Michael Cohen entered my world what seems like several lifetimes ago in New York through my wife’s restaurants and involvement in organized crime. We still keep in regular contact and I still consider him a friend, but I can honestly say I liked him better back then. Before the books. Before the podcasts. Before the ball tickling and blowjobs by every host on MSNBC. Said as much to him on Signal as recently as this morning, so it’s not like I’m talking out of school or behind Clayton’s back. Sorry, I should explain by now that I’ve affectionately called him Clayton ever since that Clooney movie came out, a nickname he’s always loved and encouraged others to adopt but hasn’t stuck beyond us. Maybe that’s why he reaches out to me living overseas as often as he does, just to hear someone say it. Or maybe he misses my wife’s dumplings and ties to the Yakuza and Bamboo Union. I could tell by our discussion this morning over what it would cost to have that cunt Alina Habba among others disappear should something happen to him or his family with the new boss same as the old boss now that’s part of it. Makes him feel like his authentic self. Me, too. Ours is a world of ends over means where failing upwards off the guise of moral high ground doesn’t suit old pros like me and my friend, if not yours, Michael Clayton.