The black bag. Freedom Fyter had been, I think the legal phrase is, “keeping it about his person” since he and I drove to DC from Detroit. I was firmly told to stay away from the black bag for my own sake. I knew that Uncle Bud was concerned about the bag the night that he and FF had their argument at the bar. And it seemed like Fyter was finally ready to let me in on the secret.
“Let’s get out of here,” said FF, rising to his feet and sweeping the bag off the table with one large hand. “Too many Republicans. Besides, I’ve got some people I want you to meet.”
It was 10:30, and I had to be ready to begin work in the tunnels by 7:00 a.m. the next day. I miss those days when sleep was an option. In younger days, my theme song had been, “I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead.” Well, I guess Zevon is catching up on his sleep these days, and I spend more time napping than I do awake in wee, small hours.
“Wait a minute, FF. Where we going? How long’ll we be gone. I’m beat, and I’ve got a busy schedule tomorrow.”
He cast me a piteous look and shook his head. “You’re worried about your bed-time? Curiosity doesn’t give you that adrenaline boost, anymore?”
“Curiosity’s all well and good, but every time I look at that bag I hear one of Rove’s hand-picked US attorneys reading my name from a list headed ‘Conspirators.’”
He shrugged. This was not reassuring. “Life’s about taking risks. You comin’ or not?”
“Ah, what the Hell,” I grumbled, adding that little “Uhn” that accompanies my getting in and out of chairs these days. “Nothing like a fool-hardy adventure to pretend that time stands still. But do me a favor, will ya? Give me the heads-up before the felony stuff happens. Give me chance to reach the door safe in my ignorance, OK?”
“Word,” FF said, throwing his arm over my shoulder. “Have I ever let you down?”
“Yeah, well, just remember I’m the one who usually has to get the bail money together, so don’t get me locked up with you, or we’re both screwed.”
