The Second Coming of Cousin Billy

Billy and I go way back. He’s not really my cousin. I used to date his cousin. That’s what she called him and the name stuck. Tall, blue-eyed with chiseled features, Billy was quite an eye full which was fortunate since he was a sex addict. Women would parade through his houseboat morning, noon and night. Sometimes they'd pass each other in the parking lot. I had witnessed this first-hand. And more. I got the leftovers. All it took was lending a sympathetic ear. Every conquest wanted him for themselves. When they’d realize that wasn’t attainable, they’d do what any jilted lover would. They’d fuck his friend.

We were also business partners. Our trade was “private label advertising”, in which we would put a company’s logo on a “specialty product”, rolling papers. It seems silly now, but back then we were deadly serious. We thought we’d get rich. Utilizing a lot of our product helped sustain that illusion. Bill handled the southern part of Florida. I got the northern half, plus Key West. Our headquarters were in Miami Beach, where the houseboat sat.
We finally shelved the business. I moved back up north. Bill disappeared. No one could locate him, not even his brother. I last heard from him about six months after his vanishing act. He’d repudiated his past and was following some cultist; Edgar Cayce, I think.
That was thirty years ago. Billly was the first of a number of my friends who turned inward. All had lived wild lives and all were serious drug users. I assumed they had simply burnt out and those who had vanished completely were likely dead.
It was a shock when I received his message last week. He’d found me on Facebook. “I’ve rejoined the living” was all he said. I forwarded his statement to our mutual friends who still interact, Rick and Ben. Ben took the initiative and located him. After some prodding, Bill agreed to meet him at a bar they knew. After ordering two beers from the pretty twenty-something waitress, Ben went outside to make a phone call. When he came back, Bill said “Put your money away. It’s no good here.”
“What are you talking about?” Ben asked.
“See that bartender? I used to date her mother.”
How Bill had figured that out in less than five minutes is a mystery. 
What follows next is the second message we got from him. It’s quite a tale. I have no doubts that it’s true. Like the waitress episode, it’s vintage Bill.

The Saga: 

I have a story that I've been wanting to tell for exactly thirty years, but I knew no one would believe me, except maybe you guys. Then I reestablished contact with you three. So before I die I've just got to tell it. And I swear every word is true.
I call it: “The Day I was Arrested for NOT Going to Bed with a Lady When Asked.” If you remember my “habits” back then, the irony is inescapable.
The Mount St. Helens explosion, the Liberty City riots, and this story all took place between Friday afternoon and Sunday morning of that fateful weekend. There must have been something in the air.
First, a little background. You guys remember my uncle's old office and the kind of neighborhood it was in? Well, when I started paying half the rent I decided to relocate to a little bit better area. So we moved a mile inland on 79th street. We were now east of Biscayne Bay. That made all the difference in the world. Or so I thought at the time.
Our new offices were in a strip shopping center. Typical layout except this place was a little different. It had offices at each end to act as anchors. Ours had large, mirrored windows you could see out from, but not in. They were massive, about fifteen feet high and ran across the entire front. They come into the story later.
In this strip mall was a small "dance studio" two doors down. It was owned by a beautiful Jamaican lady. Long straight hair, glowing brown skin, and curves most women at that age (twenty-five) would kill for. And to top it off, she drove a brand new black Corvette. That got my attention. I don't remember how our relationship started, but before long I found myself going over there to hang out in the afternoons when she had no customers. I must digress for a moment to disabuse you of the idea that this may have been a dance studio in any way, shape, or form. The only person who danced in that "studio" was Beverly (my friend's name) or one of the girls who worked for her. The customers, who were all male, sat in bean bag chairs and observed the girls dancing to music supplied by a boom box. As to what these men did while a girl was dancing, I'll leave to your vivid imaginations. The girls were never touched. I know, I witnessed a few sessions from a private location. (When I couldn't get out in time I had to stay in her office. Seeing me walk by would have ruined the mood.)
There's only one other thing you have to know. We were not in love. It was pure sex. We drove her car to Key West one weekend. The first night there at a bar I saw a girl I was very interested in. So I suggested to Beverly that she should see what see could dig up for herself, which she happily set about doing. I went home with the local and spent the night. The next morning Beverly and I met up and continued our weekend, no questions asked. That is the type of relationship we had. I tell you this because it is pertinent to the story. 
Now the fun begins. It's Friday afternoon, just before Mt. St. Helens and Liberty City blew up. I'm on my houseboat doing a little housework. In those days, I still did things of that sort. Suddenly Beverly jumps on board, unannounced I might add. Her sheets are flapping in the wind if you remember what Quaaludes were like. She wants to have sex "right now." You might not believe this, but I said no. Probably the first and only time in my life I've done anything of that sort. I expected her to "take it like a man" and turn around and walk out. Boy, was I wrong. She said, and I quote: "When I tell a man to fuck me, he better well do it, and fast." If she had given me a few sniffles instead, you guys wouldn't be reading of this sordid tale. But no, she goes butch and throws a left hook which connects and pisses me off. She was a little, petite girl so I wrap my arms around her, pick her up, and carry her to the dock where she’s deposited and told to be a good little girl and go home.
As far as I was concerned that was the end of it. But remember it's only Friday afternoon and this drama didn't have the National Guard throwing me on the ground and pressing five shotguns into the flesh of my back, with one resting on my head, and a guy wearing a riot helmet telling me if I moved one muscle I'd have my "fuckin' head blown off". Dear, dear Beverly made it a most interesting weekend. I preferred our Key West getaway much better. But I'm getting ahead of the story.
After she swaggers down the dock in an angry huff, I turn my attention to more serious matters; the evening's debauchery. A few docks over lived a guy that reminded me of you Rick. He’d been in a serious motorcycle accident and had just got out of his body cast. His boat hosted a never ending party that included the fabled dancing girls from the strip mall. Never had I seen such depravity and I was right in the middle of it most nights. No, I can't lie to you guys, I was in the middle of it every night. What happened on that boat is a story for another time. But going over there that night saved my life. By the way Rick, it was the body cast and not the depravity that reminded me of you.
As I'm walking back the next morning from that "boat of ill repute", a neighbor informs me that there were two guys hiding in some bushes last night waiting for me to pass by. Some people in the marina noticed them and called the police. They had guns and one of them shouted that he was going to kill that son-of a-bitch for insulting his wife. Beverly, it turned out, was married. Who knew? I learned later that she had gone home to her husband and gave him an edited version of what had happened, leaving out the going to bed part.
So now I do the stupidest thing I've ever done in my life. I return to my debauched friend's boat and tell him the story. He wants in on the fun but can only hobble, so he offers me one of the many guns in his collection. Being the genius I am, I take a 9mm automatic. I've never even seen a gun before. All of a sudden I'm Dirty Harry and Charles Bronson all rolled into one. It's now Saturday. That night I go clubbing with the 9mm in my back pocket, ready for action (what an A-Hole). I'm not attacked and make it home unscathed. At about the time I got there, Mt. St. Helens was blowing her top, Liberty City was just getting a good burn going and Beverly was orchestrating what would end up with me in the Dade County Jail with every black guy that hated “Whitey” and was attempting to prove it by burning down a good part of Miami. More on that in a minute.

I get a few hours sleep and am just getting up when my brother Mike bursts in and says, "What's with your crazy girlfriend?" He goes on to tell me he’d gone to the office that Sunday morning to get a little work out of the way. But, as he exited his car, two guys assaulted him by hitting him over the head with the butt of a rifle, breaking the stock. The only thing that saved him was Beverly yelling “That's not him, that's not him!” He then goes on to tell me every window in our place has been smashed. You've heard the expression "He saw red,?” It must of been the stress of the last couple of days, coupled with what happened to Mike (and my windows), but I really saw red. It evidently happens when one is very, very angry.
I reach for the gun and grab Mike. We get into my 280ZX and race off in a cloud of self-righteousness on a mission of vengeance. We're at the dance studio in under five minutes. I slide my car in sideways as though I'm Magnum PI. My plan is to use it as a shield. As the car come to a rest, I pop out, draw the gun and start shooting head high (the bullet holes are in the aluminum framing to this day). Well old Dirty Harry gets off two shots when my "friends" stick their heads out the door to see what the hell’s going on. I target the first guy's head and put my thumb over the top of the gun. I'm holding it with two hands like I see them do in the movies. I take careful aim at the motherfucker, pull the trigger and almost sever my thumb (still got the scar) as the gun jams. No one told me automatics slide back with every shot. Mike says, "Are you nuts!" and walks or perhaps runs away as I was too busy to notice his means of staying out of jail that day.
There I am. My thumb’s dangling by a piece of bone, my gun won't shoot and my targets are coming at me with their guns drawn. So what's a hero to do but run. I sprint around to the back of the building. There's a house there and I start knocking on the back door screaming that they are going to kill me and please let me in. Amazingly, I'm let in. Two minutes later the National Guard and about fifty local cops show up and drag me from the house. The riots were only blocks away and I assume it wasn't any bother to run down another crazy that wants to burn down Miami. And this one is armed and dangerous! Well, as I've said earlier, I was thrown to the ground etc... 
Jail was interesting. I was the only white guy in there. They had arrested so many rioters we had twenty guys in a holding cell made for three at the most. Did I mention I was the only white guy? My fellow alleged criminals at first paid me no heed. They were too busy

recounting to one another the exploits that landed them in our merry little enclave. After about twenty minutes, things quieted down and one by one they turned their faces to me. There was no love lost in even one of those expressions. One young fellow spoke up and asked what was I in for. I looked at him, took a moment to answer (to make sure I had everyone's attention) and said, "I just killed two people." With that they became one living organism and shuffled away from me. I heard a voice in the back say "I'll take my TV rap (he was in for looting). The rest of my cellmates then wholeheartedly concurred with him. I called a customer of the rolling paper business who was a bail bondsman. He told me I got him out of the sack with the sweetest little girl. Remember the streets were closed and there was a curfew. But somehow he got there and got me sprung. I called good old Henry, who got through the police lines somehow and drove me home.
The final outcome? Well the charges were pretty serious, so I took no chances. I hired Roy Black (the guy who defended William Smith, the Kennedy who was charged with rape in Palm Beach, but this was years before that). I gave him $5000.00 cash and went to court to ascertain my fate. When they called my case the complainant's name was called "Beverly ____s". The judge looks up and says, "Is this the same Beverly ____s that’s in here every other week?" His clerk says it is indeed. To which the judge replies, "Case Dismissed."
As a postscript, I later spoke with Beverly. She said she didn't show up in court because she wasn't a snitch.I didn’t have the heart to tell her it wouldn’t have mattered if she had
been there or not. Somehow, after that weekend, the romance kind of went out of our relationship, although we remained friendly.
On a serious note: My hands shake every time I think of how close I came to taking a human life. I have not touched a gun since, nor will I if I live to be 100.
p.s. If you don't believe any of this, ask my brother Mike.