Looking up, I find that it's a struggle for him to remain still in his chair. My next few questions establish that he's been using crank for almost two years, he first got turned onto it at a Hollywood club, The Viper Room, and his reason for using: "It's fucking kill!" I confer with Joel in whispers at this response. We decide that this slang means something like "great."

I speed the interrogation along. It's becoming difficult to keep Lee's attention. Every few seconds he trembles and jerks and whips his eyes to the front window. And now he's answering my questions absently as he's being increasingly distracted by something. I glance at Joel, who shrugs his shoulders, and at Lee's girlfriend, who seems totally absorbed by our every word. What a flake!

I realize now that Lee had first used crank at the same club popular with celebrities where the actor River Phoenix had died of an overdose a few years back. I ask, "Aren't you ever afraid of having an overdose?" Lee's mind is elsewhere and I repeat the question with more volume.

"Oh, no way, bro! Crank's kind of like coffee, but only if you guzzled about fifty cups. It's a stimulant, bro. It gets your blood pumping and you can never stay still."

I noticed. This guy's totally wired. No wonder they call it "speed."

He leaps to his feet suddenly, knocking over his chair, and cocks his head toward the rear of the house. "Do you hear that?" he shouts. A couple seconds go by. And then a police siren can be heard, but it's still a good distance away. Lee's twitching becomes worse as a look of utter terror comes over him.

"Lee—No!" Stephanie yells, jumping to her feet. But it's too late.

"They're after me!" he shrieks. He darts back and forth around the living room, stammering something unintelligible, completely panicked. Without a doubt, Lee's truly frightened. I take a note of this. Unexpectedly, he flips up the blinds, opens the window, and escapes into the night. By way of the door, Joel and I are in hot pursuit. We chase him out to the wood-paneled classic and hop in after him. He's in a fury trying to get the engine to turn over. The Woody—as Lee shouts—roars to life. He throws it into gear and we rocket onto the roadway.

The windows are so darkly tinted that it's difficult for me to see out the sides or rear. Soon enough, Lee whips the Woody into a tight right turn—horns and the squeals of shredding tires erupt as we cut off traffic—and I'm thrown into Joel. The two of us are screaming as we search frantically for seat belts. . .There are none. . .Oh shit!

A left turn, next, and we're cantering through a dark, narrow alley, hitting dips and potholes. . .And we emerge, suddenly airborne, perpendicular to a brightly lit boulevard. Cars swerve to avoid us. More brakes sound—joined abruptly by the collision of metal and glass as we land halfway across the boulevard and speed for the continuing alley. We hit a curb and instantly we're airborne again for a few feet. Coming down, we're tossed violently about, but miraculously Lee keeps control. Finally we begin to slow. Lee switches on the headlights.

"I think we lost 'em," he whispers.

I'm too busy wiping the drool from my lips to respond. Joel's all over him.