don't know, Rourke? Shit, I've always known. You're not the first, and you won't be the last. Look, she's young and pretty, so I let her have a fling now and then. Why? Because I'm not young, and I've never been pretty. But I love her, so it's over between you. You got that, Pete? Am I getting through?"
"I care about her too, Gordie."
"Well, I fucking care more," Easton said. He's bluffing, Rourke realized. My God, he's almost begging. "You hear me? I care more."
Maybe you do.
Rourke sighed. "For what it's worth," he said, "you don't have to try and blackmail me. I can't handle her anymore. You're safe, Gordie. She'll never choose a songwriter over the head of a label. Dee's too smart for that. To tell you the truth, I don't think she loves either one of us."
"I know that too," Gordie Easton said. Then his voice broke, and so did a bit of Peter's heart. "But I need her. Do we understand each other?"
"We do," Rourke said.
"Do I have your word?" "You do.
"End of subject."
"Goodnight, Gordie."
Dial tone.
Peter Rourke sat on the edge of the bed for a while and thought about his life. It did not make him feel any happier. He flushed the rest of the drugs down the toilet and went out to brew some strong, hairy coffee in his plastic L.A. kitchen.
At a quarter to ten, Rourke was on the Hollywood Freeway approaching the Vine Street exit. He was thinking about going home. Not back to his furnished apartment, but to Nevada; to Two Trees. He hated the city more with each passing hour. An empty throb of mourning made his leased black Mercedes feel like a hearse.
Peter wanted to stop somewhere, trade the huge hog in on a jeep Ranger and just head North and East. Maybe drive straight through until there were no more tall, skeletal buildings cocooned in smog; only awesome blue mountains and open stretches of yellow-brown sand. He recalled the tangy smell of fresh sage, and the fantasy brought tears to his eyes.
The parking garage was deserted, but packed with expensive cars left by some patrons of the musical theater located just around the corner. Concrete shimmered with reflected neon. Peter shut off the engine, grabbed his briefcase and stepped out into the darkness.
Which chuckled and fell on him.
Shadowy corners cracked gnarled knuckles and whispered (..am I skulling?…) He walked faster, ordering his imagination to shut down. It had to be that damned rainbow again, bringing on little flashes of paranoia. The talent wasn't coming back. It couldn't be coming back. But it's happening way too often now to be an accident, he thought. That can't be. Oh sweet Jesus, is it all happening again? No, that's ridiculous. It's the dope, that's all. You just have to try and kick for good.
Wise saying: Drugs are nature's way of telling you you're making too much money. Okay, and death is nature's way of telling you to slow down? Funny, Rourke. You know what you need? You need to go home, back to the high desert and the mountains. You need to start your life over again…and do things right this time.
Footsteps. Someone else? No. Just his own sounds, careening off the concrete walls. His vision blurred from looking down at the grinning row of chrome fenders and blank windshields of tinted glass. As the well-lit lobby area swam closer, Rourke fought to suppress his panic. That tears it, he decided. I'm signing up for rehab. I'm off that shit for good.
He stepped inside the waiting area and pressed the elevator button. A feeling of disorientation struck him while he waited for the car to arrive, a creeping sense of madness. For a long moment, it was as if he'd slipped into another man's skin — someone violent and cruel. His stomach churned.
The elevator slid open. Rourke jumped for the safety of the metal coffin before his knees could buckle. He pressed 7. Only after the doors closed, locking him in, did he begin to relax.
Home to Two Trees. It would be good to feel the desert sun. Easier to stay off the dope, too. There was
"I care about her too, Gordie."
"Well, I fucking care more," Easton said. He's bluffing, Rourke realized. My God, he's almost begging. "You hear me? I care more."
Maybe you do.
Rourke sighed. "For what it's worth," he said, "you don't have to try and blackmail me. I can't handle her anymore. You're safe, Gordie. She'll never choose a songwriter over the head of a label. Dee's too smart for that. To tell you the truth, I don't think she loves either one of us."
"I know that too," Gordie Easton said. Then his voice broke, and so did a bit of Peter's heart. "But I need her. Do we understand each other?"
"We do," Rourke said.
"Do I have your word?" "You do.
"End of subject."
"Goodnight, Gordie."
Dial tone.
Peter Rourke sat on the edge of the bed for a while and thought about his life. It did not make him feel any happier. He flushed the rest of the drugs down the toilet and went out to brew some strong, hairy coffee in his plastic L.A. kitchen.
At a quarter to ten, Rourke was on the Hollywood Freeway approaching the Vine Street exit. He was thinking about going home. Not back to his furnished apartment, but to Nevada; to Two Trees. He hated the city more with each passing hour. An empty throb of mourning made his leased black Mercedes feel like a hearse.
Peter wanted to stop somewhere, trade the huge hog in on a jeep Ranger and just head North and East. Maybe drive straight through until there were no more tall, skeletal buildings cocooned in smog; only awesome blue mountains and open stretches of yellow-brown sand. He recalled the tangy smell of fresh sage, and the fantasy brought tears to his eyes.
The parking garage was deserted, but packed with expensive cars left by some patrons of the musical theater located just around the corner. Concrete shimmered with reflected neon. Peter shut off the engine, grabbed his briefcase and stepped out into the darkness.
Which chuckled and fell on him.
Shadowy corners cracked gnarled knuckles and whispered (..am I skulling?…) He walked faster, ordering his imagination to shut down. It had to be that damned rainbow again, bringing on little flashes of paranoia. The talent wasn't coming back. It couldn't be coming back. But it's happening way too often now to be an accident, he thought. That can't be. Oh sweet Jesus, is it all happening again? No, that's ridiculous. It's the dope, that's all. You just have to try and kick for good.
Wise saying: Drugs are nature's way of telling you you're making too much money. Okay, and death is nature's way of telling you to slow down? Funny, Rourke. You know what you need? You need to go home, back to the high desert and the mountains. You need to start your life over again…and do things right this time.
Footsteps. Someone else? No. Just his own sounds, careening off the concrete walls. His vision blurred from looking down at the grinning row of chrome fenders and blank windshields of tinted glass. As the well-lit lobby area swam closer, Rourke fought to suppress his panic. That tears it, he decided. I'm signing up for rehab. I'm off that shit for good.
He stepped inside the waiting area and pressed the elevator button. A feeling of disorientation struck him while he waited for the car to arrive, a creeping sense of madness. For a long moment, it was as if he'd slipped into another man's skin — someone violent and cruel. His stomach churned.
The elevator slid open. Rourke jumped for the safety of the metal coffin before his knees could buckle. He pressed 7. Only after the doors closed, locking him in, did he begin to relax.
Home to Two Trees. It would be good to feel the desert sun. Easier to stay off the dope, too. There was
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