Once I became a celebrity, Miami was my biggest market. Flying in from New York City, I could perform in two clubs in one night. Back then, those gigs paid $10,000, or maybe $12,000. It was good, easy money, and they treated me like the star I had become. I flew first-class, stayed in the best hotels, ate at elegant restaurants.
Having money to me was like having a tank full of gas—it didn’t mean much if you didn’t have an imagination. No matter how poor I’d been, I’d never felt as impoverished as the rich people I knew whose capacity for fun was stunted.
And there was no one more fun than Georges.
After a few years of traveling to Miami, we bought a condo overlooking the ocean. It would be something Georges could run point on—I knew touring around with me had diminished his sense of personal purpose. At first, he was
