Today is the Last Day of
The Rest of My Life - Part I

They've got me cold this time. Ice cold. Or as they use to say in the Wild, Wild West, "dead to rights," whatever the fuck that means. But got me they do. And this is the kinda got that won't go away.

"Who's got me?" you ask. Why the authorities of course. 5-0. Men with badges. But these aren't any ordinary cops; these are feds. Fuzz-plus. The kinda cops you gotta leave the hemisphere to get away from. Even then they'll probably find you. And when they do, they'll be twice as mad for having to chase you down.

Mind if I say "Damn!"?

Like Burroughs, post William Tell (I think), "I gotta get outta this."

I call my New York attorney.

"The Feds are looking at me for something."
"What kinda something?"
"Uh, a bank."
"A bank?"
"A bank."
"Do you want me to reach out to them?"
"Could you? Would you? Please?"

Ten minutes later:

"Were you in Pennsylvania yesterday?"
"Maybe. Why?"
"You're right. They like you for some small town bank."
"Why me?"
"Still driving that '73 Buick Elektra deuce & a quarter?"
"Sometimes."
"It was seen near the scene."
Impossible. "What do I do now?"
"Let me buy you a few days. Negotiate a surrender. It'll cut your time in at least half."
"OK. Tell 'em I'll come in on Monday."
Surrender. Fuck.

What do you do when you've got a fistful of loot and the Feds on your ass? Well, if you're anything at all like me, you get two fistfuls of drugs, call every pal whose number you can get and begin saying goodbye.

But first my travel agent.

"I gotta get to London."
"When?"
"Today. Tomorrow."
"Return?"
"Very funny."
"Oh, I understand."

5 minutes later:

"Your name's been red-flagged. I can't get you a ticket anywhere."
"You're kidding."
"Would I kid you about something like that?"
"No, I guess not."
Damn those Federales move fast.
"Thanks anyway."
Now, my friends. I need some objectivity.

Hubert's first.

"Feel like a drink?"
"It's 10 o'clock in the morning."
"Not in my world."
"I'll have coffee."
"Good. I can drink your drink too. I'll be downstairs in 10 minutes."

I make it in five. While I wait, I partake. The East Harlem drugs taste good, real good, but not as good as they should. For some reason there's an uncommon aftertaste, call it the sour first funk of Felony One. Fuck.

Note: This article was first published online in the now defunct Bully Magazine. Supplied with immense thanks to Ken Wohlrob.