Armageddon Rag by George R.R. Martin Page A

occasional pissed-off kick that hurt toe more than tire. No. It was a lovely driving machine. It was a status symbol, something to take pride in, to buff-wax. It held its value really well… but that was it. Roach had been a buddy. The Mazda was a fucking
investment,
he thought. He glared at it and walked around to open the door.
    Then he stopped. “The hell with it!” he said loudly. He slammed the door shut again, kicked the front tire as hard as he could, and hopped around the parking lot on one foot, grimacing and grinning in alternation.
    He was still grinning ten minutes later, out on the road, whipping down the highway at seventy as the little rotary engine made a smooth purring noise. He glanced down at his tapes, picked up an old Lovin’ Spoonful cassette, and shoved it into the tape deck, turning up the volume so the music filled the interior.
What a day for a daydream,
John Sebastian was singing,
custom made for a day-dreamin’ boy.
    “Daydream,” Sandy said. He liked the sound of it. It was frivolous, fun, something you weren’t supposed to do but did anyhow. “Daydream,” he said to the Mazda, “get a move on. We got us a date with a gopher in New Jersey.” He pressed down on the accelerator, and the speed began to climb.

FOUR
    Look at the sky turning hellfire red/
Somebody’s house is burning down, down, down
    S andy hated the New Jersey Turnpike with a hatred that passed all understanding. It was a bitch of a road, always lousy with traffic, and it cut through some of the most ghastly country this side of Cleveland, a stinking no man’s land of sanitary landfills, oil refineries, auto graveyards, and hazardous waste dumps. The road was shrouded in a perpetual grayish haze with its own distinctive odor, a miasma of carbon monoxide, diesel exhaust, and malignant chemicals, and a whiff of it was enough to evoke old fears in Sandy.
    In the old days, he’d gotten busted on the turnpike more than once, cited for fictitious traffic violations, and searched for drugs. The turnpike cops had been as bitterly anti-freak as any in the country, and they used to lie in wait for hippies and longhairs and go after them with an almost crazed zeal. If your car had the wrong sort of bumper stickers, you were in trouble on the Jersey Turnpike, and driving that road in the Hogmobile, with its spray of McCarthy daisies, had been like declaring open season on yourself.
    Now all that was long past. Daydream was respectably expensive and entirely flowerless, and the old hostilities had waned, yet something about the road still unnerved Sandy. The very smell of it made him think of flashing lights in his rearview mirror, of tear gas, of narcs and bloody nightsticks and Richard Milhous Nixon.
    Even the turnpike food gave him indigestion. It was a relief to turn off for Camden.
    The Gopher Hole sat on a major feeder road, less than a mile from the turnpike entrance ramp. From the outside, it was an ugly place, all cinderblocks and green aluminum siding, neon tubing on the roof spelling out its name, a cardboard sign filling up the only large window. The sign said LIVE MUSIC . Though the building was big enough, it looked small, surrounded by the vast empty expanse of its asphalt parking lot. Sandy pulled Daydream into a slot near the door, between a black Stingray of ancient vintage and a trim little Toyota. They were the only cars in attendance. He climbed out, stretched, slung his jacket over a shoulder, and went on in.
    The day outside had been cloudy-bright, and it took his eyes a minute or two to adjust to the cavernous darkness within. He lingered in the entry foyer by the coat-check room until he could see where he was going. By the door to the main hall was a sign on a wooden tripod advertising the nightly performance of a band called the Steel Angels, who smiled out at him from a glossy. They had very white teeth, Sandy thought. Beyond the sign was the large empty club. He could make out a stage, still littered