The insistent knocking on our apartment door at 4AM roused us from our sleep. We had many friends who were ‘night owls’ but no one came calling at this early hour.
When it became clear the person on the other side of the door was not going away, my husband Sean groggily slid out of bed, pulled on his jeans and walked to the door. Placing his eye against the peep hole revealed who interrupted our sleep and he quickly opened the door.
“Michael!” my husband greeted our friend. “C’mon in, man. What’s up and what’s with the suitcase?”
“I got a problem, bro”, words I never heard the ever-confident Michael declare. He eased past Sean into our apartment and the two friends walked straight into our spare bedroom and closed the door.
Flashback two years ago when we first met Michael. We were newlyweds when we moved into the apartment building where he lived; we became instant friends. Michael was the coolest guy we knew – good-looking, great dresser, incredibly smart, confident to a flaw, magnetic personality and sexy as hell. His bigger-than-life persona and ebullient laugh were contagious. He was the epitome of the cliché “Women want him and men want to be him”.
We got caught up in a whirlwind lifestyle and were soon speeding in the express lane of sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll. Michael was fun, wild and fearless; he had all the right connections. We went to all the best parties and got into the hottest clubs. We partied every night, went to work the next day and did it all over again.
Oh yeah. There’s one thing I failed to mention. Michael was a narc working undercover for the NYPD’s Special Narcotics Division, a fact that saved our asses more times than I care to remember. We had plenty of close calls but all he had to do was whip out his badge, flash that smile, talk the talk and we were golden.
Somehow Michael always managed to toe the line at work – except for that night when temptation won out, that same night he showed up at our place. Behind closed doors, Michael opened the suitcase to reveal the contents to Sean: hundreds of plastic bags stuffed with quaaludes.
My husband stared at the suitcase incredulously for a moment before turning to Michael.
“What the fuck, bro?” Sean declared, part of him hoping some of the white pills marked Rorer 714 were meant for him.
“It was in the evidence room, undocumented”, Michael explained. “I just picked it up and walked the fuck out. I need to stash it here for a couple of days until I make a plan.”
“Sure, man. No prob. Do what you gotta do.”
They hugged, slapping each other’s backs, and Michael said “I’ll be in touch, man.”
Michael went back to work and nobody – not one single crackerjack detective in the precinct noticed the suitcase was missing. After a few days, he returned to our place with a backpack. Taking out the suitcase he’d left with us, he dumped half the ludes into the backpack and gave the rest to Sean. “Here you go, brother – courtesy of the NYPD!”
My husband draped his arm over our friend’s shoulders as they walked to the door. Michael turned and flashed me that amazing grin. “See ya ‘round the campus, people.”
He took off into the night, never to be seen again.
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