Location: Twin Palms, Palm Springs, CA

OK, before I get any more email on the subject, let me put it to rest. I didn't spark this blaze. I haven't been to Malibu in weeks. I know what you're thinkin', but drop it. Capice?

I gotta' run. Mickey's lightin' up my iPhone.

Location: Matteo's, Los Angeles, CA

I always like a long dinner at Matteo's, particularly when I can stick the bill to Mickey. What the hell, right? He's just gonna' mark it up and charge it back to me. Try the veal marsala there, best in the city. Don't even think of sitting at my booth though. Verboten baby.

Alright, on with the rest of the story. We go in to the field office, me, Mickey and the four socks brothers. When we get to the Assistant Director's office, he does the usual double take that I get when I'm recognized. "This is the guy?" he asks the four stooges.

"Yes sir, a Mr. Francis Albert Sinatra," the stooge said, referring to his notes.

"I know who the fuck he is Larry, the question is do YOU know who the fuck he is?" Then he turns to me, "I thought you were dead!"

"I get that a lot." I reply, taking a seat and pull out a cigarette. I had won this one before my ass hit the chair.

Larry interrupts me mid-light, "Mr. Sinatra, there's no smoking in public buildings."

Not even glancing up from my smoke as I continued to light it, I said, "What are ya' gonna' do, arrest me again? Hey listen, you're a public servant, go get me an ashtray sonny. By the way, don't they issue you guys shoes around here?"

That got the result I wanted. The Assistant director looked over his desk at Larry and the other three goon's feet. "Larry, where the fuck are you shoes?"

"Well uh, sir, uh, we don't know. Mr. Sinatra made us take our shoes off before..."

"He MADE you take off your shoes? Four grown men. Four FBI agents. That's what you want me to believe? What are you gonna' tell me that Mr. Sinatra stole your shoes on top of starting the largest wildfire in California's history?" The Assistant Director didn't sound too happy. Pity. He went on. "Larry, do you know that Mr. Sinatra not only knew Mr. Hoover, but dined with him?"

"On several occasions. Swapped a Christmas gift or two, I believe." I added. Mickey was just sitting there sweating and looking like he was watching a tennis match.

The Assistant Director went on, "Furthermore Larry, you know you don't bring in high profile celebrities without the express clearance from the director himself. What the hell is wrong with you kid, all three of you. You got nothing better to do?"

"Sir, please, if I can explain..."

"Larry, I don't want to hear it. I want the four of you, out of my office NOW! Take lunch, buy shoes and fucking go do your job while you still have one. Do you hear me?"

"Yes sir, I..."

I had to rub more salt, "Oh Lar," I said, "don't forget to grab me an ashtray before you leave, will ya kid'?"

The Assistant Director turned to me and said in the politest of tones, "Mr. Sinatra, I hate to ask, but we unfortunately have a law about smoking in government buildings. If you could be so kind as to not smoke in here, I would consider it a personal favor."

"Sure thing, kid" I turned to Larry, "Scratch the butt-tray kid. Here." I handed him the lit cigarette. "Don't be a litter bug, you might want to flush it down the crapper instead." Then I turned back to the Assistant Director, "Anything else you need while I'm here?"

"Well, just a formality, and I hate to ask, but since these boneheads filed a report, I have to ask you. Did you have anything to do with the fires that are eating up southern California?"

"I respect that you're doing your job, followin' the rules. You know Hoover woulda' loved you, really loved you. Nah, kid, of course not. Why do think I live in the desert? Nothing catches fire there. Smokey the Bear and me, we're like this." I crossed my fingers for emphasis.

"Well I can't see any reason to hold you. Again, on behalf of the agency, I apologize for any inconvenience..."

I got up and extended my hand to him, "No sweat kid. You shoot straight. If you ever need anything, and I mean anything, just give me a call, understand?"

He shook my hand and said, "Yes sir, thank you again Mr. Sinatra, and uhm, welcome back."

I winked, turned and headed for the door. I stopped in front of Larry, who was standing there utterly speechless still holding my lit cigarette, and said, "Larry, haven't you heard? No smoking in the office pally." I slapped him on the back and walked out. "Come on Mickey, you'll buy me lunch."

We get to the car and drive a good 5 minutes before he asks, "How the fuck did you pull that off? I thought Hoover hated you."

"He did Mick. That little faggot. You know I never really met the guy? Just some press photos."

"So why did that Assistant Director think you did?"

"Beats me pally, but that's something you attorneys don't know that any entertainer worth his SAG card knows. You gotta' improvise. Play the cards you're dealt like you stacked the deck yourself. The A.D. gave me an out and I took it. Listen, you bill me for this and I'll leave you where I found ya', ya' lazy prick," I laughed. "Let's hit Matteo's on Westwood, but stop at Sy Dev's first. I wanna' pick up some decent kicks for those Hoover clones."

Location: Fuckin' - B - I Field Office, Los Angeles, CA

And you think your money's bein' wasted in Iraq? Get a load of this. I left you all yesterday, with a promise that I would give you the other half of the search warrant story. I could write a book about what happened between then and now. Trust me, I'll keep it as brief as I can.

While the four goons were finishing up going through the house, I couldn't resist fuckin' with 'em some more. I walked around to the front of the house to where I had 'em leave their shoes. I picked up the shoes and returned to the pool. Now anyone that's been around me for more than a week knows that I love practical jokes, particularly if they involve cherry bombs. I buy 'em from this old guy in Chinatown. I got cases of them. Anyway, I drop a bomb in each shoe, light 'em and set 'em afloat in the pool, waitin' for 'em to blow.

About thirty seconds later, I'm sitting in the chaise lounge, waitin' for my little flotilla to blow, when Mickey and the goons come out from the house. Right on cue, shoes start blowin' up in the pool. In unison, the g-men draw their weapons, hit the ground and start shooting back... at their own shoes!

Mickey's pissed and yells, "Frank! Quit fuckin' around!" I'm laughing my ass off and the dark suits in socks cautiously get up, still clueless that they just shot the livin' shit out of what was left of their shoes.

"Sorry boys, Just gettin' rid of a few left over fireworks."

Mickey, still pissed walks over. "Frank, their done with the search, but they're taking you down to the field office. This is very serious Frank."

Now I'm gettin' pissed. It no longer held any charm. I don't have time for this. "What the fuck for? 'Cause I'm buildin' a casino? Tell 'em to call my attorney... oh wait, YOU'RE my attorney. FUCKIN' HANDLE IT MICK!"

"Frank, this has got nothing to do with the casinos. They think you torched San Diego. This is a national security issue now Frank, and it's arson at the very least and here you are lightin' cherry bombs!"

"What?" Shit, I knew it, but I needed to put on as ignorant a face as I could. "Where the fuck they get a crazy idea like that?"

"Frank, I don't know. All I know is you gotta' go down. No choice. Go get dressed and we'll go down and get this squared away."

Mick was right. This could be serious. What the fuck, I'll tell 'em the truth and write a check. It wasn't like I did it on purpose. I'm not a fuckin' arsonist for Christ sakes. I'm not even sure it was my cigarette. I got up to head to the wardrobe and get dressed. On the way back in I passed by the goon squad, stopped, looked at their feet and said, "You know you guys look pretty fuckin' stupid standin' around the pool in your socks." Again, four heads bowed to look at their feet. I made my way to the bedroom.

I came out the front door to meet up with Mickey for the "ride downtown" and the g-men were crawling around the shrubbery out front.

"What are they doin'?" I asked Mick

"Lookin' for their shoes," he said exasperated (at me I think).

Just then, the oldest "investigator" came up to me, "Mr. Sinatra, have you seen our shoes?"

"God yes," I said walking past him to Mickey's car, "they're fuckin' ugly."

Mick climbed into the car and off we went.

It's a long fuckin' drive to the FBI field office down on Wilshire in L.A., so on the way, I filled Mick in on everything that I knew (including a few things you don't know... yet).

"Not a fuckin' word about throwing your cigarette out the window Frank. The political climate we're in, they'll make you out to be a terrorist by the time they're done."

"What are ya' kiddin' me Mick, they couldn't even find their shoes back there! Fuck 'em."

"Frank, please, don't make this a thing. Let me handle it. So what were you doing in Tijuana?"

"Getting divorced."

"What?!"

"You heard me Mick. Look, after I saw you in Chicago, you got me all worried about Barbara findin' out I'm back, so I circumvented her and got a Mexican divorce, piece of cake."

"Ah, Jesus Frank. You didn't"

"Oh, but I did pally," I said, grinning ear to ear.

"Why couldn't you be buying cocaine or something instead?"

"I don't do blow Mick, you know that."

"Fuck, you're gonna' wish you had once Barbara finds out."

"How she gonna' find out Mick?

"When you tell the FBI what you were doing in Tijuana."

"Mickey, I'm not gonna' tell 'em what I was doing in Tijuana. What are you, an FBI agent or a lawyer?"

"OK, ok, so what are you gonna' tell them then?"

"I'm gonna' say I was down there lookin' to solve the immigration problem. You know, "bein' a patriot/concerned citizen kind of bullshit."

"They'll never buy it..." Mick looks in his rear view mirror at the g-men following us. "Well, they might. Fuck I don't know Frank. Just tell 'em you got lost or something."

"In Tijuana?"

"Good point. OK, put on your best thespian hat though, alright. You're giving me angina."

Just then we pulled up to the parking lot and got out of the car. Walking towards us were the four g-men from the house... without their shoes.

OK, that's enough for now. I gotta stop at Matteo's while I'm in town and grab a bite then I'll fill you in on the rest.

Location: Twin Palms, Palm Springs, CA

OK, call me paranoid, but I'm a little worried. I was down in Tijuana last week for reasons I wont go into. I'm on the highway, got the windows rolled down and my new CD spinning on the stereo. I got about a 2 hour drive back to the Twin Palms, so I light up a nail. There's not a better combination then a summer evening, nice breeze, a Thunderbird with the soundtrack of my voice. If you haven't done it, you wouldn't understand.

Anyway, I'm blowing through San Diego and I'm finishing my smoke. I flick the butt out the window. No big deal. Done it a thousand times. I hate having a car full of ashes an cigarette butts, so I never use the ashtray. The way I see it, the world is my ashtray.

Now I'm at home, watching the news coverage and I'm startin' to feel guilty. Jilly called and told and let me in on it. He said, "California's on fire!" I thought he meant that the new album is selling, but he straightened me out on that score, so I switched on the tube for the first time in weeks.

I mean, I'm sure it wasn't my cigarette that started it all, but then again... I can't stop thinking that maybe, just maybe. Nah.