The Negative Butterflies

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They do say that you never hear the one that gets you—and I believed that, just like everybody else, until I heard the one that got me. You may be wondering where in hell I have been, this last year or so, and I have been in several hells and am still clambering out of the last few; it all started at John Gotti’s party.

You must know about this party, even if you live in Connecticut: Gotti, a big-time Mafia person (and I can avoid that weasel, “alleged,” since he has been well and almost truly convicted) throws a gigantic Fourth of July party every year for his neighborhood out in Thither Queens, and he hasn’t allowed prison to cramp his style any. Last year’s party was at least as big as usual, chock full of carousers, as well as food, drink and fireworks—and of course I was safer there than I’d have been in my own small apartment: people do not commit unwanted violence on Gotti’s doorstep, and the immediate area of his home may be the most peaceful immediate a. within a thousand-mile radius.

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