Maryanne's Weekend

Dear Ben & Rick,

Mount St. Helens exploded, 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 in which it was located. Well, when I started paying half the rent I decided to relocate to a little bit better area. So we moved a mile or two east on 79th street. But we were east of Biscayne Blvd. and that made all the difference in the world. Or so I thought at the time.

Our new offices were in a strip shopping center. You know about 10 stores set up for retail businesses. This place was a little different, it had offices at each end to act as anchors. Our set up had large, mirrored windows, you could see out, but not in. They were massive, about 20 feet high and ran across the entire front. They come into the story later.

In this layout was a "dance studio" two doors down from me. It was owned by a beautiful Jamaican lady. There was not one wrong thing about her. Long straight hair, glowing brown skin, and curves most women would kill for at that age (25). And to top it off, she drove a brand new, black Corvette. She got my attention.

I don't remember how our relationship got started, but before long, I found myself going over there to hang out in the afternoons if 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 "dance studio" was Maryanne (my friend) or one of the girls who worked for her. The customers, who were all male, sat in beanbag chairs and observed the girls dancing to music supplied by a boom box (at least that's where I remember the music coming from). As to what these men did while a girl was dancing, I'll leave to your vivid imaginations, but the girls were never touched.

So as not to bore you to death, I'll cut to the chase. 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 and the first night there, at the bar, I saw a girl I was very interested in. So I suggested to Maryanne that she should see what see could dig up for herself. Which she happily set about doing. I went home with the local talent and spent the night. The next morning Maryanne 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 blow up, and I'm on my houseboat doing a little housework, in those days I still did things of that sort. Maryanne jumps on board, unannounced I might add. Well, her sheets are flapping in the wind. Not too bad, but you know what Quaaludes were like. She wants to have sex "Right now." You guys that know me 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, 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." Now if she had given me a few sniffles instead, you guys wouldn't be reading of this sordid tale. But no, she gets butch and throws a left hook, which connects and pisses me off. She was a petite girl, so I wrap my arms around her, pick her up, and carry her to the dock where she is 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 to the ground and pressing five shotguns into the flesh of my back, with one resting on my head, telling me if I moved one muscle I'd have my "fuckin' head blown off" until Sunday morning. Dear, dear Maryanne made it a most interesting weekend. I preferred our Key West get-a-way much better. But I'm getting ahead of the story.

After she struts 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 had 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. 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 home the next morning from that boat of ill repute a neighbor informs me that there where two guys hiding in some bushes last night waiting for me to pass by. Some people in the marina noticed them after awhile and called the police. They had guns and one of them shouted that he was going to kill that son-of a-bitch (me) for insulting his wife. Maryanne 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. I also learned that the original plan was to walk right to my houseboat, knock on the door, and shoot me point blank, as I answered the door. That is why they were hiding in the shrubbery, and why I am here to tell this tale of woe. I was not at home; I was two docks over enjoying the hospitality of my dear crippled and crazy friend.

So now I do the stupidest thing I've ever done in my life. I go to my debauched friend and tell him the story. He wanted in on the fun, but he can only hobble, so he offers me one of his many guns for self-protection. Being the genius I am I take a 9mm automatic. I've never even seen a gun before, but all of a sudden I'm Dirty Harry and Charles Bronson all rolled into one. It's now Saturday and that night I go night clubbing with the 9mm in my back pocket, ready for action (what an A-Hole). Well I'm not attacked that night and make it home unscathed. At about the time I got home, Mt. St. Helens was blowing her top, Liberty City was just getting a good burn going, and Maryanne was setting events in motion, whose end result would culminate with me in the Dade County jail with every black guy that hated Whitey and was trying to prove it by burning down a good portion of Miami. More on that in a minute.

I get a few hours sleep and I am just getting up when my brother Mike burst in and says, "What's with your crazy girlfriend?" He goes on to tell me he had gone to the office that Sunday morn to get a little work out of the way. But as he exited his car, two guys assaulted, him hitting him over the head with the butt of a rifle, breaking the stock. The only thing that saved him was Maryanne 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," well I really did. It must of been the stress of the last couple of days, coupled with what happened to Mike (and my windows), but I saw red, it really does happen when one is very, very angry.

I reach for the gun as I tell Mike to come with me. We get into my car and off I go on a mission of vengeance and in a cloud of self-righteousness. We're there in less than five minutes and I slide my car sideways as though I'm Magnum PI. My plan is to use it as a shield. As the car comes to a rest, I pop out, draw the gun, and start shooting head high, straight into Maryanne’s studio (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 is going on. I take aim for the first guy's head, 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) and the gun jams. No one told me automatics slide back with every shot. By the way, after my first shot Mike says, "Are you nuts!" and walks or runs away. I was too busy to notice his means of staying out of jail that day.

So there I am, my thumb is dangling by a piece of bone, my gun won't shoot anymore, and my targets are coming out with guns drawn. So what's a hero to do in such a situation but run. I go 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 are only blocks away, so I guess it wasn't any bother on their part to run down the street and apprehend another crazy. Especially one that is armed and dangerous!

Well as I've said before, I was thrown to the ground, the shotguns, etc... etc…

Jail was interesting. I was the only white guy in there that day. They had arrested so many people because of the riot, we had twenty guys in a holding cell made for two or three at the most. And did I mention I was the only white guy? My fellow cellmates at first paid me no heed, they were too busy recounting to one another the exploits that landed then in our merry little conclave. But after about twenty minutes things quieted down and one by one they turned their faces to me, Whitey. And believe me there was no love lost in even one of those faces. Presently 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, as one living organism, shuffled away from me and I heard a voice in the back say: "I'll take my TV rap (he was in for looting) and then the rest of my cell mates wholeheartedly concurred. After that exchange, I was left to my own devices. After 10 hours, I was allowed my phone call. I called a customer of mine, a bail bondsman. He told me I was getting him out of the sack with the sweetest little thing, but he came. 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 also got through the police lines, somehow, and he drove me home.

As Henry and I made our way home that evening, Mt. St. Helens was calming down, the flames of Liberty City were now nothing more than embers; and my relationship with Maryanne had under gone a profound change. It had been quite a weekend for all three of us.

The final out come was this. The charges were pretty serious so I took no chances and hired Roy Black (the guy who defended Wm. Smith, the Kennedy who was charged with rape in Palm Beach, but this was years before that). I gave him $5000.00 cash (before money laundering laws) for a retainer. After the preliminary when we knew which way the wind was blowing, we would then discuss his fee. So we went to court to ascertain my fate. When they called my case, the complainant's name was called: Maryanne Jones. The judge looks up and says, "Is this the same Maryanne Jones that is in here every other week?" His clerk says it is indeed. To which the entire courtroom breaks out in laughter. It seems she was rather well known in judicial circles. Even the judge cracked a smile as he said, "Case dismissed." That was $5000.00 well spent!

As a postscript, I subsequently spoke with Maryanne and 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 appeared in court or not. Somehow, after that weekend the romance kind of went out of our relationship.

On a serious note: My hands shake every time I think of how close I came to taking a human life; and I haven’t touched a gun since, nor will I if I live to be 100.

Your friend,

Billy