with instruments and sound equipment, a dance floor, a large number of tables and chairs, and at least three bars, a long one by the west wall and two smaller circular ones out in the middle of the floor, ringed by barstools. The paneled walls were covered with old rock posters, which reminded him uncomfortably of Jamie Lynch’s office.
Behind one of the round bars, a youth was setting up and talking to a big fellow in a pin-striped suit who was leaning against the rail, looking something like a Mafia hit-man. Sandy glanced around and saw no sign of anyone else, so he walked toward them. They both watched him approach. “We’re closed,” the barman finally called out.
“I know,” Sandy said. “I’m looking for Gopher John. When do you expect him?”
The man in the pin-striped suit cleared his throat. “I’m John Slozewski,” he said. He held out a hand. “You’re Sandy Blair, right? I remember you.”
Sandy shook the hand and tried not to do a double take. Gopher John Slozewski had been a huge, glowering bear of a man who liked to dress in ragged jeans and loose tie-dyed smocks. With his vast black beard, his moon face, ruddy cheeks, and paunch, he had sometimes reminded Sandy of a sort of dark analogue to Santa Claus. The man shaking his hand was a stranger he would have passed in the street with scarcely a second glance. Slozewski had lost weight; his face was no longer round and cherubic, and he was trim under that vest. The beard was gone, and the black hair, just starting to recede now, was fashionably combed and styled. Only the size hadn’t changed. The hand that enveloped Sandy’s was huge, the same powerful red fist that had hammered out the righteous, relentless beat of the Nazgûl in full flight. “I never would have known you,” Sandy said.
“Times change,” Slozewski replied. “I got my place to run here. Mister John Slozewski can run it a lot smoother than any hairy-ass hippie called Gopher John. Would you believe it, I’m a member of the Chamber of Commerce now. What are you drinking?”
“A beer,” Sandy said.
“Draw one, Eddie,” Slozewski said. The barman filled the glass and pushed it over to Sandy. Slozewski nodded at him. “Go set up the main bar so we can talk, OK?” The barman left. “So you’re still with the
Hog,
huh?”
“Yes and no,” Sandy said. He sipped his beer and eased himself back onto a bar stool. “This is a freelance assignment. Mostly I write novels these days.”
“Good for you,” Slozewski said flatly. Neither his voice nor his face betrayed any hint of warmth, but Sandy knew that was misleading. Gopher John Slozewski had been famous for his perpetual scowl, and his short, curt manner with the press and the public. That, and his wild drumming, had gotten him the reputation of being a little bit mean, a little bit crazy, and more than a little bit stupid. None of it was true, as Sandy had found out the first time he interviewed the Nazgûl. If anything, Slozewski was one of the gentlest and friendliest men in the world of rock, but his charms were well hidden by his innate shyness and reserve. It seemed he hadn’t changed much in that respect. After making his comment, he sat quietly, waiting for Sandy to continue.
Sandy took out his notebook. “You’ve probably figured what I came to talk about,” he said.
Slozewski looked at the notepad and smiled thinly and fleetingly. “Look at that,” he said. “Been ages since I’ve seen a reporter write down stuff. The new ones all use little tape recorders.” He sighed. “You probably want to ask me about Lynch, right? And the Nazgûl?”
Sandy nodded.
“It figures,” Slozewski said. “I was kind of hoping that maybe the
Hog
wanted to do a little write-up on my place here, you know. We could use the publicity. But I didn’t think it was likely.” He scowled. “They
ought
to do a piece on the Gopher Hole. You tell Patterson that for me, OK?”
“Will do,” Sandy said. “It’s a
Behind one of the round bars, a youth was setting up and talking to a big fellow in a pin-striped suit who was leaning against the rail, looking something like a Mafia hit-man. Sandy glanced around and saw no sign of anyone else, so he walked toward them. They both watched him approach. “We’re closed,” the barman finally called out.
“I know,” Sandy said. “I’m looking for Gopher John. When do you expect him?”
The man in the pin-striped suit cleared his throat. “I’m John Slozewski,” he said. He held out a hand. “You’re Sandy Blair, right? I remember you.”
Sandy shook the hand and tried not to do a double take. Gopher John Slozewski had been a huge, glowering bear of a man who liked to dress in ragged jeans and loose tie-dyed smocks. With his vast black beard, his moon face, ruddy cheeks, and paunch, he had sometimes reminded Sandy of a sort of dark analogue to Santa Claus. The man shaking his hand was a stranger he would have passed in the street with scarcely a second glance. Slozewski had lost weight; his face was no longer round and cherubic, and he was trim under that vest. The beard was gone, and the black hair, just starting to recede now, was fashionably combed and styled. Only the size hadn’t changed. The hand that enveloped Sandy’s was huge, the same powerful red fist that had hammered out the righteous, relentless beat of the Nazgûl in full flight. “I never would have known you,” Sandy said.
“Times change,” Slozewski replied. “I got my place to run here. Mister John Slozewski can run it a lot smoother than any hairy-ass hippie called Gopher John. Would you believe it, I’m a member of the Chamber of Commerce now. What are you drinking?”
“A beer,” Sandy said.
“Draw one, Eddie,” Slozewski said. The barman filled the glass and pushed it over to Sandy. Slozewski nodded at him. “Go set up the main bar so we can talk, OK?” The barman left. “So you’re still with the
Hog,
huh?”
“Yes and no,” Sandy said. He sipped his beer and eased himself back onto a bar stool. “This is a freelance assignment. Mostly I write novels these days.”
“Good for you,” Slozewski said flatly. Neither his voice nor his face betrayed any hint of warmth, but Sandy knew that was misleading. Gopher John Slozewski had been famous for his perpetual scowl, and his short, curt manner with the press and the public. That, and his wild drumming, had gotten him the reputation of being a little bit mean, a little bit crazy, and more than a little bit stupid. None of it was true, as Sandy had found out the first time he interviewed the Nazgûl. If anything, Slozewski was one of the gentlest and friendliest men in the world of rock, but his charms were well hidden by his innate shyness and reserve. It seemed he hadn’t changed much in that respect. After making his comment, he sat quietly, waiting for Sandy to continue.
Sandy took out his notebook. “You’ve probably figured what I came to talk about,” he said.
Slozewski looked at the notepad and smiled thinly and fleetingly. “Look at that,” he said. “Been ages since I’ve seen a reporter write down stuff. The new ones all use little tape recorders.” He sighed. “You probably want to ask me about Lynch, right? And the Nazgûl?”
Sandy nodded.
“It figures,” Slozewski said. “I was kind of hoping that maybe the
Hog
wanted to do a little write-up on my place here, you know. We could use the publicity. But I didn’t think it was likely.” He scowled. “They
ought
to do a piece on the Gopher Hole. You tell Patterson that for me, OK?”
“Will do,” Sandy said. “It’s a
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