Drawing Dead by Pete Hautman Page B

remembered them as scintillating, comical, humorous.
    Debrowski had rebuilt her booking business within a few months. In the rock-and-roll business it was generally understood that drug problems are a hazard of the trade, and her past was quickly forgotten. She was representing a dozen groups already, including the Coldcocks, Bad Dream Danny, and Bad Beat. Drug-addicted cops were not so quickly pardoned for their sins, and Crow had been drifting from one thing to another for the past two years, none of them real jobs, none of them with even the pretense of permanence. So far he liked it that way. When Debrowski had mentioned the vacant apartment upstairs from her place, Crow abandoned his sterile suburban efficiency and moved into the city.
    He didn’t want to go to the party, but the idea that Dickie Wicky might be trying to stiff him for a lousy three hundred dollars was sticking in his throat. Going with Debrowski made the prospect a bit more appealing. She kept him from taking people like Wicky—or himself—too seriously. He was comfortable with her. Her boundaries were solid and clear. They were friends. They could go to the party, stay sober, have a good time, and be back in their respective beds by midnight. Besides, there were no good poker games around, and it was Friday night.
    If he had a cabin on a lake, he would now grill a few walleye fillets, saute some wild mushrooms, sit and listen to the loons calling. Instead, he dialed Peroni’s Pizzeria.
    â€œP'roni’s.” Crow could hear crashing pans and loud voices in the background.
    â€œOne small anchovy and pineapple, light on the cheese.”
    â€œThis must be Crow.”
    â€œJust take it easy on the cheese this time, okay, Jake?”
    â€œSmall anchovy pineapple, easy cheese. Got it. Anything else?”
    â€œThat’s it.”
    â€œYou still living in that dump down on First?”
    â€œYou calling my place a dump?”
    â€œYou kidding? My driver won’t go down there 'less I make him a loan a my piece. Oughta drop a bomb on that neighborhood.”
    â€œYou don’t want my business, Jake?”
    â€œKeep your shirt on, Crow. We’ll get you your pizza.”
    Forty minutes later, a tall kid with greasy hair and a pizza showed up at the door. Crow asked to see his piece. The kid looked confused.
    â€œJake didn’t loan you his six-gun?” Crow asked.
    The kid shook his head and stepped back. Crow took the pizza. It was enormous. “I ordered a small,” he said.
    The kid shrugged. “You want I should take it back?”
    â€œForget it.” Crow handed him a twenty.
    â€œPizza’s sixteen bucks. You want change?”
    â€œForget it.” He closed the door and carried the pizza into the kitchen, picked up the phone, and made another call to his downstairs neighbor.
    â€œDebrowski here,” she shouted into the phone, rock music pouring across her voice.
    â€œWhat’s that you got on down there?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThis is Crow. What are we listening to?”
    â€œJust a second.” He heard the receiver drop. A few seconds later, the music stopped and Debrowski got back on the line. “Hello?”
    â€œThis is your upstairs neighbor. What were we listening to?”
    â€œBad Beat. I got them booked into First Avenue in front of Concrete Blonde.”
    â€œCongratulations. You eat yet?”
    â€œYou gonna take me out to dinner, Crow? This must be a date.”
    â€œI’ve got more pizza than I can eat here.”
    â€œWhat kind of pizza?”
    â€œAnchovy and pineapple.”
    â€œJesus, Crow, you ever hear of sausage and mushroom? Thanks but no thanks. I’ll make myself a peanut butter sandwich for dinner.”
    â€œI had that for lunch.”
    â€œCouple of gourmet cooks.”
    Crow managed to eat all but three slices, which he folded back into the box and put in the refrigerator. It might start looking good