It was pretty crowded and somewhat rowdy in the back. Harry, as usual, had amply stocked the jet with bubbly and exotic snacks. High Pockets’ favorite was goose liver pate with a dollop of black Russian caviar on top. Aileron, like Flash, was indiscriminate in his culinary habits. The rest of us—José, Jim, Robert and myself—mostly concentrated on the champagne and on planning our next move.

Harry stuck his head into the cabin and inquired about a possible destination. Everyone yelled out a different suggestion, so I told him we’d get back to him.

At this point, Flash got it into his head that he wanted to try his hand at the controls, having never flown a highpowered bullet like the Learjet. Harry said, “Sure.” This turned out to be a mistake.

Since we didn’t know where we were going, Flash thought he’d practice some aerobatic maneuvers. This didn’t bother anybody (we were used to spilt champagne in the back) but it had unseen repercussions far below on the ground.

The Feds (a veritable army of them by now) had alerted all the air-traffic controllers in the Northeast to report any erratically-flying aircraft. Any aircraft that seemed to by flying aimlessly (a perfect description of our behavior on every level—aimless). The cops had finally figured us out. It had always been nearly impossible to keep track of us because there was no pattern to our criminal activities. Since we never really knew what we were doing, how could anyone else?⁵⁷

Flash’s bizarre flight path, the obvious lack of intelligent thought behind his random arcs and sweeps in the stratosphere, was immediately seen on every radar screen in at least six states. The die was cast. The authorities were mobilized. They would track us wherever we went. What goes up must come down—and when we did, they’d be waiting.

I dimly recall the plan we hatched while we rolled and looped over the mid-Atlantic states.

The first order of business was to do some serious partying. Since none of us lived anywhere in particular, we had to come up with a host who would put up with us for a week or so. In short, a host with the correct attitude. Someone who perceived chaos and destruction as not only acceptable but inevitable.

Our list of possible party-throwers was quite long, but we settled on Eduardo, still in exile in Miami. His status as former Dope Lord and José’s cousin made him the sentimental favorite.

My recollection of the remainder of our misguided, protracted endeavors is very hazy. I believe someone suggested we buy a freighter of some sort. I vaguely recall José mentioning the sister ship of the long-lost Don Juan. I suspect that I passed out during the discussion, because the next thing I remember is our landing in Homestead, just outside Miami.