everybody their car keys, and see them out the front door. Get rid of them.”
“I can’t do that!” Larry said, shocked.
“You better,” Wayne said.
“But why? Man, this party’s just getting going.”
“Larry, how much has Columbia paid you up front?”
“Why would you want to know?” Larry asked slyly.
“Do you really think I want to suck off you, Larry? Think.”
Larry thought, and with dawning bewilderment he realized there was no reason why Wayne Stukey would want an arm on him. He hadn’t really made it yet, he was scuffling like most of the people who had helped Larry cut the album, but unlike most of them Wayne came from a family with money and he was on good terms with his people. Wayne’s father owned half of the country’s third largest electronic games company, and the Stukeys had a modestly palatial home in Bel Air. Bewildered, Larry realized that his own sudden good fortune probably looked like small bananas to Wayne.
“No, I guess not,” he said gruffly. “I’m sorry. But it seems like every tinhorn cockroach-chaser west of Las Vegas—”
“So how much?”
Larry thought it over. “Seven grand up front. All told.”
“They’re paying you quarterly royalties on the single and biannually on the album?”
“Right.”
Wayne nodded. “They hold it until the eagle screams, the bastards. Cigarette?”
Larry took one and cupped the end for a light.
“Do you know how much this party’s costing you?”
“Sure,” Larry said.
“You didn’t rent the house for less than a thousand.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” It had actually been $1,200 plus a $500 damage deposit. He had paid the deposit and half the month’s rent, a total of $1,100 with $600 owing.
“How much for dope?” Wayne asked.
“Aw, man, you got to have something. It’s like cheese for Ritz crackers—”
“There was pot and there was coke. How much, come on?”
“The fucking DA,” Larry said sulkily. “Five hundred and five hundred.”
“And it was gone the second day.”
“The hell it was!” Larry said, startled. “I saw two bowls when we went out this morning, man. Most of it was gone, yeah, but—” “Man, don’t you remember The Deck?” Wayne’s voice suddenly dropped into an amazingly good parody of Larry’s own drawling voice. “Just put it on my tab, Dewey. Keep ’em full.”
Larry looked at Wayne with dawning horror. He did remember a small, wiry guy with a peculiar haircut, a wiffle cut they had called it ten or fifteen years ago, a small guy with a wiffle haircut and a T-shirt reading JESUS IS COMING & IS HE PISSED. This guy seemed to have good dope practically falling out of his asshole. He could even remember telling this guy, Dewey the Deck, to keep his hospitality bowls full and put it on his tab. But that had been . . . well, that had been days ago.
Wayne said, “You’re the best thing to happen to Dewey Deck in a long time, man.”
“How much is he into me for?”
“Not bad on pot. Pot’s cheap. Twelve hundred. Eight grand on coke.”
For a minute Larry thought he was going to puke. He goggled silently at Wayne. He tried to speak and he could only mouth: Ninety-two hundred?
“Inflation, man,” Wayne said. “You want the rest?”
Larry didn’t want the rest, but he nodded.
“There was a color TV upstairs. Someone ran a chair through it. I’d guess three hundred for repairs. The wood paneling downstairs had been gouged to hell. Four hundred. The picture window facing the beach got broken the day before yesterday. Three hundred. The shag rug in the living room is totally kaput—cigarette bums, beer, whiskey. Four hundred. I called the liquor store and they’re just as happy with their tab as the Deck is with his. Six hundred.”
“Six hundred for booze?” Larry whispered. Blue horror had encased him up to the neck.
“Be thankful most of them have been scoffing beer and wine. You’ve got a four-hundred-dollar tab down at the market, mostly for pizza,
“I can’t do that!” Larry said, shocked.
“You better,” Wayne said.
“But why? Man, this party’s just getting going.”
“Larry, how much has Columbia paid you up front?”
“Why would you want to know?” Larry asked slyly.
“Do you really think I want to suck off you, Larry? Think.”
Larry thought, and with dawning bewilderment he realized there was no reason why Wayne Stukey would want an arm on him. He hadn’t really made it yet, he was scuffling like most of the people who had helped Larry cut the album, but unlike most of them Wayne came from a family with money and he was on good terms with his people. Wayne’s father owned half of the country’s third largest electronic games company, and the Stukeys had a modestly palatial home in Bel Air. Bewildered, Larry realized that his own sudden good fortune probably looked like small bananas to Wayne.
“No, I guess not,” he said gruffly. “I’m sorry. But it seems like every tinhorn cockroach-chaser west of Las Vegas—”
“So how much?”
Larry thought it over. “Seven grand up front. All told.”
“They’re paying you quarterly royalties on the single and biannually on the album?”
“Right.”
Wayne nodded. “They hold it until the eagle screams, the bastards. Cigarette?”
Larry took one and cupped the end for a light.
“Do you know how much this party’s costing you?”
“Sure,” Larry said.
“You didn’t rent the house for less than a thousand.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” It had actually been $1,200 plus a $500 damage deposit. He had paid the deposit and half the month’s rent, a total of $1,100 with $600 owing.
“How much for dope?” Wayne asked.
“Aw, man, you got to have something. It’s like cheese for Ritz crackers—”
“There was pot and there was coke. How much, come on?”
“The fucking DA,” Larry said sulkily. “Five hundred and five hundred.”
“And it was gone the second day.”
“The hell it was!” Larry said, startled. “I saw two bowls when we went out this morning, man. Most of it was gone, yeah, but—” “Man, don’t you remember The Deck?” Wayne’s voice suddenly dropped into an amazingly good parody of Larry’s own drawling voice. “Just put it on my tab, Dewey. Keep ’em full.”
Larry looked at Wayne with dawning horror. He did remember a small, wiry guy with a peculiar haircut, a wiffle cut they had called it ten or fifteen years ago, a small guy with a wiffle haircut and a T-shirt reading JESUS IS COMING & IS HE PISSED. This guy seemed to have good dope practically falling out of his asshole. He could even remember telling this guy, Dewey the Deck, to keep his hospitality bowls full and put it on his tab. But that had been . . . well, that had been days ago.
Wayne said, “You’re the best thing to happen to Dewey Deck in a long time, man.”
“How much is he into me for?”
“Not bad on pot. Pot’s cheap. Twelve hundred. Eight grand on coke.”
For a minute Larry thought he was going to puke. He goggled silently at Wayne. He tried to speak and he could only mouth: Ninety-two hundred?
“Inflation, man,” Wayne said. “You want the rest?”
Larry didn’t want the rest, but he nodded.
“There was a color TV upstairs. Someone ran a chair through it. I’d guess three hundred for repairs. The wood paneling downstairs had been gouged to hell. Four hundred. The picture window facing the beach got broken the day before yesterday. Three hundred. The shag rug in the living room is totally kaput—cigarette bums, beer, whiskey. Four hundred. I called the liquor store and they’re just as happy with their tab as the Deck is with his. Six hundred.”
“Six hundred for booze?” Larry whispered. Blue horror had encased him up to the neck.
“Be thankful most of them have been scoffing beer and wine. You’ve got a four-hundred-dollar tab down at the market, mostly for pizza,
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