CHAPTER 34 The Long Way Home
I finally left Greyhound and my escort (still) of black folks, at Abilene, Texas. We no longer had need of each other, although they seemed dissapointed to see me leave. Nothing was said, it was the look on their faces. I wonder still, if they were not protecting me.
I caught a ride in a pickup truck with a man who looked remarkably like an uncle of mine, then snagged a lift from an eighteen-wheeler all the way to Phoenix. The reunion between Bonnie and I was pleasant, and within days we were pretty much back into our our old routine. I found a job at KRDS radio, a small but thriving country-western station in Tolleson, the far west side of Phoenix.
Have you ever had one of those experiences where you walk into a place and everyone leaves? That was me at KRDS. There were several very fine DJ's there doing talk and music shows. I knew next to nothing about country music and it showed. Suddenly, everyone left. Records, DJ's, production aids, everything but the equipment and a few part-time staff members. We were down to scratch. A handful of non-descript, non-hit records. Scratch. Just like KCAC. Across town at KDKB with
the staff that had been most of KCAC, I wondered if Bill knew what was going on and had any idea of the difference in the stations.
There was a difference in the relationship between Bonnie and I, as well. The difference was the incredible amount of pot that had been moving through the house. The floor of one room was literally carpeted with spilled marijuana. I was never enthusiastic about her dealing activities. I think most of our friends and acquaintences had regarded me as some kind of body guard for her in the past. It seemed to fit. This was just plain loose dealing though - almost inviting a bust, and I couldn't hide my displeasure of it. The bust came down a few weeks later. I could feel it, taste it and smell it days before it happened. We or I should say I - even got a warning call. The phone rang one afternoon while I was alone at the house; "Wake up..... one of those". Click. Thanks. I shared my feelings very pointedly with Bonnie but it seemed there was a missing link in our communication. I just could not get it through to her.
It was late of an evening when she came in, very disturbed at events that were obviously out of her control. Someone had pulled a gun and announced an arrest. She had bolted out of the place, as had one or two others. She was scared. So was I. Maybe it was a bust, maybe it was a ripoff, where the buying party stages a bust and steals all the marbles. The problem in that kind of situation is determining who are the good guys, and who are the bad guys. It goes one way or the other.
Fifty-fifty odds. If you make a bad bet, you are dead.
About 2 AM a car pulled up out on 27th Avenue and turned off its engine. This was it. I woke her up and got dressed myself. I didn't have to wait for the knock on the door. I calculated these were cops, coming to make our arrest, but it was quite possible that they were dealers coming to snuff a witness and/or witnesses. They had pulled up quietly, hoping for an element of surprise. There was no way of knowing if that element of surprise was for our protection, or theirs. We weren't safely out of the woods yet. I had no gun in the house but in case it was bad and went hand-to-hand, I shoved a long slim butcher knife in the back of my pants. I told Bonnie to stay put in the kitchen, lock the door behind me...... and wait.
There was no moon. It was as dark as a wool sweater outside, so I turned on the porch light and stepped out into the driveway. "Please identify yourself." I called out. "Who are you?" For a moment, there was silence. Off toward the bushes between the house and 27th Avenue, a space of some thirty yards, a voice called out; "Are you armed?" I replied; `Yes I am'. I counted at least five slides being worked on semi-automatic handguns ranging in size from .32 to .45 calibre. Maybe one shotgun. Shit. "We are Federal Agents. What sort of weapon do you have and where is it?" a voice said. `I have a butcher knife in the back of my pants', I replied. "Raise your hands and stand still, I am coming over". I did as I was told, and quietly breathed a sigh of relief that this was not some kind of Cartel Firing Squad.
They were very gentle with Bonnie, and quite respectful as they recited the Miranda to her. Apparently, they didn't have any idea that I even existed. There was no warrant for me, I was not wanted. In days to come the usual legal maneuverings freed her and imprisoned at least one other of her associates. I began to make a very serious re-evaluation of our relationship, with an eye to my personal survival.
I decided we would be friends and lovers for a long time to come, and live our lives separately and apart from one another.
Here I was again, starting from scratch.
I caught a ride in a pickup truck with a man who looked remarkably like an uncle of mine, then snagged a lift from an eighteen-wheeler all the way to Phoenix. The reunion between Bonnie and I was pleasant, and within days we were pretty much back into our our old routine. I found a job at KRDS radio, a small but thriving country-western station in Tolleson, the far west side of Phoenix.
Have you ever had one of those experiences where you walk into a place and everyone leaves? That was me at KRDS. There were several very fine DJ's there doing talk and music shows. I knew next to nothing about country music and it showed. Suddenly, everyone left. Records, DJ's, production aids, everything but the equipment and a few part-time staff members. We were down to scratch. A handful of non-descript, non-hit records. Scratch. Just like KCAC. Across town at KDKB with
the staff that had been most of KCAC, I wondered if Bill knew what was going on and had any idea of the difference in the stations.
There was a difference in the relationship between Bonnie and I, as well. The difference was the incredible amount of pot that had been moving through the house. The floor of one room was literally carpeted with spilled marijuana. I was never enthusiastic about her dealing activities. I think most of our friends and acquaintences had regarded me as some kind of body guard for her in the past. It seemed to fit. This was just plain loose dealing though - almost inviting a bust, and I couldn't hide my displeasure of it. The bust came down a few weeks later. I could feel it, taste it and smell it days before it happened. We or I should say I - even got a warning call. The phone rang one afternoon while I was alone at the house; "Wake up..... one of those". Click. Thanks. I shared my feelings very pointedly with Bonnie but it seemed there was a missing link in our communication. I just could not get it through to her.
It was late of an evening when she came in, very disturbed at events that were obviously out of her control. Someone had pulled a gun and announced an arrest. She had bolted out of the place, as had one or two others. She was scared. So was I. Maybe it was a bust, maybe it was a ripoff, where the buying party stages a bust and steals all the marbles. The problem in that kind of situation is determining who are the good guys, and who are the bad guys. It goes one way or the other.
Fifty-fifty odds. If you make a bad bet, you are dead.
About 2 AM a car pulled up out on 27th Avenue and turned off its engine. This was it. I woke her up and got dressed myself. I didn't have to wait for the knock on the door. I calculated these were cops, coming to make our arrest, but it was quite possible that they were dealers coming to snuff a witness and/or witnesses. They had pulled up quietly, hoping for an element of surprise. There was no way of knowing if that element of surprise was for our protection, or theirs. We weren't safely out of the woods yet. I had no gun in the house but in case it was bad and went hand-to-hand, I shoved a long slim butcher knife in the back of my pants. I told Bonnie to stay put in the kitchen, lock the door behind me...... and wait.
There was no moon. It was as dark as a wool sweater outside, so I turned on the porch light and stepped out into the driveway. "Please identify yourself." I called out. "Who are you?" For a moment, there was silence. Off toward the bushes between the house and 27th Avenue, a space of some thirty yards, a voice called out; "Are you armed?" I replied; `Yes I am'. I counted at least five slides being worked on semi-automatic handguns ranging in size from .32 to .45 calibre. Maybe one shotgun. Shit. "We are Federal Agents. What sort of weapon do you have and where is it?" a voice said. `I have a butcher knife in the back of my pants', I replied. "Raise your hands and stand still, I am coming over". I did as I was told, and quietly breathed a sigh of relief that this was not some kind of Cartel Firing Squad.
They were very gentle with Bonnie, and quite respectful as they recited the Miranda to her. Apparently, they didn't have any idea that I even existed. There was no warrant for me, I was not wanted. In days to come the usual legal maneuverings freed her and imprisoned at least one other of her associates. I began to make a very serious re-evaluation of our relationship, with an eye to my personal survival.
I decided we would be friends and lovers for a long time to come, and live our lives separately and apart from one another.
Here I was again, starting from scratch.
posted by freespeak@gmail.com at 5:59 AM
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