A Conversation with a Friend

I was hanging out the other night at the Tiki Hut, minding my own business, when a voice behind me said, “Hey, man. What’s up?”

I should first explain that the Tiki Hut is an edifice at the marina where I live. The denizens of said marina congregate there on occasion to commune with one another. I, on the other hand, avoid it like the plague. It’s not that I don’t like people; it’s just that I don’t like being around people. But that particular evening, I had the place to myself.

I turned around, and standing there was this dude I had never seen before, although he did look somewhat familiar.

“Hello,” I said in response. I was a little perturbed at having my solitude interrupted, but decided not to be rude. “Are you new here?” I asked in a friendly manner.

“Kind of,” he said with a slight smile.

I mentally shrugged. I didn’t care one way or the other. I was just trying to be polite. Well, I had done my part and started to head back to my boat. I had a six-pack of cold beers waiting for me, and I thought it about time I paid it some attention.

“Want a beer?”

It was the dude. He was holding a plastic grocery bag that I had not noticed before. It definitely had the outline of a six-pack. Figuring the guy might be lonely, and thinking I might as well do my Christian duty, I said, “Sure, why not?” I would have a beer and we’d shoot the shit and then I’d get the hell out of there. I reckoned I could put up with him for the time it would take to drink one beer.

He reached into the bag and came out with two bottles of my favorite beer. Things were looking up. He did the honors of popping the caps and we both took a long pull of that cold, good-tasting beverage.

“So,” I said, “you moving in?”

“I’m thinking about it. I wanted to get a feel for the place first. Do you like living here?”

“It’s okay. As long as you pay your rent on time, they leave you alone.”

I’ll not bore you with the rest of the mundane conversation. That first beer led to a second and then a third. I was starting to warm up to the guy by the fourth. Then it dawned on me. We both had had four beers each, but we had started out with only one six-pack. When I mentioned that fact, he said, “No, you must be mistaken. There were two six-packs in the bag.”

Another mental shrug on my part.

As I popped the cap on my fifth beer, he asked me, “So, what do you think of the state the world is in?”

If I had been asked that question on the first or second or even the third beer, I would have bolted. I don’t get into conversations like that. Truth be known, I generally don’t get into conversations at all. I live alone and I like it that way. I don’t have to please anyone and I sure as hell don’t have to answer stupid questions. But … I was on my fifth beer and the guy was buying. So, what the hell?

“It depends on what world you are talking about. My little world is doing just fine. I eat every day. And when it rains, I’m dry. What more could a man ask for?”

He nodded, but said nothing. Fueled by Guinness Stout, I went on.

“Now, if you’re asking about the world in general, I would have to say that, for the majority of the people in it, the place is a shit-hole. Wouldn’t you say so?”

“I would say that the vast majority of the people on this planet are living the lives they want to live.”

Now the guy was pissing me off. Being of Irish descent and having four and a half Guinnesses in me got me up on my soap box.

“Do you believe in God?” I asked with a drunken sneer.

“I have heard of Him, but I don’t know if I believe in Him.”

“Well, if God is real, how can he let the suffering go on? How can he allow a baby to get cancer? How can the son-of-a-bitch let the world get into the mess that it is in today?”

“Good questions, my friend. Very good questions.”

“Don’t patronize me, and hand me another of those goddamn beers.”

I was in rare form.

When I had been placated with my sixth beer (but who was counting?), my new-found friend went on.

“Many people feel as you do. They use the same argument. ‘If there is a God, how can He allow the suffering?’ I think the answer is that there is no God. There is only the Oneness. There is only us. Perhaps we are God. And if we are God, how could we allow ourselves to suffer?”

That was it for me. Free beer or not, I was out of there. The guy was crazy. But first I would finish my beer … just to be polite.

Then he went on.

“It’s a shame that we don’t believe in reincarnation, because that would explain many things. If reincarnation was for real, that would mean souls exist before birth. It might even mean that we choose our lives. That life is not a crap shoot.”

About then, I was thinking, You’re a crap shoot!

“Do you know that physicists have proven, mathematically at least, that there is no such thing as time, and that we are living in a hologram? And if that is so, then what does anything matter? Look at it this way. We live in a dimension known as space-time. You cannot have one without the other. You cannot have time without space and you cannot have space without time. Right?”

“If you say so. How about another beer?” We were now into the third six-pack that wasn’t there.

“Think of it this way. Space-time is a manifestation only of the physical plane. Off the physical plane, there is no space-time by definition. Correct?”

“Please stop asking me to confirm what you are saying. I’ll admit it makes sense . . . so far. So, I’ll sit here and listen to you as long as that magic bag keeps popping out Guinnesses.”

“Okay. Now visualize this. If you were to look into a dimension of time-space from a dimension of non-time-space, meaning a non-physical universe, what would you see?”

“Your momma!”

He smiled at me with such forbearance that I felt ashamed at having made such a flippant remark. And I sobered up instantly. “I’m sorry I said that. Please go on.”

“I take no offense and I assure you, ‘my momma’ takes no offense.”

I pushed my half-finished beer aside and waited. He didn’t seem drunk, yet he had had as many beers as I had. He took another deep swallow of his Guinness and continued.

“What you would see is all time happening at once. That is what you would see. Now, here’s my point. If all time happens at once and we are living in a hologram—a false reality if you will—and if we exist before we are physically conceived, and if we know the lives we are going to live, and if there is no time, which means the duration of our lives are as one-millionth of the time it takes to blink an eye . . . then how are we harmed?”

A good question to which I had no answer. But I had to ask, “Who the hell are you?”

“I’ve been known by many names over many lives. My time on the space-time plane is over. I just come to visit once in a while because that’s what I do. I am a teacher. Sometimes to the multitudes, sometimes to just one lonely man thinking of drinking a beer by himself. In my last incarnation, I was known as Jesus Bar Joseph, or Jesus, Son of Joseph. In parting, let me say this. There is no God. There is only the Oneness and we are all fragments of that Oneness, playing out our existence. Working our way back to the Oneness where we will be reunited. There is no hell and there is no heaven. There is no loss, there is only us. Peace be with you, my friend.”

Then he glowed with such intensity that I had to cover my eyes. The brilliance was filled with so much love. I have never felt such love. I have never been so loved. It was all I could do to not break down and cry right there on the spot.

Then he was gone.

Now I sit here pondering his words. If we are all One, then hiding from my neighbors might not be such a smart thing. I think I’ll invite that nice young couple who live a few boats over for a Sunday brunch. If I can make it through that, perhaps I’ll visit the Tiki Hut a little more often.

You never know who you might meet there.

I Once Had a Girl

I once had a girl. She was from Norway, but we met in New York City at a jazz club on the Upper West Side. My friend Lane had dragged me there; telling me that I would really dig the sax player. I didn’t want to go because I was broke and I was embarrassed that Lane was always picking up the check when we when out. But he persisted, so I went with him that warm August night. It was a night that changed my life forever.

Lane and I were from upstate New York, we had been friends since high school. We were both going to be writers and write the Great American Novel. And here we were, a few years later. Lane wrote copy for an ad agency and I wrote short stories that no one would buy.

I was twenty years old and had just dropped out of college. I wanted to be a writer and I did not think college was the way to go about it. I thought the only way to be a writer was to write. So I headed for the big city, found myself a roach-infested apartment, and opened my laptop. I got lucky and sold my first short story to a weekly newspaper. It was a free paper, but they did print fiction. They paid me all of twenty-five dollars for it.

After that, I figured it would be only a matter of time before I had The New Yorker knocking at my door wanting me to write my genius fiction for them, and if not The New Yorker, then at least The Village Voice. Well, things did not work out that way. Six months later, I had not sold another story. The newspaper that had bought my first story was long out of business as I contemplated my future. I was nearing the end of my savings and something would have to break soon or I would have to get a job.

Something did break, but not in the way I thought it would.

Unbeknownst to me, Lane and his girlfriend, Sally, set me up with a blind date. When we got to the club, I saw Sally sitting at a table with a blonde. I immediately grabbed Lane’s arm and halted his progress toward the table. “What’s the deal?” I asked in a low voice. Then added, “If Sally is trying to set me up again, I’m leaving. You know I don’t have any money to date.”

With a phony and shocked look on his face, Lane said, “No, no, it’s nothing like that. It’s just that the poor girl is in town and doesn’t know anyone. Sally’s mother and her mother were friends. Sally’s looking out after her, that’s all. Don’t worry; she’s not your date. And she’s got plenty of money; she can pay her own way.”

With a sigh and a shake of my head, I said, “Lay on, Macduff.”

We seated ourselves at the table and I was introduced to the blonde. Sally started right off yakking away, but I heard nothing she said. I was looking into the eyes of the blonde. They were green, the color of emeralds—they were sad eyes. She was good-looking in a not-glamorous sort of way, but there was something about her. Something that made me want to put my arms around her and tell her everything would be all right. That night I fell in love … head over heels. To me, she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. But she looked vulnerable, and she had those big sad eyes. Her name was Karina.

We talked and ignored both the music and Lane and Sally. When Sally saw where things were going, she nudged Lane and said they had to go, but that we should stay. As they left, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lane hand some money to our waitress and point our way. He had made sure that I would not be embarrassed for lack of funds.

The music was really too loud to carry on a conversation, so I suggested that we go somewhere more conducive to getting to know one another. I had no hope that she felt toward me as I felt toward her, but I just couldn’t let her go out of my life until I knew everything about her.

We settled in at a Starbucks and talked until the early morning. Her parents were both dead and had left her relatively well off. She was in the States because she owned a cabin in North Carolina, up in the mountains, and she had come here to sell it. At twenty-two, she was two years older than I was. But that was okay with me; I liked older women. I prattled on about my writing and she said that she would like to read some of my stuff someday. Someday? I wanted her to read my stories right then and there. But I held my tongue.

As I walked her to her hotel, she slipped her arm through mine and we walked on in silence. My feet never once touched the ground.

We said goodnight in the lobby. She looked at me with those big, sad eyes. “Please, may I see you tomorrow and read some of your stories?” Normally, I would let anyone read my stuff at the drop of a hat, even if I had to drop the hat myself. But in this instance, I was reluctant to say yes. I didn’t want her to see how I lived. I mean, she was staying at the Plaza, for God’s sake! After a momentary hesitation, I told her I could bring my laptop over the next day and would be proud to have her read a few of my stories. She would have to read them off my computer because I did not own a printer. We set a time and I left. We shook hands—we did not kiss goodnight.

Well, the short of it is, she was as smitten with me as I was with her. Why, I don’t know. She postponed her trip south and stayed in the city. We saw each other every day. Sally must have told her about my financial situation, because Karina always insisted we go someplace that cost no money. We hit the art galleries and the museums, among other venues. Central Park was our favorite. As we walked through the park, the sunshine dappled on the grass and would ripple in her yellow hair like waves upon a sparkling ocean. At the end of two weeks, we both knew we wanted to spend the rest of our lives together.

Karina liked my writing and told me I should be writing a full-length novel. Then, when that sold, I could put out a book of my short stories. No wonder I loved her, she believed in me more so than I believed in myself.

One day, as we lay on a blanket in the park holding hands (we still had not made love), Karina asserted herself. She told me in no uncertain terms that she was taking me to her cabin in North Carolina. She would cook and clean for me while I wrote my novel, and then when it sold, I could take care of her.

She stood and took my hand. I raised myself from the ground and, forgetting the blanket, we hurried back to The Plaza. We made long, slow love all that afternoon—and then again all that night.

We hit the mountains of North Carolina as the leaves were changing. It was the perfect metaphor. Our lives were changing—we were melding into one entity.

As the snows came, I wrote and Karina loved me. Truth be known, I didn’t feel like writing. I just wanted to make love to my girl. But Karina made sure I stayed at the computer at least six hours a day.

As the snows melted and the leaves slowly returned to the trees, my book took form. Karina would read what I had written each day. She would correct my mistakes and give me input as to the characters and  plot. As I sat there in the evenings, seeing the firelight reflected in her eyes while she read my daily output, I fell in love with her all over again.

When spring was in full bloom, the book also bloomed. I had completed my version of the Great American Novel. I emailed my query letters to agents. Within a month, I had a signed contract. When summer came around, the book had been sold to a publisher and I had money in the bank. Now I could take care of my Karina.

It was August once again, almost to the day that Karina and I first met. We were leaving the next day for New York. My agent had set up a meeting with my new editor. There was still work to be done. Writing the story is one thing, getting it out there is another. However, before leaving, I wanted to buy something for my love.

I went into town and bought Karina a ring. Nothing fancy, just a simple band of gold. I was going to ask her to be my wife. I couldn’t wait to get back to the cabin, get down on one knee, and tell her of my love for her.

I saw the smoke long before I turned into the drive to our cabin. Then I saw the flames. I stopped the car and ran to the cabin where I heard her screams. Those screams will never leave me.

“KARINA!” I shouted as I rushed the door.

When I pushed open the door, a blast of heat and flames knocked me on my ass. I got up; nothing short of hell was going to keep me out of that cabin. And that is exactly what kept me out . . . hell. I could not penetrate the flames. On my third attempt, the burns and resultant pain caused me to pass out. When I awoke, I was in a hospital’s burn ward.

Karina was gone and I was alone.

I sold the rights to my book to my agent. I couldn’t edit and work on it with anyone else now that Karina was gone. I took the money and bought a sailboat down in Miami. I had Karina painted on the sides in large letters the color of her eyes. I now sail the Caribbean, going from island to island, looking for nothing … and finding nothing. I’m certainly not finding relief for the pain in my heart.

I once had a girl. Karina was her name.

A Little More on Ellis (This is All True)

Chapter Two

 By the age of twenty-three, Ellis had his own boat, the Cape Ann, and his own charter business, bringing wealthy men out to the banks for the sport of fighting and landing a bluefin tuna. For, by then, word had gotten around that if you wanted to test your mettle against nature, fighting a thousand-pound bluefin for two or three hours was one way to do it.

In those days, when the fish were still plentiful, Ellis was the man to see. He had an uncanny knack for knowing where the great fish swam in the warm summer months. Men came up from New York, men flocked in from the mainland of Massachusetts, they came down from Maine, and they flew in from America’s heartland to hire Captain Ellis.

His fishing haunt was the Middle Bank, also known as Stellwagen Bank. Stellwagen is now a marine sanctuary, but back in the day it was Ellis’ private fishing preserve. An apartment on T Wharf, overlooking the Rockport Inner Harbor, doubled as his base of operations for his charter business and a house of ill repute when he was not fishing.

• • • •

The incessant ringing awakens Ellis. However, before lifting the receiver, he glances at the clock sitting next to the phone. Its luminescent hands throwing off a slight green glow. The time is 4:46 a.m. He had been asleep for less than an hour.

Groggily, and in a rasping whisper, Ellis speaks into the phone, “Hello?”

“Ellis, old buddy. It’s me. Marty.”


“Yeah … Marty. Marty from Long Island. Me and my two buddies came up to do a little fishing.”

Ellis’ head clears a mite. He is wishing he had a glass of water. And a couple of aspirin wouldn’t hurt either. He had spent a hard night of drinking a concoction invented by one of his friends. He did not know what it consisted of, but he did know the prime ingredient was rum … and a lot of it.

Before he can further respond to Marty, a voice next to him intrudes into the conversation. “Ellis, honey. What time is it?”

Oh yeah. I forgot about her, thinks Ellis.

“It’s early. Go back to sleep.”

From the phone comes a reply. “Damn right it’s early. And we’re already up here in Gloucester. We’re going fishing. We have no plans to sleep until we’ve landed a bluefin.”

“I wasn’t speaking to you, Marty. Now tell me what the hell’s going on.”

“Ellis, I know I just woke you up from a sound sleep. So I’ll make this easy for you. We’re going fishing. You, me, Ted, and Verne.”

“Ted and Verne?”

“Yeah! Ted and Verne, they’re friends of mine. Now get your ass up. We’ll be there in an hour. We’re in an all-night diner on Route 128, just finishing breakfast.”

Ellis is now fully awake. How dare this New Yorker call him in the middle of the night and demand he hop out of bed and take him fishing. Sure, Marty’s a regular and a good customer. He’s also a generous tipper when he catches fish. But still.

Then Ellis remembers that his coffers are at an all-time low. It’s been a week since his last charter. Not because he didn’t have the business, but because he’s been too busy partying with his cronies and trying to bed every young female within the town limits of Rockport … and a few just over the town line.

Last night when they got low on rum, he had to make a call to the package store over in Gloucester. It went something like this:

“Hey, this is Ellis.”

“Hi, Ellis. What can I do for you?”

“I need a gallon of rum, but I can’t pay for it right now.”

“No problem. It will be there in fifteen minutes.”


Everyone liked the Boy Wonder.

For financial reasons, Ellis had decided to take the charter, but he wasn’t going to make it easy on ol’ Marty.

Speaking into the phone, his voice now strong, he said, “What makes you think I don’t already have a charter for the day?”

An eager Marty explains. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll pick up the full tab. I’m sure they’ll let us tag along.”

That’s why Ellis liked Marty. He was an eternal optimist.

“Well, it just so happens that I’m free today, but you’ll have to pick up the bait. Stop at Charlie Cucuro’s fish house. You’ll pass it on your way in. You can’t miss it. It will be on your left, and there’s a big red and white sign that you can see from the road.”

“Will they be open this time of morning?”

“It’s a fish house. They’ll be open.”

His conversation with Marty at an end, Ellis turns his attention to his bedmate. She’s a comely lass who goes by the name of Susie. Her hair is long and blonde. She has a figure that just will not quit. He had met her the day before as the sun was making a spectacular descent behind the high hills in the west. The diminishing sunlight rippled in her hair as it does upon a wheat field in midsummer. She was a tourist up from Boston, walking T Wharf with her girlfriend.

Ellis had observed her from the vantage point of his second floor apartment and was smitten. He was soon standing next to the girls and introducing himself. He invited them up to his apartment for a cool drink, and called a friend to come over to entertain the girlfriend while he spoke with the blonde. Long after the gallon of rum had been delivered, the friend took the girlfriend home and Ellis was left alone with Susie.

One thing led to another and here they were.

Ellis leaned into her and gently kissed her cheek. She shifted in her sleep and smiled. He did not want to wake her. He would leave a note on the kitchen table telling her how much he had enjoyed meeting her and that he would be back sometime after sundown if she felt inclined to continue their escapades from the previous evening.

From the kitchen phone he called his mate, Wayne. “Come on, buddy. We got ourselves a charter.”

“What do you mean we, white man?”

“I mean get your ass outta bed and meet me at the wharf in thirty minutes.”

“Damn! I just hit the sack. Why didn’t you tell me we had a charter today?”

“Look, Wayne, I didn’t know it myself until ten minutes ago. We need the money, and thank God the fuel tanks are full. So, we’re going.”

“Okay, Captain. I’ll see you at the wharf in half an hour.”

The two men meet, climb down the ladder to their waiting dingy, and row out to the moored Cape Ann. As Wayne inspects the fishing tackle, Ellis brings the boat to life. At first she roars, but then settles down to a contented purr.

Wayne disengages the line tethering them to the mooring and Ellis deftly maneuvers the Cape Ann alongside of the wharf. It is now almost 6:00 a.m. The sun is throwing a gentle light up and over the eastern horizon, turning the sky a light gray as the clouds turn dark—almost black. But that would not last. Soon our star—our sun—would emerge in all her glory. The sky would turn orange, the clouds would rapidly turn from dark gray to purple, and then sing their joy as they became a vibrant pink. Glory hallelujah, the sun has risen! But all that means less than nothing to Ellis, his head is throbbing.

Marty and his friends arrive and soon the Cape Ann is headed due east, into the rising sun.

Ellis was not a religious man, not by a long shot. He might not have marveled at the majesty of God’s sunrises, but he did have one ritual. Every time he took out a charter or just went out fishing for his own enjoyment, he would look to the south and see the concrete towers of Boston. And he would always say a silent prayer of thanks that he was out on the open ocean and not shackled to a desk in one of those monstrosities. The sea was Ellis’ church.

After a little more than an hour, the boat slows; they are now over the Middle Bank. It’s time to fish.

Wayne had rigged the gear on the way out. Each line hooked and baited.

The three New Yorkers stand at the stern and slowly let out their lines while Ellis keeps the boat steady and on course. It would not speak well of the captain if the lines were to tangle. After a hundred yards of line have been released, the anglers set their drags to fifty pounds and sit back—metaphorically speaking—to await the great bluefin tuna.

The minutes slowly pass … the hours drag on. Ellis thinks of Susie and her firm, round rear end. He keeps the fishing lines from tangling as he crisscrosses the bank in search of bluefin. The men down in the cockpit are swapping lies about the fish they had caught on previous outings and the women they had bedded in their younger days. Wayne sits in the small cabin wishing he was back in bed. He too had had a rough night.

Out of the depths, a bluefin strikes. Marty is the lucky one. It is his line running out to the south. Ellis slows the boat. Wayne comes alert. He yells to the other two men to reel in their lines—fast!

Ellis’ headache is forgotten. Susie is forgotten. The only thing that matters now is landing the bluefin. It will be a two-man affair. Marty down in the cockpit and Ellis up on the fly bridge. The rest of the men on the boat have suddenly become superfluous.

Marty gives the fish some lead. Not much … just enough. Then he braces his knees against the transom. He has to do this right or the whole day will be for naught. He lets the fish run, thinking it had just scored a tasty morsel of mackerel.

Ellis says nothing. This is Marty’s play. The boat is idling, but only momentarily. Once the hook is set, it will be Ellis’ job to move the boat forward or to put her in reverse and move her backwards to keep Marty’s line from getting tangled in the props. If the tuna takes off to the right or left and heads for the boat, Ellis will have to adjust his course. If the tuna pulls the line under the boat, it will be all over. Until the tuna is landed, he’ll be working just as hard as Marty.

The reel is spinning at an alarming rate. The line is going straight out to sea. Twenty-five yards … fifty yards … seventy-five yards … wait … wait … NOW! Marty pulls back on the pole. BAM … the hook is set.

His friends slap him on the back and congratulate him. Ellis frowns and yells down to the men. “It’s far from over. Give him room. Marty, you get in the chair, you’ve got a fight ahead of you. And Wayne, you know what to do. Stay behind the chair and don’t let our customer get yanked out of the boat. We haven’t been paid yet.”

Ellis was thinking of a good friend of his, a charter captain by the name of Mike. It was just him and a single customer. There was no mate. A tuna hit, and the man sat down in the fighting chair with a big smile on his face. Mike was doing his delicate dance of keeping the line away from the props. He was in reverse when it happened. The tuna was a big one. Before Mike knew it, his customer was pulled from the chair and into the ocean. There was no time to react. The man was chewed up by the props and sunk to the bottom. A week later, a fishing trawler brought the body up in their nets.

Marty cranks the reel … he pulls back on the pole … he cranks again … he pulls again. At first it’s exhilarating, thrilling … and so satisfying. But as time passes, his arms begin to ache. His feet are braced on the foot rest and his legs are on fire. Every muscle in his body is taut and tired.

If Ellis had not been fighting the fish in his own way from up on the fly bridge, the tuna would have pulled the boat miles out to sea. The process was simple. All they had to do was wear the fish out. Once it was exhausted, there’d be no problem reeling him in.

The adversaries are starting to get tired. But who will wear out first—the human or the fish? In a way, Marty was cheating. He had two diesel engines helping with the fight. The tuna had only its brute strength. The minutes wore on.

In a last ditch attempt to be rid of whatever was pulling him to his death, the tuna dives deep and heads straight for the boat. Ellis sees the line heading their way and gives the throttle a slight push forward. He has to keep the fish from the boat until it has no more fight left in him. Marty holds tight to the pole and cranks the reel. At this point, he just wants it to be over.

At the two hour-mark, the line goes slack. The tuna has given up. There is no fight left in him. He is on the verge of drowning because he cannot swim any longer. There is fear in his eyes … he knows he is going die. He is being pulled to what he does not know, but he does know that his days of swimming the cold Atlantic are at an end.

Up on the boat, Marty reels in the last few feet of line. The tuna rolls on the surface. He beholds the creatures that will take his life.

Wayne is there with the gaff. He hooks the tuna just behind the gills. This way the fish will bleed out and there will be just that much less blood to hose down off the deck when they return to port.

The tuna weighs six hundred pounds. So naturally, no one is going to pull it up and over the gunwhale. Wayne sets up the gin pole, a contraption made up of a four by four and a block and tackle. It is the gin pole that will bring the tuna on board.

With the fish secured, everyone breathes a sigh of relief. Marty’s buddies break out the beer. Marty sits back down in the chair, takes a deep pull from the cold brew, and accepts the accolades from his friends. Marty soaks it up. The praise is well earned.

Wayne stores the gear and gives Ellis the thumbs up. It’s time to head for home. Another day, another dollar.

Ellis, from his perch high up on the fly bridge, nods to Wayne and puts her in gear. His course, 270 degrees—due west. Five minutes later, Ellis sees a large dark form, just under the surface, off the starboard bow. It’s moving his way. He knows what it is and he cuts the engines.

They won the battle with the tuna. No way could they win against this creature.

The whale changes course and comes at the boat from amidships—starboard side. She’s beautiful. Ellis is enthralled. If she continues on her current course, the boat will be nothing more than flotsam in a few minutes. And all on board will be sleeping in Davy Jones’ locker this night.

On she comes. The men down in the cockpit are unaware of what is happening. They are swilling beer and laughing. Wayne is out of sight. He’s most likely in the cabin, knocking down a beer himself.

Fine, thinks Ellis. If we can come out here and kill a beautiful creature like a bluefin, then we should be fair game ourselves.

On comes the whale.

Ellis braces for the collision.

Short of the boat, the whale dives.

Ellis lets out his breath. He had not been aware that he had been holding it.

He’s about to restart the engines when the boat rises five feet into the air. The whale has come up under the Cape Ann. The lady whale is saying hello. She is a playful thing. A few seconds later, the boat has been gently deposited back onto the surface of the water. A giant tail, twenty feet off port, swishes in farewell.

Ellis grins, points the Cape Ann toward the setting sun, and shouts down below. “Wayne, bring me up a goddamn beer!”

Another day, another dollar.

Chapter Three

The wind is blowing at close to sixty knots. The sea is rolling—creating valleys twenty feet deep. The sheer walls of water would freeze a man’s heart if he was unlucky enough to find himself at the bottom of one of those aqueous canyons. The freezing rain slants in almost horizontally, carrying with it chunks of hail that dimple the surface water. Spray from the whitecaps fills the frigid air with its salty fury.

• • • •

Winters are harsh in New England and even harsher if you are out at sea. So Ellis looked around for something to keep him busy during those months and also put a few shekels in his pocket.

At the time, he drove an old Volkswagen beetle and liked the dependability of the car; hence, he decided to become a Volkswagen salesman during the winter months while the Cape Ann was laid up in dry dock.

Ellis being Ellis, he had a demand when he applied for a job at the local dealership. “I’ll work for you winter and spring, but come summer, I’m going fishing. If you can live with that, then we have a deal.” His renown as a sport fisherman had preceded him. The local dealership enthusiastically put him to work selling cars.

Ellis earned the Top Salesman Plaque for six months running before leaving for a summer of fishing. Not a bad life for a twenty-five-year-old bachelor. It afforded him the time and means to pursue his two favorite sports—fishing and meeting young women. Not necessarily in that order.

As legendary as he was for his fishing acumen, Ellis was also celebrated—at least by the male population of Gloucester—for his way with the fairer sex.

There was the aforementioned Susie. Then there was Cindy, Fran, Terry, Elouise, Diana, Mary Beth … well, the list goes on. Their names alone would take up an entire chapter. This aspect of Ellis’ “career” has been brought up for a reason. There was one name on the list that had a profound effect on Ellis’ life, but not in a way that he or anyone else could have ever imagined. Her name was Natalie. And her profession, at the time, was that of a nurse practitioner at Beverly Hospital.

• • • •

It’s a beautiful January day. The sun is shining. Cottony white clouds race across an azure sky. The scarlet feathers of a lone cardinal stand out against the snow-covered branches of a stately oak—his morning song filling the cold, crisp air. The people of Gloucester are starting their day. God sits on his heavenly throne and smiles down on Cape Ann. He is pleased with his handiwork.

It is now the third winter since Ellis started selling cars. The time is just a few minutes before 8:00 a.m. and Ellis is in his car heading for work. He’s thinking of the night before and lamenting the fact that, for the first time in a long time, he had gone to bed alone.

I needed some rest anyway, reasons Ellis. Then he ruminates further. Perhaps I’ll call Sally after work and see if she wants to come over for a little dinner. Now that he has that out of the way, he tries to turn his mind to more mundane matters, like selling a Volkswagen or two before day’s end. But he can’t help himself; a smile spreads across his face as he thinks, If I ask her nicely, I wonder if Sally will wear her white mini-skirt this evening?

The black Porsche 914 cuts the chilly air as it heads towards Ellis’ fate. The car is moving with the flow of traffic—about sixty miles per hour—when suddenly and without warning, Ellis goes into an uncontrollable sneezing fit.

One sneeze after another in rapid-fire succession. And with each sneeze, Ellis’ eyes close. At first, he’s able to keep the car in its lane, but then, fate intervenes. The right front tire hits a patch of black ice.

The Porsche skids to the right, across an empty driving lane, and heads directly for a sign post held up by two one-foot-square, solid steel I-beams. The ground in which they are imbedded is frozen solid. If a car were to hit either beam, there would be no forgiveness. It would be like hitting a brick wall, only worse. The wall would collapse … the beams are going nowhere.

Ellis sees his death fast approaching. There is no time to react. Just before impact, he thinks of Sally. He wonders—knowing how much he liked her in that white mini skirt—if she will break with tradition and wear it to his funeral. He hopes she does. That is his last conscious thought before impact. The Porsche plows into the left I-beam and explodes into many pieces. Then there is only darkness.

A trucker hauling a load of lumber is the first to stop. He is a big, tough man. He had fought in the war with General Patton. He has seen death, but not like this. For the most part, they were clean deaths. A bullet hole and an exit wound. Even the men who had stepped on land mines were in relatively good shape. Yes, they were missing a leg or two, but you could still identify them by their face. Now, he is repulsed by what he sees and takes a step back.

There is nothing to be done. The poor son-of-a-bitch is obviously dead. He will wait until the police arrive, give his statement, get the hell out of there, and then stop at the first bar he sees. He needs a drink.

Thankfully, the cops soon arrive.

The first police officer on the scene has seen his fair share of accidents, but this one is something else. The car lies in pieces and the man who had been driving did not fare much better. The officer has radioed for an ambulance, but only as a matter of form. He should have called for a hearse.

It is rush hour and traffic is heavy. Plus the fact that people are slowing down to take a gander at the mayhem, keeps the ambulance from arriving sooner. But eventually it gets there and the cops fill the driver in on the gory details. The driver shrugs. He too has seen his fair share of death.

He says to his partner, who is new on the job and still learning his way about, “Before we take him to the morgue, we have to confirm that he’s dead.”

Leaning into the destroyed car, the ambulance attendant puts his stethoscope to the corpse’s chest. “Goddamn! This man is alive!” he shouts.

The cop runs over. “Are you sure?”

“Sure I’m sure. He has a heartbeat!”

With great difficulty, the two attendants get Ellis—or what is left of him—onto the gurney. Once he is secured within the ambulance, the emergency lights are activated and the siren starts its woeful wail.

At the hospital, Ellis is rushed into an operating room where various liquids are pumped into his veins in an effort to stabilize him … to keep him from going into shock and ultimately cardiac arrest. X-rays are taken and show that every bone in his head has been broken—all twenty-nine of ’em. His right leg has sustained breaks in twenty places. In short, Ellis is a mess.

However, the biggest mess is Ellis’ face. Because of the trauma of the collision, it is twice its normal size. And with all those broken bones, the plastic surgeon that has been called in has no idea what the man looked like before the accident. How can he put him back together again if he doesn’t know what he looked like before?

He mutters his predicament to the nurse standing next to him. She turns to him and says, “I’ve got a picture of him in my wallet. Will that help?”

“Go and get it!”

Natalie runs to her locker and retrieves the cherished picture of Ellis that she has kept close since he gave it to her over a year ago. As she walks back to the OR, she thinks, That son-of-a-bitch is damn lucky I held on to this picture. But she’s smiling as she thinks it. Ellis was one of the kindest and most attentive lovers she had ever known.

Back in the OR, the doctors get down to the business of saving Ellis’ life and reconstructing his face. Natalie is also there, doing her job. She is a professional, but still, a tear or two trickle down her cheeks. But they are hidden by her surgical mask.

Besides everything else, Ellis was permanently blinded in his right eye.

It’s twenty-four hours before he regains consciousness. His jaw is wired shut. He’s wearing a cast from the hip down on his right leg. But he’s having fun and holds court daily. His cop buddies from Gloucester smuggle in cocktails for him. His many girlfriends stop by—bringing flowers. His male friends can barely fit into the room because of all the women crowding around his bed.

A month later, he’s discharged and walks out on two crutches. A month after that, he’s using a cane, and the month after that he’s back at work. No … not that kind of work. He’s back to chasing anything wearing a skirt.

It’s hard to keep a good man down. Just ask Natalie. She was the first person he called when he decided he had been celibate long enough.

In Ellis’ mind, the whole affair was just another day in his life.

No big deal.


Joanie’s Adventure

Now that the statute of limitations has expired and the people who were out to kill me are either dead or in their nineties, I feel it’s safe to relate the following story.

I originally wrote this right after I got clean from thirty years of opiate addiction. My soul was raw. The insidious thing about coming off opiates is that you cannot sleep. For the first month, I was lucky to get ten or fifteen minutes a night.

One night, after lying in bed for three hours praying for sleep to come and give me a few moments of escape from my torment, I gave up any hope of sleep and sat down at my computer. I sat there for twelve hours nonstop and wrote what you are about to read. I wrote it as if I were talking to a few old friends I had not seen in decades, but had run into recently. Because I was just banging it out, I’m all over the place with tense placement, so be prepared.

I was driven to write it, why I do not know. I am not proud of what I have done. Just the opposite, I am ashamed. My only defense is that it was a different time and I did not know the harm my actions could cause.

If there is any such thing as Karma, and I believe there is, this story will show that I’ve made a partial down payment in this life. The balance will have to wait until some future life.

The story is a long one, so some of you may not get through it, but that’s okay. I wrote it as a form of therapy for myself. I never thought I’d put it out there. But here it is.

Just know this: Every damn word is the truth. Perhaps publishing it is part of my atonement. I don’t know.

A few paragraphs may seem familiar to some of you. I lifted them and put them in a recent post. But this is the whole story.

Now that I’ve done everything I could to dissuade you from reading it … here’s, Joanie’s Adventure.


Joanie’s Adventure

Joanie was my best pal’s gal. They were both fifteen years older than I. When I first met them, I was twenty-five, and they were fortyish. I had just moved my sailboat to a new location and they lived a few slips over on a houseboat. I do not know what most of you think of when I say “houseboat.” The ones that are pertinent to this story were more properly known as “house barges.” They had no engines and were rectangular in shape with a barge-like hull. The superstructure was a house-like edifice. It was like living in a floating apartment. Theirs was a two-story affair, a bedroom and bathroom or “head” upstairs, and the “galley” and living room below.

Henry, Joanie’s old man, and I became friends immediately. Now, the stories about Henry and me will have to wait for another day. The adventure I want to convey at this time took place about four years after our initial meeting. In the intervening years, Joanie slowly warmed up to me. Me being single, she fed me many a meal on that houseboat of theirs. It was usually late at night after Henry and I returned home from a night of debauchery. Joanie was either very understanding or long-suffering. Probably both.

The reason I say, “we” returned home was that, by then, Joanie had sold me a houseboat of my own. That’s what she did for a living; she was the only houseboat broker in all of South Florida. She could hustle anyone out of a dollar. And it’s a damn good thing too, because I’ve never seen a person more in love with money than Joanie. Maybe she had reason to be. Henry did not work and she was the sole support for both of them. They, by the way, were ex-New Yorkers who were hip. They had lived in Los Angeles during the late sixties and owned a nightclub there. Oh, I forgot to mention, I first met them in 1975.

This is the story of how Joanie made me wealthy and got me thrown into jail, all in one thirteen-day period. And let’s not forget the local mafia—they came looking for me because of her, as did the Coast Guard, The Palm Beach Police Department … well, you get the picture.

Like all my tales, this is going to need a set-up to understand how Joanie and I went from law-abiding citizens (sort of) to desperados in a relatively short period. It all started with love. However, before I can get to the love part, you must understand how we lived. Because it was that lifestyle that brought me to the one true love of my life, and it was my one true love that brought me to the people some of you might refer to as the mafia or maybe gangsters.

Okay, here goes. I hope I do not bore you.

When I first met Henry and Joanie, I was, as I’ve said, twenty-five years old. I had two businesses that were doing quite well, and was a partner in a third. My day consisted of going to the office at 10 a.m., checking things out, giving marching orders to my staff, and then at noon going to lunch for the rest of the day.

The next thing you gotta know is, I drove really nice cars. Porches, Vets, shit like that. The dealers were just getting into leasing, and didn’t know what they were doing. Because of my age and my driving record, insurance for me was three times what it would cost to lease. And the leasing company threw in insurance and maintenance! At that time my business took me all over the state, and I was rackin’ up about 30,000 miles a year. The leasing company gave me a new car every six months so the cars wouldn’t have too high a mileage on them when they went to sell them.

The reason the cars come into it is that Henry was what I would call a bus-bench man. He would drive around Miami Beach, which is where we lived, and when he saw a single female sitting on a bus bench, and she caught his eye, he would drive around the block and pull up to the bus stop. He would then offer her a ride. And nine out of ten times, the female would get in his car. You say, so what’s the big deal in that? And you’d be right if the motherfucker was driving a Ferrari. But he wasn’t, he was driving a ten-year-old Volkswagen with no seats in it. His dog, a little Dachshund, had eaten the upholstery, so Henry took out the metal frames that were left and got himself an orange crate to sit on. I don’t know what the hell the women sat on, but ol’ Henry got laid every fuckin’ day from his bus stop escapades.

Then I come into his life with my fancy new cars and a shine came into his eyes. I guess what was going through his mind was, Think of the possibilities. Before you knew it, we were out cruising every day. We’d start in the afternoon, and depending on what action we ran across, we might not get back to the boats until the next morning. The way it started was, I would go out and visit my accounts every day, not that I had to, but all my guys were hip. So when I got to their place of business, rather than conduct business, we’d get high in their offices. When Henry started to accompany me on my “runs,” they soon developed into what they developed into—afternoon and evening cruising sessions. That’s how I met the love of my life.

It was a few days before Christmas. I don’t know what year, but I was about twenty-seven and I was at one of my accounts, a “Head Shop” … you know where “drug” paraphernalia was sold. I told you my guys were hip. The shop was on the beach, so I left Henry in the car; the passing parade of beauties were enough to keep him occupied. I walked into the shop thinking I’d just shoot the shit with the owner, let him know I was thinkin’ of him, and if he had a little dope, so much the better.

Well, I hadn’t been through the door for more than a second before I fell in love. There she was, looking into a display case of hash pipes. Red hair, petite, a figure a woman half her age would kill for. She was fortyish, but to me she was the sexiest woman I had ever seen. Now, after spending two years with Henry, I had finally learned how to speak to the opposite sex. Prior to meeting him, I was shy around woman. He taught me that women are just like men, only smarter about going after what they wanted, and if you were somehow lucky enough to be what a particular woman wanted, then nothing this side of hell was gonna save ya.

Now that I knew the ropes, I walked right up to her, gave her my killer smile that never failed and said, “Howdy, may I help you?” I figured if she thought I worked there she’d be more likely to talk to me.

She told me she was looking for a hash pipe for her son, for a Christmas present. Well, to make a long, embarrassing story short, I came on to her with everything I had. Hell, I was used to pushing women out of bed, locking my door to them. I had them literally flying through my windows to get to me. That’s a story in itself. But this broad wouldn’t give me the time of day. I tried everything, and with that kind of effort, I usually would have had her in the back room by now and we would not have been playing tiddlywinks. But she just blew me off. The best I got that day was her name and where she worked.

I remember walking out of that shop, getting into my car, and just sitting there. I said nothing to Henry; I just stared at the door of the shop, waiting for her to come out. Henry looked at me and said, “What’s happening? Let’s blow this pop stand.” I turned to him and said, “I can’t, I’m in love.” I told you Henry was hip, and older than me, so he took my pronouncement in stride. In fact, he thought I was full of shit. But I refused to leave until she came out of the shop.

Yeah, she walked out of the shop alright, gave me a half smile, and turned her back on me. FUCK! I’m gonna get that broad if it’s the last fuckin’ thing I ever do, I thought as I started the engine.

Anyway, I knew where she worked. It never occurred to me that she might have been bullshitting just to get rid of me. In those days (and believe me those days are long since gone) all I had to do to get laid was pull up to a red light, put my window down, and say to the honey in the next car, “How ’bout cocktails?”

She would then ask, “Where?”

And I would respond, “On my boat.”

It was that easy. They never said no. But here I am with shit all over my face, thrown there by this fuckin’ old broad. It was going to be my mission in life to make her fall in love with me.

I’ll tell you what I didn’t know at the time. Her name was Terry; she had just gotten out of prison. She had done five years of an eleven-year rap. She had been a member of the infamous “Murph the Surf” gang, named after Jack Murphy, the leader. Jack got all the press; they even made a movie about him. But there were two leaders of that gang. The other was Bobby Greenwood, Terry’s old man. You older folks might remember the “Star of India” heist from the New York Museum of Natural History. It was one of the biggest jewel thefts in history. Well, my little love was in on that. The gang all got light sentences because everyone loves a jewel thief. But when they got out and reassembled, they went crazy. No need to go into the details here, but it involved murder, and all the men are still in prison. The women, as women did in those days, received lighter sentences. Which was only fair; they had nothing to do with the killings. They just spent the proceeds from those endeavors on furniture.

However, the main reason she would have nothing to do with me was the fact she had a sugar daddy paying her bills. She had three kids from three different men, and I guess it can get scary out there, especially if you’re on parole and all alone in the world. Not to mention the three kids you gotta feed. But I didn’t know any of this at the time. All I knew was that I had the hots for an old broad that wouldn’t give me the time of day.

You’re probably thinking, Where the hell is Joanie in all of this? Be patient, my friends. There would have been no Joanie’s Adventure if not for Terry.

I’ll spare you the details on how I won Terry’s heart and got her to throw over the sugar daddy in favor of me. And no, I did not take up the slack. As I’ve told you, I didn’t know there was any slack to be taken up. She had not lied to me about where she worked and once I knew where to find her, it was only a matter of time before she was mine.

All right, now we can get down to the nitty gritty. Terry and I got hot and heavy, and eventually I got to know “associates” of hers from the old days. These were second-tier members of the gang. At the time all the shit went down, they were young. But when I met them they were Terry’s age and just getting out of prison.

Back at that time, almost everyone was smuggling marijuana into South Florida, even the “good old boys” on the west coast: shrimpers, fishermen, and the like. They referred to the bales of pot as “square grouper.” That is where Sonny, an old friend of Terry’s, was based out of; he had done eight of a twenty-year sentence. So, Sonny and the others guys fell right into the smuggling thing. And they’re making money hand over fist with nowhere to put it. That’s where I came in. They thought my business was just the place to invest some of their ill-gotten gains.

Now I’ve got these wise guys as partners. And I have to admit; as far as partners went, they weren’t too bad. Every Saturday, another briefcase of cash was flung onto my desk. It got so I told them enough already. I remember one Saturday I was on my boat because I was trying to avoid that week’s stipend. Well, ol’ Butch tracks me down and says, “What’s wrong with me? Why won’t you take my money?”

I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, so I said, “Okay, Butch, just this one time.”

And with that, he tosses me a brown paper bag and says, “Here’s fifty large ($50,000.00). Thanks for taking it.”

“Don’t worry about it; maybe you can do me a favor someday.”

They were bringing pot in every week. They had a squadron of boats that would go out and pick the stuff up from the “beaner” boats. A beaner boat was what brought the stuff up from Colombia. It was a square-hulled thing with a wheelhouse big enough for only one man.

I may have given you the wrong impression about the time line. It wasn’t until two years into my relationship with Terry that I got hot and heavy with the “boys.” By then Terry was living in Los Angeles. I had opened an office out there and rented an apartment. Once there, Terry went Hollywood on me and refused to come back to Miami. So I left her butt out there. She was having a ball; she had hooked up with an old girlfriend, a “fence.” You know, someone who buys stolen goods. She sold me a diamond ring I wanted for Terry, three carats. Got it for $1,000.00! One time, Terry and I were fighting and she took the ring off and threw it at me. I just picked it up, put in my pocket, and said thank you. You should have seen the look on her face. Well, being the sport that I am, I gave it back to her. It never left her finger after that.

Now I can bring Joanie back on stage. As I’ve said, Sonny had a squadron of boats bringing the stuff in, but they were all small speedboats. I don’t think there was one over thirty feet.

The thing is, more pot was coming up from Colombia than they could bring in. And anything not off-loaded to a boat for the run into Miami was tossed overboard. Millions of dollars’ worth of pot was thrown into the Atlantic. The beaners only brought the pot one-way. There were no round trip tickets for the bales of marijuana.

So one day, Sonny comes up to me and says, “I just found out you know how to sail. Want to make a run and pick up a load for me? I’ll pay you $50,000.00, and you can be the foreman of the off-loading crew for another $25,000.00. You won’t have to do any work, just watch the boys and keep ’em working.”

I sure as hell didn’t need the money, but I was a junkie for adventure, so I said, “Sure, why not?”

As usual, there was a catch. We needed a large sailboat. I had sold mine a few years earlier, so what to do? It was then that I thought of Joanie. I told Sonny that I knew a woman that was sort of a yacht broker and maybe she could find a sailboat to meet our needs. He said, “Get her. I’ll pay her anything as long as we have a boat within forty-eight hours.”

Long story short, Joanie got us the boat. This is significant because it was the introduction of Joanie to smuggling. But I’ll come back to her in a minute. I’m sure you guys want to hear all about my first smuggling run.

The next day, I went and picked up this beautiful forty-five-foot cruising sloop that Joanie had chartered for a week. I was given coordinates on a chart (this was before GPS) and told to be at that exact location at sundown the next day. It’s a ten to twelve hour trip if I have a moderate wind.

I get my mate, a young kid. Listen to me, a “young kid.” I was twenty-eight, and he was twenty-two. We got going at first light. We didn’t want to be late for our first date.

No one told me much of anything, just go to point “A,” be there at a specific time, get the shit, and come back. Simple, no? Simple, yes. But when I get to Point “A,” there are twelve or thirteen other boats hangin’ out at the same spot. And sundown was only a half hour away. Well, I needn’t have worried. They were there for the same reason I was, which very shortly became self-evident. I don’t know how someone sitting in Miami and someone out on the Atlantic can coordinate things so perfectly, but forty-eight hours previously, Sonny told me that the little beaner boat would arrive at point “A” at sundown, and by God, so it did. As soon as it arrived, the other boats got in a line. Because my boat was the largest, I guess I just knew intuitively that I should be at the back of the line.

You know what the scene reminded me of? A checkout line at the grocery store. Here we were, fourteen boats all lined up waiting to be checked out. There were two guys on the beaner boat. One passing bales to the crew of the boat that was alongside of it at the moment, and the other guy, with a clipboard, keeping a tally of how many bales each boat took on board. Man, these guys had it down to a science.

After a little while, our turn came. My mate was down below, and as the beaner guy handed me a bale, I would hand, toss, or throw it down to him. In a very short time, we were filled to the gunwales with bales of marijuana. I couldn’t even stick my hand down below, and still they were throwing bales at us. I ordered my mate to get the bales off the deck and heave them overboard. As we cast off, I shouted to the guy with the clipboard, “Keep those bales I just tossed on your tally and I’ll …” that’s all I got out. We were then too far away for him to hear me. As we headed east, I saw the beaner guys heaving what remained of their cargo into the dark waters of the nighttime Atlantic.

We came in the next morning to Dinner Key Marina. All we had to do was tie her up, walk away, and make a phone call. She was now someone else’s problem.

I received my $75,000.00 a few days later in a brown paper bag. To tell the truth, I would have made the run for nothing. The money was a bore. I threw the bag into my bedroom closet and forgot about it.

After that, Joanie and Sonny became fast friends. She started getting him big boats so nothing would have to be thrown overboard. The boats, however, were motor yachts, not my cup of tea. I made a few more runs using different sailboats that Joanie dug up for me, but to be honest, once you do it, everything else is anticlimactic. So now that Sonny and Joanie had things under control, I went back to my sedate life of trying to get laid as much as possible.

There is one last thing I’d like to tell you about before we move on to the story I promised at the beginning of this yarn. As I’ve told you, Sonny’s organization was bringing up more pot than they could get into Miami. Well, other organizations were running into the same problem, so bales started to stack up on various islands in the Bahamas. Sonny had his way of doing things; meeting the beaners, and running in at night. But other guys would bring the shit up from Colombia and use the Islands as a staging area. There were tons and tons of the stuff sitting on various islands just waiting to be brought in, but there were not enough boats or more aptly, not enough big boats available to get the job done. And because of this problem, a phenomenon took place that marked the beginning of the end of the cowboy smuggler days and the rise of the bloody years of the early ’80s.

What started to happen was that a few Bahamians got the bright idea of hijacking boats to bring the stuff in. And they weren’t nice about it either. When they would see a boat that caught their fancy, and it was usually a sailboat, they’d simply murder whoever was on board and throw the bodies overboard. Then they would load her up, make the run into Miami, and abandon the boat there.

To illustrate what I’m talking about, I’ll tell you of two incidents that happened to people of Sonny’s organization. One of those people was me; the other, a guy I knew pretty well and liked a lot.

I think it was on my third run that I ran into some minor trouble. It could have been worse if not for the fact that Sonny had all his crews carry at least one fully automatic M-16 machine gun on board. It was for defense only. Yeah, Sonny was a gangster, but he had a good heart. He didn’t want any of his people harmed. We were told to use the guns only in self-defense. “Firing at the US Coast Guard does not constitute self-defense,” he told us on more than one occasion.

First my story, though there’s not much to tell. We were sailing out to meet a beaner when a speedboat came out of the east at a full throttle, heading right for us. I turned the helm over to my mate and picked up the binoculars lying on the seat next to me. What I saw was a boat full of men, maybe five or six, and one of them had a rifle in his hand. So I went below and broke out the gun, went back up on deck, and awaited the inevitable. I kept the gun on the seat; I didn’t want them to see it just yet.

When they got to within a hundred yards of us, they started to circle the boat, getting closer all the time. The fellow that had been holding the rifle now had his hands free. We were both keeping our little surprises secret. One of the men waved to us in a friendly fashion. I let them get to within twenty or twenty-five yards and then I picked up the gun and gave them a spurt right across the bow. I aimed low, and then I raked the water with a second burst not five feet from their boat. I could have sunk them if I wanted to. After my little show of force, I pointed the gun right at their stunned faces. As I’ve said, there isn’t much to tell. They turned the boat around and hightailed it out of there as fast as they had come.

The second story is tragic. My friend, Jess, and his mate were anchored off Eleuthera, by Rock Sound, when they were boarded in the night. They had been asleep in their bunks, but before they knew it, three men were standing over them with guns in their hands. They were told to go up on deck, where they were separated. The mate was marched to the bow and Jess was told to sit down in the cockpit. They then put a bullet in the mate’s head and his body dropped overboard. One of the men kept a gun pointed at Jess, while the other two made ready to get underway. One brought up the anchor, and the other started the engine.

The three men were in high spirits, laughing and joking among themselves. After about half an hour they pulled into a little cove. In this cove was a downed plane. It had been a single engine job and its tail was sticking up out of the water. In fact, that was all that was visible of it. The plane was about 300 yards from shore. Because of the draft of the sailboat, the men transferred Jess to the small boat they had used to get out to Jess’ boat. One of them brought him over to the plane and told him to get on the tail. And there they left him, laughing uproariously as they departed.

Jess was stunned to say the least. He had just seen his friend murdered, and now here he was perched on the tail of a downed plane in the middle of the night. He sat there for about five minutes before getting his wits back. He figured he’d just swim to shore. What he would do after that, he did not know, he knew only that he wasn’t going to spend the night on a goddamn tail of an airplane. Just as he was about to jump into the water, he saw a fin slicing the surface, then another, and another. The whole lagoon was teeming with sharks. It, as he learned later, was their hangout. That’s why the bastards were laughing as they left him. In fact, that’s why they didn’t outright kill him. He was to be their evening’s sport. Jess stayed on that tail for a day and a half before someone happened along and rescued him.

Well, I’ve stalled long enough. I reckon I’m going to have to tell you guys my best Joanie story. I have a lot of them, but I think you will agree with me that this one takes the cake.

Okay, where were we? Oh yeah, Joanie’s running all over creation getting boats for Sonny and his crews. In the course of all that running around, she encountered one Arimus Neely. We just called him Neely. Neely was the head honcho of West End. West End is on the island of Grand Bahama, and as its name implies, it’s at the west end of the island. Neely had found some boats for Joanie or vice versa. They were both scoundrels, and so they hit it off right away. I don’t get into other people’s business, so I didn’t know the man as this story opens.

Joanie gets a call from Neely, telling her that a plane has crashed on his island and it had one hundred-fifty footballs in it. He makes no mention of the pilot, and Joanie later told me she didn’t want to know any details. She wasn’t sure the whole crashed-plane story was even true. Football was the term used for kilos of cocaine. These packages were tightly wrapped in plastic, I mean tight, and had the same shape and size of a football.

Believe it or not, Ronald Reagan has a part in this story; we’ll get to him in a minute. On the particular day Joanie received Neely’s call, cocaine was selling for $45,000.00 a kilo. He told her he’d sell her all she wanted at $15,000.00 per kilo. He asked her to fly over; he’ll show her the goods, and let her take one back to help work up some customers in the States. Joanie is salivating at the thought of a $30,000.000 profit per kilo.

Joanie was a tough old broad, but even tough old broads don’t go into something like that unless they can bring along an asshole to take a bullet for them. So guess which asshole she chooses to take along with her? If you said Andrew Joyce, you are correct. She called me up and told me the score, and seeing as how I hadn’t done anything stupid for at least a week, I agree to go along for the ride. Ride hell! I ended up being the goddamn driver, mechanic and chief bottle washer of the whole fuckin’ mess. And mess it did turn out to be.

Joanie and I were not the kind of people to own a private plane, even though we could afford to. No, we just leased one. So we called our pilot and told him, “Drunk or not, meet us at the airport, we got shit to do.” He was used to us by now, and the fact that we paid him three times the going rate for pilots made him very good at not asking questions and keeping his mouth shut.

I wish I had known what I was getting myself into when I stepped onto the plane that godforsaken day. If you believe in Karma, this episode was my payback for a lot of things.

Joanie and I lived on Miami Beach, but we flew out of Fort Lauderdale. There was a reason for that, and I’ll fill you in on it later, but right now, I’d like you to meet Neely.

Joanie and I hop in a cab. When we got to the airport, Frank, our pilot, was revving up the plane. When he saw us, he stepped out of the plane and opened the door for Joanie. Of course, I take advantage of his courtesy and scramble in after her.

The next thing you may be interested in was our landing on West End. First of all, I was amazed that West End even had a landing strip. There really is nothing there, but being able to fly into West End did save a lot of wear and tear on my butt. I ended up flying over there a lot because the only other airfield was in Freeport, an hour’s drive away.

The “landing field” was basically a road built on a spit of land. If it was larger, it could have been called a peninsula. It jutted out into the Atlantic; there was water on both sides of the runway, and no windbreaks, which factors into our story.

The day we picked to make our grand entrance onto West End was one of the windiest days in recent memory, except for hurricanes, of course. Frank made three passes and couldn’t get us down because of the crosswind. He informed us, “I’ll give it one more shot, but if I can’t get us down, we’ll have to go back to Fort Lauderdale.”

I thought, Great, I’ll make it home in time to hit a little nightlife.

Joanie just set her jaw and looked unhappy. Neither one of us said a word. After the fourth pass, and I got to admit that one was a lulu, the wind caught the left wing and lifted it forty degrees. I thought the plane was going to flip, Frank said, “Let’s pack it in, we can come back tomorrow.”

That’s when Joanie said her first words of the entire flight, “Frank honey, you like your job, don’t you?” She did not give him a chance to respond before continuing with, “If you still want to have it tomorrow, you’ll get this motherfuckin’ plane on the ground now.” Oh, I forgot, that is what Joanie was famous for. People from throughout South Florida knew her as “That Salty-Tongued Redhead.” She had a mouth on her that made me, and any ten sailors, look like Sunday school teachers. And that’s going some.

Frank turned to me, like I’m supposed to be the level-headed one, but if I were so smart, I wouldn’t be in the goddamn plane to begin with. Hell, I’d been in bed with the sweetest little thing when Joanie called. The poor girl was still on my boat awaiting my return. I was on Frank’s side Let’s go home already! But all I could do was shrug my shoulders, put my thumb out in my old hitchhiking way, and point it towards Joanie. It was my way of saying to Frank, You want to fuck with her, then be my guest, but leave me the fuck out of this conversation. I think Frank got the message, because he said, “Okay, one more time, and if we can’t make it, you won’t have to fire me. I’ll quit.”

Well, I guess you can figure out for yourselves that we made it down in one piece. Once the plane came to a stop, Joanie patted Frank’s shoulder and said, “That’s a good boy. You see? That wasn’t so hard.”

Frank looked at her, and the look said, You’re lucky you pay me so much, you dumb bitch. He then looked at me as if to say, You wanna make somethin’ outta it, asshole?

Who me? I’m just along for the ride.

So now that we’ve gotten to the West End in one piece, we sent Frank on his way. It was no use keeping him around; we were going to be there for a couple of days.

Finally, I get to meet the infamous Neely. He had expected us and was waiting at the airstrip. I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, but I’ve refrained from giving physical descriptions of the participants in this tale. Well, that’s going to change now. Neely I will describe. I want you to know what I saw as I stepped off the plane.

The man standing and smiling at us was about forty-five years old. He was a little on the plump side, but not fat. He was black, of course, as all Bahamians are. He stood about 5’ 10”, and had the biggest damn smile I’ve ever seen on another human being. Maybe it was just those white teeth set against that black face. I later found out that the smile was his stock-in-trade. That’s what con men do; they make you like them so they can take you for everything you’re worth.

After the introduction, the handshake with me, and the hug with Joanie, we were ushered to his waiting car and driven to his restaurant/bar. Don’t be impressed. It was a small cinder block building painted bright pink. I can’t remember if there was a separate color for the trim, but if there was, I’m sure that it was green. The front door stood wide open, and we walked through it into a small room with a bar against the far right-hand side. The rest of the space was taken up with tables, maybe twenty in number. Oh yeah, there was a lazy overhead fan that made one revolution every two or three years.

Neely brought us over to the bar and asked me if I’d like a drink. I kinda wanted to keep my head clear because, after all, I was riding shotgun for Joanie. So I said, “A beer would be nice.” Then I was asked if I’d like something to eat. Now ya talkin’, Neely, my man, were the first thoughts to go through my head, but aloud I said, “Yes, please.” As my food was being prepared, Neely took Joanie over to a table where they sat in heated discussion for about twenty minutes. I finished my seafood-whatever-it-was with beans and rice at about the same time they stood and returned to the bar.

Joanie informed me that Neely was going to drive us into Freeport and put us up at a hotel. When Neely left us for a moment, she leaned into me and said, “Be cool, Andrew, I’ve got it under control, just follow my lead; I’ll fill you in when we get to the hotel.”

Like I gave a shit. I was there to make sure no harm befell Joanie; I could care less what she had under control. Boy, did that broad suck me in … hook, line, and sinker. Before this whole mess was over, it would be my shit to “get under control.”

So, once again into the breech. We piled into Neely’s car for the excruciating ride into Freeport. The road was a two-lane affair cut through the mangroves. As boring mile after boring mile passed, I thought, Who were the first guys to cut this road? It must have been a bitch. Then I looked over at Neely and thought, Oh, right. Slaves. Just as the modern-day smuggler used the Bahamas for a staging area to make runs into the states, so did the slavers of old. That is why every country in the Caribbean is populated mostly by blacks.

We get ensconced at the best hotel (like there’s a difference) in Freeport. We got separate rooms, not only separate, but on different floors. No, we did not do it that way because we feared not being able to control our ardor for one another—Jesus Christ, by now Joanie was more of a buddy to me than Henry—it was because they were the only rooms available.

I won’t bore you with my escapades of that night. The next morning, bright and early, about 10 a.m. Joanie called down to my room and told me that Neely was on the way, so I better get my ass up there right away.

The phone had awakened my bunkmate. She sleepily looked up at me, and goddamn! what will power I had to muster not to let those blue eyes suck me right back into bed for the rest of the day. Instead, I told her I would see her later. She raised herself on one arm and said, “But I’m going home today. Want my phone number?”

“I sure as hell do. Leave it on the table. I really gotta go now; you were somethin’ else last night. Let yourself out, and I’ll call you in a few days. Maybe I’ll fly up and take you out to dinner.” I would have too, but for the fact I lost the damn phone number. If you are reading this, and you know who you are, that is the reason I never called.

When I got up to Joanie’s room, Neely was already there. He had brought one football with him. While waiting for me to arrive, Joanie had told Neely that I was part of the deal, and that he could speak in front of me. Actually she need not have bothered because by the time I got there they had worked everything out between the two of them.

As soon as Neely left, Joanie filled me in on the deal. She was going to use the football Neely gave her for samples to show the quality of the product to work up customers back in Miami. I said, “That’s fine, but how the hell are you gonna get it to Miami?”

“We’re going to smuggle it in on our bodies.”

Okay wait—time out. There are a few things you have to know before we go any further. Remember I told you we flew out of Fort Lauderdale for a reason? Well, as you might have surmised, it had to do with smuggling; not drugs, but emeralds. To make a long story short, we had established contacts in Colombia, and these people would bring the emeralds up to the Islands where we would meet them and take possession of the stones. We, and by we, I mean Joanie and I, in turn would secrete them on our bodies and fly into Fort Lauderdale. We used Fort Lauderdale because of the customs setup. There was a separate Customs office in which you would pass through when you flew in on a small private plane. It wasn’t near the terminal. It was a little building out at the far edge of the airport; usually manned by two guys.

We liked Fort Lauderdale because the Customs guys were big football fans. We always scheduled our returns to coincide with the Sunday games. The Customs men didn’t like being pulled away from their TV set when it was third and nine, so we were always waved through without an inspection, which is the way we planned it. And it didn’t hurt that Joanie looked the part of a lady of distinction. She always, and I mean always, wore expensive clothes, never any jeans, or stuff like that; always slacks and a blouse, and lots of jewelry.

By the way, you might be wondering where was Henry in all of this. Two things about that. One, Henry didn’t have the balls to jaywalk. He had a healthy respect—no, fear would be closer to the truth—of the law. Joanie and I had been playing these games for a couple of years by the time this story takes place. And in all that time when it came time to “go to work,” Henry would disappear. He wasn’t even involved, but he didn’t want to be around when the cops came breaking down doors. And the second reason he is nowhere to be found in this tale is that Joanie had shipped him out to California. More on that later.

Okay, where was I? Right! Joanie was telling me her brilliant plan on how we’re going to smuggle drugs into the United States of America, secreted on our bodies. Now it’s one thing to bring in a ton of pot on a sailboat. It’s a big ocean; you’ve got the percentages on your side. And it’s one thing to smuggle emeralds into the country; if you’re caught, you probably wouldn’t even get jail time. But, to be in a small room with nowhere to run, with men whose sworn duty is to arrest people like you, and be loaded down with a Class A drug is a bit much. At least for me.

And that’s exactly what I told Joanie. Her response was, “There’s a box of baggies over there. Break open the football and start filling them.”

“Shit!” was the only thing I could think of to say at the moment. But I did as ordered. It didn’t mean I was going along with her crazy scheme, but to keep her from harping on me, I filled the goddamn bags, each one about half full. I think I got sixteen or something like that, I really don’t remember the exact number, but it looked like a lot of shit to try to hide on just two people. Correction—one person. I’d be goddamned if I was going to walk through Customs carrying even one of those damn bags.

Well, guess what asshole carried half the bags through Customs later that day? Joanie reminded me it was Sunday and there were going to be some good games on later. That didn’t sell me, but when she ripped off her shirt and started shoving baggies of cocaine into her bra, it kind of made me feel like a pussy; so I started shoving some into my boots. I wore cowboy boots in those days. Joanie was a big-breasted woman, her bra was already full, but she filled it up even more. Then she started shoving the shit down her pants. Jesus Christ! When she had finished, I said, “For God’s sake, woman, put your shirt back on and let’s go get drunk because that’s the only way I’m doin’ this.”

“Sure, Andrew dear, just let me first call Frank. I want to get in during the first half of the Jets game.”

I got my drunk on, but it was the usual breeze through Customs. We gabbed a cab and headed for Miami with a kilo of cocaine on us, a commitment to buy one hundred forty-nine more, and not the faintest idea of who we (notice how it now has become “we” all of a sudden) were going to sell the first ounce to, let alone one hundred fifty kilos.

This is where I wanted to tell you about my anticipated homecoming. How the little lady was still in bed waiting for me, and how she helped me off with my boots and we climbed into bed for some recreational sex, but no, straight to business. Joanie was hell bent on getting this enterprise going. She followed me to my boat, came aboard uninvited, and said, “You got a girl here?”

“Maybe, what’s it to you?”

“Well, get rid of her. We gotta talk. And besides, you’re gonna be too busy for the next few days to even think about getting laid. Where is she? I’ll get rid of her, probably in your bed, you pervert.”

“I got a better idea. Seeing as how I’ll get no goddamn peace until I hear what you’ve got to say, let’s go over to your boat; and we’ll leave the little lady alone. Okay?”

“‘Little lady’ my ass! Knowin’ you, she’s probably a filthy whore.”

From the bedroom upstairs came this not-so-soft refrain, “I heard that, you bitch!”

I figured that was a good time to leave. “Come on, big mouth, let’s split,” was what I had to say to Joanie. And to my love upstairs, I said, “Be right back, honey. Keep your motor runnin’.”

We had no sooner walked through Joanie’s door when she said, “Who the hell are we gonna sell this shit to?”

I told her to calm down, and asked her, “When did I become a partner?”

“Andrew darling, I thought you knew from jump that you were in this with me.”

“Bullshit, Joanie. If you didn’t need me to help you peddle the shit, you would have paid me off with a beer and sent me on my way a long fuckin’ time ago, so don’t bullshit me, darlin’.

You got to hand it to Joanie; she could roll with the punches. “Okay, asshole, you’re a fuckin’ partner now. I got the shit, you sell the shit. Comprende?”

There was not a soul I knew who could move that much coke. Even Sonny’s connections were for pot only. This is where Terry comes back into the story. I told you at the beginning of this mess that there wouldn’t be a story if not for Terry. She was the connecting fiber throughout this adventure. And true to form, she’s back.

But, as usual, I’ve got to set it up for you. Terry knew all the big-time gangsters in and around Miami. She, after all, had made her “bones.” She took eleven years (and with three kids to boot), rather than rat out members of her gang. In certain circles, she commanded a lot of respect.

When it came to big-time gangsters, there was none bigger than John Anderson. I know it isn’t your typical gangster name, but then again, John was not your typical gangster. He had his fingers in every pie from Miami to California. And I mean every pie! There was not anything this guy was not into.

Okay, now you gotta know that, by this time, Terry and I had been splitsville for a year or two. We’d run into each other on occasion, and when we did, we’d fuck like rabbits, but that’s all. She was out of my life.

But going back three years … Terry asked for a ride to a friend’s apartment; it was the first time I ever heard the name John Anderson. This man was so heavy—and by heavy I’m not talkin’ weight, I’m talkin’ influence—he never had to leave his apartment. People came to him, and he conducted all his business from his bedroom. If fact, he never left his bed. Hugh Hefner had nothing over this guy.

Of course, I could not go up to his place. Very few people were granted an audience with the great man. If anyone tried to get through that front door uninvited, they’d get a bullet in the head for their trouble. It had happened on occasion. But John lived in the city of North Miami, a small enough city where the cops that mattered were on his payroll. If someone was shot at his front door, it was a simple case of “Home Invasion”, the man was within his rights. That was the conclusion of the police investigation, first time, every time.

Anyway, when we get to John’s place, I’ve got to sit downstairs like a schmuck. After about twenty minutes, I got tired of waiting, so I split. I don’t care how much I’m in love with you, you leave me hangin’, there’s gonna be some words about it.

Well, she never left me downstairs again. Because of her name in the community, she was allowed to bring her young lover up on her next visit to John Anderson’s apartment. That is how I met John. And I want to say right now and right here, I have never met a finer gentleman. I loved John Anderson. Not at first, of course, but for some unknown reason he took to me. Pretty soon I was going over there without Terry, and when Terry and I finally broke up for good, I was more welcomed there than she was.

Fast forward, back to the present: A light bulb goes off over my head. Fuck! John Anderson! He could move the entire one hundred and fifty in a day if he wanted to. I tell Joanie not to come just yet, but I might have a way to unload the shit in one fell swoop. But I think she’s already havin’ her fuckin’ orgasm.

John was a night guy. Things didn’t start poppin’ at his place until midnight at the earliest. But I wanted to catch him before the crowd showed up. When I left Joanie, it was about 6:00 p.m., which meant I had at least three hours to kill before I could call John and ask if it was all right to come over. No matter how close one was to John, one never showed up without calling first.

Seeing as how What’s Her Name waited patiently for me for two days, I figured I could give her at least the next three hours. You wouldn’t be interested in what transpired. So let’s move on to my meeting with John.

I called him at about 9:30 and asked if it was okay to come over, I had something I wanted to talk to him about. As usual he said, “Sure, but stop off at the Chinese joint and get me a bucket of Won Ton.” That’s how John fed himself. If you wanted to come over, you had to first stop off and get whatever held his fancy at the moment you were speaking to him. That night it was Won Ton soup. Before leaving the marina, I went over to Joanie’s and picked up one of the baggies of cocaine so John could test the product.

I got over to John’s about 10:30, and no one else was there except for these two girls. They’re sitting on the floor next to his bed and he’s reading to them from Homer’s The Odyssey. John was always trying to improve his girlfriends’ minds. That’s why he and I got along so well. We were both voracious readers of books. We would sit for hours discussing Mailer, Tolstoy, and—a favorite of ours—Steinbeck. I introduced him to an out-of-print book by Jack London entitled The Jacket (Star Rover). It is one the most mind-blowing books I have ever read. I gave him my original copy, and he told me that after reading it, he almost called me and said, Who do you want killed? I love this book. So you can see why John and I hit it off.

When I came in … oh, there was a third girl there, she’s the one who let me in, and took the soup from me. I guess John had her well trained because she went right to the kitchen and started preparing John’s repast for the evening.

So, as I was saying, I walked into the room, and John looked up and said, “Hey, Captain, let me eat, then we’ll talk. I want to finish the part about Ulysses being lashed to the mast so he won’t succumb to the Siren’s song.” I could tell the girls didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. One had a look on her face that said, Siren, you mean like on an ambulance?

John ate, got rid of the girls, and we got down to business. I gave him my sample baggie, and he did the usual … a taste, a snort, and then he got out the chemicals. Or more to the point, I got out the chemicals. John did not leave his bed unless he had to; and as long as I was there to root around his closet and get the damn shit, he was stayin’ in bed. The stuff did as it was supposed to; it turned a nice bright blue color when the proper chemical was applied.

When John was satisfied the shit was pure, we agreed on a price of $40,000.00 per. I liked John, so I gave him break. Fuck Joanie, if she didn’t like it. Let her go out and find her own buyer.

The upshot was John would take all I could deliver, but only six at a time. He said he didn’t like keeping a lot of product around the house. He had the locals in his pocket, but there was always the Feds to worry about.

Now that we had a supply and a buyer, the only other thing we had to do was get the shit over to Miami. No sweat, right? Shit, no sweat! Now it’s time to tell you why Henry was cooling his heels in Los Angeles.

At the beginning of this tale, I told you Joanie was either very understanding, long-suffering or both. She knew all about Henry’s screwin’ around. She even knew about his bus stop shenanigans and joked about it with me. But she was now in her mid-forties, and something came over her. She fell in love. The guy she picked to fall in love with was a cat my age. (Good for her!) And being the smart old broad that she was, she got Henry out of town by letting him think it was his idea to go and visit old friends in California. This is very important, so pay attention. It was the fact that Joanie was in love that got me arrested. It was because Joanie was in love that the ball of yarn that was our little venture started to unravel. Don’t get me wrong, Joanie was the smartest woman I’ve ever known, but you know the old saying about men who think with the wrong “head”? Well, Joanie started thinking with either her heart, or maybe with something a little lower, but whichever it was, it didn’t go well with drug smuggling. This was a new Joanie to me. Men were always coming on to her, but she’d laughed at them. Not to their faces, of course, but she would tell me of the inept, as well as the dexterous, passes made at her. Her thinking had always been that the energy expounded in getting laid would be put to better use making money.

Okay. We’ve got that out of the way; Joanie’s in love. Now on to the problem of getting the shit to Miami. Somehow the problem became mine, and mine alone. I sure as hell wasn’t going to fly it in and go through Customs again. So I prevailed upon Joanie to get her head out of the clouds for a few minutes, and get me a goddamn boat. Well, the easiest way to do that was to call Neely and have him supply us with one, which is what she did.

I grabbed my mate from the old pot smuggling days, called our pilot, and flew over to West End. Neely met us, and took us to his goddamn bar again. For some fuckin’ reason, he just couldn’t have the footballs there waiting for me. No, it had to be a big production. He wanted the money first, then he would return with the footballs. Every time I handed him $90,000.000 (for six footballs at $15,000.000 each), I expected never to see him again. But this was the first time, and Joanie said he could be trusted.

We got the footballs and Neely gave us the loan of a twenty-eight foot speedboat. My mate and I made the run, and pulled up right next to my houseboat. That was run number one. I brought the stuff to John, got my $240,000.00, and everyone was happy. The next time we don’t fly to West End, we take Neely’s boat. West End from Miami is about a two and a half hour run each way.

I do this shit three more times. Then I got arrested. I’ll get to that in a minute. But for those of you out there who might be saying, Why did you buy only six at a time? If you doubled your order, you could have made fewer runs. You know, that is a damn good question. The six limit was my idea. For some unknown reason, and I couldn’t put my finger on it, I didn’t trust Neely. It was obvious he didn’t have possession of the footballs; he was buying them from someone else using our money. And if at some point he decided not to come back with either the money or the footballs, what could I do? It was his turf.

I’m now going to talk about my fourth and final run. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention this, but these runs were taking place every couple of days. By the end of run four, we had amassed $960,000.00. And that was in less than ten days. If you took out our original $90,000.00 investment, and the $40,000.00 we paid my mate for doing nothing more than keeping me company on the runs, that left a net profit of $830,000.00 divided two ways, meant $415,000.000 apiece. Big fuckin’ deal. I was beginning to hate money. I mean, it’s nothing more than paper with green ink on it. The adventure aspect of this enterprise was wearing thin. I had decided that run number four was going to be my last run, no matter how much Joanie screamed and hollered. And you want to know what? It was my last fuckin’ run. The Palm Beach Police Department made damn sure of that.

So my mate and I leave from my houseboat bright and early that fateful day. We get to West End in less than three hours. Of course we have to go through the Neely crap, and wait around for him to do his shit. But eventually things happen and we can get on our way. It’s about 1:00 p.m. and the sun is shining and the birds are singing as we get underway. We’re haulin’ ass across the Gulf Stream with six kilos of cocaine on board when who do we see bearing down on us but the fuckin’ US Coast Guard.

Well, it was easy to outrun them; they were too far away when I first saw them, so I altered my course and headed due east instead of the heading I should have been on, southeast. But because there is this thing called a radio, I thought it prudent to get the shit off the boat as soon as possible. Some fuckin’ copper was going to be waiting for us no matter what inlet we used to get to the Intercoastal Waterway.

The plan was to run onto Palm Beach, drop me off with the footballs and then the mate would continue on back to home base, clean and pristine as a newborn babe. Too bad it didn’t work out that way.

The first fuck up was we brought the boat in too close to shore. Ordinarily that would not have mattered. But that day, of all days, there was a swell, albeit a small one, but just big enough so the boat could not get back out and running. I tried for a moment to push her off, but holding six kilos of cocaine kind of impeded my pushing-off power. I told my mate I would find a phone (this was way before cell phones) and call Joanie, and as soon as she got up there and took the kilos off my hands, then I’d be back to help him get the boat moving again.

Now to the fun part. I’m going to make this as short and concise as I possibly can, which based on my performance so far, may not shorten the story very much at all. It’s painful to relive this portion of my tale, not because of what transpired, but because of my monumental stupidity.

I get to a phone, and get the bitch on the line. Some of you might ask, Why is he calling his partner and friend a bitch? Just hang on, pal, you’ll see. I tell her I need her to come up right away. I’ve got a situation, and I need her. I told her where I was, and she said she was on the way. Now Palm Beach is fifty miles from Miami, and there is an Interstate Highway between the two cities, so it should have taken her, at most, an hour to get there. After an hour and a half, I called her again. Please remember, I hold twenty years in the state pen in my hand as I await the dumb bitch. I get her again; she tells me this time “for real” she’s on her way. Guess what I’m doing another hour and a half later? Right. I’m standing there with my thumb up my ass. I call a third time … you know, the fuckin’ broad still hasn’t left.

I later learned she was having a tête ā tête with her new love. Jesus H. Christ! But she finally showed up four hours later. It took all the willpower in my Irish carcass not to strangle the dumb bitch right then and there. I think the only reason I didn’t was because I needed her to get the footballs out of Palm Beach. And, you know, she had the fuckin’ nerve to bring that fuckin’ asshole she was in love with. He stood there with a shit-eatin’ grin on his puss while I handed the footballs over to Joanie. I could just picture him on the witness stand at my trial.

Sir, will you please tell the court what you witnessed on the day in question?

Yes. I saw the defendant pass a million dollars’worth of cocaine to his co-defendant, that redhead sitting next to him.

Thank you, sir. No further questions.

Yeah, that’s exactly how it was going to go down.

Once I got rid of the footballs and the two assholes that were going to take them back to Miami for me, I turned my attention to helping my mate. This is where the monumental stupidity I spoke of earlier comes in. I go tearing down the beach road, back towards the spot where I left my mate and the boat. There are sand dunes about ten feet high that separate the road from the beach; you can’t see the beach from the road, but I knew right where the boat was. So I leave the road, and it’s up the sand dune, crest the top, and down the other side. As I’m descending the dune, I see the boat; there’s something different about it, but the difference doesn’t register in my brain. And I continue to run toward the boat. My only thought being, My mate needs me.

As I neared the boat, which now is beached, I see three men on it, and they are intent on what they are doing. They seem to be looking for something. The first thing I notice about them is that they all have guns strapped to their hips. So I know right away that they’re cops, even though they are in plain clothes.

Once I get a gander at the guns and know who the men are, I do a U-turn in the sand and start walking down the beach. I walk as if I’m out for an afternoon stroll, no hurry whatsoever. After I get about a hundred yards down the beach, I once again surmount the sand dunes, descend to the other side, and start walking along the road. I’m thinking how cool I am to have gotten away from the cops. I’ll just get a cab and go home. As these nice thoughts are going through my head, a police car pulls up next to me and the officer says, “Get in.” The cops weren’t as dumb as I thought. The guys on the boat must have seen me running toward the them, and then witnessed my abrupt U-turn. They knew the boat was mine and they radioed to their buddy to pick up the asshole walking down A-1-A, which is the name of the beach road.

I don’t ask why he wants me in his car, I don’t try to bluff my way out of anything, I just do as I’m told, and get in his car—back seat, of course. The only thing going through my mind is how fuckin’ lucky I am. Yeah, that’s right, I said lucky. It hadn’t been five minutes since I handed the footballs off to Joanie. Five fuckin’ minutes! If this cop had happened along just six minutes ago, I’d be going to prison for twenty fuckin’ years. Even though I was in the back of a police car and in store for a few hours of bullshit, I was one happy motherfucker.

Look, I knew there was nothing on the boat to cause me grief. My plan was to play innocent. I would tell them I was delivering a boat for a yacht broker, Miss Joan Ruggiero. I would simply tell them the engines conked out, and I had to beach her and go make a phone call. The only thing I was worried about was my mate. What happened to him? Well, I didn’t know it at the time, but he was the only one who showed any brains that day. When I didn’t come right back, he got his ass off the damn boat, got himself a cab, and went home. That’s what I meant about monumental stupidity. When I saw the boat was not going to get past the swells, I should have ordered that the boat be abandoned, and both of us get a cab. I would have been in Miami three hours ago, instead of in the back of a police car.

Now I’ve got to tell you a little bit about the interrogation at the police station. As far as I was concerned, they had me, and could do with me as they pleased. Book me on whatever charges they could dream up. My plan was, as I’ve said, to play dumb. But their game plan was different. They were going to “nice” a confession out of me. A confession to what, they didn’t know. But they were sure I had been up to something, probably smuggling.

So the back and forth began. “What were you doing with the boat?”

“I was delivering it from the Bahamas to Miami for a yacht broker.”

“Why did you beach it?”

“The engines died, I think it ran out of gas. I’m a sailor, I know nothing of engines.”

They thought they had me with this next question. “Well, if you’re so innocent, why did you run when you saw us on the boat?”

Great, I was waiting for this. “I saw your guns, and I didn’t know who you were. I was on my way to call the police when the officer picked me up.”

When they asked their question, they—and there were three of them—leaned forward, anticipating my shuddering non-response. When I gave out with a plausible reason for walking away when I saw them on the boat, you could see the wind being let out of their sails. They leaned back in their chairs in disappointment.

This crap went on for hours. Finally, I said, “Why don’t we call the yacht broker. She’ll confirm my story.” They thought that a capital idea. Now any real investigator would have done that hours ago. This is where things get a little funny. Oh, by the way, they tried to rattle me by telling me they found “traces” of marijuana on the boat, I thought, Wrong drug, boys, but nice try anyway.

Now, to the famous phone call: One of them said, “Sure that’s a great idea, call your yacht broker.” But when I picked up the phone, another one of the cops said, “Wait a minute,” and scrambled out of the room. Man, how obvious can you get? Of course, I had to wait while he got to another phone so he could listen in to my conversation. I even heard him pick up the receiver. You have to know, I wasn’t as cocky then as I may sound writing these words forty years later. I did have one big fear. That fear was that I wouldn’t be able to give Joanie a high sign or a signal of any sort that we had three cops listening in on both sides of our conversation. If she said something stupid, then the game the cops and I were playing would be all over. Cops: 1, Andrew: zip.

Joanie almost blew it. When I got her on the phone and told her I got picked up by the police, and was calling from the police station with two of the officers sitting there with me (hint, hint), she exclaimed, “What? Are you crazy?”

At least she didn’t say, “What, are you crazy, why call me?” Before she could say anything else even remotely stupid, I cut in with, “I was just telling the officers how I was delivering a boat for you.”

I was trying to convey the story line to her, so she could jump in with her own dialogue. Well, to the old broad’s credit, she started to catch my drift and we talked like legit business people, sort of … Joanie was still in shock. Not because I’d been arrested, no. Fuck me! It was because I had brought her into it. Brought her into it! Shit, the only reason I was sitting in the damn police station in the first place was because she thought an afternoon fuck was more important than taking care of business, not to mention taking care of a so-called friend.

I wanted off the phone as fast as possible because I didn’t know what Joanie might say. I’d made my point to the cops, there was a yacht broker, and because it was a woman (this was 1979 after all), there could be nothing nefarious about me. The cops didn’t buy the act completely, so we went around in circles for another hour or so. Finally, one of them said, and I quote, “You’re either the most innocent person we’ve ever had in here, or the smartest, I don’t know which.” I knew I wasn’t innocent, and I surely was not the smartest—perhaps I was just the luckiest.

So they decide to let me go. At least that’s what it looked like, but that wasn’t the case at all. They had a little surprise in store for me, just down the road a bit.

By now, it had gotten dark and it was pouring rain. They told me I was free to go; hell, they even called a cab for me. That should have made me suspicious, but it had been a very long day, and at that point all I wanted was a drink.

They told me I could wait for the cab on the front steps of the station. I had to. It was pouring down rain and the little overhang was the only protection from the wet. As I stood outside their building, oblivious to what was really happening, the cops kept peeking out the window at me, and when I saw them, they would duck back for cover, as if I had caught them doing something wrong.

The cab comes, I get in, and for the first time that day, I can relax. I’m feelin’ pretty good, but I still want that drink, so I say to the driver, “I need a drink. How about pulling in somewhere and I buy you one too?” He declines my kind offer, and for some reason, he seems nervous. Another thing that should have gotten my attention is the fact that I’ve never known a cab driver not to want to stop when asked by a fare. The meter’s running. No cab driver is that well off that they can pass up easy money. But as I’ve said, it had been a very long day, and my mind was mush.

About five minutes later, the driver gets a call over his radio. He mumbles something into the mike and says to me, “I’ll take you up on that drink now.”

My thought was, Good.

So he pulls into the first bar we see, we both get out of the car, and he comes into the bar with me. Another missed sign—he could lose his hack license by being seen in a bar while on duty. But my only thought is of a vodka and cranberry juice, with a lot of lime in it.

I order my drink, and before it’s even made, the fuckin’ cops come storming through the door, guns drawn, and make a beeline right for Yours Truly. Fuck! The cuffs go on and this time there’s no doubt about it. I am arrested and only God and the cops know for what.

Here’s what went down. It seems the cops were dead set on getting me for something. They had nothing, so they thought they’d have to let me go, but as a last ditch effort, they ran the numbers of the engines to see if they might have been stolen. This was before computers, so it was taking a while for the info to get back to them. So they came up with this brilliant plan of sending me on my way, but they would make sure they would be able to grab me with no trouble if the numbers came back as stolen; hence, the offer to call a cab for me. It was all a setup. They had a prearranged code if they wanted the driver to stop, and that’s why the driver was so nervous. For all he knew, he had Jack the Ripper in his back seat. But the crazy thing is, I was in no rush to quit the cops until I had their unqualified blessing. If they had told me they were running the numbers, and would I mind sticking around until they came back, I would have been delighted to wait. But no, these clowns had to stage the “Great Raid.”

The upshot was that one of the engines had been stolen from Jacksonville a year earlier. I was charged with possession of stolen property. Only a fuckin’ misdemeanor! All in all, it had been a good day, except for the fact I didn’t get my vodka and cranberry juice with extra lime. I didn’t get picked up with the footballs, and I was saved from a murder rap because being in jail overnight allowed me to cool down enough so that I wouldn’t kill Joanie on first sight. I bonded out the next morning, and unbeknownst to me, the charge was taken care of by a friend. More on that later.

Well, folks, it looks like it’s getting close to closing time. There’s just a few items remaining on the table that is known as Joanie’s Adventure. Just a few small items, like betrayal, death, murder, a “contract” for murder, and murder once again. I know this story has gone on far too long, longer than I envisioned when I started it, so anyone wanting to leave now, I’ll understand. For the rest of you, this is what happened next:

I got back to my boat the next day about noon, and seeing as how I hadn’t slept in nearly forty-eight hours, I was looking forward to a little sack time—by myself for a change. But it was not to be. Just as I laid my head on that soft, inviting pillow, there was a knock upon my door. For once, I had had the forethought to lock it, so I thought I was safe. Whoever it was would go away eventually, and she, (I had no doubt it was a she) couldn’t get to me because of the locked door. But the fuckin’ knocking continued until I heard the voice of doom, loud and clear, “Andrew Joyce, I know you’re in there, open up. We’ve gotta talk.” Yep, you guessed it. It was fuckin’ Joanie. She was lucky to be alive at this point; man, was she pressing her luck.

Knowing I couldn’t win with this fuckin’ broad, I got out of bed, went downstairs, and yelled through the door, “I’ve got a gun pointed right at the door, heart level … if you don’t get the fuck off my boat in five seconds, I’m gonna open fire.”

My bluff didn’t work. “Fuck you, Mr. Big Fuckin’ Shot. What? Has one lousy night in jail turned you into a fuckin’ gangster?”

“No, but you sure as hell have,” was my reasoned retort.

I knew the dumb bitch would never give me any peace until I heard what inane plan she had cooked up for me this time. “What the hell is it now? You want me help you rob Fort Fuckin’ Knox? No, don’t tell me. It’s gonna be a bank job this time. Or maybe …”

It was there that she said, “Andrew, you’re such a card. You should go on television, you’d be a scream.”

What the hell ya gonna do with a woman like that? You either have to have her killed or you have to shut up and listen to her crazy plan of the week. I chose the latter of the two options—big mistake!

“Okay, you crazy broad, what do you want? And don’t think for one fuckin’ minute I’ve forgotten about yesterday. You owe me, and you owe me big time.”

“Sure, honey. That’s why I’m here, to make it up to you.”

Right then and there, I knew I was in trouble. Anytime Joanie wanted to do you a favor, you could make book you’d somehow come out the loser. I figured the most painless way to hear what she had to say was to let her in, and tell her to make us a couple of drinks. I didn’t know if the sun was over the yardarm yet, but dealing with Joanie sure made it seem that way.

I reluctantly opened the door and admitted my nemesis. After she had made the cocktails and we got comfortable in my living room, she told me of her grand vision.

“You’ve got to get over to John’s right away and give him the six you brought in yesterday. We need the money. Neely just called and said the supply might be drying up, and that we’ve gotta move fast.”

So that’s all it was. Shit, I should have left her outside.

It took a moment for my anger to subside. I had just about had it with Joanie, Neely—especially Neely—and the whole damn shebang. I told Joanie, “Number one, nobody, but nobody calls John before 6:00 p.m. And then it had better be a matter of life and death. Number two, I’ve had it. You can have my cut from this run if you’ll just leave me the fuck alone.”

She only smiled at me, sipped her drink, and said, “How you do go on.”

I should have known better. Nothing was going to dissuade Joanie when there was money to be made. So I said, “Look, let’s make a deal. You tell me what’s it gonna take to get some peace around here. Just tell me the bottom fuckin’ line and I’ll do it, short of making another run. You give me your word you’ll get the fuck out my life, at least business-wise, and I’ll do whatever you say. I’ve never known you to break your word, at least not to me. So, what’s it gonna take, you fuckin’ crazy broad?”

“Okay, I’ll make a deal with you. You don’t want to make another run, that’s fine. I can get Aldo to do it.” (Aldo was my mate’s name. I haven’t used it before because I couldn’t remember it until just now. It came to me as I was remembering this conversation with Joanie.) She continued, “All I need you to do is see John and get the money. Then I need you to fly over to Freeport, give the money to Neely, take the footballs from him, and hold them until Aldo gets there. One night, that’s all. I’ll pay for the best fuckin’ room they got. Then you can retire with my blessing. Is it a deal?”

“Have I got a choice?”

“I’d kiss you if I didn’t think you’d try to fuck me. You’re a sweetheart.”

I asked, “Is that another word for sucker?”

I waited until 9:00 p.m. and then called John. All I said was, “Are you ready for me?”

He knew what I meant, and he responded, “Hey, Captain, where you been? I want to talk to you about this new fuckin’ book I’ve got. Yeah, get your ass over here, but first stop off at Tony Roma’s and get me an order … no, make that two orders of baby back ribs. And two orders of onion rings. Now get moving. I’m hungry and I haven’t had an intelligent conversation in days.”

You want to hear about me getting the ribs? Or should I just get to the part where John has just finished eating, and I, like a good little domestic worker, am clearing up the mess to take it to the kitchen? None of the usual girls were in attendance that evening. In fact, I thought it so strange that he didn’t have his staff on call, I asked him, “Where are the girls?”

“I told them to skedaddle when you called. I want to talk to you. Wait a minute, let me disconnect the phone.”

I’m thinking, Oh shit, I’m in a heap of trouble. That “new book” shit was just to put me off my guard. Some of those footballs must have been bogus.

After he finished messing with the phone, John turned to me and said, “So tell me, Andrew, what are you planning for your life?”

That threw me on many levels. First of all, the entire time I had known John, he had not referred to me by any name other than Captain, and where he got that was a mystery to me. Then for this gangster of gangsters to be asking me a question that bordered on the metaphysical, well, it was a bit much. I could only tell him the truth, “You know, John, I’ve never looked past the next moment, let alone the next forty years. I don’t know what I’ll be doing tomorrow, and as far as the rest of my life is concerned, I’ll worry about that when it gets here.”

He looked kind of sad, shook his head, and said, “All you young guys got the same rap. I don’t suppose it would do any good to tell you that the ride you’re on is not going to last forever. No, I can see it in your face. You, like I was at your age, are immortal.”

This was, to say the least, not our typical subject of discussion, and I felt uncomfortable. In an effort to change the subject, I asked him if he was still in the market for footballs.

“Why do you ask? You said you could get your hands on a hundred and fifty, and I’ve only taken twenty-four. What’s up?”

“Well, John, I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this whole venture. For one thing, I don’t trust the guy we’re buying from; and I’m backing out. My partner is going ahead, and I just thought if you are making good money, I’ll make sure I get all she has and bring them over here.” With that last statement, John threw back his head and laughed so hard I thought he had gone crazy.

“Captain Andy, my dear friend, don’t you know I only agreed to take your product as a way to help you. I’ve got an unlimited supply straight from Colombia. And at a less expensive price, my friend.”

This I did not expect. I thought I was being stand-up, and here it turns out I’ve been the recipient of John’s largess. I didn’t want to, but I had to ask, “You mean you had all the coke you needed and you only took mine as a favor?”

“No, Captain. I took your product as a way of keeping you close. I was afraid you’d go out and try to sell it to someone you didn’t know. And the percentages in that are not good. They would have either been cops or guys out to rip you off, maybe even kill you for it. And if that happened, who the hell would I discuss Dostoevsky with? I would miss you, and so would Fyodor.” He meant, of course, Fyodor Dostoevsky, the Russian novelist.

I gave up; John was light years ahead of me. But there was something I did want to know, so I asked a question I’ve wanted to ask forever, “John, why do you call me Captain?”

He smiled and put his finger to his lips, you know, like, quiet, don’t tell anyone. Then he said, “Do you remember how you got up here in the first place?”

“Yeah, sure. Terry asked you if it was all right if I came up, and you said okay.”

“No, Captain Andy, that is not how it was at all. You were running with someone I had great respect for, and word got back to me long before Terry asked to bring you up here.”

I looked at him and said, “What the hell are you talkin’ about, Johnnie boy?”

“I’m talking about checking out anyone who walks through that front door. About a month before Terry asked if she could bring you up, word got back to me that she was running around with some young asshole. Because of my love for her, I made it my business to find out as much as I could about that young asshole. No offense.”

“It’s cool, John.”

“So I made a few phone calls, and lo and behold, what do you think? I find out that Sonny G. (no last names please) knew you. Well, I called him and asked him to fill me in on Terry’s young asshole. He told me how you, a legit citizen, stepped up when he was having trouble getting his loads in. How, when he asked you to make a run for him, you did not hesitate. In short, he said you were stand-up. I was going to ask Terry to bring you up here anyway, but she asked before I had the chance.”

“Okay, Big John, but why Captain?”

“Oh that. Sonny told me about the sailboats you captained for him. So I always pictured you at the helm of a sailboat. You understand now?”

“Yeah, but why all the Andrew and Andy shit now. I’ve known you for a few years, what’s up?”

He just looked at me and said, “Maybe I’m feeling a little sentimental, who the fuck knows. Let’s talk about this book I’ve just read.”

If I had known that night what I was to learn a few days later, I would not have let him change the subject so adroitly. However, John was a force to be reckoned with. One either went with the flow or one was swept under by the current that was John Anderson.

“Okay, John. I can see you’re dying to tell me about your new find. Let’s have it already.”

“No, Captain, no preamble. I just want your promise—no, your word of honor—that you’ll read it.”

“John, if I tell you I’ll do something, I’ll do it. You don’t need my word of honor … others maybe, but not you.”

“Okay, Andrew, this book is entitled There Is a River. It’s a biography about Edgar Cayce, and before you ask me who the fuck Edgar Cayce is, just read the damn book. Okay?”

“Okay already!”

Just then the intercom from downstairs buzzed. John reached over, pushed the button, and said, “Yes. The phone’s disconnected. That’s okay, come on up.” He turned to me and said it was time to go; he had a meeting. John was always having “meetings,” you know … business. As I turned to go, he asked me to come over to the bed. When I got there, he stuck out his hand. He wanted to shake my hand. Now that was really strange. I’ve known the man almost three years and have never seen him shake anybody’s hand, much less mine. After an initial hesitation, I grabbed his mitt and shook it. I then said good-bye and left.

Two days later, John was murdered in his bed. Shot six times, twice in the head. There had been a “contract” out on him, put there by some New York wise guys. I found out later that he had known about it and decided to do nothing more than sleep with a gun under his pillow. No bodyguards, no extra locks on the doors, nothing. But it explained two things: Him suddenly calling me Andrew instead of Captain, and the hand shake.

One last thing about John Anderson: The day before he died, he pulled some strings and got my possession charge dropped. How the fuck he even knew about it is beyond me. I sure as hell didn’t tell him. I didn’t know about it until a month later when the bail bondsman that sprung me called and told me everything was kosher, thanks to John. You wonder why I loved the man.

Now back to Joanie.

When I got back from John’s that night, it was past midnight. I finally had gotten some sleep after pacifying Joanie by agreeing to fly over and meet with Neely, but I was still worn out from the events of the day before. Hell, I started the day in jail. Midnight was early for me, but I decided to call it a day.

The next morning, I awoke to Joanie standing over my bed, looking down at me. Fuck! I had forgotten to lock the door.

“Rise and shine, sleepy head, it’s a new day.”

“Why don’t you go fuck yourself!”

“If you’ll get your ass up, I’ll think about it.”

“Shit, Joanie, what the fuck do you want, and what time is it?”

“It’s time to get up. Frank is at the airport waiting for you.”

She started right in on me. “You get the money from John? Where is it? Did you count it?” Blah, blah, blah. What a fuckin’ way to wake up! Well, a deal’s a deal. And anyway, this was going to be my last mission for the crazy bitch.

In those days I slept in the nude. And it’s none of your goddamn business how I sleep nowadays. So I’m still in bed with the covers over me, and when Joanie started with her litany of questions, I pulled the sheet up over my head. When she finished her recitation, she reached down and pulled the sheet completely off me. She stood there staring down at Yours Truly in all my glory. She finally said, “I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” before turning, and leaving me with, “Get dressed, I’m driving you to the airport. You got fifteen minutes.”

On the way to the airport, I suddenly remembered my conversation with John of the previous night. The part about him having his own supply. I thought, Great, maybe I can get out of this trip. So I told Joanie that we no longer had John for a customer. And of course, I had to explain the whys and the wherefores—the whole fuckin’ thing, even though it was none of her business.

But it did not deter her, no, not Joanie. If there was money to be made, she just had tunnel vision. I tried to explain to her that she didn’t have a ghost of a chance of moving six kilos. That’s when she said, “I don’t plan on moving six kilos. I plan on moving eighteen. I’m giving you $270,000.00; you tell Neely you want eighteen.”

I thought her desire to give more than a quarter of a million dollars to a man I did not trust was the second case of monumental stupidity I’d encountered in the last forty-eight hours, my own case of monumental stupidity being the first.

I explained to her, “Neely’s buying the footballs with our money. It’s obvious that his supplier does not trust him for even an hour with six footballs, and you want me to turn over $270,000.000 of your not-so-hard-earned money to the man?” Nothing. I could have gotten more conversation from the Sphinx.

The “I don’t trust Neely” thing didn’t work, so I played my last gambit. “You know, Joanie, I was talking to John a couple of weeks ago, and he said his people in Colombia tell him that, because of Reagan’s stepped-up drug war, no one is bringing up pot anymore. He said the thinking is why take a chance with fifteen boats to run it in, when you can make the same money, or more, with a small package and just one boat. And you know what that means?” I didn’t wait for an answer before continuing, “It means the market is going to be flooded and the prices are going to drop.”

I might as well have saved my breath; she was oblivious to anything I said that involved her buying less then eighteen kilos. By the way, just for the record, John was right on. Within a month, the price of a kilo of cocaine dropped from $45,000.00 to $18,000.00, thanks to Ronald Reagan.

I get to Freeport, check in at the hotel, and meet Neely at about 6:00 p.m. He takes the money and tells me he’ll see me in the morning. “In the fuckin’ morning? Are you shittin’ me, Neely? What the fuck are you talkin’ about?”

“This time I’ve got to go a long way, and I won’t be back until morning.”

Then I did the first smart thing I’d done in days. I thought, Fuck it. It’s Joanie’s money, I tried to warn her. So I said to Neely, “See ya in the morning, now get the fuck out of here. I’ve got to get ready for a night on the town.”

Because of Neely’s bullshit, I found myself stuck in goddamn Freeport for the night. A tourist trap if I’ve ever seen a tourist trap. The only thing to do is go downstairs and either get drunk or go into the casino. Then I remembered I could do both.

I get to the casino, and as I’m walking by the bar, I notice this stunning redhead. She’s by herself, and dressed in black, in what they used to call a mini-skirt. You know, the hem came to about mid-thigh. Well, as I approached her, I can’t help but notice she’s checking me out. That made us even, because I was checking her out. But I wasn’t in town to play around. I wanted to play blackjack. My mother taught the game to me when I was five years old, and played it with my brothers and me until we became wise-ass teenagers. The point being, that having learned the game from such a tender age, I was able to keep track of most of the cards that had been played. I wasn’t a “card counter,” but pretty close to it.

As I got even with the redhead, she stood and blocked my progress. She made it look accidental, but I was flattered and decided to alter my plans. With my best gentlemanly manner, I said, “Excuse me.”

She in turn said, “No.”

That was different. So I threw caution to the wind and said, “I’m going in to play some blackjack. You wanna accompany me and be my good luck piece?”

“I’d love to, but I’m waiting for my girlfriend.”

“Where is she?”

“Upstairs, she got lucky, she met this guy.”

“Well, you just met this guy. You comin’ or not?”

“Sure, why not.”

I could not lose that night. I told the girl it was because of her beauty (how’s that for Irish blarney?). What happened after that is, I’m sure, of no interest to you folks.

The next day, Neely showed up sans footballs. He said he could not lay his hands on them at the moment and that he would call Joanie when he could. He did bring the money back, most of it. There was $18,000.00 missing. He said it was for the boat we lost at Palm Beach. Nice profit; that piece of shit wasn’t worth more than $7,000.00.

But here’s the thing. As Neely handed me the brown paper bag containing $252,000.000, I saw in his eyes that at that very moment, at that very instant, he regretted coming back at all. It was palpable, it radiated out of him like a beacon.

As soon as Neely left, I called Joanie and told her what Neely had said, and asked her if she could cancel Aldo. She told me it was too late, that he should be there any minute. “Aldo’s a bright boy; he’ll call for instructions when he can’t find you.”

I called Frank, checked out, and flew back to Fort Lauderdale. Once back on my boat, I called Joanie and told her to come over and get her money—what was left of it.

Of course, being Joanie, she had a million questions, none of which I could answer. But I did have one piece of advice for her. I told her, “If Neely calls you and tells you he’s now back on track and can supply you again, don’t believe him. He’s going to rip you off.” She told me I was talking nonsense, and that Neely could be trusted. After that I didn’t try; she was a big girl and she could afford to lose the money.

Two days later, she told me Neely had called, and she was going over there and take care of business herself. I told her I hoped I was wrong and wished her luck. It was the last time I ever saw Joanie, though not the last time I spoke with her.

A day later, she called me and said I had been right about Neely. He had disappeared with her money. She said she was calling from Neely’s bar at West End. She was trying to track him down, but no one, including the employees of his bar, had ever heard of someone by the name of Arimus Neely. I asked her what she was going to do, and she said, “Frank’s on his way over. I think for right now I’ll go home and think this through. Then I’ll send someone over here to kill him.” She was kidding about the kill part. Joanie did not roll that way.

I told her it sounded like a plan and to have a nice flight and call me when she got back. She never did make it back. The plane was never found, much less the bodies of Frank and Joanie. Officially, the plane is listed as missing, presumed down, and those on board presumed dead.

You heard me call Joanie many names throughout this tale, but I only tell those I love to go fuck themselves. I had great affection for her or I would not have gone along on so many of her crazy schemes. The one I’m relating here was only one of many of the adventures Joanie dragged me on; and it was to be the last adventure for both of us.

It’s time to wrap this funfest up. I am now going to tell you what Joanie’s adventure cost me. And don’t worry about Neely, I haven’t forgotten him. We’ll get back to him shortly.

About a week after Joanie and Frank’s plane went down, I’m sitting on my boat at about 9:00 p.m., just having a quiet drink by myself. I was still in mourning for Joanie. Henry had flown in a few days earlier … and was on his boat—doing what, I don’t know. He took it pretty hard. He wasn’t talking to anyone, especially me. He blamed me for everything. I didn’t try to tell him what the score was or defend myself. I just listened to what he had to say, and when he finished I simply said, “I’m sorry.”

So I’m sitting there when I hear a knock on the door. Thinking it was one of my girlfriends, I ignored it. The knock became a loud pounding, which I couldn’t ignore because accompanying the pounding was a male voice saying, “Open up, we know you’re in there.” So what do you think, cops, right? That was my first thought. I only wish it had been the cops.

I went to the door and opened it, and standing there was Sonny, some guy named Dave that I’ve seen around a couple of times, and a bald-headed man whom I had never seen before. Seeing that it was Sonny, I invited them in, and offered them a drink. Sonny turned to me and said “This is business, let’s sit down.” The bald-headed man and Sonny took a seat on the couch, I sat in a chair; Dave remained standing by the door.

Allow me to digress for a moment, and tell you about Dave. He figures quite prominently in some of the upcoming scenes. Dave was the only wise guy that wore a beard. He was a borderline nut job; no humor at all, and there wasn’t an ounce of spontaneity in his whole body. He was, in a word, factitious. He was also fastidious about his appearance and grooming habits. He wasn’t tall, about 5’ 11”, but he was well built. It must have been all those years lifting weights in prison. When I would see him around, he was always hangin’ at my bail bondsman’s office. I’d say hello to him, and never, not once, did I get more than a grunt out of him. He wasn’t from Miami; in fact, he was new to the wise guy scene there—as new as I was. He and Sonny had hooked up in prison, but Dave did twenty-two years; he was fried. Prison does that to a man. I didn’t know how Dave made his money, but I was to find out shortly.

As we seated ourselves, Sonny introduced the bald man, “Andrew, this is Tony S_____. It was his plane that went down on Grand Bahama. He would like to speak to you for a moment.”

“Sure, Mr. S_____ (sorry, I’m still afraid to use his last name). What can I do for you?”

For the first time since I’ve seen Mr. S_____, he spoke, “You can give me the two and a half mil you owe me.”

With that pronouncement I thought, WHAT!

Yes, that was my first thought, What! And my second thought was, Oh shit! I looked over to Sonny for some kind of explanation, but he just shrugged his shoulders and looked down at his hands. He was plainly embarrassed. I looked back to Mr. S______ (who henceforth will be referred to as “Mr. Big”), hoping that he might elucidate his statement. He only stared into my eyes, and I could almost feel the hatred. Without taking his eyes from me, Mr. Big says to Sonny, “You tell him.”

Please, somebody tell me.

Sonny stops looking at his hands and says, “As I’ve said, the plane and the product that went down over there belonged to Tony and he feels that you owe him for the product you bought. He feels it’s like buying stolen goods.”

My brain couldn’t work that fast. But I did say, looking at Sonny because looking at Mr. Big was too scary, “We only bought twenty four … where does the two-point five come in?”

Mr. Big cut in and said, “That is what I would have realized if you hadn’t stolen my product, $100,000.00 per kilo, and ten grand for vig (interest). That’s ten grand per day, but you’ve only got one day.”

My fuckin’ head was spinning. I was so confused I even looked over to Dave for help. Nothing. I didn’t say it out loud because I was too scared, but I thought, You mean I’m being charged retail, like I’m buyin’ it off the street? What the fuck is that all about?

Then Mr. Big continued, he was getting really wound up, “My brother was flying that plane, you asshole. Dave just come back from West End and he had a nice little talk with another asshole by the name of Neely. You’ll be pleased to know the son-of-a-bitch gave you up in the first five seconds.”

First five seconds of what? I thought.

It had not occurred to me how they knew I even bought the shit, much less how much. And because he was having such a good time, Mr. Big continued on, “Neely is dead, the broad (Joanie) is dead and that just leaves you, asshole. I really don’t want the money; in fact, you’d be dead now if it wasn’t for Sonny. He called in a favor to give you twenty-four hours to make things right.” I looked at Sonny and his expression didn’t change; he was still embarrassed.

Mr. Big was on a roll. “This is the way it’s gonna be, asshole. I’m takin’ all the cash you got, and if it’s less than half a mil, you’re dead. Then Dave will stay around to make sure you don’t bolt. Because let me tell you, asshole, if you do a fade, I’ll do whatever it takes to run you down, and even if it takes a year, or even two, I’ll have your ass back here. And then it won’t be one of Dave’s bullets for ya. It’ll be the meat hook. Now go get my money.”

Wow, what a perfect end to a not-so-perfect day! By now I was beginning to come out of my stupor and I could at least remember my name, which was a start. There was no fuckin’ way I was going to come up with two million dollars in twenty-four hours, not even in twenty-four days. Hell, let’s be honest here, my big-money-making days were behind me, there was no fuckin’ way I could ever come up with that kind of dough.

But first things first, I had to get these guys off my boat so I could think. So I did what I have done so well in the past. I went into my obsequious act.

“Yes sir, I got a stash in a safety deposit box. I’ll get it first thing in the morning, and thank you for the chance to make things right. I’ve got over $600,000.00 upstairs; I’ll go get it for you now.”

“Dave, go with him.” Of course, that came from Mr. Big.

I headed for the stairs and ascended. I didn’t wait for Dave, let the son-of-a-bitch catch up. Once in the bedroom, I started rooting around in the closet, pulling out brown paper bags containing cash. All but one was semi-hidden. The one that was visible was the one I received for my first run for Sonny, the one with $75,000.00 in it. I dumped the contents of that bag onto the floor and started counting. When I had finished, I had counted only $55,000.00. There was $20,000.00 missing. Not that I gave a fuck, it wasn’t my money anymore. But still, who would take only a portion of a bag of money? Then it dawn on me. Remember my telling you that whenever Terry and I would meet, we would fuck like rabbits? Well, I didn’t tell you she had gotten married by then, so we always came to my place. Yeah, that was definitely a Terry move all right. She was always going through my stuff. I just wished she had taken more. I’d rather she have it than that psycho downstairs.

I also wish Dave wasn’t there. I wanted to keep a little cash for whatever plan I came up with, but old eagle eyes just stood there with his arms folded and his usual non-expression on his face. Anyway, there should have been, from the tally I kept in my head every time I put another bag in the closet, $650,000.00,.But there was only the $630.000.00 I held in my hands, thanks to Terry. And as I’ve said, that was cool with me. I put it all into two of the bags, and just to needle Dave, I told him I needed help carrying the shit downstairs. The fuck just looked at me, and said, “Go.” Meaning, of course, get my ass downstairs.

We went downstairs with the money, and I held the two bags out to Mr. Big. He made no move to accept them; he just said, “Dave, take my money from the asshole.” Then he added, “Okay, asshole, how much did you come up with?” I told him, and he looked down at his gold Rolex before saying, “You’ve got until 10:00 p.m. tomorrow night to come up with the rest.” Then Mr. Big went to the door and waited for Dave to open it. I was damn glad Sonny didn’t open it; I would have been disappointed in him if he had.

Mr. Big walked out first, followed by Dave and my ex-money. Sonny held back and waited for them to get down the dock a piece before saying, “Sorry, Andrew. I did the best I could. I’d give you the money, but Tony said that if I did, he’d kill me and my family. The son-of-a-bitch is really pissed off.”

“Thanks for buyin’ me the time. And thanks for the offer of the money, even if you can’t do anything about it.” We shook hands and that was the last time I saw or spoke to my friend Sonny.

After Sonny walked out, I left the front door open because I expected happy-boy Dave to return to take up his guard-dog duties. I went over to the drink I was drinking when they arrived. It was diluted with melted ice.

I needed a drink or two to stop my hands from shaking. I know I sound flippant relating some of my thoughts at the time. But I assure you, I was very, very scared.

I made myself a strong drink, and while at it thought that if maybe I could get Dave drunk and then … Fuck! … I forgot the bastard didn’t drink. And speaking of bastards, where the hell was Dave? I went to the door, no Dave, so I went up onto the dock and saw him standing at the entrance to the marina.

One more digression, if you please. This is very important to the story. The marina was situated behind a seafood restaurant. The building was in the middle, and on either side were parking lots for the cars of the people who lived in the marina. One dock was on the north side of the building, one on the south side, with one in the middle for good measure. The people who lived on the north dock parked in the north parking lot, and the people who lived on the south dock, of course, parked in the south parking lot. The poor bastards that lived on the middle dock parked wherever the hell they pleased. One could get into, or out of, the marina only through one of the walkways at each parking lot. Though one could traverse from dock to dock, and parking lot to parking lot via a walkway that ran along the head, or beginning of, each dock. In short, what I’ve taken the long way around to say is that, if one was so inclined, one could park in either lot and still get to one’s boat. And as it happened, I was so inclined. More on that in a minute, but right now dear Dave is waiting for us.

I walked up to him, and knowing there wasn’t much he could do until the time limit was up, I decided to test his resolve. “Hey, Dave, whatcha doin’ out here? You’re housebroken aren’t you? If so, why not come in? I’ll fix ya a drink.”

“You think,” said Dave, “you’re so fuckin’ funny, don’t ya? Well, get this straight, I’m standin’ here all night. You want to get to your car ya gonna have to go through me. Now why not get your sorry ass back on the fuckin’ boat.”

“Hey, Dave, I’ve known you for two years, and that’s the most words I’ve ever heard you speak. Don’t fall asleep on the job.” I was one happy motherfucker. Dave had just told me how I was going to give him the slip.

Man, these digressions are getting ponderous, but at times they just gotta be. May this be the last of them. Girlfriends, a strange breed indeed, but one worthy of study, at least in my humble opinion. I’ve had girlfriends where I had to hide every goddamn knife in the house before they came over. I’ve had them fly through my windows because I wouldn’t let them in, and of course, I’ve had them slash the tires on my car. Par for the course, I always thought. Well, I had just stopped seeing this one girl who was the Tiger Woods of slashing car tires. In the past when a girl got angry with me, one tire was enough to express her dissatisfaction, although some would break my windshield. But this one girl was a four-tire girl. Not once, but twice. I have very fond memories of her, even though I have no idea who the hell she was. I mean I knew at the time, but in my dotage I’ve completely forgotten her name. But that crazy woman saved my life.

Let me explain. After the second go-round of her slashing my tires, I started parking in the south lot—I lived on the north dock—in an effort to keep from having to buy a set of tires every other day. So on the night in question, my car was parked in the south lot, and our friend Dead Eye Dave was watching the north lot. All I had to do was get to my car, and as they say nowadays, I was gonna be outta there.

But how to effect my leaving without ol’ Dead Eye seein’ me? Then it came to me … Jay, my gay friend whose boat was on the south dock. I know I told you kind folks that digressing should be avoided at all cost, but we cannot give short shift to Jay. After all, the man helped me in my greatest moment of need.

I had known Jay for a couple of years. We, for some reason, became good friends soon after he moved into the marina. Our lifestyles could not have been more different. He, enmeshed in the gay lifestyle, and believe me, gentle reader, gayness was not as tolerated in 1980 as it is today, the culture was just emerging from the shadows of Stonewall (look it up). Jay and me, Mr. Get-Laid-Every-Five-Minutes, became, if I dare say it, mental lovers. We understood one another from the soul outwards. He would take me to the bathhouses of Key West, and I in turn would take him to my gettin’ laid haunts. We both smiled and appreciated each other’s lives, but put a gun to either of our heads and neither one of us would have partaken of the other’s lifestyle.

Sorry for the interruption. Now back to our story already in progress.

As I’ve said, because of the tire-slasher I started parking in the south lot. My car was there that night. Ol’ Dead Eye was guarding the wrong lot. Or more to the point, he thought my car was in the north lot. So all I had to do was get to my car in the south lot and I was outta there. However, there was a problem. I couldn’t walk there; I’d have to pass Dead Eye to get to my car, and we all know that wasn’t gonna work. So how’s a hounded man to make his escape? By water, of course, and a little help from a friend.

I don’t know if any of you are familiar with the seawall system they have in South Florida, but one cannot get out of the water once in, if there is not a ladder present. And there was no such ladder at our marina.

Here’s the plan I came up with. I would strip down, put my clothes into a plastic bag, and swim over to Jay’s place. He had a small speedboat tied up behind his houseboat, and if he lowered the ladder that was attached to the dive platform, I could get out of the water, no sweat. Then I’d be on the south dock and have easy access to my car, yes? No. Because the two entrances were not that far apart, Dead Eye might see me as I passed into the south parking lot, but one thing at a time. First to see if Jay was home.

I called and he was there. I told him, “Don’t ask any questions. Just do me a favor, get on your boat and put the ladder down. I’m swimming over and I’ll explain when I get there. This is no joke; I’ll see you in about five or ten minutes. Thanks.”

After hanging up the phone, I went upstairs to see what, if anything, was important enough to bring with me. There wasn’t really anything. Some cash would be nice. That’s when I remembered my emergency stash. It was only five thousand dollars. I had put it under the carpet years ago when $5,000.00 was a lot of money to me. Well, it looked like it was back to being big money again.

I went to the corner of the room, pulled up the carpet, got the money and went downstairs to the kitchen. I then got a plastic garbage bag and walked into the living room where I stripped down, putting my clothes in the bag as I took them off.

Outside of the living room was a small porch that was accessed by sliding open a glass door. I went out onto the porch and looked over the railing and into the dark water. Even though it was nearly midnight, I feared one of my neighbors would see me standing there nude and call out to me. You know … make a joke or something. We were a hip little community; the nudity wouldn’t have bothered anyone. The commotion might attract Dave’s attention, though. So without further ado, I stepped over the railing and gingerly lowered myself into the water.

Once in the water, I reached up to the deck of the boat and retrieved the bag of clothes. Then it was simply a matter of doing the sidestroke with one arm, and keeping the bag out of the water with the other. I was at Jay’s in less than a minute, and he was there waiting for me with a towel in his hand. I tossed him the bag and climbed up the ladder. Jay handed me the towel saying, “I’ve waited a long time to see you in the nude.”

“Take a good long look because, first of all I owe you, and secondly, it’s the last time you’re going to see me in the nude or any other way.”

After getting dried off and dressed, Jay and I climbed out of the speedboat and into his living room. We had to climb through a window because his little boat was tied up behind his houseboat and that was the only way on or off it.

When we were inside, Jay said, “Okay, what’s happening?”

“Listen, there a gorilla standing guard at the head of my dock, and he’s waiting for me, and I’ve got to get out of here without him seeing me. And I’m going to need your help to do it.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Just walk over to him and try to engage him in conversation. I say try because the son-of-a-bitch will probably just grunt, if he doesn’t take a swing at you.”

“Sounds like a pleasant fellow.”

“Yeah, a real sweetheart. But here’s the thing, you have to maneuver him so his back is to the south parking lot. I’ll be on the dock, out of view, but I’ll be peeking around the corner of the boat, and when you got him facing north, I’ll skedaddle across the open space and into the lot. How’s that for a plan?”

“You want to tell me what’s really going on?”

“No, but if this works, you won’t see me again, and I just want you to know that you’ve been a good friend—for a fagot that is.” Jay and I were that close that we could kid one another in that manner with no offense taken. You should have heard some of the things he had called me.

Well, that’s my story. Everything worked out, and I was in my car heading north before I knew it. I had no idea where I was going. I had $5,000.000 and the clothes on my back. I could not keep the car, too easy to trace, and I couldn’t sell it because it was leased.

I drove to the Fort Lauderdale airport—maybe they’d think I took a plane somewhere—and pulled into the parking garage. I parked the car, leaving the keys in the ignition, walked to the terminal, hailed a cab, and drove off into a new life.

Post Script: I broke contact with everyone I knew, including my family. After thirty years, I resurfaced. I found a couple of old friends on Facebook, and sent both of them the same message: “Just crawled out of my grave, thought I’d say hi.” That was seven years ago.

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Danny and the Three Monsters


Hello dog fans, it’s me Danny the Dog! I haven’t been writing much lately because I’ve been helping my human, whose name is Andrew, look after three Labrador retrievers. What a nightmare! There is Chloe, she is fourteen months old, and then there is Beau and Hank. They are both four months old and they are holy terrors. They live on a boat down at the end of the dock. Their human was going out of town and he asked my human to look after the dogs. And Andrew being the idiot that he is, said yes.

First of all, I want to say to my friend Suni that I hope you get well soon. Then I want to say to Jeff, the human that lives with the three monsters, don’t ever leave them in Andrew’s care again. I wouldn’t trust him to look after a taco, much less three dogs.

The trouble started right away. Jeff had two crates (humans call them crates, I call them cages) for Beau and Hank because as I’ve said they are holy terrors. Andrew went over to take them for their first walk after Jeff left, and of course, he has to take me along. More on that later. Anyway, Andrew gets them out of the crates and is getting them off the boat when clumsy Hank falls into the water.

You have to understand this, it was nighttime. It was dark, the water was dark and Hank is black. Andrew and I could see nothing of Hank; we could only hear his splashing around. The dock is about five feet above the water so Andrew couldn’t get him out by standing on the dock. Being the genius that he is (I’m just kidding), Andrew got on the swim platform, which (for you landlubbers) is attached to the back of the boat and is only a foot above the water.

Now this is where Andrew’s genius comes into play. He took off his glasses and placed them on the transom so they wouldn’t slip off when he was bending over to pull Hank out of the water. He called to Hank, and Hank swam over and Andrew got him onto the boat. Then Andrew went to get his glasses and they were not there or anywhere else on the boat. It looked as though Beau knocked them into the water because he had his paws up in that general vicinity while he was watching Andrew rescue his brother (they’re twins). All this in the first five minutes of Andrew looking after the monsters. And it only got better, and by better, I mean worse. I had a ball watching Andrew trying to cope for four days.

On to the next disaster, but first a side note. For some reason Beau is enthralled with me. The damn dog wouldn’t let me alone. He put his snoot in my face, ran around me, bounced around me, he was a royal pain in my rear end. Finally, I had to growl at him and give him a little nip on his snoot to get some peace.

Now back to Andrew’s genius. We got the dogs back on the boat without further mishaps. Andrew fed them and all was well. But then Andrew decided not to put Hank and Beau in their crates. He felt sorry for them being cooped up like that. Big mistake!

The next morning when we went to get them there was poop everywhere. The whole floor was cover in it. The babies got into the dog food bag, ripped it open and ate all the food. Then they pooped everywhere and walked in it. They got it on the couch, on the sliding glass doors, on everything. Needless to say, Andrew, after spending two hours cleaning it all up, changed his mind about the crates.

Last night we were sitting around, Andrew was reading and I was on the computer starting this story when Chloe came on the boat. She’s always coming on here and stealing my water! But she should have been locked in her own boat. Andrew got up, looked out, saw Jeff, and said, “Thank God! Thank God! I barked the same thing. Our days of taking care of the monsters were over. Thank God!

P.S. This morning Jeff came over with Andrew’s glasses. Beau had taken them and hid them in his stash place.


Danny Gets a Bath


I’ve had some harrowing tales to tell you folks in days gone by. There was the time I fought it out with an alligator. The time I defeated thirty pirates trying to board our boat in the middle of the night, and the time I met up with that poisonous toad; just to mention a few of my adventures. But they were naught compared to what I am about to convey. If not for my fortitude, my endurance, my character and my all around strength, I don’t know if I could have endured.

Hello, I am Danny the Dog, hero to all canines of the world, and a few females of the human persuasion. I live with my human on our boat in Fort Lauderdale Florida. His name is Andrew, and as you will soon see, he is the villain of this piece.

It all started on a warm and sunny autumn day (today). I wanted to go and visit my friend Beth who lives a few boats over. She is always so nice to me. Always puts out a bowl of water for me. Always finds something in the fridge to for me. The last time it was turkey. The time before that it was shrimp salad. The shrimp were good, I just spit out the lettuce and the other healthy stuff. But I digress, on with the horror.

I was sitting on the dock, giving reign over my domain. I had given my one bark command to Andrew to come up out of the boat and take me to Beth’s. I would have gone myself, but Andrew keeps me tethered with a leash, a rope in actuality. He is so cruel!

Well, Andrew came up alright, but I didn’t like the fact that he had dish soap in his hand. I think the brand name was Joy, but there was no joy in my heart when I saw it, for it could only portend one thing, BATH TIME!

I know that some dogs like water and that’s up to them. However, I am more sophisticated. If the Great Being wanted us dogs to fool around with water he would have given us gills to breathe through. And seeing as how He didn’t, I’ll keep my paws dry if you don’t mind. I mean if you humans had not shown up in the evolutionary scheme of things, how many baths do you think us dogs would have given ourselves over the course of a lifetime? Give up? Then I’ll tell you . . . zero, nada, none. We surely would have rolled in the carcass of a dead animal, but no baths. Thankfully, Andrew is a minimalist. He thinks as I do about baths, both for him and me. But every once in a while he bathes and then that means I have to also.

In a situation like I found myself in, it is important to show no fear. Humans can sense fear, so I stared at Andrew with a look that said, “One more step with that soap buddy, and I might just chomp down on your leg!” It did no good, onward he came. Onward came the soap.

Andrew took my harness off and said the biggest cliché in the world, “This going to hurt me a lot more than you.” It took all my will power not to bite him right then and there. Not trusting me, he kept a hold of my fur with one hand as he turned on the hose with the other. Then he wet me! Drenched me in aqua! I swear, if I didn’t depend on him for food, I would have bit him. It’s a good thing for Andrew I did not remember about Beth. She will always feed me. And Andrew might be missing a hand right about now.

So the indignity was complete. Then soap was administered to my being. I’ll forgo telling of the other ignominies I suffered. Let the record show that I am now a clean dog, albeit against my will.

As soon as I finish typing this, I have to hurry over to Beth’s. I’ve been invited for dinner and maybe a sleep over. Andrew wasn’t invited. He didn’t take a bath today.


Danny and the Midnight Marauder


Howdy folks, it’s time for another one of my fur-raising adventures. For those of you who are new to these pages and my literary genius, I’m Danny, dog extraordinaire.

Unlike my last two communiqués, in this one I shine. I’m the hero.

It was a dark and stormy night. My human, Andrew, was fast asleep in our boat. I was on the dock patrolling the perimeter. When I’m on guard duty, I am always vigilant and on my toes.

They came out of the darkness. There were at least thirty of ‘em, and they were all armed to the teeth. But they didn’t scare me, no sir! I stood up to them, and for every blow I took, I bit three. And when the fur stopped flying, there were bodies strewn everywhere. And those not lying on the dock were in full retreat.

Okay . . . okay already! It’s Andrew, he’s been reading over my shoulder. He’s saying that I can’t tell lies when I’m writing these narratives. Well, he said barefaced lies. Whatever!

It’s his computer, so I reckon I’ll do as he says and tell you what really happened. But I’m still a hero.

It was around midnight, I was asleep and dreaming of hotdogs. (It was a good dream. In it, I was running through a field of hotdogs and eating every one of them.) Then I heard a noise and sat up. There was some guy walking right up to our boat just as fancy as you please. Well, I wasn’t going to take that, so I barked at him. He did a U-turn and made a hasty departure. And that was it.

You know . . . I wish Andrew would stick to his own writing and let me do mine. It read a lot better when I defeated thirty killers.

Danny, Bicycles and Beds


Ahoy all you landlubbers, It’s me Danny the Dog, I’m back once again to tell of my latest exploits. Now, I do know for a fact that a few humans read my humble posts, but my writing is mostly geared to my fellow canines. Having said that, I’ll tell what I’ve been up to the last couple of days.

I live on a boat with my human, Andrew. For the most part, we get along. And as far as roommates go, he’s not too bad. However, as most of you know, humans can be trying at times. For instance, take the situation concerning our bed. Well, on boats they’re called bunks. Don’t ask me why, it’s just something a silly human made up a long time ago.

On boats, you don’t have a regular mattress. One sleeps on foam rubber and there lies the rub between Andrew and I. I’m sure all my canine friends know where I’m going with this. But for my human readers, I’ll explain. There are very few things more enticing then foam rubber to a dog. It’s like dog catnip, if that makes any sense.

Allow me to digress for a moment and set the scene for you. I like to sleep outside most nights, but I spend my days indoors in the air conditioning. So every morning after our walk, I go into the boat and jump up on the bed, or bunk if you will. Then I start to paw at the sheets until I uncover a corner and then I’ll rub my snoot on the foam. Man, does that feel good! Of course, Andrew freaks out, but what else can you expect from a human. He gets on the bed and puts the sheets back in place and calls me a few choice names, but it’s worth it. And the funny thing is I only like to do it in the morning. The rest of the day, I get on and off the bed and don’t even think of that luscious foam rubber lying just under the sheets. Now on to bicycles, or to be more precise let’s talk about Andrew and the one and only time he took me along while he rode his bike.

Andrew is not much for physical exertion; in fact, he’s down right indolent. There is one exception, and that’s when he’s got a female on our bed, which isn’t often. Then he gets more exercise then he does in a month of Sundays, but back to the bike. This morning as he was getting ready to ride to the other side of the marina (I told you he was lazy), I started barking at him to take me along also. Usually when I do that, he leaves the bike and we walk. However, this morning he took me by the leash and off we went, him on the bike and me trotting alongside.

Now I know why he was hesitant to take me with him when he’s on the bike. I crisscrossed in front of him many times and every time he had to put on the brakes, so he wouldn’t run into me. And when I wasn’t doing that, I’d stop to smell an especially intoxication scent, almost pulling Andrew off the bike. When we got home, he told me that was my last time accompanying him while he rode the bicycle. But that’s okay. It was just a training exercise; I caused him all that grief on purpose and he responded as I knew he would. I much prefer walking, I can take my time sniffing, and every once in a while I turn up a treasure, like an old chicken bone. Andrew won’t let me eat them, but I get a crunch or two in before he takes them away.

We just got back from visiting some friends on the far side of the marina, we walked. It pained Andrew to have to walk, but I had a blast. I found a rib bone and had most of it eaten before Andrew got it away from me.