sang. Vernor looked around. There was only one person who listened to music like that.
Mick Turner was sitting at the bar, his hands cupped around a shot glass of synthesmack. Vernor walked up and greeted him effusively, but Turner seemed to be on the nod. His eyes were closed and he was rocking back and forth to the music. Vernor ordered a beer and a reefer. The place was so empty that Waxy himself was tending bar.
"Big bust?" Vernor inquired.
Waxy shook his head sadly. "They came in and got 'em all. Except for him." He rolled his eyes in Turner's direction. "And he might as well be gone. Spends every day junked out of his mind and listening to the Zap." Last winter Mick had somehow talked Waxy into the routine of playing records from his fifty-three-album Frank Zappa collection afternoons. This seemed to be the only remaining tradition from the glory days of the Angels.
Waxy set the beer down in front of Vernor and handed him his reefer. His face brightened with a sudden hope, "Are all the boys getting out today?"
"No, no. I snuck out." Vernor lit his stick of weed and inhaled deeply. This was going to feel good. "How about Turner. How did he keep from getting busted? Haven't they come in here looking for him?"
"They did for awhile. They really wanted him, came in every day. But he has this trick. Look." Waxy pointed to Mick's shot glass.
The glass appeared strangely distorted, now shrunken, now swollen, warped in impossible curves which shifted with the slow twitching of Turner's skinny hands. Vernor looked at his joint, then at Waxy. Waxy shrugged. "He can do it to himself."
Do what? This was getting too mysterious. Vernor shook Mick's shoulder. "Hey, Mick! Come on, man. It's Vernor . I'm out of jail and we've fucking got to do something!" Still no response. Turner's lips were moving slowly, but only to the sounds of the record.
Vernor looked helplessly at Waxy, but the proprietor's sallow face was bent into a rare smile. "Spike him," he said, handing Vernor a loaded syringe. "On the house."
Vernor recalled the evening after he broke up with Alice. Turner had it coming to him. He plunged the needle into Mick's leg. As Vernor watched, his friend's nodding became less fluid, more stroboscopic. His eyelids snapped up like window shades, and his eyes began to focus—
"Loaches coming! Get down!" It was Waxy, who had stationed himself near the window. A blast of adrenalin pulsed in Vernor's skull, but before he could run he realized that this was part of Waxy's practical joke. He turned to tell Mick not to worry, but his friend had disappeared.
"Where'd he go?" Vernor asked, feeling unpleasantly confused.
Waxy was actually grinning. "He's right there. In his chair."
Vernor leaned over and looked. There were Turner's ectomorphic hands, all right. The hands were cupped together as if in prayer. Fine. But the rest of Mick Turner was nowhere to be seen.
"That's how he hides," Waxy explained happily. "He gets inside his hands."
Vernor felt like crying. It was weird enough just being out of prison after seven months, but . . . "Come on you guys," he pleaded. "Give me a break."
Waxy gave a sharp whistle, and the hands on Mick's chair parted, clam-like, to reveal a homunculus, a tiny, distorted Mick Turner. He seemed to be talking, but the voice was so high and quick—and the whole scene so unpleasant—that Vernor's brain couldn't pick out the words. As he watched, the hands seemed to massage the space between them and the tiny figure began to grow.
In a few seconds a very wired Mick Turner was squatting on the bar stool next to Vernor, with one hand beneath his feet and the other on the top of his head. Vernor dragged on his reefer, but it had gone out. On second thought, that seemed like a fortunate thing.
"Vernor Max. I was waiting for someone to break out." As he spoke, Mick was glancing around. In seconds he had made himself comfortable in the new situation. He removed the syringe from his leg—where
Mick Turner was sitting at the bar, his hands cupped around a shot glass of synthesmack. Vernor walked up and greeted him effusively, but Turner seemed to be on the nod. His eyes were closed and he was rocking back and forth to the music. Vernor ordered a beer and a reefer. The place was so empty that Waxy himself was tending bar.
"Big bust?" Vernor inquired.
Waxy shook his head sadly. "They came in and got 'em all. Except for him." He rolled his eyes in Turner's direction. "And he might as well be gone. Spends every day junked out of his mind and listening to the Zap." Last winter Mick had somehow talked Waxy into the routine of playing records from his fifty-three-album Frank Zappa collection afternoons. This seemed to be the only remaining tradition from the glory days of the Angels.
Waxy set the beer down in front of Vernor and handed him his reefer. His face brightened with a sudden hope, "Are all the boys getting out today?"
"No, no. I snuck out." Vernor lit his stick of weed and inhaled deeply. This was going to feel good. "How about Turner. How did he keep from getting busted? Haven't they come in here looking for him?"
"They did for awhile. They really wanted him, came in every day. But he has this trick. Look." Waxy pointed to Mick's shot glass.
The glass appeared strangely distorted, now shrunken, now swollen, warped in impossible curves which shifted with the slow twitching of Turner's skinny hands. Vernor looked at his joint, then at Waxy. Waxy shrugged. "He can do it to himself."
Do what? This was getting too mysterious. Vernor shook Mick's shoulder. "Hey, Mick! Come on, man. It's Vernor . I'm out of jail and we've fucking got to do something!" Still no response. Turner's lips were moving slowly, but only to the sounds of the record.
Vernor looked helplessly at Waxy, but the proprietor's sallow face was bent into a rare smile. "Spike him," he said, handing Vernor a loaded syringe. "On the house."
Vernor recalled the evening after he broke up with Alice. Turner had it coming to him. He plunged the needle into Mick's leg. As Vernor watched, his friend's nodding became less fluid, more stroboscopic. His eyelids snapped up like window shades, and his eyes began to focus—
"Loaches coming! Get down!" It was Waxy, who had stationed himself near the window. A blast of adrenalin pulsed in Vernor's skull, but before he could run he realized that this was part of Waxy's practical joke. He turned to tell Mick not to worry, but his friend had disappeared.
"Where'd he go?" Vernor asked, feeling unpleasantly confused.
Waxy was actually grinning. "He's right there. In his chair."
Vernor leaned over and looked. There were Turner's ectomorphic hands, all right. The hands were cupped together as if in prayer. Fine. But the rest of Mick Turner was nowhere to be seen.
"That's how he hides," Waxy explained happily. "He gets inside his hands."
Vernor felt like crying. It was weird enough just being out of prison after seven months, but . . . "Come on you guys," he pleaded. "Give me a break."
Waxy gave a sharp whistle, and the hands on Mick's chair parted, clam-like, to reveal a homunculus, a tiny, distorted Mick Turner. He seemed to be talking, but the voice was so high and quick—and the whole scene so unpleasant—that Vernor's brain couldn't pick out the words. As he watched, the hands seemed to massage the space between them and the tiny figure began to grow.
In a few seconds a very wired Mick Turner was squatting on the bar stool next to Vernor, with one hand beneath his feet and the other on the top of his head. Vernor dragged on his reefer, but it had gone out. On second thought, that seemed like a fortunate thing.
"Vernor Max. I was waiting for someone to break out." As he spoke, Mick was glancing around. In seconds he had made himself comfortable in the new situation. He removed the syringe from his leg—where
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