The Swordid-Fish Diaries

Hoofer disappeared August 53, the month Johnson led his government up the hill. We'd opened champagne as the eager press hit the streets, it went sour the day they Knocked on our door. The county judge told us to tell all, but we had two days to testify, one day I spent acting like a fool the second we crossed the border into Mexico.

Good-bye sad life we laughed, the champagne went with it. We waved good bye in a cloud of smoke, we burned rubber all the way to San Pedro only to find we'd arranged for our bags to go elsewhere. As the news came down the line I felt like I had swallowed that last nickel, fifty thousand bucks played onto the county table; a gamble that fell apart at the seams of the bulging money bags. The receiver went down, and I was alone for the first time, felt like the secure palms of my guiding, father Pappi had just slipped away.

The chill of 54 took me by the hand, I could make a few bucks but rarely come up for air. A week on the west coast had nearly cost me my life, the split decision not to go to the Creola Ballroom and buy the first plane home had meant a game cut short but the house came down, two bought it and the rest shimmied up a pipe to meet the snipers on the first floor.