1985 I was working at a nightclub in Paris. Willie had played the Olympia. His guests included several of my friends. Count-no-Count, an actress, and her American husband. They were heading to Jurgen’s atelier in Montmatre. I was supposed to join them after the club closed. No one answered the phone at dawn.
Later that day I learned that Jurgen had died in his apartment. His body had been discovered by his cleaner. He was laying at the morgue. I went with a friend to identify the body. It was him. I examined his arms. No needle tracks.
He had ODed from inhaling strong Persian dope.
Not the only person to die from a miscalculation that year.
I’m not accusing Willie of anything, but drug fiends would try to show Willie that they were as hardcore as he was. Inevitably they were never tougher than the junkie priest.
Once they were dead, a junkie would take something for the road. Drugs, money, gold. The dead had no use for it.
I never did drugs with Willie. Not in Paris. Not in New York. He lived on the corner. 10th and A. Willie never lost and neither did Johnny Thunders.
Until he met his match.
No one can beat the needle.