More than once, I've heard the remark that when you go to a bar and drink, your chance of getting into some kind of trouble is magnified many times over as opposed to a visit to a park or a restaurant.

In any event, on this soft June evening in the summer of 1946, a wartime buddy named John and I were sipping cold beers in one Manhattan bar after another. About ten o'clock that evening, we left a bar and someone said, "John!"

George was a heavy-set, pleasant-looking man, about thirty, with a soft baby face. He and John had known each other back in elementary school in Manhattan.

As they talked briskly of all that had happened to them in the intervening years, I noticed two things about George. First, he was drunk and was slurring his words. Second, he flashed a scathing temper as he mentioned teachers and mutual acquaintances.

At John's invitation, George walked down a few doors with us to another bar. We went in. We took an empty booth and ordered drinks and now I noticed a third thing about George. He didn't like John and never had. It wasn't in anything specific but just the way he looked at John and the way he talked to him. Something subtle, but there.

While they talked, I sipped my drink and I put my attention on a man at the bar directly across from us, about three feet away. A small Irish-looking man of about 60, he sat sitting sideways on his bar stool and he was singing in a monotonous froglike croak: "Kiss me once … oh, kiss me twice . . . oh, kiss me once again."

Suddenly George stopped talking to John and turned his head toward the man at the bar. I noticed now that the man had a small gold-looking badge on his coat lapel; he was a retired cop. And in that flat croak he continued to sing.

George slapped his hand on our booth table. "Hey! Hey, buddy!"

The retired cop continued his song.

George spoke louder. "Hey! Knock it off! I don't like that song!"

The man ignored George and continued his chant.

In one swift movement George lunged out of the booth and smashed the retired cop on the chin with his fist and the cop went flying to the floor, taking two bar stools with him.

In the next second, John and I and our vile-tempered violent drinking companion were surrounded by enough baseball bats to start a World Series. Every bartender in the joint brandished a bat and they were ready to start swinging at close quarters because they stood at our booth, blocking our flight.

Already, police had arrived. Obviously, they had been just outside the bar -- a coincidence, but they were there.

Our friend George didn't open his mouth as the police took over. But once we were in the back of the police car, on our way to the station, George erupted to the pair of cops in the front seat.

"Two cops are about to lose their job!" George cried out, like a man in a crazed rage. "I want your names and your badge numbers. The mayor of New York City is a personal friend of mine and I'll make one call -- one call -- and two cops will be walking the streets looking for work! I want your names. I want your badge numbers!"

John and I were going "SSSSSHHHHHHH! SHHH! SHHHHH!" and the cop in the passenger seat merely turned and observed George with cold eyes.

"Names and badge numbers! Names! And badge numbers!"

We arrived in short order at the station. The desk sergeant was a patient man. He listened to George's tirade, writing as he listened. "You're going to jail," he said, and nodded at John and me. "You men are free to go."

"I am entitled to one phone call," George said, talking now not quite so loud. He turned to John and gave him an address. "Meet me at my apartment for a drink. I'll be there in thirty minutes."

Outside the station, John said, "I'm curious. I don't think there's any way they'll let that crazed animal loose, but -- I'm curious."

As we walked the few blocks to the address, John stated what had been obvious to me. "Back when we were kids, George and I weren't all that close. We were just in some classes together."

We reached the address and waited for perhaps ten minutes, fifteen minutes at the most. Someone hollered out. It was George. "Why didn't you get their names and badge numbers?" He put the question to me. He was scolding. We followed him up a staircase and as he turned his key in his apartment door he again looked at me with his half-glazed eyes. His baby-face was almost twisted in a snarl. "Why didn't you get their names and badge numbers?"

We followed him into his apartment. I was ready to go. I wanted no further part of this drunken jackal.

George settled down for a moment, mixing drinks and talking about some oil paintings on his wall. He was calm now. He said quietly, "Excuse me for a moment."

In a moment, he was back. He had a gun, a 45, in his right hand. He pointed it at John. "You know, I never liked you. I didn't like you back in school and I don't like you now." Now he pointed the gun at me. "And I don't like your friend."

He observed us, pointing the gun at one and then the other, back and forth.

"I'm going to count three," he said softly, "and if you men aren't out of here, you're dead."

He began the count. "One …"

We were down on the street by the time he took a breath. And within a minute or two we were a block away, safely blended in with the night crowds of Manhattan.