"Thumb!"

I used to hitchhike a lot.  From the time I was fifteen 'til I turned twenty-one, I figure I covered over 3,000 miles.  Day trips from my parent's house in Andover to Salisbury Beach in Summer; Adventures with one of my all-time favorite girlfriends, Robyn Parker, or just home because I was too cheap to spring for a cab after a night out.  When I was nineteen, I hitchhiked to Florida from Massachusetts with $20 in my pocket.  I usually had access to a car after I turned 16, but if I didn't, I'd thumb.  The first time I ever hitchhiked was when I was nine years old.

Now, I know lots of people talk shit about how young they were the first time they got laid, "I fucked my babysitter when I was six then sent her out to get me pizza and a juice box." or when they joined fucking Mensa or when they robbed their first liquor store.  Memory is a funny thing and remembering precisely when shit happened, especially from childhood, is not an exact science.  But here's the thing:  My family moved from Somerset to Andover when I was nine. And this shit went down in Somerset.  Case closed.

My oldest brother, Steven, of whom there are many tales to tell, was seven years older than me so he would have been fifteen at the time.  My other brother, Joe, was thirteen.  It was Summertime and the two of them wanted to go fishing at Lewin's Brook, though no one called it that.  People called it Swan Finishing, after the name of the business located in the old mill next to the brook.  It was just upstream from the Swansea Dam which was home to a popular swimming hole in which I had nearly drowned (my brothers, again) a couple years prior.  Anyway, my mom was taking Steve and Joe to Swan Finishing to go fishing. I was bored and always wanted to do stuff with my brothers so Mom told them they had to let me tag along.  They protested.  I pleaded.  They insisted (correctly) that I would quickly lose interest and want to go home, ruining their day by having to listen to me complain for the duration.  There were no cellphones in those days so changing plans was not always easy.  I promised (incorrectly) that I would not lose interest and I meant it.  (As would often be the case for years to follow, my sincerity at the moment of making a commitment had little bearing on future results.).  That day, I got my way, so my brothers ( :[  ) and I (:-) ) piled into the car and my mom drove us to Swan Finishing.  

When we arrived, I was very excited.  I don't know about you, but for me as a kid, playing in and around water rushing over rocks was a blast.  And I was hanging out with my big brothers and we were going to catch a bunch of fish!  

I'm not sure how much time had passed since my mom dropped us off or how long it was going to be until she came for us but I'm pretty sure I lost interest within that first hour.  Steve and Joe were having a blast (they had pretty much ignored me the entire time) and were not interested in hearing me whine/complain or interacting with me at all, for that matter.  With lower-lip pooched out and pretty close to tears, I let out a pitiful, "I wanna go home."

Nothing.  The two of them were fishing and talking and laughing.  I was a ghost.

"I wanna go hoooooooome!"

Crickets.

"I  WANT TO GO HOME!" I wailed.

"Thumb!"

I'm not sure which one of the geniuses said it, but the smart money is on Steve.

Thumb.  Ridiculous.  Aside from the fact that everything I knew about hitchhiking I learned from cartoons, it was hella-far.  I'd been walking to and from school since second grade, but that was less than a mile each way.  I didn't know how many miles home it was from Swan Finishing, but I knew it was WAY farther than from Chace Street School, which we had driven passed on the way.

"I will!"  I threatened.

"OK," they responded, half listening.

Could I?  Would they really let me?  The impossible seemed possible all of a sudden, albeit unlikely. I remember the thought of hitchhiking gradually moving from the part of my brain reserved for notions like:  If I concentrate hard enough, I can levitate to the part of my brain where ideas like: I bet I can eat an entire apple, core and all, in three bites reside.

"I'm serious, you guys!"

"Bye!"

I started to walk away.

"I'm leaving, now!"

Nothing.  They had been acting like I left since we first arrived.  I'll show them.  And so I walked to the road and began my journey home.

I wasn't really planning on hitchhiking; again, I wasn't sure exactly how.  My plan was just to walk.  I had walked with my brothers to the penny-candy store on County Street many times, but I knew it was farther than that.  A lot farther. Once, when our dog, Diamond,  had run away I walked to the A&W where she used to bum fries off people eating in their cars (Me and my dad once saw her in action, with her front paws up against the side of a car and the driver feeding her.  It was her hustle.  I still think of her whenever someone hits me up for change at 7-11.).  I'd walked lots of places by myself, but this was by far the longest distance attempted, to date, and I had underestimated just how far it was.  I was already feeling worn out and my school was still a long way off.  So, I kept walking and stuck out my thumb.

Cartoons are not a reliable source of information.  Of course I knew this.  I wasn't going to stand by the side of the road, wearing a gigantic prosthetic thumb while holding a sign that read, "257 Connecticut Ave or bust!"  I had a vague notion that you could continue walking while hitchhiking, but I didn't know you were supposed to walk backwards-  Whaaaaaaaat?

I'm pretty sure I was still on Stevens Rd (nothing to do with my brother, Steven), walking forward with my arm extended and my thumb pointing behind me, when a teenaged hippie chic yelled at me from a second story window, "Stupid kid!  You don't even know how to thumb!"  She offered no instruction beyond that and I could feel the color rush into my cheeks.  Being embarrassed is a million times worse in front of a girl!  Now I felt foolish as well as tired.  And a little anxious.  I'm doing it wrong; that's why no one has stopped!  I walked awhile without thumbing.  Eventually, fatigue trumped embarrassment and, again, I stuck out my thumb.  I noticed that if I walked backwards, my thumb was pointing in the direction I wanted to go.  Could this be right? I wondered.  How the hell am I supposed to know where I'm going?!  At first I kept looking over my shoulder but I soon found it surprisingly easy to stay on course by looking at the road behind (in front of) me.  This did feel right.  I was sure I had stumbled on the correct way to hitchhike.  I wished that girl in the upstairs window could see me now.  I remember thinking even though I was just a kid that she would like me and maybe even want to be my girlfriend.  I wanted to go back and stand on her lawn and sing to her as she smiled down on me from her window.  And so I sang as I hitchhiked: I've got a pair of brand new roller skates, you got a brand new key....

A man picked me up shortly after that and drove me most of the way home.  When I walked into my house, Estelle was surprised, to say the least.  "How did you get home?  Where are Steve and Joe?"

It told her the whole story including the part where it was their idea that I hitchhike home.  I thought I was gonna get it.  She was really mad.  Her lips were pursed so tightly, she looked like she'd just eaten ten lemons, but most of her anger was directed toward my brothers who had signed off (kinda) on this little adventure.  She hustled me into the car and we picked the two of them up.  They were not at all surprised.  They had been bluffing and assumed I would turn around and come back pretty quick.  By the time they realized this was not the case, their only logical course of action was to keep fishing until Mom came for them, which they knew wasn't going to be very long.  They were laughing when we got there.  They were not once they got in the car.  Dufuses. 

Loneliness gets a bad rap.

I liked going for long walks, very late at night around my quiet cul-de-sac neighborhood in Andover. Crickets, wind and frogs was all I heard.   I would walk the whole perimeter, winding my way down each short street (there were three) saying the names of the occupants of each house in my mind as I passed them before arriving back at my own home.

I'd spark up a joint, like it was cool, blow out a cloud and I'd survey my lands.  I really went there - the, "all that I see is mine" place.  I'd imagine a girl my age who just moved in, sitting on one of the homes' front steps, missing all her friends back in Minnesota or California or wherever her parents tore her from and ruined her life.  We'd hang out and talk for hours and I'd tell her how I hated my parents when we moved, but it gets better.  She'd smile and put her head on my shoulder.  Then we would just be.  These walks were never sad.  I always had a legit smile on my face.  I went on that walk a hundred times and "met" many cool people in my mind, but in all those years, I never saw another person.  Not even once.

CT-70, KZ-400, BRIDGESTONE 100...

Motorcycles.  I had a love affair with them.  I wish I could tell you that I was a fearless, badass biker.  But, even though I rode my first bike at 13 and used a motorcycle as my primary mode of transportation for years (sometimes, I didn't even own a car), I never felt completely confident.  I was always a little scared under certain conditions (canyon-carving, for example).  But I did love to ride long distances and have done several cross-country trips.  I'd like to do one more.  I am sure my friend, Dave Orosz will be involved.

Anyway, I was thinking about my first experience with motorcycles and my mind wandered back to high school.  Austin Prep.  Reading, MA.  Technically, it was a private school, but in fact it was a Catholic school which was purchased from the Diocese by Alumni.  I was only one of two non-Catholics our of a student body of four-hundred.  That is a whole nuther Oprah.  For now, it is only pertinent that it was a small school (there were 120 in my class) and we all knew each other.  Also, students came from twenty different cities and towns.  Busses were dispatched far and wide.  Mine was far, so not many kids.  So, short bus.  Again, many tales about that.  But this one is just about Fred D'Urso.  All I can tell you about Fred D'Urso is that we carpooled a couple of times and his mom talked to us in the back seat over her shoulder as she drove.  She rarely looked at the road in front of her engaging us in very detailed conversations and only occasionally glancing forward.  "Shouldn't you maybe be looking at the road?" we'd ask.  She acted as if she hadn't heard us.

The other thing I remember about Fred D'Urso is that he was TOTALLY awesome and let me ride his dirt bike AND his Kawasaki KZ-400 on the street (I was like 14 and did not have a license.  Totally illegal).  Anyway, if you know anyone who owns a mororcycle, they (wisely)almost NEVER let other people ride them unless they are VERY experienced (Dave Orosz knows I know my shit so he lets me ride his).  I was a novice.  I had only ridden a mini-bike (another cool story) and he let me ride his KZ which, at the time, were some of the fastest bikes on the market.

Anyway.  I was a cautious kid.  I sometimes see my son trying new things and he is the same way.  Tentative until he feels confident.  I rode Fred's Kawi around the block a dozen times.  Very carefully shifting and not going too fast.  I was learning how to ride motorcycle and I was on the street without a driver's license (staying below the speed limit).   To a cautious kid like me it was as much a rush as robbing a bank.

PEREGRINE - Chapter 2

Wow.  Apparently, I got a little chatty yesterday.  From now on, two is my limit.  I'm still a little fuzzy in the head (and wearing yesterday's clothes) so I'm not sure what all I told you.  I'm sipping some Irish coffee to clear the cobwebs.  Ian let me crash at Saints, last night.  I've had a key to the place going on three years, now.  Its a symbiotic relationship.  Once, every couple of weeks he has to open the day after he closes, so he leaves some work for me to do - tapping kegs, sorting bottles and whatnot.  I fill the ice and cut fruit for him so he can sleep in a bit.  I like that part, cutting fruit; It helps me focus.  Sometimes I'll be working a case (not sure I mentioned that I'm half-a-P.I.  unlicensed, whatever, more on that later) and a break will be right there in front of me and I can't connect the dots because of some bias or blindspot or not enough sleep or (spoiler alert) I may, on occasion, drink too much. But then I'll be slicing into a lemon and as the juice seeps into one of the little cuts on my hand (all bartenders have these cuts and they do not heal) things come into focus.  The spell is broken and the fog of Absinthe and curiosity and Opium burns off like the marine layer at Venice Beach in June.  And right now, although I admit that I know next to nothing about this puzzle,  I know one thing for a fact about Detective Kelli Karson of the New York City Police Department and that is this:  I don't believe her.

Rome pours himself a shot of Jameson.

Like I said last night,  I try to avoid cops. But they seem to be attracted to me, admittedly with good reason as often as not.  So I have had many dealings with police.  And, unlike in the movies, spotting a cop out of uniform, particularly when they are skilled undercover operatives, is often difficult.  They can look like anyone they want.  They wear the clothes and drive the cars they seize in drug busts.  I've seen narcos with full beards and hair down to the middle of their back, driving a Tesla.  So, when someone tells you they can always spot a cop, they are full of shit and will eventually get pinched by some big, fat vato with full sleeves and a teardrop tattoo or some ninety pound meth whore who, when the shit goes down, is the one putting the cuffs on.  I've seen it happen.  Nobody can say with certainty that they can always spot a cop.  I usually can.  But not always.

He knocks back the shot of whisky.

What is far easier for me to spot is who is NOT a cop.  And I don't know what kind of game "Detective" Kelli Karson is running, but if she has a gold shield, I'll eat it.

The End of Love

Five years ago, when my son Blake was four, I'd take him bowling at Mar Vista lanes on Venice (now Bowlero! ).  He had a pretty short attention span and I was in pretty poor shape so we played only one string.  We'd eat some food, I'd give him a couple of quarters to get toys, homies or jawbreakers out of gum ball machines.  We played some air hockey.  He was little and had to stand on a chair.  He used to think it was hilarious when I "wasn't paying attention" (usually when I was celebrating scoring on him) and he would score on me.  I'd turn back to the table and wonder where the puck was and be incensed to see that he had scored while my back was turned.  He laughed and laughed.  Anyway, it was one of those times and we were eating some chicken fingers and watching random people bowl when Blake noticed a girl that was maybe nine.  He was smitten.  I smiled inside and out.  I knew that look.  He was completely transfixed.  She had long, golden hair and a shirt with a big, pink, sparkly heart on it.  Blake walked right up to her and smiled and stared up at her but said nothing.  The girl, annoyed, turned and walked away.  Blake followed.  She tried to lose him, but he stuck to her like glue.  She climbed on things that were easy for her to climb but hard for a little guy and he followed.  She complained to her mom, "Mommy!  This little boy keeps following me.  He won't leave me alone!"  At one point, she told him off.  "Leave.  Me.  Alone."  Blake's smile never dimmed.  It was as if she had professed her love to him.  He was so happy just to hear her voice.  I remember being his age and how that felt.

Blake, still smiling and exhausted, came up to me.  "Daddy, I love that girl but she doesn't love me."  He was not devastated.  He was just in a new situation that he did not comprehend and was looking to his father for guidance.  I said, "Yeah.  It's kind of a numbers game like that."

My first encounter with "The Girl" was in kindergarden.  Andrea Reback.  I wanted to marry her.  I used to write  "Andrea Kublin" and "Ronnie Reback" everywhere.  I knew it was customary in those days for the woman to take the man's name, but I thought you got to pick whichever one sounded better and Ronnie Reback sounded pretty good to me.  In third grade it was Stacy Hall.  I used to sit behind her and braid her long, blonde hair.  I wasn't into marriage anymore, but seeing stacy was the highlight of my school day in third grade.  Years later, when I was ten, I fell hard for Kim Bissonnette.  I loved spelling her name out loud,  "B-i-s-s-o-n-n-e-t-t-e."  I memorized her phone number and called it many times, but hung up, terrified, before she could answer.  "I love you." I'd say to no one on the phone.  I knew Kim would be my first kiss.  I had it all planned.  The scary funhouse ride at Shaheen's Funpark at Salisbury Beach.  Alas, I never got the opportunity.  Kim broke up with me before I knew we were dating.  The following year, I kissed my older brother, Steve's, girlfriend, Kelly,  while sitting in a neighbor's Saab.  I literally walked miles for more of those kisses that Summer - The Summer of Kisses.  There was no better feeling in the world.  In ninth grade I had my first legit girlfriend, Lisa Goldstein.  She was all that mattered to me.  I was fifteen.  My parents didn't get me.  My teachers didn't get me.  Lisa got me.  I got her.  We loved each other.  Call it what you will, infatuation, co-dependence...my dad called it "Puppy-love."  But to me.  It was Love.  For the next few years while I still lived with my parents, the girls changed, but my obsession did not and the argument with my mom was always the same.  "You can't make another person the center of your world."  She just didn't understand (and she was right).  I was fucked.  I was unhappy.  I was lonely even when I was with other people.  But when I was with a girl who enjoyed being with me as much as I enjoyed being with her, none of that other shit mattered.  So, for the next twenty five years or so, I fixated on "The Girl" and had little time to fix me.

I play poker.  Texas Hold-Em.  I'm a decent player.  When I play tournaments, I play "tight" which means I don't take big risks which means I don't win big pots.  I try to manage my chips so I am close to average.  It is a successful strategy to get deep into a tournament, but as the blinds and antes increase, the pressure mounts and one is forced to take risks.  I often find myself with only one bet:  All In.  I'm not a courageous man, in general, but the idea of risking everything in one move feels natural to me as long as I believe in the cards I am holding and if I am in love with you and believe that with all I am, I have only one move.  All In.  It is liberating to feel so safe with someone and to feel for them so deeply that jumping without even looking does not feel nearly as foolish as it must indeed be.  I did this again and again and again.  And I did it without regret.

I lived with some and married a few.  Breakups were as painful as falling in love was joyful.  Complete and utter annihilation.  An ocean of tears.  The ones ended by them were followed by weeks of bargaining and pleading for another chance.  I could not believe it was over.  The ones ended by me were fewer and less painful because I knew they were ending for a while.  But I always bounced back.  I never lost my edge.  My love light, while temporarily dimmed, would always return as brightly as it did when I first kissed Kelly.  If anything, my love grew stronger each time, adding nuance and greater understanding as a result of love's lessons learned.  I'd dust myself off, pick up my guitar and serenade my next great love.  These were not conquests.  These were entire lives lived in moments.  Sometimes a few days.  Sometimes weeks.  Sometimes years.  My friend Chrystal says there is NO WAY it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.  The pain is not worth it in her estimation.  I disagree.  If that were true, no one would ever have a dog or a cat for a pet.  Everyone would have a tortoise.  Each time, I knew going in that it was likely to end badly and I still gave all my heart.  I was adept at going from ecstasy to crisis and back again as this cycle continued, but I was always focused on The Girl and not focussing on becoming me.  So, I never figured out how to overcome all the difficulties in life that seem routine to others.  I figured I'd figure that out later.

My last great love affair was with a different Kelli.  You can measure the intensity of my relationships by the number of songs I wrote.  Kelli wins with five.  There is no close second.  And I believed there was a time when she loved me as much as I loved her, although that time was brief.  I was fortunate enough in those days to have a job where I travelled the world and I took Kelli with me a couple of times - once to Vienna and once to Paris.  In Paris, I rented an apartment and hired a chef to prepare us dinner.  There are times in your life when you are keenly aware that you are living moments which will be your best memories in the future and Kelli and I did that a lot.  I once rented a Porshe for the weekend and we ate lobsah' rolls from Kelly's Roast Beef on Revere Beach.  When we ended, I was crushed.  It took me years to recover and I still think of her kiss sometimes.  Soft like...I got nuthin.

I fell in love one more time.  She is the mother of my son and one of my greatest friends and supporters and I would not know what to do without her in my life.  When it was over, it was different for me this time.  I don't know if it was age or time or fatherhood (i think it was fatherhood), but it was different than any other breakup.  I always moved on, eventually.  But this time I felt like I had nowhere to move to.  I could get over her, but I could not fathom where to go.  We have a son.  I had no "Plan-B".  I still don't.  I don't know if I would want one if I did.  But I am pretty sure where my heart is at these days.  It has been nine years and the way I feel (and don't feel) remains unchanged.  No.  I haven't been celibate for nine years (thank you, you know who you are).  But my lovelight has indeed dimmed.  Which is sad, but not, at the same time.  I (usually) don't feel like something is missing in my life and it is wanting that causes heartache.  Another advantage is that I am forced to look within instead of to someone else for solutions to my problems and I have had some modest success in that regard.  Occasionally, romance falls out of the sky.  Right place.  Right time.  And it is great.  Really great...but it also reminds me of who I used to be and how I used to love.  Truly.  And deeply.  With reckless abandon.  And I get sad.  And I have to tell myself how lucky I am to have been so close to more than a few amazing, funny, witty, attractive, talented, inspiring and intelligent women who found me amazing, funny, witty, attractive, talented, inspiring and intelligent, and that there are people who never experience that kind of relationship.  Please do not tell me that I just need to meet "The Right Girl," because I assure you I am "The Wrong Guy." It is not that I do not want to love and be loved.  It is that I cannot.  Not in the way I once did.  And I can't imagine loving any other way.  It is who I was and I have no clue who I am now.

APART

You are the best thing that has ever happened to me,
And I have gone from starring role,
To day-player,
To background actor,
In your life.

I cannot place a value on a grin or sideways glance or wisecrack from you.

I have known despair,
Like a never-ending salt flat,
Badlands where nothing grows,
Except the memory of your smile.

You are why I cannot be,
Truly hopeless.

I brought you here,
I and another,
Who succeeds where I fail.

All I want is to be with you,
And I do not know how to do that.

I do not know how to do much of anything anymore,
But longing,
For understanding,
For love,
And to be a part,
Of you,
Again.

PEREGRINE - Chapter 1: Rome

I am Rome.  It's not my first name.  It's not my last name.  It's not short for anything.  It's not a nickname.  It's just, "Rome."  If I had a nickel for every smartmouth who said, "So, you're telling me it says 'Rome' on your driver's license and your birth certificate?  What about your passport?" I'd have a fifty-pound bag of nickels to smash into the next smartmouth's face who asks.  Fact is, I've never had a driver's license.  I'm sure there is a birth certificate out there, somewhere.  But I've never seen it.  And as far as passports go, I have six of them and none of them say, "Rome" on them.

That's what I like about Ian.  He never asked.

Ian was behind the bar when I first walked into Saints and Sinners on a Tuesday, four years earlier.  I hadn't had a drink in nearly twenty years, but I'd been thinking of one for a bit.  Driving by, I'd seen the Saints and Sinners logo - an angel and a devil; I had their twins as my companions, one on each shoulder.  I went in and ordered an Absinthe and never looked back.  Insofar as the  Angel and Devil are concerned, the jury is still out as to who won the day, but I drink without guilt and always walk out on my own two feet (or so I'm told).

Saints & Sinners feels like home.  That is of course if in your home your dad breathes fire, your mom drinks copious amounts of Jameson and your sister flashes her tits occasionally - all to a soundtrack of metal, hip-hop, classic rock and karaoke.  It's a place where everybody knows your name, but they call you lots of other things, instead.  Not exactly like Cheers, more like Cheers' younger, edgier brother who told his parents to fuck off, sold his father's Lexus and used the money to buy an electric guitar and a year's worth of drugs before moving to Norway to join a death-metal band he met on Craigslist.  I try very hard not to drink anywhere else.

It was a Tuesday again.  One of the other bartenders, Cooper I think,  had started a promotion in my honor, "Absinthe-Minded Tuesdays."  They didn't used to sell much of the Wormwoody stuff before I showed up.  Now, they kept a case of Mata Hari with my name on it in the basement.  I was sipping my second when Fate bellied up to the bar right next to me.   I knew right away it was Fate.  For me, Fate always comes in the same package - petite, blonde and way smarter than me.  And although I don't always learn from my mistakes, I'm pretty smart.

"Something to drink?"  Ian offerred.

"I'm looking for Rome."

She does get right to the point, I'll give her that.

Ian cupped a hand next to his ear, "How's that?"

Annoyed, Fate raised her voice, "Rome! I'm looking for Rome."

Ian pointed East.

"It's a little more than six thousand miles that way!  You want me to call you a cab? They can take you to LAX!"

Fate gave me a quick, is-this-guy-for-real look, then turned her attention back to Ian.

"That's clever.  I see what you did there."

Ian shrugged like a Parisian. I'm about to spit absinthe through my nose at this point.

"I'm looking for a man.  A man who finds lost things.  His name is Rome.  I was told I could find him here.  I wouldn't have come all this way if it wasn't important."

Ian leans in.  "Never heard of him, but leave a card.  If anyone comes in by that name-"

Fate puts a card in Ian's hand and makes her way to the door.  Ian watches her go out.  I follow her reflection in the mirror behind the bar.  She weaves between patrons and liquor bottles, never glancing back as she exits.

Ian looks at the card and hands it to me and we are both at a loss for words.

It's pretty hard to catch either me or Ian off guard,  but between the two of us, three eyebrows were raised.  Fate has a name.  Kelli Karson.  Detective Kelli Karson.  NYPD Detective Kelli Karson.  I turn the card over and on the back  is written the name of a hotel in West Hollywood and a room number.  I know the hotel.  And I know the fuck that gave her my name and the location of my office.  I'll deal with that shit in the morning.  For now, I finish my drink and Ian instantly replaces it with one he was already preparing for me.

Ian's eyes ask, what are you gonna do?

I draw a deep breath and catalogue the scents....anise, stale craft beer, kush and cigarettes, fresh-cut lime.  Cutting through it all like a floating scalpel is the scent that Fate always leaves behind - hope and sex and fear and the barest hint of Opium applied long ago, perhaps the previous evening.  I let out a long breath and take a thoughtful sip from the cloudy drink.  My head swims and I follow it down into the depths.  I know the bait hides the barb.  I know the pain of that steel piercing my flesh and I know the futile struggle for freedom only brings more pain, and yet...I am a fish, thrice caught.

Ian sees which way I'm gonna go on this one and shakes his head.  I know he is right.  Bartenders are rarely wrong when it comes to shit like this.  Fuck.  Detective Kelli Karson.  Why the fuck is an NYPD Detective on my tip?  I can think of a couple of reasons - none good.  I generally try to avoid the police.  I'm drinking buddies with one or two which is unavoidable if you drink in any great bar.  But professionally... I try to keep to myself for obvious reasons.

I'm on my third Mata Hari and I smoked a little Sour Diesel before I came in, so I'm not sure if I told you the part where I'm a heroin dealer or not.