Almost forty years ago, I successfully “flipped” a tiny old house in north Greenwich. The house was a little under two miles from the Westchester Airport, which is on the Greenwich border.

This was before 9/11, and you could arrive at the airport and be on the plane in less than 10 minutes if you ran. One morning I was scheduled to fly to Florida to speak at the University of Miami. Before leaving for the airport I had a call from the organizer of the event, and we got into a conversation about content. Suddenly he said, “What time is your flight? Don’t you need to go?”

I was very late. I drove at ridiculous speeds along little winding roads. I was rushing down a twisty street on a steep hill when I saw a house out of the corner of my eye. “Someone evil lives there,” I said to myself, out loud.

I continued on to the airport and forgot about the house. A few months later, I was driving down the same road, not thinking about the house, when I rounded the corner, saw the house, and had the same strong feeling.

This time, I decided to find out who owned the house. When I got home, I called a friend and asked about the place. “That’s Roy Cohn‘s house,” she said.