allow myself to take pleasure out of her blood money. I paid from my wallet for my ticket.
Well, there was a young man now behind the concessions counter, and he was probably queer, but I paid him no mind. I was riled. Whatsa cunt a wife etc? In the dark this woman had her beaver exposed and with her voice, she’s saying, “Oh, come no, now, now, lick it, lick it, lick it. Mmm, that’s good, hhh, hhh, more, more, more.” Well, that got to me, too, until I couldn’t look no more. Had to hide my eyes. Couldn’t stand to look anymore at all that beaver. All that nastiness to make a dollar. Lickity split . . .
That night I just couldn’t sleep at all. I had so much work to do. The idea that had been growing in my brain for some time now took entire hold of me. I had collected all the material I could find on Palantine’s itinerary from Kennedy Airport to the Plaza Hotel and | about the city. I knew the allocation of secret service personnel from clippings in the Times and was compiling a kind of action or game plan. Words to that effect.
The only solution seemed to lie in true force: that all the kings men could not put Humpty back together for me otherwise. After I memorized Palantine’s route I strapped on the empty holster of the .44 and practiced late into the night at drawing and squeezing off imaginary rounds. I had devised this system of metal gliders along my inner forearm so that the Colt .25 could rest hidden behind the upper forearm until a spring near the elbow was activated, sending the .25 gliding down into my palm, and I had cut open a special Western shirt to accommodate the gun mechanism against my arm.
I had also figured out a way to strap an army combat knife to my calf with a slit cut in my jeans so that the knife could be pulled out easily. The problem was concealment. The guns bulged on me everywhere. I looked bulky and armored. It was only by wearing two Western shirts, a sweater, and a jacket that I was able to obscure the location of all my weapons but then I resembled some hunter bundled up against the arctic winter, and the weather was getting very warm outside.
The rest of that evening, I sat at the table dumb-dumbing forty-four bullets, scraping Xs across their heads. I had a big poster of Palantine’s head in the room and I would sight at him through the scope of the .38. At last all bundled up in my shirts and sweater, my jacket and guns, I fell out on the mattress with my eyes closed, the room still fluttered with light, into a half-sleep, like a big furry animal drifting into his own world.
Last thing I remember is writing in this diary: “Listen, you screwhead: Here is a man who wouldn’t take it anymore, a man who stood up against the cunts, the dogs, filth Here is . . . . . .
Incident in a Deli
About that time sometimes late at night I began to frequent this all-night deli in Spanish Harlem for snacks when the streets were relatively deserted.
Fellow named Melio ran the place to a blare of salsa, and he was the type of guy, you know, who liked to have company sometimes late at night, especially if you carried a piece.
Well this one particular night I had just gone over to the dairy counter to get a pint of chocolate milk and a Cuban sandwich on a hero roll when I hear a very nasty low voice talking to Melio and I turned toward the counter and saw a young black dude holding a gun on him, obviously strung out, a junkie.
“Come on, man, quick, quick, quick, let’s see that bread.” The dude is shaking his gun at Melio as he bounced up and down on the balls of his cheap worn black tennis shoes, and Melio he seemed frozen like an ice cream on a stick
The dude hadn’t noticed me yet, he was too jittery. This was probably his first real heist. He kept bouncing up and down on the balls of those cheap black tennis shoes and Melio he seemed frozen, as I say, like sludge. So much Chilly Willy.
The guy . . . the dude he said, “Come on, man. Quick, quick, quick let’s see the
Well, there was a young man now behind the concessions counter, and he was probably queer, but I paid him no mind. I was riled. Whatsa cunt a wife etc? In the dark this woman had her beaver exposed and with her voice, she’s saying, “Oh, come no, now, now, lick it, lick it, lick it. Mmm, that’s good, hhh, hhh, more, more, more.” Well, that got to me, too, until I couldn’t look no more. Had to hide my eyes. Couldn’t stand to look anymore at all that beaver. All that nastiness to make a dollar. Lickity split . . .
That night I just couldn’t sleep at all. I had so much work to do. The idea that had been growing in my brain for some time now took entire hold of me. I had collected all the material I could find on Palantine’s itinerary from Kennedy Airport to the Plaza Hotel and | about the city. I knew the allocation of secret service personnel from clippings in the Times and was compiling a kind of action or game plan. Words to that effect.
The only solution seemed to lie in true force: that all the kings men could not put Humpty back together for me otherwise. After I memorized Palantine’s route I strapped on the empty holster of the .44 and practiced late into the night at drawing and squeezing off imaginary rounds. I had devised this system of metal gliders along my inner forearm so that the Colt .25 could rest hidden behind the upper forearm until a spring near the elbow was activated, sending the .25 gliding down into my palm, and I had cut open a special Western shirt to accommodate the gun mechanism against my arm.
I had also figured out a way to strap an army combat knife to my calf with a slit cut in my jeans so that the knife could be pulled out easily. The problem was concealment. The guns bulged on me everywhere. I looked bulky and armored. It was only by wearing two Western shirts, a sweater, and a jacket that I was able to obscure the location of all my weapons but then I resembled some hunter bundled up against the arctic winter, and the weather was getting very warm outside.
The rest of that evening, I sat at the table dumb-dumbing forty-four bullets, scraping Xs across their heads. I had a big poster of Palantine’s head in the room and I would sight at him through the scope of the .38. At last all bundled up in my shirts and sweater, my jacket and guns, I fell out on the mattress with my eyes closed, the room still fluttered with light, into a half-sleep, like a big furry animal drifting into his own world.
Last thing I remember is writing in this diary: “Listen, you screwhead: Here is a man who wouldn’t take it anymore, a man who stood up against the cunts, the dogs, filth Here is . . . . . .
Incident in a Deli
About that time sometimes late at night I began to frequent this all-night deli in Spanish Harlem for snacks when the streets were relatively deserted.
Fellow named Melio ran the place to a blare of salsa, and he was the type of guy, you know, who liked to have company sometimes late at night, especially if you carried a piece.
Well this one particular night I had just gone over to the dairy counter to get a pint of chocolate milk and a Cuban sandwich on a hero roll when I hear a very nasty low voice talking to Melio and I turned toward the counter and saw a young black dude holding a gun on him, obviously strung out, a junkie.
“Come on, man, quick, quick, quick, let’s see that bread.” The dude is shaking his gun at Melio as he bounced up and down on the balls of his cheap worn black tennis shoes, and Melio he seemed frozen like an ice cream on a stick
The dude hadn’t noticed me yet, he was too jittery. This was probably his first real heist. He kept bouncing up and down on the balls of those cheap black tennis shoes and Melio he seemed frozen, as I say, like sludge. So much Chilly Willy.
The guy . . . the dude he said, “Come on, man. Quick, quick, quick let’s see the
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