May Day Freedom From Chains

May Day 2011 and I was sitting in a Tokyo Airport bound for Bangkok. A two week unpaid holiday, since Manny decided to stiff my vacation pay. The 82 year-old diamond dealer said, “I gave one week in January.”

“You gave me butkis then.” I had been a math major in college and had a very good head for numbers.

“I remember one week.”

“Because you want to remember one week. You’re wrong, but then bosses are never wrong these days.” Manny was an old curmudgeon, but I had counted on him for a job since 1989.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you fire two employees and had me work harder without giving me a raise.” "You're lucky you have a job."

"He was right in some ways, only because everyone around the world was a wage slave grinding out a subsistent living.

Years ago unions protected the workers. The bosses fought the 40-hour week, the end to child labor, and other workers’s rights as was to expected from the filthy rich, since they represent the haves, who don’t want to spit to the have-nots. I hung up saying to Manny, "See you when you get back." then muttered, "Fuck the rich."

I have belonged to three unions; IBEW for the telephone company, IBT driving taxi in Boston, and the union of drifters. I believe in the power of labor and every May 1 workers of the world march in many countries.

Originally the day was a pagan holiday for the first day of spring, although in a different month than the present Julian calendar. Peasants adherents to the old religions danced around the Maypole. The Catholic Church suppressed the practice by naming May the month of Mary.

As a child at parochial school the nuns would parade us around the church with the girls wearing white dresses and flowers in their hair. The boys had white jackets and slacks. Parents would take snapshots of their angelic children.

Years later we abandoned this pious procession to march in the May Day protests against the Cambodian Bombings.

1969-1970.

Washington, Kent State, Kissinger, Nixon talking to the protesters.

May Day for the Left honors seven Haymarket anarchists executed for participation in Chicago’s Haymarket Riot of 1886 in Chicago.

May 1 1886 was the start date for the 8-hour day. Big business wasn’t happy with this new law and workers staged a series of protests. Anarchists met in Haymarket Square. The gathering was peaceful until someone threw a bomb into the police ranks, killing one officer. In the ensuing violence more died on both sides.

Hence ‘bombing-throwing anarchist’ entered the American lexicon.

The subsequent trial of eight anarchists based the accusations on hearsay. Evidence revealing the involvement of the Pinkerton Detective Agency in the bombing didn’t prevent the death sentence for seven of the accused.

Public pressure for leniency forced the governor of Illinois to commute the capital charges against two ‘conspirators’.

On the eve of the execution Louis Lingg offed himself by exploding a dynamite cap in his mouth.

The remaining four, Spies, Parsons, Fischer, and Engel were publicly hung, but not before they sang the Marseillaise, the anthem of the international revolutionary movement.

All eight were exonerated in 1893 and May 1 became a rally day for labor throughout the world, although in the USA it is called Loyalty Day.

Thailand gives the day off to workers, 70% who have decent jobs say they are happy with their present situation. Others are less so.

In honor of the Haymarket martyrs I’m taking the day off too.

Power to the people.

One more thing.

Fuck the rich.

May Day

May Day 2014 I was sitting at my desk in the Fort Greene observatory. I knew today was an important labor holiday, but I wish that I was working and said so yesterday to my old boss from the Diamond District.

"I wish I could give you a job, but there's no business." said the 82 year-old diamond dealer and he was right. No one was walking into the exchange.

"The rich have taken all the money and don't know how to spend it. All they know is how to gather it." I was a economic major in college.

"I guess you have to blame it on someone." Manny was an old curmudgeon, but I had counted on him for a job since 1989.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That you worked all your life and never prepared for a moment like this." He was talking about the Greater Recession. People my age were out of work in the millions.

"I was lucky to have a job with you all those years." I had worked for Manny as a salesman on and off since 1990. There had been some good years. None of those were recent.

"And you can't find another job."

"I only know diamonds and writing."

"And you have never made any money on your books."

"You have that right and now everyone around the world are wage slaves grinding out a subsistent living. Workers have no rights."

"And neither do I."

"It wasn't always that way. Once there was a marriage between labor and capital. Years ago unions protected the workers. Union instituted the 40-hour week, the end to child labor, and other workers’s rights, but since Reagan broke up the Air Controllers Union the GOP has tried to destroy every advance in workers' rights."

"The Democrats aren't much better."

"We're on our own." I shrugged and made to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"To the 169 Bar in Chinatown. They have $2 beers."

"Have a good May Day."

I showed him the clenched fist and headed to the subway, thinking that I had belonged to three unions; IBEW for the telephone company, IBT driving taxi in Boston, and the union of drifters.

I believe in the power of labor and every May 1 the workers of the world march to show their solidarity.

Originally the day was a pagan holiday for the first day of spring, although in a different month than the present Julian calendar. Peasants adherents to the old religions danced around the Maypole. The Catholic Church suppressed the practice by naming May the month of Mary.

As a child at parochial school the nuns paraded us around the church with the girls wearing white dresses and flowers in their hair. The boys were dressed in white jackets and slacks. Parents snap snapshots of their angelic children with Kodak Brownie cameras.

Years later we abandoned this pious procession to march in the May Day protests against the Cambodian Bombings.

1969-1970.

Washington, Kent State, and Nixon talking to the protesters.

May Day for the Left honored the seven Haymarket anarchists executed for participation in Chicago’s Haymarket Riot of 1886 in Chicago.

May ,1 1886 was the start date for the 8-hour day. Big business wasn’t happy with this new law and workers staged a series of protests. Anarchists met in Haymarket Square. The gathering was peaceful until someone threw a bomb into the police ranks, killing one officer. In the ensuing violence more died on both sides.

Hence ‘bombing-throwing anarchist’ entered the American lexicon.

The subsequent trial of eight anarchists based the accusations on hearsay. Evidence revealing the involvement of the Pinkerton Detective Agency in the bombing didn’t prevent the death sentence for seven of the accused.

Public pressure for leniency forced the governor of Illinois to commute the capital charges against two ‘conspirators’.

On the eve of the execution Louis Lingg offed himself by exploding a dynamite cap in his mouth.

The remaining four, Spies, Parsons, Fischer, and Engel were publicly hung, but not before they sang the Marseillaise, the anthem of the international revolutionary movement.

All eight were exonerated in 1893 and May 1 became a rally day for labor throughout the world, although in the USA it is called Loyalty Day.

Thailand gives the day off to workers, 70% who have decent jobs say they are happy with their present situation. Others are less so.

In honor of the Haymarket martyrs I’m taking the day off too.

Sadly it's not by choice.

Power to the people.

For the Love of Gold

Gold has been the staple gift for Thai girls from their farang boyfriends since the Vietnam War. 5 baht of gold on a bar girl’s neck or wrist is a dead give-away she has a love-struck sponsor in the closet. The girls love this show of wealth, for the sheer pleasure of rendering other bargirls green with Goldfingeresque envy or it-chaa.

“My boyfriend love me 5-baht.”

Jamie Parker, who’s a STAR TREK fan, likens Thai bargirls to DEEP-STAR 6's unscrupulous Darbo girls. Always hungry for gold-plated latinum tobuy their freedom.

”Thanks the stars they don’t know diamonds are a girls best friend.”

I supposed this goldamania is a blessing in disguise, so if you want to make a Thai girl happy. Buy her some gold. I never have bought Mam gold. I prefer to give her jewelry. Gold is too liquid and I haven't been flush in recent years. It's over 15000 baht for a baht of 96% gold. In 2001 it was 6000. Times have changed, still some farangs can afford gold.

Mostly naive newcomers to Thailand.

A few words of wisdom.

If the girl already has gold, the odds are that she has a sponsor and you are being taken for a ride. Not that your generosity isn’t appreciated. You will be her darling until the guy who bought her the bigger hunk of gold comes into town, then she’ll have to leave to take care of a sick family member. The one week usually runs from Saturday to Saturday and she seems to have telephone problems during her absence.

“Signal no good. Too many buffalo farting.”

2.) You buy it, it’s hers.

Don’t ever think this is a mutual purchase. The girlfriend or wife considers the gold a safeguard against a time of drought. Mostly if it disappears, it will go for a family emergency.

“Sick buffalo need glasses to see grass.”

Never delve into these problems too deeply since to question more means your obligation increases. Accept what you are told on face value and go out and get drunk. The drunker the better. At least the money is going into your gut instead of bunch of upcountry farmers.

Not all girls are so conniving.

My wife has twice sold her gold to cover our debts. Shocked the shit out of me, but also meant she wasn’t going to leave me. I don’t know why. I’m no saint.

Most girls would leave the 23rd floor balcony open after greasing the floor.

Another farang bites the dust.

3.) If you’ve done something really wrong, gold will save face for your girlfriend.

You’ve disappeared into a k-hole for a week, had sex with ka-toeys or lady-boys, smashed the family car in an impromptu F1 race on Sukhumvit, and been seen with her best friend at a karaoke bar.

Unforgivable?

5 baht of gold will soothe her anger like a OD on Valium.

I used to work in a New York City diamond exchange. 47th street. One morning a man knocks on the window. We let him in thinking he’s a thief, until he hurriedly says, “Gimme something for $3000.”

I show him a gold/diamond necklace.

“Fine. I’ll take it.” He peels off 100s like he’s spent the last five days in a casino and needs a gift to show his wife, (who he hasn’t called in that time ) that he was thinking about her.

Same for you after this weekend from hell.

Buy the gold before you walk in the door.

Believe me, she’ll drop the carving knife on the floor and be on the phone the rest of the day happily bragging to her friends.

Lastly buying gold means that you have to go along.

If you give her the money, it will never make the distance to the gold counter.

“Sick buffalo rob me.”

Here’s a few facts to help you, Caveat emptor which is Latin for ‘let the buyer beware’.

Som nam nah or ’serves you right means the same in Thai.

Go to someplace where the people look more honest than a car salesman.

Check if the gold has a stamp.

Have them weigh it.

40 years ago Thai gold was 98% gold with a special alloy called nam prasam tong.

This gold was soft as putty and was replaced by the present melange of 96.5% gold and the rest silver and bronze. The basic measure is more than a half ounce or 31 grams. The price of gold is usually about $30 over the gold market price.

Gold in recent weeks has bounced from 9000 baht to 13000 baht.

Yikes!

So if you’re thinking of doing something really wrong, make sure you do so in another town.

“Darling, I have to go to Bangkok to see a sick friend.”

“Who you go see.”

“Derek, you remember him.”

Five baht of gold now is a motorcycle or 50 short times at a go-go.

Five baht of gold or 50 short times?

Peace at home or paradise for 15-20 minutes.

Your choice.

NORTH NORTH HOLLYWOOD - CHAPTER 6 By Peter Nolan Smith

SIX

The 757 descended for its final approach to Las Vegas. The passengers tightened their safety belts and the male steward knocked on a bathroom door. A single passenger was missing from the flight.

"Sir, you have to get back to your seat."

"Just a second." Sean Coll was unraveling the turban of toilet paper in front of the bathroom mirror. The blonde man in the reflection resembled an aging extra from a 1960's biker flick. The wedges inside his shoes added another inch of height and his rumpled black suit shadowed his persona with a nondescript aura. He exited from the bathroom and said to the steward, "Thanks for being so patient."

The steward was visibly dismayed by the passenger's bizarre appearance, especially since no golden-haired man had boarded the plane at JFK.

"What seat are you in, sir?"

"32-A, I can show you my ticket, if you would like."

"No, that won't be necessary."

Satisfied by the steward's bafflement, Sean proceeded past the passengers gaping at the wonders of Las Vegas below the 757. They should have been recoiling in fright like they were meeting a thief in a dark alley, yet none of them cared a fig whether they won or lost at the gaming tables or slots as long as they weren't home watching television.

A black boy about eight years old had changed seat for the view.

"Are you the same guy here before?"

Sean raised his eyebrow to indicate 'maybe'.

"Where's your mom?"

"She's waiting for me at the airport." The boy peeked out the porthole.

"First time flying?" Sean stashed his bag before buckling into the aisle seat.

"Yes, sir." His small hands gripped the armrests for dear life.

"Empty planes never crash." Sean imitated the exact tone with which his own father had calmed his son on a shuttle flight from Boston to New York decades before, except the boy slouched fearfully into the seat.

"Mister, last year I seen this movie, where a plane crashes in the mountains. Everyone had to eat everyone else."

"Trust me, I won't eat you." Sean reached over to tighten the boy's seatbelt, as the 757 dropped with a wiggle of its wings. Seconds later the tires touched down on the runway. The young boy had survived the worst of his fears and proudly announced, "That was nothing."

"Just like I said and you'll be with your mom soon."

The 757 stopped at the terminal gate and the young boy was escorted by the steward. Sean positioned himself behind two beefy men in Giants paraphernalia and shuffled from the plane in a slouch. Inside the gangway a bearded air marshal dismissed the bleached-blonde man as a danger only to himself.

Two old ladies elbowed him out of the way and scuttled over to the nearest WHEEL OF FORTUNE slot machine. All seniors loved that show.

Waiting friends, relatives, lovers, and drivers ignored Sean and no one called his name on the ride down the escalator or as he walked out of the terminal into the warm desert air. He had visited Vegas in 1971 and gazed dreamily at the hazy outline of distant mountains. Somewhere over those peaks lay Death Valley and California.

A rough voice short-circuited his attempt to flag a taxi.

"Nice outfit, Tempo, "Although it's a little late for Halloween, ain't it?"

"You know the East Village." Sean turned around hoping the voice belonged to a mirage, but he should have known that deRocco would have never sent him on that plane without his maddog partner being on the receiving end.

"Yeah, it's Halloween all the time with those losers." Driscoll's eyes ping-ponging back and forth. The invalided cop was on a binge of speed and dope.

"So I didn't fool you at all?"

"No, but I almost bust a gut seein' you do this hobo thing. Where'd you learn that shit anyway?" Driscoll was in a dark suit a size too small for his waist, but his belly didn't matter, because ex-cops like Driscoll never ran from trouble.

"I went out with this married make-up artist in Paris. She disguised me to keep from finding out her husband from seeing that she was going out with a man."

"She did you up as a woman?"

"Yeah." Sean was telling the truth. "That deception lasted about six months and finally the husband came up to me at a bar. He was a big guy about your size and showed me some pictures. At first I thought they were me, but the husband told me they were of her old boyfriends."

"Why he tell you that?"

"He thought I was her lesbian lover and wanted to go out with me."

"I woulda liked to seen you as a girl. You have nice hair." Driscoll?s laugh stuck in his throat. ?I woulda thought you got the disguise thing from your ex-wife. She's an actress, right? Or your friend, Vic Granollers. Now he's really big in films now, right?"

"I didn't know you were such a movie buff."

"I like to know all about my friends and their friends."

They entered the shade of the parking garage and Sean changed the subject.

"Where we going?"

"I'll tell you, when we get there." Driscoll ran his hand through his thick hair.

A blue-jacketed peace officer was ticketing a car and Driscoll jabbed Sean's ribs with what felt like a pistol muzzle. "He's havin' a good day, so why would you want to spoil it?"

"Not me." Sean walked past the local policeman to a fire engine red Mustang 5.0.

Driscoll forced him into the front passenger seat and handcuffed his wrist to the door.

"Just think of the cuffs as an extra safety feature."

"What if we get into an accident?"

"This piece of shit has dual air bags, Seano." Driscoll got behind the steering wheel, and revved the engine once before peeling out of the parking lot. Sean took the wedges out of his shoes and the ex-cop chuckled at the show.

"What's so funny?" Sean rubbed his feet.

"Whatcha gonna do with your hair?" Kevin Driscoll pointed at his head.

"Let it grow out." Sean smoothed down the brittle blonde hair and looked out the window at the throngs of tourists. Even the sorriest of the casino fodder was better off than he was.

"It might take some time."

"And I have plenty of that, right?"

Driscoll didn't answer him and drove under I-15.

The glittering hotels and tourists on holiday were replaced by car repair shops, sleazy go-go bars, truck stops, cheap motels and transients permanently down on their luck. Driscoll pulled into a heat-warped parking lot of a run-down motor lodge and stopped the car before room #7. He undid the handcuffs from the door and said, "Get your own bag, cause I ain't no bellhop."

Sean got out of the car.

Dust devils swirled across the vacant lots into the desert where Las Vegas ended for better or worse.

"There's nothin' to see here." Driscoll pushed him into the small room. Two single beds were topped by faded polyester spreads. A Formica card table and two plastic chairs leaned into the corner and the bureau was missing its bottom drawer.

"How romantic." Sean dropped his bag on the mildewed carpet.

"Cheap and cheerful, not in the middle of town, so no one sees us come in or out."

"Place stinks." The disinfectant had failed to kill the smell of a thousand illicit affairs.

"This might help." Kevin Driscoll twisted the AC to the max. "Now strip."

"What for?" Fear crawled like a million fire ants on Sean's skin.

"Be cause I said so." Kevin Driscoll performed the finger-breakings, the baseball bat beatings, and the killing for the two-man team. The ex-cop took off the gray suit jacket. Sweat stained his white shirt. A shoulder holster held a 9mm Beretta, his weapon of choice.

"What if I don't want to?"

"You don't want to know." Driscoll wasn't usesd to people saying 'no'.

"Since you put it that way, no." Sean took off his jacket, trousers, and shirt. Once he was down to his boxers, Driscoll said, "Stop there. I don't need to see your pecker."

"You sure?"

Several years back deRocco and Driscoll had staked out a cocaine warehouse on Avenue D. A lookout spotted the unmarked car and three Dominican gunmen surrounded the car to discover one man fellating the other. The dopers told the maricons to get lost. When the warehouse was busted, Driscoll capped the three witnesses to his giving head and earned a citation for the killings. Later deRocco had joked that his partner was the only cop in NYPD history to get a medal for sucking cock. Driscoll never thought it was funny and was very touchy on the subject.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

No one in the 9th Precinct had had the balls to ask what his cock were doing out at the stake-out and Sean followed their lead. He lifted the handcuff on his wrist. "What about this?"

"Thanks for reminding me." Driscoll holstered his weapon and snapped the open manacle onto the TV stand.

Both men eyed the telephone and Kevin Driscoll tugged the wire from the wall.

"Sorry, it just broke."

"I wasn't calling anyone anyway."

"That's for sure." Driscoll punched Sean's arm.

It was not a playful gesture and Sean slumped into the wall.

"I'll see you."

The door slammed shut and five seconds later Sean tugged at the chain, but the TV stand had been bolted to the wall by anti-theft experts. These four cinderblock walls were his Las Vegas.

No showgirls, roulette, blackjack, craps, or even a nickel slot machine and he couldn't help from asking himself aloud, "What I ever do to deserve this?"

His first bad deed had been erased from his memory, but his most recent sins shone crystal-clear; greed for fencing those watches, lust for trusting Mira, and pride for thinking he'd fool Driscoll. He slammed his fist into the wall. The shock of pain to his long-abused knuckles was enough to prevent any repetition and Sean turned on the TV.

Its bright glow wavered across the bleak room. He was in purgatory and his only release from this limbo depended on his breaking the 5th Commandment.

Sean attempted to visualize whether his target was a man or woman, good or bad, young or old, usually ending up with the image of a lowlife criminal deserving of this death sentence, as if this boldfaced delusion could render homicide more doable in his eyes and Sean once more tried to free himself from the TV stand.

After futile five tugs he rubbed his chaffed wrist, resigned to the fact that the world's population had been savagely reduced down to three people; Driscoll, himself, and the unknown victim. Everything had become very simple, when kill or be killed were your only options.

Ten minutes later Kevin Driscoll entered the room with two large paper bags from McDonalds.

"Dinnertime."

"Great. I guess the condemned man doesn't get a choice of last meals."

"What wrong with Mickie Ds?"

"The beef is everything of a cow other than the moo and I don't think there's any potatoes in the fries." His mouth watered upon smelling the fries. Hunger does strange things to the mind.

"You're wrong. The fries are 65% potato. I read it on the wall, besides you're not gonna do the dying, so stop the drama." Driscoll flipped one bag to Sean, who caught it without spilling the soda inside and lifted the cuff.

"Think the prisoner can eat with his hands free."

"Stop rushin' me." Driscoll snapped before freeing Sean from the TV stand.

"What about my wrist?"

"What about it?" Driscoll ignored whatever Sean was implying until headed across the room and Driscoll asked, "Where you think you're going?"

"My teeth are floating. Mind, if I go to the bathroom?"

"Knock yourself out," Driscoll mumbled through a mouth filled with fries, as Sean entered the bathroom.

"Don't shut the door."

"Can't I do this in private?"

"What and let you slip out the window? No way."

Once Sean finished, he squeezed past Driscoll to sit on the bed with his food. The barely-warm cheeseburger tasted good after having not eaten anything for seven days. The ex-cop ate a second burger in three bites.

"Everything is go for tonight."

"Tonight?" Sean choked on his food.

"Yeah, tonight. It's better this way. You come into town and do the job, then you're history. A quick in-and-out."

"You mean, I go in, kill him, and come out alive? No one seeing me?" The burger trembled in his hand.

"That's the way it's supposed to go."

"And who am I killing?" Sean doubted whether Driscoll had any idea as why the victim was being targeted. To him it was just another job.

"You ask that question, when your French whore poisoned those businessmen?"

"That was different."

"Take it from a pro. The Whos and Whys are unimportant. Names only make you remember the faces later."

"So I kill a total stranger and then what?"

"You go your way and I go mine."

"After you give me the five grand."

"You think I'm gonna welch on you."

"Sorry to hit your sensitivity button, it's just that I never killed anyone before."

"Don't think nothin' about it, this is basically your 'wham-blam-thank-you-ma'am' deal." Driscoll stroked the barrel of the 9mm inside his jacket.

"Nice to put a sexual angle on it."

"Hey, everyone gets their kicks different ways."

"If you say so." Sean had no doubt murder gave the ex-cop a hard-on and finished his meal in silence, as Driscoll brushed the crumbs from his lap.

"Get dressed, Seano. We got places to be."

"Now?"

"Now." Driscoll repeated with a directness detouring any argument.

Sean dressed in his black suit and the ex-cop patted him down. He pulled out the $5000 from deRocco and handed back the roll.

"All you gotta do is pull a trigger. Boom, and you get another five Gs. Ten Gs for a day's work. Good deal?"

"You keep telling me that and I might believe it." Sean stuffed the money in his pant pocket and checked himself in the mirror, thinking he looked more like a defrocked priest than an initiate to murder.

"You'll be thanking me once it's over. 10 Gs for a minute's work."

"Too bad I'm not working every day."

"Too bad is right." Driscoll left $50 to cover the mini-bar and the damaged telephone. He swiftly policed the room for any trace of their presence and plucked an empty Fed-Ex package out of the trash, then pushed Sean toward the door.

"I'm not going anywhere, till this cuff comes off." Sean dug in his heels.

"No?" Driscoll flexed his knuckles and the tendons of his neck stuck out like a garrote was cutting off his wind.

"No." Sean prepared to dodge a punch, however the ex-cop unlocked the handcuff.

"You happy now?"

"Happier, yes. What about you?"

"I would have been happier killing you a few seconds ago."

"You wouldn't kill someone who owed you $10,000?"

"I'd grease 'em like lightning," Driscoll spoke with a cold-bloodedness of which only true killers are capable. "When you want to kill someone, screw the money. Now pick up your shit and let's get out of here."

Sean grabbed the leather bag, stuffing the extra French fries and a packet of ketchup into his jacket pocket.

"I thought you didn't like Mickie D's."

"I didn't, but I might get hungry later."

"Have it your way."

The two men exited from the motel room.

Only two other cars were in the parking lot. Their passengers had not come to the Desert Inn to look out the windows. The distant mountains were tipped with snow and across the street a train hauled a long piggyback of boxcars southward on the Union Pacific's tracks. The squeal of the steel wheels on the rails mingled with the peal of a couple's laughter from a motel room. "This why I like this place. No one is nosy, so nothing can connect us to here." "I'll remember that next time I want to kill someone in Vegas." Sean pulled up his collar against the cold wind and lifted his head to the sky. The stars seemed bigger in the desert night.

"You'll have plenty of time to stare at the stars later." Driscoll shoved Sean into the Mustang's passenger door. "Throw your shit in back and get in the car. The door's not locked."

"Okay, okay, chill your jets." Sean strapped himself into the seat, wishing he was a couple of inches taller or had studied Kung Fu or Frank deRocco had not found him at the diner this morning or he had not blown the money Mira Lachelle had left him or he had not met her in the first place.

deRocco started the car.

"Put on your seatbelt. I don't want the Vegas PD stopping us for somethin' stupid."

The car's V6 revved into the tach's red zone and Driscoll stomped on the gas. The Mustang burned rubber out of the parking lot to cut off a commercial van, then accelerated through a yellow light to catch up with the flow of traffic on Las Vegas Boulevard.

"So much for doing nothing stupid." Sean shook his head.

"I'must driving like the rest of the losers. How about a little mood music?" Driscoll tuned on a country-western station.

"Country?" Sean reached for the dial.

"Yeah, country." The driver karate-chopped his left arm. "Don't touch that dial. I love Willie Nelson."

Sean rubbed his wrist and stared out the window. The only signs of human life were the heads and shoulders wrapped inside cars.

"We're goin' to where we'll do it later." Driscoll steered past a slow-moving camper with Michigan plates. ?It's a glassed-in stairway. You wait on the second-floor landing. Out of sight. There are no video cameras. No guards either. When the 'guy' shows up, you stick the gun in his ear and pull the trigger. The bullet will do the rest. You get his wallet to make it looks like a robbery. You come out and meet me. I give you your money and we split. One, two, three, maybe four, five, six, sounds easy, huh?"

"A snap." Sean rotated his wrist, which he had broken three years ago on the Thai-Burma border, when an opium farmer's pick-up truck rammed his motorcycle head-on. He had been shocked to have survived that crash and sometimes thought that this existence might be the After-Life, although tonight was not one of them.

"After checking out the hotel, I'll take you out to the desert to pop off a few shots.

"Target practice?"

"You're gonna be too close to miss. Just get used to pullin' the trigger, so you don't freeze up."

"You have a picture of this person or do I have to guess who he will be?" Sean scratched at the day-old stubble.

"You're doing him." Driscoll handed Sean a photo of old man in his 70s.

Somewhere along the line he had committed an offense great enough to warrant his being wanted more dead than alive.

"Why don't we give him a couple of weeks to die of natural causes." Sean passed back the photo.

"Cause that's not the way this works. The next time you see that guy, you're gonna do him." Driscoll inspected his passenger's shadowed face, trying to ascertain whether he could go through with this. Not many people could, but twenty-two years ago he had seen Sean beat a Russian Mafia member close to death, which meant somewhere he had it in him to go all the way and if Sean couldn't, then doing Sean would give him the right motivation for doing the stranger.

"It'll be over before you know it." Driscoll drove into a hotel parking lot across from the Casino Center.

"Yeah, that's real comforting."

All that was required was a little nerve and a few ounces of pressure on the trigger.

A little more than a breeze.

How easy a steel-jacketed bullet ended the universe for another human being bothered Sean, but he would find out soon enough how hard it really was.

SIX

The 757 descended for its final approach to Las Vegas. The passengers tightened their safety belts and the male steward knocked on a bathroom door. A single passenger was missing from the flight.

"Sir, you have to get back to your seat."

"Just a second." Sean Coll was unraveling the turban of toilet paper in front of the bathroom mirror. The blonde man in the reflection resembled an aging extra from a 1960's biker flick. The wedges inside his shoes added another inch of height and his rumpled black suit shadowed his persona with a nondescript aura. He exited from the bathroom and said to the steward, "Thanks for being so patient."

The steward was visibly dismayed by the passenger's bizarre appearance, especially since no golden-haired man had boarded the plane at JFK.

"What seat are you in, sir?"

"32-A, I can show you my ticket, if you would like."

"No, that won't be necessary."

Satisfied by the steward's bafflement, Sean proceeded past the passengers gaping at the wonders of Las Vegas below the 757. They should have been recoiling in fright like they were meeting a thief in a dark alley, yet none of them cared a fig whether they won or lost at the gaming tables or slots as long as they weren't home watching television.

A black boy about eight years old had changed seat for the view.

"Are you the same guy here before?"

Sean raised his eyebrow to indicate 'maybe'.

"Where's your mom?"

"She's waiting for me at the airport." The boy peeked out the porthole.

"First time flying?" Sean stashed his bag before buckling into the aisle seat.

"Yes, sir." His small hands gripped the armrests for dear life.

"Empty planes never crash." Sean imitated the exact tone with which his own father had calmed his son on a shuttle flight from Boston to New York decades before, except the boy slouched fearfully into the seat.

"Mister, last year I seen this movie, where a plane crashes in the mountains. Everyone had to eat everyone else."

"Trust me, I won't eat you." Sean reached over to tighten the boy's seatbelt, as the 757 dropped with a wiggle of its wings. Seconds later the tires touched down on the runway. The young boy had survived the worst of his fears and proudly announced, "That was nothing."

"Just like I said and you'll be with your mom soon."

The 757 stopped at the terminal gate and the young boy was escorted by the steward. Sean positioned himself behind two beefy men in Giants paraphernalia and shuffled from the plane in a slouch. Inside the gangway a bearded air marshal dismissed the bleached-blonde man as a danger only to himself.

Two old ladies elbowed him out of the way and scuttled over to the nearest WHEEL OF FORTUNE slot machine. All seniors loved that show.

Waiting friends, relatives, lovers, and drivers ignored Sean and no one called his name on the ride down the escalator or as he walked out of the terminal into the warm desert air. He had visited Vegas in 1971 and gazed dreamily at the hazy outline of distant mountains. Somewhere over those peaks lay Death Valley and California.

A rough voice short-circuited his attempt to flag a taxi.

"Nice outfit, Tempo, "Although it's a little late for Halloween, ain't it?"

"You know the East Village." Sean turned around hoping the voice belonged to a mirage, but he should have known that deRocco would have never sent him on that plane without his maddog partner being on the receiving end.

"Yeah, it's Halloween all the time with those losers." Driscoll's eyes ping-ponging back and forth. The invalided cop was on a binge of speed and dope.

"So I didn't fool you at all?"

"No, but I almost bust a gut seein' you do this hobo thing. Where'd you learn that shit anyway?" Driscoll was in a dark suit a size too small for his waist, but his belly didn't matter, because ex-cops like Driscoll never ran from trouble.

"I went out with this married make-up artist in Paris. She disguised me to keep from finding out her husband from seeing that she was going out with a man."

"She did you up as a woman?"

"Yeah." Sean was telling the truth. "That deception lasted about six months and finally the husband came up to me at a bar. He was a big guy about your size and showed me some pictures. At first I thought they were me, but the husband told me they were of her old boyfriends."

"Why he tell you that?"

"He thought I was her lesbian lover and wanted to go out with me."

"I woulda liked to seen you as a girl. You have nice hair." Driscoll?s laugh stuck in his throat. ?I woulda thought you got the disguise thing from your ex-wife. She's an actress, right? Or your friend, Vic Granollers. Now he's really big in films now, right?"

"I didn't know you were such a movie buff."

"I like to know all about my friends and their friends."

They entered the shade of the parking garage and Sean changed the subject.

"Where we going?"

"I'll tell you, when we get there." Driscoll ran his hand through his thick hair.

A blue-jacketed peace officer was ticketing a car and Driscoll jabbed Sean's ribs with what felt like a pistol muzzle. "He's havin' a good day, so why would you want to spoil it?"

"Not me." Sean walked past the local policeman to a fire engine red Mustang 5.0.

Driscoll forced him into the front passenger seat and handcuffed his wrist to the door.

"Just think of the cuffs as an extra safety feature."

"What if we get into an accident?"

"This piece of shit has dual air bags, Seano." Driscoll got behind the steering wheel, and revved the engine once before peeling out of the parking lot. Sean took the wedges out of his shoes and the ex-cop chuckled at the show.

"What's so funny?" Sean rubbed his feet.

"Whatcha gonna do with your hair?" Kevin Driscoll pointed at his head.

"Let it grow out." Sean smoothed down the brittle blonde hair and looked out the window at the throngs of tourists. Even the sorriest of the casino fodder was better off than he was.

"It might take some time."

"And I have plenty of that, right?"

Driscoll didn't answer him and drove under I-15.

The glittering hotels and tourists on holiday were replaced by car repair shops, sleazy go-go bars, truck stops, cheap motels and transients permanently down on their luck. Driscoll pulled into a heat-warped parking lot of a run-down motor lodge and stopped the car before room #7. He undid the handcuffs from the door and said, "Get your own bag, cause I ain't no bellhop."

Sean got out of the car.

Dust devils swirled across the vacant lots into the desert where Las Vegas ended for better or worse.

"There's nothin' to see here." Driscoll pushed him into the small room. Two single beds were topped by faded polyester spreads. A Formica card table and two plastic chairs leaned into the corner and the bureau was missing its bottom drawer.

"How romantic." Sean dropped his bag on the mildewed carpet.

"Cheap and cheerful, not in the middle of town, so no one sees us come in or out."

"Place stinks." The disinfectant had failed to kill the smell of a thousand illicit affairs.

"This might help." Kevin Driscoll twisted the AC to the max. "Now strip."

"What for?" Fear crawled like a million fire ants on Sean's skin.

"Be cause I said so." Kevin Driscoll performed the finger-breakings, the baseball bat beatings, and the killing for the two-man team. The ex-cop took off the gray suit jacket. Sweat stained his white shirt. A shoulder holster held a 9mm Beretta, his weapon of choice.

"What if I don't want to?"

"You don't want to know." Driscoll wasn't usesd to people saying 'no'.

"Since you put it that way, no." Sean took off his jacket, trousers, and shirt. Once he was down to his boxers, Driscoll said, "Stop there. I don't need to see your pecker."

"You sure?"

Several years back deRocco and Driscoll had staked out a cocaine warehouse on Avenue D. A lookout spotted the unmarked car and three Dominican gunmen surrounded the car to discover one man fellating the other. The dopers told the maricons to get lost. When the warehouse was busted, Driscoll capped the three witnesses to his giving head and earned a citation for the killings. Later deRocco had joked that his partner was the only cop in NYPD history to get a medal for sucking cock. Driscoll never thought it was funny and was very touchy on the subject.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

No one in the 9th Precinct had had the balls to ask what his cock were doing out at the stake-out and Sean followed their lead. He lifted the handcuff on his wrist. "What about this?"

"Thanks for reminding me." Driscoll holstered his weapon and snapped the open manacle onto the TV stand.

Both men eyed the telephone and Kevin Driscoll tugged the wire from the wall.

"Sorry, it just broke."

"I wasn't calling anyone anyway."

"That's for sure." Driscoll punched Sean's arm.

It was not a playful gesture and Sean slumped into the wall.

"I'll see you."

The door slammed shut and five seconds later Sean tugged at the chain, but the TV stand had been bolted to the wall by anti-theft experts. These four cinderblock walls were his Las Vegas.

No showgirls, roulette, blackjack, craps, or even a nickel slot machine and he couldn't help from asking himself aloud, "What I ever do to deserve this?"

His first bad deed had been erased from his memory, but his most recent sins shone crystal-clear; greed for fencing those watches, lust for trusting Mira, and pride for thinking he'd fool Driscoll. He slammed his fist into the wall. The shock of pain to his long-abused knuckles was enough to prevent any repetition and Sean turned on the TV.

Its bright glow wavered across the bleak room. He was in purgatory and his only release from this limbo depended on his breaking the 5th Commandment.

Sean attempted to visualize whether his target was a man or woman, good or bad, young or old, usually ending up with the image of a lowlife criminal deserving of this death sentence, as if this boldfaced delusion could render homicide more doable in his eyes and Sean once more tried to free himself from the TV stand.

After futile five tugs he rubbed his chaffed wrist, resigned to the fact that the world's population had been savagely reduced down to three people; Driscoll, himself, and the unknown victim. Everything had become very simple, when kill or be killed were your only options.

Ten minutes later Kevin Driscoll entered the room with two large paper bags from McDonalds.

"Dinnertime."

"Great. I guess the condemned man doesn't get a choice of last meals."

"What wrong with Mickie Ds?"

"The beef is everything of a cow other than the moo and I don't think there's any potatoes in the fries." His mouth watered upon smelling the fries. Hunger does strange things to the mind.

"You're wrong. The fries are 65% potato. I read it on the wall, besides you're not gonna do the dying, so stop the drama." Driscoll flipped one bag to Sean, who caught it without spilling the soda inside and lifted the cuff.

"Think the prisoner can eat with his hands free."

"Stop rushin' me." Driscoll snapped before freeing Sean from the TV stand.

"What about my wrist?"

"What about it?" Driscoll ignored whatever Sean was implying until headed across the room and Driscoll asked, "Where you think you're going?"

"My teeth are floating. Mind, if I go to the bathroom?"

"Knock yourself out," Driscoll mumbled through a mouth filled with fries, as Sean entered the bathroom.

"Don't shut the door."

"Can't I do this in private?"

"What and let you slip out the window? No way."

Once Sean finished, he squeezed past Driscoll to sit on the bed with his food. The barely-warm cheeseburger tasted good after having not eaten anything for seven days. The ex-cop ate a second burger in three bites.

"Everything is go for tonight."

"Tonight?" Sean choked on his food.

"Yeah, tonight. It's better this way. You come into town and do the job, then you're history. A quick in-and-out."

"You mean, I go in, kill him, and come out alive? No one seeing me?" The burger trembled in his hand.

"That's the way it's supposed to go."

"And who am I killing?" Sean doubted whether Driscoll had any idea as why the victim was being targeted. To him it was just another job.

"You ask that question, when your French whore poisoned those businessmen?"

"That was different."

"Take it from a pro. The Whos and Whys are unimportant. Names only make you remember the faces later."

"So I kill a total stranger and then what?"

"You go your way and I go mine."

"After you give me the five grand."

"You think I'm gonna welch on you."

"Sorry to hit your sensitivity button, it's just that I never killed anyone before."

"Don't think nothin' about it, this is basically your 'wham-blam-thank-you-ma'am' deal." Driscoll stroked the barrel of the 9mm inside his jacket.

"Nice to put a sexual angle on it."

"Hey, everyone gets their kicks different ways."

"If you say so." Sean had no doubt murder gave the ex-cop a hard-on and finished his meal in silence, as Driscoll brushed the crumbs from his lap.

"Get dressed, Seano. We got places to be."

"Now?"

"Now." Driscoll repeated with a directness detouring any argument.

Sean dressed in his black suit and the ex-cop patted him down. He pulled out the $5000 from deRocco and handed back the roll.

"All you gotta do is pull a trigger. Boom, and you get another five Gs. Ten Gs for a day's work. Good deal?"

"You keep telling me that and I might believe it." Sean stuffed the money in his pant pocket and checked himself in the mirror, thinking he looked more like a defrocked priest than an initiate to murder.

"You'll be thanking me once it's over. 10 Gs for a minute's work."

"Too bad I'm not working every day."

"Too bad is right." Driscoll left $50 to cover the mini-bar and the damaged telephone. He swiftly policed the room for any trace of their presence and plucked an empty Fed-Ex package out of the trash, then pushed Sean toward the door.

"I'm not going anywhere, till this cuff comes off." Sean dug in his heels.

"No?" Driscoll flexed his knuckles and the tendons of his neck stuck out like a garrote was cutting off his wind.

"No." Sean prepared to dodge a punch, however the ex-cop unlocked the handcuff.

"You happy now?"

"Happier, yes. What about you?"

"I would have been happier killing you a few seconds ago."

"You wouldn't kill someone who owed you $10,000?"

"I'd grease 'em like lightning," Driscoll spoke with a cold-bloodedness of which only true killers are capable. "When you want to kill someone, screw the money. Now pick up your shit and let's get out of here."

Sean grabbed the leather bag, stuffing the extra French fries and a packet of ketchup into his jacket pocket.

"I thought you didn't like Mickie D's."

"I didn't, but I might get hungry later."

"Have it your way."

The two men exited from the motel room.

Only two other cars were in the parking lot. Their passengers had not come to the Desert Inn to look out the windows. The distant mountains were tipped with snow and across the street a train hauled a long piggyback of boxcars southward on the Union Pacific's tracks. The squeal of the steel wheels on the rails mingled with the peal of a couple's laughter from a motel room. "This why I like this place. No one is nosy, so nothing can connect us to here." "I'll remember that next time I want to kill someone in Vegas." Sean pulled up his collar against the cold wind and lifted his head to the sky. The stars seemed bigger in the desert night.

"You'll have plenty of time to stare at the stars later." Driscoll shoved Sean into the Mustang's passenger door. "Throw your shit in back and get in the car. The door's not locked."

"Okay, okay, chill your jets." Sean strapped himself into the seat, wishing he was a couple of inches taller or had studied Kung Fu or Frank deRocco had not found him at the diner this morning or he had not blown the money Mira Lachelle had left him or he had not met her in the first place.

deRocco started the car.

"Put on your seatbelt. I don't want the Vegas PD stopping us for somethin' stupid."

The car's V6 revved into the tach's red zone and Driscoll stomped on the gas. The Mustang burned rubber out of the parking lot to cut off a commercial van, then accelerated through a yellow light to catch up with the flow of traffic on Las Vegas Boulevard.

"So much for doing nothing stupid." Sean shook his head.

"I'must driving like the rest of the losers. How about a little mood music?" Driscoll tuned on a country-western station.

"Country?" Sean reached for the dial.

"Yeah, country." The driver karate-chopped his left arm. "Don't touch that dial. I love Willie Nelson."

Sean rubbed his wrist and stared out the window. The only signs of human life were the heads and shoulders wrapped inside cars.

"We're goin' to where we'll do it later." Driscoll steered past a slow-moving camper with Michigan plates. ?It's a glassed-in stairway. You wait on the second-floor landing. Out of sight. There are no video cameras. No guards either. When the 'guy' shows up, you stick the gun in his ear and pull the trigger. The bullet will do the rest. You get his wallet to make it looks like a robbery. You come out and meet me. I give you your money and we split. One, two, three, maybe four, five, six, sounds easy, huh?"

"A snap." Sean rotated his wrist, which he had broken three years ago on the Thai-Burma border, when an opium farmer's pick-up truck rammed his motorcycle head-on. He had been shocked to have survived that crash and sometimes thought that this existence might be the After-Life, although tonight was not one of them.

"After checking out the hotel, I'll take you out to the desert to pop off a few shots.

"Target practice?"

"You're gonna be too close to miss. Just get used to pullin' the trigger, so you don't freeze up."

"You have a picture of this person or do I have to guess who he will be?" Sean scratched at the day-old stubble.

"You're doing him." Driscoll handed Sean a photo of old man in his 70s.

Somewhere along the line he had committed an offense great enough to warrant his being wanted more dead than alive.

"Why don't we give him a couple of weeks to die of natural causes." Sean passed back the photo.

"Cause that's not the way this works. The next time you see that guy, you're gonna do him." Driscoll inspected his passenger's shadowed face, trying to ascertain whether he could go through with this. Not many people could, but twenty-two years ago he had seen Sean beat a Russian Mafia member close to death, which meant somewhere he had it in him to go all the way and if Sean couldn't, then doing Sean would give him the right motivation for doing the stranger.

"It'll be over before you know it." Driscoll drove into a hotel parking lot across from the Casino Center.

"Yeah, that's real comforting."

All that was required was a little nerve and a few ounces of pressure on the trigger.

A little more than a breeze.

How easy a steel-jacketed bullet ended the universe for another human being bothered Sean, but he would find out soon enough how hard it really was.

April 22, 1981 - KEY WEST - JOURNAL ENTRY

Life goes on endelesly on the Key West. I spend my day sunning on the small beach at the end of Duvall Street, ignoring snowbirds' racist conversations and strangers' nasty gossip about distant friends and family. It's the end of Spring Break, so thankfully there are less of them. The color of the Gulfstream cures the senses.

I worry about what I'm going to do upon my return to Manhattan.

No job, no woman, but a million future friends and I'll wander from bar to bar freeloaading vodka and telling everyone that the Jefferson will reopen, although I sincerely doubt it.

Damn, I wish the hick in front of me lathering suntan loition on his tattooed flesh would shut his hole and also that I was deaf, but then I couldn't hear the gentle waves lapping at the beach.

"...you know what I mean, Linda?" he says for the hundredth time.

"Sorry, Billy, but sex is no longer the main drive in my life. If I want to get off, I get myself off. I found masturbation late in life. If I had known about it earlier, I might still be a virgin," said his blonde bikinied companion. The skinny teenager's conversation was why I didn't move down the beach.

"I discover jerking off at 12," the oaf started, until I saw my moment in interject myseslf into their life and interjected, "Hell , it's better than sex and there's no men mess."

"That's right. Only sweet pussy juice." She laughed and the hick scowled at me, asking, "You want to repeat that?"

"I'm not a tape recorder. You heard it the first time," I realized he hadn't understood my words. Dumb as a fence post. Me too, because Linda was so cute. Slightly anorexic, but like Twiggy in a good way, not that I had ever seen a photo of Twiggy in a bikini or in person. I rapped on about being a poet and a drifter and a doper."

Key West used to be home to pirates and smugglers, I don't see any around here."

"There are plenty of smugglers smuggling people and drugs, but they had a big bust here and now everyone is hiding until the DEA go someplace else."

Fuck them and all the Feds," said Billy and I agreed with both of them. This island should have been unindated with cocaine and reefer.

"We're from here and we don't know where to cope," she smiled at me and I thought she might be Peggy Lipton stand-in from THE MOD SQUAD and Billy her Pete. Narcs came in all shapes and colors.

"Probably for the best, becaue i came here to clean up. No drugs, just the sun and the sea." I picked up my things and moved down the beach. Paranoia is a terrible thing to waste.

TOUGH GUYS / BET ON CRAZY by Peter Nolan Smith

Brownsville has always been a tough section of Brooklyn.

The one-mile square neighborhood was actually tougher than tough.

Its unofficial motto "Brownsville! Never ran, never will!" guaranteed Kings County Hospital the title of the most gunshot victims admitted to a E.R in the USA. The US Army even set up a training program called the Academy of Advanced Combat Medicine to take advantage of the area's hundreds of gunshot and stabbing victims.

Surviving the gauntlet of youth had steeled Mike Tyson for his reign as the heavyweight champion of the world and had molded my boss on 47th Street, Manny, for the old diamond dealer also hailed from Brownsville.

"Brownsville was always tough," the 80 year-old jeweler explained to everyone who has to listen. "I fought with Italians, Puerto Ricans, Irish, and Blacks, but in some ways we all got along. Everyone knew who they were. One day this big black kid decides to fight with me. He didn't give a reason. Maybe he didn't like pastrami. He called me out and after school I met him in the playground. He had thirty friends with him. I wasn't too scared, because a fight with a schwartzer was usually fists. Only the wops and spics carried knives. 31 schwartzers versus me. So I tell the guy, "Listen you want to fight me then we fight, but if any of your friends touch me, then tomorrow they'll be a 100 guys out here looking to square things with you." The guy, his name was Horace, looks at me and says, "Fuck it." That's how things were back then. No guns. No one dead. The next day Horace and I were friends."

Black boys and Jew boys were cautious friends in the 1940s. This urban myth lasted into the 50s, but white people fled Brownsville for the Long Island suburbs in the 60s. The Civil Rights Act had been passed to insure the progress of blacks, but Brownsville became a ghetto with the government sanctioned influx of cheap heroin, then it was gun shots night and day, and a roll-back by the corrupt police, as the absentee landlords torched their tenements.

Jimmy Breslin wrote about the neighborhood in 1968.

"Berlin after the war; block after block of burned-out shells of houses, streets littered with decaying automobile hulks. The stores on the avenues are empty and the streets are lined with deserted apartment houses or buildings that have empty apartments on every floor."

Manny left Brownsville before this decay, but Brownsville remained in his blood.

He worked as a schlepper for several years in the Bowery diamond district. There the young man met the most beautiful girl in Brooklyn. Everyone said that Hilda looked like Elizabeth Taylor. They weren't lying about the comparison, except Manny's wife had sapphire blue eyes. The two opened a jewelry store on Canal Street.

Manny remained true to his roots. He didn't take shit from anyone. Not the mob from Little Italy. Not the other jewelers who looked down their noses at the young upstart or his wife's family who couldn't see what she did in the undersized starker, as the old folks call a tough guy in Yiddish. He wasn't beholding to none of them.

Street fights in the diamond trade were not acceptable, but Manny protected his own.

Shotguns were positioned under the counter. His revolver was in the safe. He never had to fire either. Manny was friends with the wise guys on Mulberry Street. He was their kind of Jew.

Even after he moved uptown to 47th Street with his sons, Richie Boy and Googs. His heart was still downtown and talked that way to customers, dealers, and his help.

"He comes from the Bowery." The older family firms would criticize his gruff ways.

"Not the Bowery, I come from Brownsville." Manny was proud of his heritage and even prouder to exhibit the street prowess a boy needed in that neighborhood.

Diamonds were traded on memo. One jeweler loaned merchandise to another jeweler on the promise that within 90 days they return with the goods or the money. Honesty is a crucial element in these transactions, however not all jewelers are honest, so the odds are high that sooner or later you'll get burned by greed.

Manny depended on his tough guy reputation to avert any thefts and he was a young seventy in 1999.

Young guys aren't scared of old guys and one jeweler burned Manny for a $20,000 diamond. This was before the age of cellphones. The dealer had gone to ground, but got paid back plus profit by the insurance company. He made good to the dealer slowly. Manny liked paying slow.

Life went on.

Money came and went from one hand to the other without sticking in anyone's pocket for too long.

One night Manny took his second wife to dinner at a midtown restaurant after playing tennis under the Queensboro Bridge.

The midtown restaurant wasn't expensive, because besides being a tough guy, Manny was a little cheap. This vice was another legacy of a Brownsville upbringing. His second wife didn't mind the stinginess, for she used to dine with the infamous Jewish gangster Meyer Lansky and Luciano's 'Little Man' would split a dish with her. She always told Manny that he was no Meyer Lansky.

"He was a runt." Manny wasn't too tall either, but his height broke 5-8. A good half-foot taller than Meyer Lansky.

Size isn't the only determining factor for toughness, for another Brownsville native, Mike Tyson, was only 5-10. He KOed taller, stronger men with regularity in the early years. Iron Mike hit Leon Spinks so hard that the then-champion's eyes rolled in his head like dice.

Most of being tough was being ready to be tough and Manny was more than ready, when he spotted the diamond thief at the restaurant bar.

"Excuse me a second," he told his second wife and rose from the table.

The seventy year-old took out his tennis racket and strode across the dining room. The thief who had stiffed him for twenty Gs and eating alone. He was in his thirties, taller, and had remarked to another dealer that Manny could go fuck himself, if he thought he was going to get back his diamond.

"Hey, you." The Brownsville called out to the younger man.

"Nice tennis outfit," the thief, joked, thinking he was safe at the bar.

He misjudged the older man.

Safe was home in bed in Florida.

Not New York City.

Manny whacked the gonif in the head with the racket and avenged his disrespect with another couple of whacks to the ribs. His second wife pulled her husband off the fallen man. Two off-duty cops were glomming drinks at the bar. They were going to arrest the two of them, but Manny was a better talker.

His older brother had been a cop in the 20th. Seymour was from Brownsville too.

The thief made up a story with hems and haws.

The cops freed Manny and threw the thief in jail. A search of the gonif's apartment turned up a steel box. Manny's diamond was still in its envelope. The cops kept it as evidence. Manny cursed them for six months.

"I'd rather have the stone back than see that piece of shit in jail."

Manny's balance of justice had been meted with the beating, but he got his diamond in the end without telling the insurance company of its return. He doesn't admit to hitting the gonif, but he's still a tough guy at 80. Mean too, because something about those Brownsville street turned a tough guy mean and Manny was no exception.

He was an old mean tough guy.

We fought all day long over sales. He stiffed me on commissions. I called him a cheat. He was a piece of shit to me and I was a piece of shit to him.

One day a hard-nosed Hassidim was late delivering a diamond. My customer didn't want to wait. $200 out of my pocket. $2000 from Manny. Fish was a big guy. 6-4, but this wasn't the first time that he had been slow and I was from the South Shore, which was alittle like Brownsville, only more Irish.

"I don't need this schiesse from a goy." Fish didn't like dealing with gentiles. The diamond maven was a big person on the street. His firm sold diamonds to Tiffany and Harry Winston. A gross macher.

"That's apparent from the way you treat me, sie gesund." I was not a goy, but a sheygutz and slammed down the phone.

Ten minutes later he was at the exchange, itching for a fight. Fish unbutton his black rekel undercoat and Prince Albert frock coat. They were both a size XXXL

"I should smack you." His fists were clenched in rage. He had a reputation for the first punch.

"Hit me once if you want. I don't go down easy." I had been a tough guy back in the 70s, 80s, and some of the 90s. I was a tough guy in the 21st Century too, but with decreasing success. I maintained my stance, which was a few inches out of Fish's reach. "But if you try a second time then I'll take out your teeth."

"Slow down." Manny came to the counter. "Fish, we're here trying to make money. If you say you're going to give us a stone, give us a stone. Don't make so much drama about the goy saying something about your beanie." "Beanie?" Fish sputtered with outrage and his left hand grabbed his yarmulke, as if he was trying to distract me. "Yarmulke. Beanie. It's all the same to me." Manny hasn't been to temple in since his father Jake passed away at the age of 98. He had been run over by a truck and caught a cold. The cold was what killed him. Jake was a tough guy too. Manny's father came from a part of Poland that was just like Brownsville.

The Yiddish word for tough is hart.

"It's a yarmulke." Fish was an observant Hassid.

"Just like I said." Manny stood his ground.

Also out of Fish's range

The big Hassid eyed the both of us and shrugged off the moment.

Life on 47th Street was about making money or nimmt geld. He threw a packet and a memo on the counter.

"Here's your diamond."

"Like I said before sie gesund."

"Nimmt geld, sheygut."

"You too," Manny liked getting in the last word and turned to me, "Call the customer.

We sold his stone later that afternoon.

Manny complained about the small profit I squeezed from the customer.

"Better a little than nothing."

"Best ein bissel als nichts."

"Something is better than nothing, but more somwething is better than something." Manny smiled with a laugh. He was still a tough guy. A piece of shit too, but he was my piece of shit. And the tough guy from Brownsville wouldn't have it any other way. Never ran, never will!

KOSHER PORK - BET ON CRAZY

Business in the Diamond District is spotty after the 4th of July. Most New Yorkers are preparing for summer vacations. Tourists enter our diamond exchange to gawk at the diamonds and jewelry. At least twice a day out-of-towners ask in complete seriousness, "Are they real?"

"Everything is real." I answer the visitors and launch into a short spiel about the value of diamonds and gold. "Years ago we told the customers that diamonds were a good investment. It was sort of true then, but now diamonds appreciate in value better than houses plus they're easier to convert into cash at times of need."

The tourists nodded with understanding. Their homes have lost value three years in a row. My boss Richie Boy doesn't have the patience for these rubes, but occasionally they are buyers.

This Wednesday I sold an Italian diamond bracelet to a Vermont couple celebrating their 60th anniversary. They lived a short distance from Richie Boy's ski shack and he warmed up to them. Selling turns him on like a drag racer on nitro.

Thursday he delivered a 31-inch diamond necklace set with certified .40 ct diamonds. The piece was a magnificent blaze of reflected light set in platinum. His customer makes millions every day. He could shop at Harry Winston, but Richie Boy and he go back to the 80s. Both are loyal to each other. Richie Boy returned to the store after closing and said, "That's it I'm headed out to my surf shack."

Fridays were dead on 47th Street. Richie boy needed his rest. he had rescued the firm through a series of near-miraculous sales. I had helped with a few deals out of the blue. None of us were broke. A rarity for many men in 2011.

"What are you doing this weekend?" A newly-married diamond dealer asked him.

"I'm having a kosher pig BBQ."

"How can pig be kosher?" Marvin had eaten pork a few times in his life. The balding 50 year-old wasn't glatt kosher, but neither was he a bacon Jew. One thing he was was gullible. Marvin had been the president of the glee club of a summer camp in the Jewish Alps. He was a good boy.

"A special rabbi consecrates the pig before killing it according to an ancient Hebrew tradition. It predates the Torah." Richie Boy is a great salesman and Marvin admired his chutzpah as well as his ability to thrive amongst the goyim.

"Really?" Marvin was swallowing the possibility of kosher bacon with a kvelling smile.

"100%. Come out to my BBQ and I'll introduce to the delight of pork."

Marvin departed, promising to show up at the beach BBQ. We laughed at his schmielism and Richie Boy prepared for his early departure from New York. his father would have kvetched like an old yenta. Manny was addicted to work. At 83 the only choice were work or death. Manny and I fought every day. Our arguments flushed the blood through his body. I hoped that he lived to 103. At 59 I had more in common with him than most of the people on the planet.

"You know the reason why pork is tref?" I had a slew of contradictory theories.

"It caused people to have worms in the old days." Richie Boy checked the store. Nothing valuable was on the desks. He nodded for me to shut the safe. "And don't tell me that it's because Yahweh ordered the Jews give up pork as the ultimate sacrifice."

"Little tastes better than bacon." Richie Boy and I knew each other over 30 years. We had heard each other's stories enough to give them numbers. I was still capable of catching him off-guard. "Pork is tref no matter what. Leviticus condemns pig for its cloven food, but there is such a thing as kosher pork chops. Not for the Hassidim, but it's cooked with pickle juice and kosher salt."

"It sounds as dry as an old shoe." Richie Boy possessed a better than average epicurean palate. he hated common food other than pizza, pastrami sandwiches, hamburger, and chicken Parmesan.

"Not something I'd eat, but maybe scientists can genetically modify a pig to have feet instead of hooves." I had eaten pigs' foot in Berlin. It was considered the city's signature dish. "Pigs with little toes."

"Stop. That's sacrilege."

"Sacrilege and heresy are my specialties." I set the alarm. Friday was my last day on the job. Two and a half years ago I had returned to New York with $100 in my pocket. Things were better now. I wished Richie boy a good weekend.

"You can come out on Saturday."

"Thanks, but I got to get ready for my trip." I was heading out to Thailand for a month. It would be the longest that I had spend with since 2008. "If there really was kosher pig I might change my mind."

"You never know."

"I know." Richie Boy and I had spent too much time together over the past years. It was time for a break. Kosher pig or not.

NORTH NORTH HOLLYWOOD - Chapter 4 - by Peter Nolan Smith

FOUR

The red light next to Las Vegas flashed on the departure board. America West's flight was in the final stages of boarding and Frank deRocco rushed Sean through the JFK's crowded terminal. The detective's gold shield got them through the metal detector and Sean's bag passed the X-ray test.

They ran to the gate and deRocco brandished his badge.

"I gotta get this man on the plane."

"They're shutting the door." The Dominican attendant was closing out the flight.

"Is the door shut?" deRocco presented his NYPD gold shield. He was out of breath. Cigarettes were killing him.

"Not yet." The gate attendant hated dealing with late passengers, but he picked up the phone and told the ground crew to hold the flight. "I wish you people could get here on time.

"This is police business." deRocco wasn't taking no for an answer. "Tell them to hold the plane."

"I could always catch the next flight." Sean tried to shrug off the heavy cop's grip.

"No you can't. I paid for this one and this is the one you're taking." deRocco dragged him down the slanted corridor to the Boeing 757. Once more the badge was presented and the ground crew reopened the door.

"Are you sure you're going to be alright?"

deRocco's face was a florid red.

"Stop stalling and get on the plane." deRocco pushed Sean through the jet's door.

"What about you?"

"I'm not going anywhere."

"I'm going alone?"

"Yeah, you're going alone, but someone will meet you in Las Vegas. He'll tell you the what, where, and when."

"What about the money?"

"The money?" The detective stuck an envelope in Sean's pocket. "You just do like I told you. It'll be a snap."

The 757's door shut with a slow thunk and the stewardess asked Sean to take a seat.

"Does this flight make any stops?"

"No, it's direct to Las Vegas."

"Figures."

A non-stop flight excluded his deplaning at a hub airport. deRocco's contact would be waiting in Las Vegas with Sean's photo in hand and probably a gun in a shoulder holster, but that fate was hours away and he walked down the aisle.

He almost sat in first-class.

No one ever questioned an intruder, but decided to not push his luck and settled for snatching three magazines from the overhead bin. Economy was almost as bad as a charter flight, since nearly every passenger was white-haired and overweight. The steward motioned for him to buckle up and Sean sank into his seat by the window.

The 757 pulled away from the gate on time and taxied onto JFK's main runway. The big engines throttled up with a roar and the jet's acceleration drove the tons of steel down the runway, till the plane climbed into the air in defiance of gravity. Seventeen seconds later the pilot banked the aircraft, giving Sean a slanted vista of Manhattan's spires and towers and for the first time this morning he realized that he was leaving New York.

Once the 757 leveled off at 24,000, the flight crew passed out free nuts and drinks.

Sean scrounged three packets, which he devoured in a minute.

Once the seat belt sign went off, he dug his bag for a leather toiletry bag. The cop hadn't touched a thing. With Las Vegas only five hours away he had a lot of work to avoid violating the Fifth Commandment.

Back on the ground at JFK deRocco punched a ten-digit number on his portable phone and a gruff voice answered after three rings, "Who's this?"

"Like the only person who has this number. Me."

"Where are you?"

"JFK."

"Where's Tempo?"

"On the plane"

"What about you?"

>"I don't fly, you know that." Throughout their long collaboration Kev had played the ‘away games'. The ex-cop had insisted on his partner joining him for this last contract and now shouted, "You and your fuckin' flyingaphobia. How am I gonna do this?"

"You're not doin' nothin'." Normally Driscoll could have executed this contract in his sleep, except every pro only has so many 'games' in him and Kev was well into overtime. "You got the Fed-Ex package, right?"

"Yeah."

"Just do like I told you and we're in the clear."

"Is he clean?"

Tempo?"

"Who else?"

"He's like an altar boy." deRocco fought off the urge to light up a cigarette in the non-smoking terminal.

"Good, this is going to tie up a lot of loose ends."

DeRocco was slowly coming down from the morning's high-tension act.

"What's it like out there?"

"What'd you care, you fear-of-flyin' freak? I'll call you later." The line went dead.

Outside the terminal building deRocco lit up a cigarette and lifted his eyes to a jet lumbering into the sky. What scared him most about flying was the lack of control. All you could do was sit there and pray the plane didn't crash into a swamp or cornfield.

Shaking these fiery images, deRocco sucked on the burning tobacco and congratulated himself on another job well done. No one else would have, of course very few people did what he did and after this job neither would he.

Doubt Quote - Henry Lloyd 1896

The Will to Doubt was Lloyd's fourth book and was published as a volume in the Ethical Library Series. The book was a response to William James' 1896 collection of essays titled The Will to Believe. Professor Lloyd's simple thesis is that "doubt is essential to real belief". He wrote at the beginning of the 20th century, in what he called an age of doubt: "We would often hide it from others, not to say from ourselves, but it is there, and we all know it to be there.[10] Though many fear doubt, and try to keep it hidden and locked away, the confession of doubt is in fact the beginning of philosophy.

Fear is a chief motivator of dogmatism, and dogmatic people are slaves to their fears. This is not genuine confidence. But doubt is not the road to atheism; in fact, doubt is part of a very difficult road to theism. Paraphrase from Henry Lloyd quote - “There are three ways by which an individual can get wealth-by work, by gift, and by theft. And, clearly, the reasons why the workers get so little is that the beggars and thieves get so much.”

Conversationem Interruptus

Trouville France - 1985

In the summer of 1985 Candia and I took the train to Deauville for a vacation from Paris. Deauville itself was out of our budget, so we stayed in the neighboring town, Trouville or 'city of a hole'. The weather was pleasant and we might have gone swimming during the day. The first night I intended on dining my girlfriend to Les Vapeurs, except the famed seafood retaurant was closed, so we went to another eaterie. Starting with a bottle of Sancerre I decided to be adventurous and ordered something other than sole for my main course, however the raiee au beure noire was abominable and I sent it back. The cook came out and insulted me as an ignorant American. The waiters took his back. He might have been right, but I stood up, told Candida to leave, and then picked up a fork, asking ,"Oui, veux perde un œil?"

The threat of loss of an eyeball was made in Boston-accented French.

The answer was silence, pobably not udnerstanding what I had said, but the fork in my hand translated the danger.

I dropped 200 francs for the bottle of wine and carried it outside.

Out on the foggy street Candida asked, "So now where do we eat?"

We had a crepe.

Candida was not happy, but was happier after I got us cups to drink the wine. It was nice to be out of Paris with someone you loved.

NORTH NORTH HOLLYWOOD by Peter Nolan Smith Chapter One

Six women crowded the honeymoon suite of the Coastal Motel north of Ventura. The buxom 'groom' patiently lay on the bed for her 'bride', while the brutish camerawoman glanced at the director and tapped her watch.

"Lena, are you ready yet?" A bead of sweat trickled down the wiry director's spine, as she knocked on the bathroom door.

"One more minute," the female lead shouted from inside the tiled room.

"That's fine as long as it's sixty seconds." Sherri Conti signaled the camerawoman to prepare for the money shot, acutely aware that the different segments of a movie set operated at contradicting speeds within the same time frames.

Technicians were habitually fast, except when they had downtime and the talent was traditionally slow, especially when they were being rushed by the producer.

A director's job was to ensure the contrasting sides of the camera meshed during the actual shooting and Sherri checked the equipment for any potential miscue. Everything was in place, except for the girl in the bathroom.

There was no way that Lena was suffering stage fright. The young starlet had performed sex before a camera over fifty times and had not once gone up or blown her scene. Lena was simply dropping into her persona. Sherri had undergone the identical transformation in hundreds of hotels, condos, and ranch houses over her twenty-year career in XXX films.

The extra time had been worth the wait, because once Sherri had heard the word 'action', her body had exhibited a tangible hunger for sex and the camera had never lied in an industry with no special effects.

During the 80s Sherri's name had blazed on marquee lights in Times Square and her body had filled millions of TV screens for audiences of one. A devoted fan had amassed a list of her on-screen lovers. The number ran into the thousands. In the 90s the standouts had vanished from the Valley like animals hunted into extinction. Sherri could have easily joined the missing, except her near-miraculous rise from the dead had granted the forty-five year-old director the status of living legend.

The accolades, setbacks, or sins were meaningless to Sherri, for porno was a business and time was money. She turned to the black woman on the queen-sized bed.

"Josie, give us a sound check."

"You got it, boss lady."

Big Josie Cane had worked for Sherri ten times.

The ex-actress' production company paid better than the standard daily of $500 and the director had never blindsided the actresses with bizarre requests, so Josie saved her best performances for Sherri. These girl-on-girl scenes were especially easy with Lena, for the Spanish girl shone in a business where most actresses were mere light bulbs.

Rising off the mattress Josie spoke into the overhead boom.

"Testing, one, two, three." Josie cinched the belt of the strap-on dildo, which she didn't want to slip out of place during the shoot. This was going to be one long take and she meant to make the most of it.

"How clean is it?" Sherri asked the soundwoman.

Even with the taped windows and heavily blanketed door the microphone caught the wet sizzle of 18-wheelers on the rain-drenched Ventura Freeway.

"Nothing I can't fix in the sound studio." The soundwoman had heard worst background noise.

The battery of Soft Ks, 10Ks, and Mighty Mole lights around the room raised the temperature. Sherri surveyed the sheen of sweat on Josie and figured that the film's viewers would appreciate the glistening ebony skin. "It's a go, once the 'jig inky' is in focus." The stocky gaffer in jeans studied the bed without seeing a shadow on the sheets.

"Okay, we'll deal with that when Lena is in place." This scene needed to be shot and Sherri nervously fingered back her brown shag-cut hair. "Lena, that minute is up."

"Ready or not here I come."

The raven-haired actress emerged from the bathroom and struck a provocative pose displaying the natural tautness of her girlish body. A neutral-toned blush heightened the smoothness of her olive skin, while kohl-black mascara accented her green eyes' Oriental cant. Her coal-black hair was cut to mimic Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile and this suggestive exoticism converted into star quality, which had earned Lena a 'best new starlet' nomination in the upcoming XXX awards in Las Vegas.

"Finally." Sherri clapped her hands and the crew snapped to attention.

Lena crossed the room to her off-screen lover.

The actress was an inch shorter than Sherri and her pouting pelvis grazed the director's thigh. The older woman stiffened, wishing that she were on the bed, instead of Josie, however the director had retired from that side of the camera five years ago.

"Nervous?"

"Nervous? I was born for this."

The younger woman glided out of reach and every woman's gaze followed her nakedness across the room. Lena wouldn't have it any other way, for she was as much an exhibitionist as a voyeur.

Her character in the film was called Desiree, a runaway who had never been with a woman. Lena had fled her home at the age of fourteen. She lay on the bed to become a white trash virgin at the mercy of a bull dyke. The metamorphosis was simple, for young actress had lived every aspect of this role over the past six years.

The market for most adult entertainment was predominantly male, however Lena's audience was evenly split between men and women, despite purely lesbian content of her films. A good part of her appeal had to do with Lena's youth, however the invulnerability of her years hadn't lasted long in the meat grinder of adult film industry and Sherri was determined to protect Lena from suffering her fate.

The young girl deserved to be in real films and Sherri had a plan to get her on the silver screen, but now was not the time.

"Everyone set?" Sherri asked the crew.

"Ready, when you are, boss lady." The gaffer retreated from the lights and Lena's hand dropped to her shaved vagina. Soon it would be replaced by that of another woman. The old Jefferson Airplane song SALLY GOES ROUND THE ROSES popped into Sherri's head and the chorus repeated in her mind.

"Saddest thing in the whole wide world is to see your baby with another girl."

"Josie, take your position."? Sherri waved the make-up woman from the bed. Filming Lena with another woman was becoming increasingly difficult, but she was a professional in the end.

"Places."

Big Josie Cane assumed the 'top' position for the classic 'cowgirl reverse' shot and the Super 8mm video camera transmitted a pixilated image of Lena speaking her lines onto the monitor. The picture was a little fuzzy.

"Sharpen it a little," Sherri ordered the crouching camerawoman.

"Got it." The camerawoman crystallized the focus with the deftness of a safecracker.

Sherri prayed a technical failure would halt the filming, except the words, "Lights, camera, action" transported the crew and actresses into the magic world of movie-making.

While the camera wasn't 35mm and the budget was less than $20,000, every woman in the room regarded today's film as a magic carpet to Hollywood, that most promised of Californian lands, and no one was refusing a shot at the silver screen matter how big or small the stage.

Any god or goddess would have known the truth, that only the very lucky and the very good are blessed with such opportunities, although sometimes the very bad reached the Promised Land and one look through the viewfinder was proof that Lena de Gama was destined for that heaven, because the camera never lied about the truth.

April 23, 2023 - Key West - Journal Entry

The Bertonis are leaving on Monday and all the flights to New York City are book into the next week. There is always the possibility of a stand-by seat, but the flight is too expensie. School Break prices, so it appears that I will be stuck in Key West $80 in my pocket. Hitchhiking from here through the Deep South is daunting.

Several Hours later.

Giancarlo owed me $100 and bought me a $139 airline ticket. Guiliana, his wife, is pissed at the both of us. I'm a freeloader and the NYU's chief anesthesiologist is a fool to have friends like me.

"Gianca, you earn the money, you should be able to control it," I said brusquely and stormed out of the bungalow, thinking I needed to find a cheap hotel room. Giancarlo followed me and we entered Sloppy Joe's. It was only 10 in the morning, but this was vacation time.

"Sorry about that, but she's angry with my helping James White and Anya," Gianca said after ordering too daiquiris. Pina Coladas are too sweet for this time in the morning.

"How is Anya?" The dominatrix/muse had incurable cancer.

"Stable, but you you pay me that $39 in front of Guiliana. She's angry, because I used the MasterCard without telling her. Women aren't as stupid as we are."

"We are really stupid, I'm sorry." I had taken advantage of Gianca's friendship. I should have taken care of my own downed my Daiquiri and ordered another. It was 10:16. We talked about Hockey. The Boston Bruins had been eliminated by the North Stars in the opening round and the NY Rangers were 3-1 up on the St. Louis Blue. "They're almost good enough to win the Stanley Cup."

"Scatzo, don't say that," Gianca shivered on the stool. He was equally as superstitious as were all fans of a game played on ice. We left after a third Daiquiri.

"One more thing, best you stay away for a while. Guiliana is on her period. If you ever get married, I'll give lessons on how to be diplomatic with women, which is mostly keeping your mouth shut and taking the abuse." "Thanks for the advice." I had lived with two women, but that isn't like marrying one." "You think I'll ever get married?"

"I don't see any threats of that in your future."

"No there doesn't." Lisa and Anne were out of my life.

"I stayed away until well past dark."

"Grazi."

Gianca went back to the bungalow and I walked down to Garrison Bight. A cheap motel leaned into a decrepit marina with a views on a Burger King and US-1. The clerk said the rooms were $20 a night. I chiseled him down to $15.

"I come back tomorrow."

He shrugged his indifference He had heard thousands of down-and-outers say the same words. I was no different.

Last week there was a power outage and the only lights on in Key West were this Burger King shimmering on a black asphalt. The only other lights were the stars, the moon and the distant planet Jupiter

HARRY BELAFONTE RIP

My mother loved to sing this song although we knew as YELLOW BIRD. Harry Belafonte introduced us to another way of life and fought for equality and justice. A true hero. RIP.

To hearDON'T EVER LOVE ME - YELLOW BIRD click on the following URL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hm1DA0yqcdc

Stranded No More

This coming May I'm getting my honorary membership to the Explorer's Club.

I'm not sure that my qualifications fit those of the other members; astronauts, Himalayan mountaineers, and deep-sea divers. The club was founded Admiral Robert Peary. My grandfather was his post-Arctic doctor in Westbrook, Maine, and his daughter, the Snowbird, was my grandmother's good friend, but my explorations concentrated on the social research of brothels, go-go bars, and drinking establishments around the globe not to mention how to score China White or 'Ma' on the Burma side of the Golden Triangle without being mistaken for a fucking DEA agent.

My travel days are on hold. No getting on a plane until September, unless it's deadheading on a private plane to answer the need of a Kuwaiti prince. The mission helping him not lose at cards. He's the biggest loser in the world and they love him in the London casinos.

I recall reading a passage from Richard Burton, the famed Nile explorer, about how he was stranded in England at the end of his life and feeling like Robinson Crusoe. Waiting for the next ship. Last week I spoke with my around-the-world travel agent, John at Pan Express.

"Sir, when are you traveling again?"

"At year's end and I have a plan to recreate my first trip?"

"Are you going to Biak?"

"If possible."

"Sir, everything is possible for you now." John and I go back thirty-three years.

"I'd love to stand of the veranda of the Dutch Hotel and have a European breakfast on Cendrawasih Bay."

He clapped his hands together and said, "Sir, you are back!!!"

Like Richard Burton I was ready to stand someplace far from my death bed.