Crisp and bright, a five dollar bill floated down and landed on my bare chest. I leapt from Rupert’s chaise. Nausea punched my guts. Queasy, I dropped back down to the lounger. Rupert, my eccentric is putting it light, perpetually broke ass artist friend, stood the old gang to a night of drinks at Artie’s last night. This afternoon I woke up in Rupert’s tub with only one sock on. Rupert was gone and there wasn’t a can of peas in the loft. I found my pants and took my hangover to chaise. Now this.

Looking around, I realized the chaise’s accent “pillow” was a burlap sack of five and ten dollar bills. I pulled out the loose stacks of cash. Rupert’s old money family had been skint since days of Al Capone. Bip said she heard they had to rent out their place in the Hampton. In season. His folks cut him off after Rupert flunked out of his third college to find himself. With no skills beyond day drinking, Rupert mostly painted unsellable junk and couch surfed. Now this, I looked at the mound of cash on my lap.

Rattling, one of the windows opened. Delicious smells of coffee and buttery eggs filled the loft. With a greasy brown paper tight between his teeth, Rupert climbed over the sill. He rattled a couple of airplane liquor bottles

“Pip, I brought back some of hair of the dog. How’s the head?

“Head, my ass. What about this cash, Rup? What have you gotten into, dude?”

Chuckling, Rupert walked to the kitchen area.

“Pipster chill out. Everything is copacetic.”

Suddenly there was a pounding at his front door.

“Open the door, Secret Service. We have a warrant for Rupert Lloyd Trevor on suspicion of counterfeiting,” a stern voice said.

Realizing I was in Scooby Doo pajama bottoms with handfuls of new money I yelped. I shoved cash into the burlap bag while Rupert shuffled over to his door. Eating his croissant sandwich, Rupert opened his door. Panicking I shoved the cash sack into my pants. Next I tried to cover myself with a vintage tea towel.

“Secret Service seriously. You got the president with you. Just kidding. Look around boys in blue. I feel our second greatest freedom is using art to confound the establishment. The first greatest freedom is not getting busted in the noggin. Search as you will. I have nothing to declare except my genius,” Rupert said in a flurry of flakey crumbs.

“Here’s that warrant to search these premises Oscar Wilde for evidence of counterfeit bills and intention to distribute,” the well suited agent said.

Rupert walked into the kitchen area and handed me the warrant. I glanced at the legal gobblygook, but I’m not exactly at the top of my class. I squeezed the itchy sack closer.

“I’ll have my attorney Philip Marlowe review this. I have nothing to hide, absolutely nothing. My art speaks for itself. Pip did you see the half and half? Don’t tell me the girl forgot to add some to my bag.”

Gobsmacked I stared at my old stupid friend as officers ripped through his new studio apartment.