reported his present state with joy, for those who will never achieve can't love nothing better than to witness a high-flyer's descent from heaven to reinforce their lack of trying.

CBS and Fox News aren't waiting for the collapse of the banks. They love the rich.

But not the nigger rich. They get what they deserve.

Da money come and da money go.

Sly was no exception, but I'm sure he had a good time. All I want for him is to have a happy ending, because listening to SEX MACHINE is a gas.

And a year ago the music industry had to pay Sly his royalties.

He was ever happy again.

To hear Sly and the Family Stone's SEX MACHINE

Please go to the following URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cffPwrmx6KE

Meeting Condo Karen in Red Hook

My young friend Haley and I met in Fort Greene after the passage of the season's first tropical storm. We had originally planned on cruising down Kent Street into Williamsburg, however the evening sky blaze blue and we opted for a voyage to Red Hook. Larry, a fellow African traveler lived in the low projects and was happy to hear I was coming his way. I missed a turning and we ended up at the end of Van Brunt Street at sunset. It was hard to believe a storm had rampaged up the Atlantic Seaboard and the Statue of Liberty marked the beginning of America.

I excused myself from Haley.

I had to relieve myself.

I hadn't seen the approach of a middle-aged women with two dogs, but she entered the open space before her luxury condo building and said, "People live here."

I apologized and she mumbled something about low-lifes and I refrained from a nasty comment, since her second dog's rear legs were strapped to a coaster. I felt more for this dog than this woman. No one white had lived along the harbor in the last century. My cop friends had worked the project's slave patrol.

Thieves and murderers of the 76th Precinct.

Now Red Hook is the 37th safest area in New York.

Larry met us at the Red Hook Lobster Pound.

Lobster rolls were $15.

Good, but not Maine good.

We walked over to Coffey Park and I told him about my encounter. The young man shrugged, saying, "Nothing stays the same."

"You're right."

"But I had a friend killed in plain daylight the other week. Why? Who knows."

Larry, Haley, and I ate our lobster rolls in peace.

Happy to be safe from Karens and especially guns.

Isla Mujeres B-Ball 1988

In 1988 a hurricane had savagely struck the Yucatan. Ships crowded the streets of Isla Mujeres across from the basketball court, where me and la Mayans played against the Italian National Women's under-21 team. A crowd gp>My short comrades and I shook their hand and we voweed to play them like gentlemen.

The first time down the court the 6-2 forward threw an elbow at my head and the bone connected with my skull.

After that it was on.

I shot for shit, but I hacked the forward a thousand times and we won to the cheers of the locals. The brunette slurred, "Sfigato."

Through the fuzz of my concussion I recalled an old Latin curse and said, "“Vescere bracis meis.”

Almost no one in the plaza understood the dead language phrase 'eat my shorts, but the forward she whispered, "Victus."

"Semper, but no one wins forever."

I signaled for beers from the nearest cantina and we drank to basketball.

It was a game we all loved

London Dark Alley

Not many alleys are left in America, but London abounds in these narrow passages. Estate agents called them 'cul de sac'. That's obsolete French for 'back of the bag'. My friend Sam Royalle lived on one in Nottinghill Gate.

Off Westbourne Grove to be exact.

The top of the alley was bracketed by a Domino's Pizza and a bloodbath of a pub serving the disenfranchised of the the council housing across the way. Sam and I never drank at the bucket of blood. We preferred the Westbourne Pub loaded with poseurs and trustafarians.

Models too.

Sam had dealings with them all.

Plus the yardies of Brixton. Nasty lot, who fancied themselves gunmen and shot people to prove it too. One claimed Sam owed him money.

100,000 quid.

That was a lot of money in 1995 and a lot of money now.

The yardies threatened Sam with certain death. They weren't the kind of people who joked about violence and one night the boys from Spanish Town showed up at his flat with shotguns. Not a daily occurrence on his mews. Neither of us were home.

The manager of the Domino Pizza shop. He was from Pakistan off the Karakorum Highway.

The tribal land breed danger and he said, "These men were not nice men. They wanted pizza for free, but I am from Gilgit. No one gets pizza for free."

I was meeting my father in France to tour the Loire Valley.

Sam joined us.

Paris-Versailles-Orleans-Perpignon-Alps-Paris.

My father flew back to Boston and I suggested that he hide out in Thailand. He accepted my advice and the next day we flew from Charles De Gaulle . His ticket was for Bangkok. He had a reservation for the Malaysia Hotel. Nothing really bad ever happened there. We shook hands and he threw me his keys.

"Anything that fits is yours, but keep an eye out for any suspicious Jamaicans."

The warning was well taken even though Nottinghill Gate was fraught with suspicious Jamaicans and whiteys too. Sam had a leather jacket from Agnes B. It was my size. Danger versus fashion. I risked the run.

Across from the cul-de-sac the grocer waved the coast is clear. I stood at the door and he asked if I was going to pay rent. I bought a bag of ginger snaps. My purchase silenced him.

After thirty minutes I decided that it was safe. I crossed Westbourne Grove and entered Sam's apartment without turning on the lights. Everything was there. The yardies hadn't broken into the place. I pulled the leather jacket from the closet ready to leave. The motion detection lights illuminated in the alley.

Someone had followed me.

I ducked under a table.

Knocks sounded on the door. My blood pounded out a bongo beat like the heart in Edgar Allen Poe's TELL-TALE HEART. I heard voices accented from Jamaica. The shadows were not black enough to camouflage my white skin. The high windows were crowded with the silhouette of heads. A heavy thud rocked the front door. It did not give way. Several minutes later the light in the alley went out. I waited a half-hour before exiting from the house. No one was in the mews. No one confronted me on Westbourne Grove. I had the jacket in my hand. The leather was soft as a baby seal.

The grocer waved good-bye.

"Nice jacket."

I have it to this day.

Some dark alleys aren't so bad as long as you don't walk them when they are dark.

NOT ALL CRASHES ARE ACCIDENTS by Peter Nolan Smith

I never met Princess Diana, although a friend of a friend married her brother. Diana would have been at the wedding. I never received an invitation. No great loss, because the Princess of Wales wasn’t my type, however I viewed her death as a blow against the empire of goodness.

I arrived in London the day of her funeral. I exited from the Tube at Nottinghill Gate. People on the street walked with sorrowful steps in the direction of her Kensington Palace. Two grown men passed me in tears, as if their mother had passed away and women sobbed like they had lost their best friend. I walked to Sam Royalle's house. He was not at home. Everyone in London was observing the passage of someone whom they hoped would be queen.

Sam Royalle showed up at 5. His eyes were red.

"Are you okay?"

"I feel what you must have felt when JFK got killed."

"That bad?"

"Yes, that bad. Let's have a drink

That evening Sam and I along with thousands of the Princess' admirers laid a wreath before Kensington Palace. The wall of memorial flowers rose chest-high. The scent of dying petals buried my senses and my eyes teared with the loss. Sam was a bawling baby. We walked away with our arms over each other's shoulder

Diana had been a real princess.

The next day I left London to go on a road trip through the Loire Valley with my father. Ten days later Sam Royalle showed up in Paris. We had dinner at La Coupole with father. After putting him to bed at the Hotel Lousiane Sam and I sat at a bar across the street.

"I got a problem." The Londoner whispered across the table. He spoke out of the corner of his mouth, so only I could hear him. My survival antennae perked into life. Only the guilty talked in that manner and

"What?" It's usually better to not know what someone's problem is so you don't ever have to get involved, but Sam and I were friends.

"Some Brixton yardies suspect me of switching a bank destination for a money wire transfer," Sam explained how the yardies had an auntie working at the transfer accounts in a Scottish bank. He had arranged for another swift code for them from an off-shore account. "The money never showed up."

"And where is the money?" There were only three choices; with the yardies, Sam, or a 3rd unnamed party.

"I don't know."

It was the right answer and Sam expressed his apprehensions about returning to London in order to discuss the matter with the Brixton yardies. They were habitual murderers. He ordered us another round of drinks.

"On me."

"In that case make it a margharita with good tequila."

The waiter took our order and I suggested to Sam that he take a long vacation in Thailand.

"The food is good, the girls are friendly, and I've never seen a Brixton yardie in years that I've been traveling in Asia. Plus it's hard to get extradited from there."

"I didn't do anything wrong."

"Oh, I forgot about that." I said nothing about his arranging a different destination for the wire transfer. Our drinks came to the table. We drank them swiftly. Another two rounds and I mentioned that Diana had stayed at the Ritz only two weeks before.

"That's where she left from for that fateful drive."

"Is it far?"

"No."

Sam looked around the bar, as if to see Diana's ghost.

"Something about that accident isn't right." I felt like Oliver Stone filming JFK. The French police had blamed the crash on the driver. "Henri-Paul had been drinking and maybe doing drugs, but I've driven in that condition on more than one occasion and survived without a crash."

"Twice the speed limit."

"65 mph is not fast for an expert driver."

"The newspapers said 90."

"English newspapers love sensation. I'm surprised that they didn't publish any naked photos of her corpse at the Quai de La Rapee." I had been to the Paris morgue to ID a friend. It wasn't a cheerful place.

"Stop joking." The English were loyal subjects to their nobility.

"I'm not joking and I can prove it."

"How?"

"By driving my rented car through the same street at the same speed." I had drank enough margharitas for this evening.
"I'll re-create the accident.”

“Fuck you.”

“Someone killed her.”

The whys were too numerous to count unlike the four margharitas that I had downed in the last hour, but the Londoner was true to his word. He covered the bill and tried to talk me out of my test.

"Tomorrow morning would be better."

"No way. This test needs the right conditions. Nighttime, Drinks. Speed. Tomorrow morning the quai will be jammed with traffic." I also had to drive my father to the airport in the morning.

We walked outside to my Fiat Panda. I put the key in the ignition and peeled from the curb to snake through the small streets of the Left Bank. I crossed the Seine at the Louvre and sped down Rue Du Rivoli to whip into the chaotic merry-go-round of Place de la Concorde and 90kph.

I needed to go faster.

Diana’s Mercedes had paparazzi on her tail. A score of them were on motorcycles. with strobe lights on their tail, Jodi must have told the driver. “Plus vite.”

Diana laughs. Jodi joins her.

I hit 110 and skittered onto the Quai like a billiard ball sliced with extreme English.

I don’t hear Sam’s shouting.

The entrance to the death tunnel loomed ahead. I reach it at 120 and go airborne.

The Fiat bottoms out on the road with a slight swerve, but I controlled the car.

"See I told you the accident was no accident."

"It was a heavier car."

"It was no accident." I slowed down coming out of the the Place de l’Alma underpass.

Two more cars did the same. The look on their faces told us that they had just attempted the same re-enactment. Not everyone was convinced that Diana's death was an accident. I dropped Sam at his hotel. He checked the street for Brixton yardies. The coast was clear.

"See you in the morning."

"Thanks for the ride. It's always good to have a near-death experience before bed."

"Don't mention it."

We arrange to meet in the morning after I drove my father to the airport. I parked the Panda on the street of the Hotel Louisiane. I went up to our room. My father raised his head from his pillow.

"You smell like you've been drinking." My father was no tee-totaler, but he didn't like drunks, especially those related to him.

"Just a few glasses of wine." I fell into bed wearing my clothes.

"Smells more like a vat. I hope you didn't do anything stupid."

"Nothing more than talking with a friend."

"Then good-night and see you in the morning."

I crashed without any further thought about Diana Princess of Wales.

Same and I traveled to the South. He booked a flight from Paris to Thailand. I went off to Ireland.

A town called Ballyconeeley.

Three months later the paparazzi released the last photos of Diana. She was a queen then and a queen now. I would never be as good as her. I could only try to follow her example. It was all of us could do.

I took several minutes to study the prints in The Times, while eating my breakfast at the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin. The driver's face was aglow with excitement. I was convinced that he had been drugged like Teddy Kennedy at Chappaquiddick.

By whom?

I have my suspects.

They know who they are too.

That crash was no accident and I'll prove it again if anyone wants to buy the drinks.

They are expensive in Paris.