Chapter 11

          I thought all my problems were solved when I met Alicia June May, the new waitress at the Log Lodge Cafe. This is how men think; all problems are solved by the perfect woman. Alicia June would be the second woman I’d know with three names that deserved to be pronounced together. I would later fall for the model Tracy Austin Texas, but that’s another story.

          Alicia June May had great legs and arms with muscle tone. She could wear a tent and still you would’ve known she had nice breasts. She had blonde-brown, nearly blonde hair that hung down in ringlets and she always wore a smile. Men were drawn to her orbit. If she knew a musician, he would write songs about her. If she knew a painter, he would paint her.

          Andy and I sat at the long table with Hippie Nick and a local curmudgeon we called Miner Jack, a self-described rock hound who was cranky and mostly without manners. We talked about the quarterback Vince “the Ace” Acocella, who had played a good spring game and was slated to be the starter at the University of Colorado in the fall. I tried an extra nice smile for Alicia June, but beyond being friendly, as one would expect of a waitress, there weren’t any signs of interest.

          A funny thing happened, though. After our meal, Alicia June brought out a large, sticky cinnamon roll and set it in front of Andy. She smiled as she set it down. Joe, the greasy looking cook who sometimes looks out the kitchen window, was checking to see who got the cinnamon roll.

          I smiled, wanting to appear friendly, and said, “Why does Andy get a cinnamon roll?”

          “He looks hungry,” she said, and smiled at Andy. Now, this was an interesting statement. Miner Jack was a bull of a man, though he was well past his prime. Hippie Nick was obviously muscular, and I consider myself solid. Andy Fannuke was a slender man, still a boy, really.

          “He looks the least hungry of anyone here,” I said.

          Alicia June looked again at Andy and smiled for all of us. “You can’t tell?” she said.

          There was a low murmur, an “Ohhh,” that acknowledged we all recognized flirting when we saw it. Perhaps I looked at Andy differently. Even Jack, who never talked about women, raised his eyebrows.

          I smiled politely back at Alicia June, it being obvious to me I wasn’t in the running. Andy took a piece of the roll and slid the plate over to Miner Jack, who devoured the rest of it. “It’s still warm,” Jack said, instead of thank you.

          Later that morning, Andy went back, sat at the counter and talked to Alicia June, and within a week they were dating. It wasn’t a month later, Alicia June moved into Andy’s room in the basement of our house. I told Andy I thought it’d be OK to tell Alicia June about the garage. It would’ve been hard to keep it a secret.

          The garage became a fairly comfortable hideout. A very old woman owned it, and we sent her a check each month. She never checked on the property. I think she was glad to have some income without having to make too much effort. She was past the age she might have had some ambition for the property. The neighborhood was quiet and rundown, and except for a market selling mostly beer, cigarettes and milk, there wasn’t a commercial district there anymore. I suppose a city planner would’ve considered the neighborhood a problem with its mixed zoning, but as far as we could tell no one was paying much attention.

          We were nearly at the end of Hill Street, so I don’t suppose developers saw a lot of potential. If a fire destroyed the entire neighborhood – and you could start over – I suppose it would’ve been attractive real estate.

          Andy and I worked on our cars in the service bay, and often parked behind the building and out of view. Andy turned the front of the building into a work space for his electronics equipment. He purchased a pinball machine and fixed it, and we played pinball for free. He purchased an old, broken pop machine and we stocked it with beer. A man with a business operating vending machines kept trying to hire Andy, but of course he wasn’t interested.

          In the back office, we kept four chairs and a table. We set the safe in concrete ourselves, and felt secure no one could break in and carry it off. We hid the safe behind the cover of a stereo cabinet. “It would take eight men and a truck to cart this thing away,” I announced proudly to Andy. It would turn out to be false bravado.

          “Plus, I could shoot them,” Andy said, tapping his boot.

          Alicia June seemed to be OK with our little enterprise. Remember, in the 1970s, few people were really bothered by a little distribution. I know it sounds funny considering the drug wars and addiction problems that were to follow, but it’s true. I know a lot of people who dealt drugs in those days who would later become solid citizens and conveniently forget the past.

          Alicia June, when she found out we had $30,000 banked away, was a little surprised at the amount of success we were having. She said I had a way of networking and she didn’t consider us criminals. We had only small quantities of drugs at the house, and Alicia June didn’t spend much time at the garage, where we kept pounds of pot in the safe. She never showed an interest in making sales, even on a small scale. She kept her job, kept her own money separate from Andy’s, and was content with that.

          I think she was really taken with Andy. She let him go on his outings, but I noticed he often checked in with her. I remember one summer day, Alicia June came by the house and Andy was gone. We sat together outside on the porch, enjoying the nice day.

          “Andy will grow out of this someday,” she said.

          “I agree.”

          “Andy’s an interesting young man,” she said. “He can fix anything. I suspect he’s got a bright future, probably doing something neither of us can imagine right now.”

          “I’m with you, Alicia June,” I said. “When Andy decides to move on, there won’t be any hard feelings.”

          “I know that,” she said. “You’re good to him. It’s really you I worry about. You have potential yourself, but I’m not as confident you’ll know when to move on.”

          “Hey,” I said, “I’m careful. I only sell to people I know.”

          “Keep telling yourself that,” she said. “I also know he keeps a gun in his boot.”

          “He’s a dangerous boy,” I said.

          Alicia June smiled, and said, “Quite rough with the sex, too, I must say.”

          I looked at her, a questioning kind of look. She laughed and threw her head back, and her long curls shook. A lovely sight. She said, “I didn’t think I could shock such a streetwise boy as yourself.”

Chapter 12

          I admit it later bothered me Alicia June had called me streetwise. I considered myself friendly, more of a salesman than I wanted to be. Tough enough to fight, but much preferring to talk my way out of trouble. I thought of myself as an entrepreneur, not a drug dealer.

          Andy, Alicia June and I talked about the Wagon Wheel in Hays and decided a little music would help our parties, but we couldn’t hire a rock band without drawing attention to ourselves.

          “I’d suggest a classical party” Alicia June said. “Invite a string quartet, serve really good food – seafood, maybe – and change the tempo before the football season starts.

          Andy and I liked the idea. I hired a string quartet, on loan from the Denver symphony, and we served shrimp and salad along with hamburgers. We had wine as well as beer. We moved the pot smoking upstairs as much as we could. I even invited Mr. Wang and his wife, although they didn’t attend. For two weeks, we spread the word about our summer party 1975. There was a large turnout. Carpenter Jim came, with Marcie, and construction boss Hal and his girlfriend Isabella. I was told Lilly Ferrazi drove by once in her car. I was a little sad to hear it. I wish she’d stopped in.

          The party was fun, well attended as I said, and the string quartet played two one-hour sets., starting at 8 p.m. I stood outside on the porch, greeting friends and enjoying the pleasant music on the warm summer evening. There were moments that night when I felt my life was finally coming together. Andy and Alicia June poured wine and kept the food table stocked.

          The members of the string quartet were interesting, a few years older, and obviously of a higher cultural class. We told them to wear casual clothes, but I’m sure they would’ve felt just as comfortably in formal attire. They stayed afterward and drank with us; Andy changed the music to rock and roll. The violin player had a master’s degree in music from the University of Kansas. He was about 30 and appeared straight laced, but he had two glass of wine before he left and said he hoped we’d invite them back. We paid them, and tipped them, well.

          The guitar player was about 25, with long hair, but he looked more like an up-and-coming conductor than a rock and roller. The bass celloist, like the violin player, had classical training, a degree from William and Mary. She was tall and not pretty.

          It was the cello player I fell for. Her name was Mandy Chevalet and she had long brown hair, wore beige slacks and a mauve mock turtleneck with short sleeves. She had long, slender fingers and played beautifully. She stayed afterward, had a glass of wine, and I engaged her in conversation as best I could.

          “I don’t suppose you play many pot parties,” I said.

          “No, but it was fun,” she said. “You have a lot of friends, and it certainly isn’t a stuffy crowd.”

          “The last piece you played, I liked a lot,” I said. “What is it?”

          “We ended with Haydn’s keyboard concerto,” she said. “It has mass appeal, and anytime we can broaden people’s appreciation of classical music, well, that’s good.”

          I nodded, but it took me a minute to think of what was wrong. I already knew this wasn’t the classic string quartet. “You don’t have a keyboard, a piano,” I said finally.

          “You’re smart, I’ll grant you that,” she said, and we both laughed. It was that good natured, getting rid of nervousness kind of laugh and we both wore smiles now. “Seriously, I think it’s clever what we did with that piece of music. I’m pleased you noticed. You should come to the symphony.”

          “I expect I’ll do that,” I said. “Maybe I can convince you to have a drink with me after. I don’t mind the trip to Denver. It’s right up the freeway.”

          “Actually, I live in Colorado Springs,” she said. “It’s possible I’d have a drink with you.”

          “Could I get your telephone number?”

          She smiled, and took a business card out of her slender purse. It was a nice card, with fine printing on good paper. It said, “Mandy Chevalet, cello player. A work number was on the card. She took a pen and wrote her home phone number. I fell in love when I saw the card. “Cello player,” I said. “What a lovely title.”

          “Where did you learn to use a word like lovely?” she said.

          It was the second thing in three weeks a woman had said that took me by surprise. I wasn’t streetwise. Did I not look educated enough to use the word lovely? I had been a good student in school.

          “I do read books,” I said, hoping to sell myself a little.

          She laughed. “I’m sure you have potential,” she said.

          Again, I felt I was gently being stung, but it was presented in such a nice way I didn’t take offense. I carried the cello to her car, an old Volvo with bald tires. I waved good-bye as she got in.

          “I’ll call,” I said as she was just about to close the door.

          She hesitated, looked back at me through the open car-door window and smiled – a smile is such an encouragement – and said, “Maybe you will.”

Chapter 13

          The issue of Andy carrying a gun came up one morning over coffee. Alicia June got up early to go to work, but always drank a cup of coffee before rushing off. I used to join her. Andy liked to sleep in. The fall football season, and parties, were coming up. I’d been selling the evil weed like crazy. That night I had my second date scheduled with Mandy. There were a number of things going on.

          We were listening to Linda Ronstadt sing, “You’re No Good.”

           “When Andy goes with you, what does he do?” she said.

          “Andy only goes when it’s a large deal. I handle most of the ounces on my own. On a large deal, with several pounds, I show the pot, and Andy counts the money. So far, we haven’t been in any dangerous situations. Just people looking for a good source of marijuana. Andy can count money very fast. He does sums in his head. Also, it lets people know we’re serious about the money being there. We don’t front anyone weed.”

          I was soon to realize I hadn’t really answered her question, “Why the gun?”

          “I don’t know,” I said. I took a drink of coffee and tried to think of the best way to discuss the issue. “Andy calls it insurance. No one knows he carries it, and that’s what he wants. The element of surprise.”

          “At first, I didn’t care if Andy played drug dealer,” she said. “Now that I know you both, I suppose it bothers me a little that it’s a serious thing. I don’t want anything bad to happen.” Andy had mentioned that besides pounds of marijuana, there was $30,000 in the safe. She’d been bothered ever since learning that fact. I think it was a mistake to have told her, but I didn’t want to argue with Andy about it.

          “Andy’s not playing a drug dealer,” I said, “he is one.” Immediately after saying this, I tried to think of a way to make the business sound safe, to reassure her, to soften it. “I never sell to people I don’t know. I know where they work, where they get their money. We’re going to get our money out of this enterprise, and then get out. All business people take some risk. It’s mostly marijuana.”

          “The risk is going to jail. Someone shooting you and taking the pot.”

          “I think you’re being dramatic,” I said.

          “Would Andy use the gun?”

          It’s true I tried not to spend too much time reflecting on what I was doing for a living, but in my quiet moments, such as in that trailer house in Garden City, I did think about the fast life. I had also, in quiet times, tried to envision scenarios where Andy would pull out the gun.

          “I suppose if we had to back our way out of a room, the gun would come in handy,” I said. “I doubt Andy would shoot anyone.” However, I wasn’t sure about this.

          I looked up and Andy was standing in the doorway. He was wearing bellbottom jeans and no shirt. He was slender but with good muscle tone. I don’t know why the thought crossed my mind at this particular time.

          “How do you even know about the gun?” Andy said.

          “It’s in your boot,” she said. “I see it when we go to bed at night.”

          “I’ve never shown you the gun. I lay my boots on the side each evening when I go to bed, so you don’t see it. You find it and ask John Avery Datsun about it, but not me?” The way he used my full name added some menace to what he was saying.

          “Do you want some coffee?” she said. “I have to go to work. We can discuss it later.”

          “Tell me why you didn’t bring it up with me?” Andy said.

          “I don’t like it, that’s all. I think John’s a bad influence.”

          “You think I can’t think for myself?”

          “Of course not,” she said. She got up and put her arms around him. “I don’t want to fight. I love you.”

          I had heard Andy say a thousand times he loved her, but he didn’t repeat it this time. But, he also appeared rational, not angry. “You don’t think I can make decisions for myself. You think I just blindly follow John around, like a puppy?”

          “Of course not,” she said.

          “This is an opportunity,” Andy said. “It’s our time. We’re going to beat the system, get out with some tax-free money. Someday you’ll see we’re just smarter than the average 20-year-olds.”

          “Bullshit,” she said. “You’re both just avoiding going to college or getting a job, things everyone else has to do.” 

          “It that what this is about?” Andy said. “You think we’d be happy working some $3-an-hour construction jobs?”

          “Of course you would,” she said. “I’d stick with you. John would still be your friend. All young people start out with entry level jobs. It’s not the worst thing. You wouldn’t have to carry that ridiculous pearl-handled gun.”

          “Oh, it’s ridiculous now?” Andy said. I could see now he was mad.

          Alicia June was wearing her waitress dress. She got up, picked up her purse. She could walk to the Log Lodge Cafe from our house. “I have to go to work.” I could see she was crying. She walked up the stairs and out the front door without saying good-bye, which was uncharacteristic of her.

          Andy began swearing. He went to his room and put on a t-shirt. He came back to the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee, and sat down. We looked at each other. “Within a year, I’ll bet we have our money,” he said.

          “Let’s not talk about it,” I said. “Neither one of us talk to our families much. The lifestyle comes at a price.”

          “I don’t want to lose Alicia June, but I’m not quitting. That bitch really pissed me off calling me ridiculous. I surely would shoot some asshole who tried to rip us off. I refuse to play by the rules of this messed up, materialistic society. Bob Tejon taught we that. Get yours.”

          “Bob Tejon got out,” I said. “With a mere $10,000 and a motorcycle.”

          “You can’t go on a long vacation for $10,000,” Andy said. “Don’t we want more from it than that? Old Joe Kennedy didn’t quit with $10,000.” We sat in silence in that modest basement kitchen for a long time. I couldn’t think of the name of another bootlegger who had gone legitimate, although I suppose there are several. It’s a thing the early marijuana dealers used to talk about, although I haven’t heard anyone talk about bootleggers in years.

          “It’s a nice day,” I said. “We’re up early. I’ve got a joint. Let’s take a ride up the Cog Railway with the tourists, hike down. Everyone will be cooled off by the time we get back.”

          “I thought you were going to buy clothes today.”

          “I can do that anytime,” I said.

          “What’s Mandy say about your being a drug dealer?”

          “We’ve only had one date,” I said. “She thinks I’m a subsistence-level hippie. She’s 24, plays with the symphony. It’s not like she’s rolling in the dough, either. I don’t know what’s going to happen with us.”

          “OK, let’s go hiking,” Andy said.

          “I’m not going to the Log Lodge for breakfast,” I said. “No dealing today. We’re taking the day off.”

          He nodded. I noticed he was wearing hiking boots, and not his cowboy boots, when we went on the incline railway. We got there early enough we didn’t have to wait in line to get on the first train up. Once at the top, we went to the engine room and said hello to Hippie Nick.

          Outside, the smell of pine was strong and pleasant. On the way down, we went through a stand of aspen. The white, round leaves rattled in the wind. We sat down and enjoyed the moment. I fed the chipmunks some salted peanuts and watched them scamper over the rocks, cheeks stuffed full of the treat. As we neared the parking lot, at the bottom, our mood was greatly improved. Exercise, a long walk, has always been a tonic for me.

          “There’s nothing wrong with being young and wanting to beat the system,” Andy said. “We’re going to take this money and turn it into something. I’m not going to spend my life stressed out wondering if I’ve put in the right bid, if it’s low enough but still guarantees a profit for the company. Keeping the boss happy.”

          I knew Andy’s father was good at his work, and that it was stressful. His father was a construction contractor and put in electrical bids on large projects. Maybe he took it home with him. My father’s life was full of worry, too. He was stuck selling large American cars when the world was ready for economy vehicles. As I said, the first fuel crisis was in the 1970s.

          “We’re partners, Andy,” I said “We’re good together. I’ve never though of myself as the leader. That makes it sound like we’re some kind of gang.”

          “We’re drug dealers,” Andy said. “You’re not still buying into that peace, love and distribution crap, are you?”

          I could see there was nothing I was going to say that would calm him down.

Chapter 14

          I took a shower and went downtown, bought dress shoes, slacks, a sports jacket, two dress shirts – one white – and a tie. I needed to be able to go to a nice restaurant, and the symphony.

          I picked up Mandy and took her to a nice place, Top of the Cosmos, for dinner. We had fun and talked; she found it interesting that I knew the people there. It was almost as if she was of a different generation. Her parents were teachers, and she was a concert celloist. She talked with some disdain about modern rock and roll.

          “What about Elton John?” I said. “He could be a classical musician, but he wants, or has, mainstream appeal. What’s wrong with that?”

          “I don’t like the silly costumes,” she said.

          “It’s theater,” I said. “Really, you don’t like the songs?”

          I paid the bill, tipped 15 percent, and we were talking on the way to my car. She was wearing slacks and a cotton dress shirt with an off-red floral pattern. I was wearing slacks, dress shoes and a white dress shirt. “The music has some appeal, don’t you think?”

          She shrugged, not quite willing to admit it was good musically.

          “What about the Beatles song, ‘Yesterday’? I’ve heard classical arrangements of that, and it’s nice.”

          “Yes, it is,” she said. “It’s a nice song.”

          “Led Zeppelin II?”

          “Please,” she said. “That stuff will never last.” 

          “Not the Lemon Song’?” I said, and she laughed. She’d never heard it. We went to her house, and she drank wine while I had a beer. I’ve never in this lifetime acquired a taste for wine. She played several classical selections for me, and I enjoyed listening to them with her. Later, we went to bed. She had a strong, slender body I liked a lot. I told her I hoped we could have a good, long relationship.

          In the morning, she had to go to Denver to practice, and I sent her in my Mustang. I bought four tires and took the Volvo to the garage, where I put them on her car. I left the four bald tires stacked outside, another way to make the garage look like a place where people just worked on cars.

          In the evening, I returned to her small house in a nondescript, east-side neighborhood. She was living in a modest house, probably not unlike the one she grew up in with her school-teacher parents. She greeted me as I pulled up, and noticed the tires, but didn’t comment. Within a half an hour, we were in bed again. This time, the love making was ravenous.

           About 7 p.m., we went to the living room. She fixed a light dinner of fruit, cheese, bread and olives. Maybe, I thought, this is how they eat in Europe. But Mandy had never been to Europe. Her parents were not wealthy.

          “Yesterday, you told me you bought some dress cloths so you’d look nice to go to the symphony,” she said. I nodded it was true.

          “You took me to an expensive restaurant for dinner. You tipped. You knew everyone at the restaurant. Today, you bought four tires for my car.”

          “I like you. I’m trying to do the right things to convince you to like me.”

          “That’s sweet,” she said. “I can’t remember anyone putting in quite so much effort.”

          “I like you a lot,” I said. “You know?”

          “My point is,” she said, “that I didn’t think you had any means. The rent on that house, big as it is, couldn’t be much. You don’t have any furniture to speak of. I can’t tell that you work much.”

          “Perhaps, if you give me a chance, you’ll find I’m more prosperous than I look.”

          She smiled. I looked at her fine facial features and rather mussed up hair, and felt truly good, despite all the conflict the past two days surrounding Alicia June and Andy, and even Andy and I

          “You’re as handsome a man as I’ve ever been with. I usually draw the nerdy types, but I must say I’m attracted to muscles more than I knew.” I laughed. “For now, I’m satisfied with a trophy man.”

          There was that gentle sting again. I wondered at what point I would begin to take offense at these remarks. But, when you’re young, the world is full of possibilities. Other people may have been more grounded in reality, but I always thought I had potential. Andy and I both thought we had more potential than other people were giving us credit for.

          So, the summer of 1975 was good. Alicia June and Mandy must have made some kind of pact to let Andy and I have our “little” marijuana business. In the fall, Vince “the Ace” Acocella was the starting quarterback at CU, and our football parties started up in full.

          Mandy had her commitment to the symphony, and Alicia June went to her job six days a week. Saturday night was the big party, and I always did a lot of business. The parties usually lasted until 6 a.m. The problems wouldn’t start until January 1976.

Chapter 15

          Blond Bob, driving a sky-blue Jaguar, waved at me as I was walking home from the Log Lodge Cafe one morning. It was bitter cold out. I remember the warmth of being in his car. I told him it was a fine car; I liked it. In those days, metal and chrome made cars heavy, solid, and they were powered by large engines. I can’t describe it, and I don’t want to be romantic about it, but cars were things of substance.

          “With this stupid 55 mile per hour speed limit, it’s not like it does me much good,” he said. “Nixon wants us all to drive like old ladies.”

          I nodded. The speed limit was a popular topic at the Log Lodge Cafe. Some people felt there was plenty of energy in the world. Others thought we should be conserving it, driving small cars and going slower. I found I could get people quite upset by saying America is a big country, and we need big, fast cars to travel through it.

          I know I was seen by some of the hippies as an Imperial American, but the truth is I knew the good times couldn’t last. Cheap oil. A good economy. A standard of living higher than the rest of the world. In the 1970s, I always felt at the end of something good.

          Blond Bob handed me a spoon and I took a sniff. It assaulted my senses and made me ready to take on the world. The white powder is more courage than whisky ever thought of being.

          “It’s snowing in Colorado, and I don’t mean the stuff you ski on,” Bob said, folding up a paper bindle as he drove. “I can get cocaine cheap. Do you think you can move it?”

          Marijuana was popular as a “natural” high, an alternative to alcohol. It was part of a laid-back lifestyle that many people liked. I knew there would be a mixed response to cocaine. Andy and I had discussed it at length. Cocaine revved up the engine, made people outgoing and energetic. It was a much more pleasant speed-up than amphetamines. It also didn’t last long, and it would seem more like criminal drug use to some people.

          In the 1970s, it was one thing to use a natural herb. Cocaine was seen as fully participating in the drug culture, which some people weren’t comfortable with. Maybe five in 10 young people would smoke a joint, but only two of 10 would take a sniff of cocaine. However, the profits were obscene. If Andy and I wanted to get out of the life, we could make our money quicker selling cocaine. We both had girlfriends now who wanted us out of the life. Plus, it was no secret to Blond Bob we had the potential to move it.

          “Andy and I have discussed this,” I said. “I can’t say we’ve ever come to a conclusion.”

          “I understand your concerns,” Bob said. “I have a solution. I’m going to leave you with a quarter of an ounce. Use some, give some to your friends when you sell them an ounce of Colombian. If things go OK, leave me a note. Anything you make on this first quarter ounce is yours to keep. Like I said, I appreciate the work my people do on the street. You’re one of my best men. You may be my most solid guy, so I appreciate that. I’ll work with you.”

          He let me out and I walked the last block to the house with the quarter ounce in my pocket. For the first time, I looked round to see if any police were watching, say a policeman sitting in a squad car. Then, I suspected police in unmarked cars as I passed.

          Andy and I drove to the garage and sat in the office, where we sniffed several lines and talked on and on. It was 10 a.m., and I had a beer. It was starting.

Chapter 16

          I spread the word I was selling one-gram packets of cocaine for $85. I made a sale or two almost every night I went out to the Broadmoor, Top of the Cosmos, Juniper or the Yukon Alaska Tavern. Angel and Tonya at Bonita’s couldn’t seem to get enough of the stuff; Marie was even beginning to look accessible despite her lifelong boyfriend. The boys from the oil fields bought it every time they came to town, and they had plenty of money. Hal and even Carpenter Jim bought it. Randy moved it, calling himself a redistributor. Only Hippie Nick left it alone. “What goes up, must come down,” he said.

          Things picked up. There were nights when I was driving around with $600 to $800 in my pocket. I had the feeling people were not paying bills, but buying cocaine instead. Since Andy rarely made the rounds with me, I felt I was suddenly shouldering more of the risk.

          Another problem was that everyone wanted me to party with them. This is not a problem in a way that is flattering, but the fact is I had too many customers to party all the time with all of them. Nicole, the pretty red-haired waitress at the Broadmoor, would touch me aggressively each time I went into the bar, and I admit I went home with her, though I explained I was in a relationship. She smiled wickedly and promised not to tell.

          I also ran into some friends of Lilly Ferrazi, rich older guys, and they bought quarter-ounces and invited me to their homes in Blue Mountain Ridge. These parties would last all night and sometimes I’d sleep with some well-dress, married 30-year old. I would hear about the chaos that ensued but I wasn’t responsible if someone’s wife cheated while he was doing coke in another room.

          The Broadmoor is a five-star hotel, golf course and complex. It has a circular drive, well-groomed grounds and a number of restaurants and other entertainment. The most down-scale bar was on a corner of the complex and called the Sand Wedge. Nicole and some of the staff would buy from me if the tips were flowing, and Bob Ferrazi and his friends went there. It was a good place because the people there, it seemed, always had money.

          The Top of the Cosmos was a restaurant and bar on the top and sixth floor of an office building. The owner was always there, and I knew him, so any deals had to be made out of view, and customers had to behave. I always had a glass of whisky there. Cocaine, being a stimulant, can get you wired, but I found I could even myself out with alcohol. Even myself out and spread out the time between lines. Of course, this is a dangerous game to play, but at the time I thought I had it under control. I got to where I could drink a lot and not feel in the least bit drunk, out of control.

          Juniper was more of a dive bar with working people, hippies, stoners and people who liked to party. The bartender, Big Dan, liked to control the trade. When I walked in, he would tell me how many grams he needed and slip me the money. Then he would eventually get people their bindles. I was OK with this, and would be sure to reward Big Dan commiserate with the amount he was moving.

          I usually drank water there, saving myself a few bucks and getting the alcohol out of my system. Big Dan seemed to control everything at Juniper’s, and he didn’t care if I spent money there. At Top of the Cosmos, the owner, Bert, would have noticed if I was drinking water and maybe be suspicious.

          It was at Juniper once when I felt I was targeted by an undercover policeman. He was a hard-looking man, with hair that looked like it had grown out for two months from a buzz cut. The man wasn’t scary, just hard, like an unsympathetic cop or a boxer. My theory is that he knew there were drugs at Juniper, and maybe he figured out things picked up just after I left. He stopped me when I was on the way to the bathroom. I hadn’t seen him there before that I could remember.

          “I’m new in town, could you help me out?” he said.

          I made the observations mentioned above. “I don’t know what you mean,” I said, being nice enough about it but I didn’t stop to talk. I used the restroom and got out of there that night. Later I told Big Dan about it, but he wasn’t sure he knew who I was describing.           Yukon Alaska is where a lot of the people I knew from our party hung out. Randy, Kostrba and Don went there. The business was spelled without a comma and pronounced the same way. People said Yukon Alaska Tavern altogether like it was one word. The professor went there, Eyodeli, Monia, Carpenter Jim, Hal and others.

          I met Jamey at the Yukon Alaska. He said, “I’m a paranoid schizophrenic cocaine addict.” I said OK, but I liked him and he began to attend our parties. He once told me when he was off his medication he could see that dogs were spying on humans for the aliens. “They are quite smart,” he said about dogs.

          I could walk home from the Yukon Alaska so it was a good place to end up. I still sold weed at the Log Lodge Cafe, and had a beer at the Glass Cage. Then I’d go home and rest a while, or eat, or talk with Andy. Andy would go with me sometimes to the Glass Cage, but the rest of the circuit he mostly avoided. Believe it or not, people liked it that Andy was home to answer the phone. Andy wouldn’t talk about drugs on the phone, but he knew what people wanted. I’d check in with him once or twice a night, and make deliveries if it was reasonable. Sometimes I had to go to the service station on Hill Street to get more product.

          The schedule was not rigid, for sure. There were nights when I had to stay home and rest up from a particularly crazy night. In a way, my relationships with women were also catch as catch can. Mandy took cocaine once, and liked it, but then said she couldn’t party with me anymore and we stopped calling each other. Alicia June would use cocaine on special occasions, but she showed more restraint than most people. She would never buy any, and I know she didn’t approve of my lifestyle.

          With cocaine, I could – and would – drink all night. I had to take taxis home sometimes because I didn’t want to get pulled over by the police for intoxicated driving. My life took on a pattern. I’d make the rounds, use coke most of the night, roll into the house at 6 or 7 a.m. via a taxi, be unable to function for most of the day, go get my car, and finally sleep that night.

          The next night, rested, I’d go out again. There is no hangover comparable to being up all night on cocaine.

          People would tell me their stories of woe. A girlfriend was mad because some guy hadn’t made it home. A person was short of cash. A person was feeling dope sick; could I spare a line? Could I spare $10 worth of coke. I never sold less than a gram. Angel was calling me three times a week. I figured it took at least one long, full day of work for her to buy a gram, to make $85.

          With marijuana, a person would buy an ounce and it would last a long time. No one got in trouble or ran out of money. The white powder was an entirely different beast. It was almost always good times followed by trouble. Some people asked me to stop coming by, and I honored that request, but in the end they’d call up again. “Hey, could you stop by with some party favors?”

          I began to figure out when people got paid, and I sometimes suspected money for cocaine was coming right out of the cash register; the people taking the money weren’t the people who owned the cash register.

          The money rolled in. We had $70,000 in the safe, a kilo of Colombian marijuana and a couple of ounces of cocaine. After a wild spring and summer, it was time for our fall parties. One excellent fall, and maybe we’d have $200,000. That was our plan in 1976. Hit it hard all fall, then be done with it. Andy and I were optimistic.

          Alicia June got her own apartment. She still went out with Andy, but I knew he wasn’t pleased with the development. As I’ve always said, Alicia June May was a smart woman, even in those days, even as a young woman. She didn’t want to be in that big house on Colorado Boulevard when things went wrong. However, she still came to our Saturday night parties and joined in the fun.

.