In 1980 I was driving through the Cabrini Green neighborhood.

Cabrini Green was a notorious and violent public housing project constructed at the intersection of two of Chicago wealthiest neighborhoods, Lincoln Park and the Gold Coast. And it sat -- destitute and horrific -- less than a mile from Michigan Avenue, the sumptuous shopping artery and lakefront Arcadia.

Controlled primarily by the Gangster Disciples street gang, Cabrini Green was constructed like a high-rise grafittied prison tier of rat-infested apartments with broken doors, boarded windows, non-functioning elevators and clogged garbage chutes piled 15 stories high. Constant gunfire from the upper floors claimed many casualties, including the deaths of two Chicago police officers in 1970.

It was a moderately warm day and we had the windows rolled down. Craig was riding shotgun and Paul, a photographer and friend of mine was in the backseat. We were smoking weed, passing a fat doob to one another as we cruised the dilapidated hood.

We came up to a stop sign. There was a squalid convenience store to our right across a broad and cratered parking lot. The only car in the lot, parked at the entrance of the store was a police car. A policeman exited the shabby bodega thumping a pack of freshly-bought cigarets.

I nudged Craig. "Is that...?" Craig smiled slightly and nodded his head.

From the backseat Paul nervously said "Keep that joint out of sight, Maybe you should roll up the windows."

Instead I yelled "HEY, PIG!" in the direction of the cop. He turned quickly in my direction, his hand on his holstered sidearm.

"FUCK YOU!" I added as I took a deep hit off the joint and blew a cloud of smoke out the window in his direction.

Paul, in back, was coming unglued. In full distress, he'd scrunched himself into a quivering ball, attempting to make himself as small as possible. His panicked cant was nearly unintelligible. More like like queeps and gurbles than human speech "Wha' th' fuck?... wha' th' fuck?... wha' th' fuck... wha' th' fuck'?"" he whimpered.

Suddenly the policeman was at the window. "You punks holdin'?!" he barked. I took another toke and handed the fatty to Craig who passed it to the cop, who took a major hit and smiled "How you guys doin' t'day?"


Harry was a reckless soul who operated under the cover of Authority. He was a Chicago policeman whose district was the first ward, an area that housed both great wealth and abject poverty.

I knew Harry through his wife, Susan, who was an an art department coordinator at Playboy . We'd messed around a bit, and we'd fucked once -- on the floor at her and Harry's apartment in the Lake Point Towers.

At Playboy sex between coworkers was common. In fact it was expected. Seemed like everyone was banging someone just down the hall. Blowjobs in the stairwell, secretaries bent over desktops and pounded, liaisons after hours, groping under tables at staff meetings, editorial retreats that eroded into debauchery. I had a large corner office with a couch, which provided a modicum of comfort for casual porking.

Susan and Harry were at the end of their marriage. But still, it was a bit edgy to be fucking the wife of a cop. So I didn't let the relationship develop into anything more than a friendship. And that one careless dalliance on the floor.

Besides, I was at the beginning of my relationship with Harriett and I'd sworn off (old habits are hard to break) fucking around in deference to our new-found, heart-felt connection.


Harry loved to smoke weed. It helped get him through his shift.

Harry and I'd score our smoke from the same dealer. He loved rousting guys innocently going about their dope procurement business. In the hallway just outside the dealer's door he'd corral a hapless reefer-hound, push him up against the wall and growl "You holdin', punk?". Then he'd knock on the door and stroll into the dealer's apartment tugging along the petrified patron, purchase some bud, wish the panic-stricken buyer a pleasant afternoon and be about his law enforcement duties.

For awhile Harry supplemented his income by dealing weed. One afternoon Harriett and I walked into his apartment . He was sitting at a table with another uniformed police officer. Their service revolvers were on the table, as well as ten pounds of weed they were weighing out into one-ounce portions and stuffing into baggies.

Then one day the Chicago Police Department began testing its ranks for drug usage, which played havoc with Harry's drug of choice, marijuana. So he came to rely on liquor and blow. Pot stayed in his system too long, but he could rapidly wash the coke out with ibuprofen and cranberry juice.

Coked to the gills, drunk out of his mind and careening at warp speed through Chicago streets and alleyways, Harry would wreck his squad car all the time. And total it at least once a year.


One afternoon Harriett and I were walking down North Michigan Avenue. We strolled past a high-end jewelry store. There was a guy in a grey suit and tie standing at the doorway of the jewelry store.

After we'd passed by the guy in the suit said "Whatsa matter wit' you guys? Y' can't say 'Hi' ?"

I stopped and looked at him. I had no idea who he was. Under my breath I asked Harriett if she knew who he was. She shook her head.

It was one of those situations when I figured I must have met they guy, but I couldn't place him. Out of courtesy -- and because I thought maybe he was someone I should know (He was hanging out in front of Bulgari like he owned the place), I turned and approached him. I put out my hand and he said "What? You don't recognize an old friend? Wadda I gotta do? Show you some fuckin' ID?"

"It's Harry, you fuckin' dipshit." he said.

He was picking up a little freelance income working security for the diamond merchant.

"Wow," I said. "I've never seen you in civies. You're unrecognizable in a suit."