lizard-skin jacket, orange pants, high-heeled boots and a spacy leer. ‘Where’s Seymour?’
He’s not here tonight’, Bobby replied, humiliated at being called ‘fat boy’, although he knew it was true.
‘Sheeit, I kin see that ,’ the rocker said, posturing in front of the full-length mirror. ‘Where is the old bum?’
‘Uh, I think he’s out sick’, Bobby replied, recognizing the rock and roller as Del Delgardo – lead singer with a group called The Nightmares.
The rocker pouted his thick lips and adjusted his bulging crotch. ‘Did he leave you my stuff?’
‘What stuff?’
Narrowing his eyes, Delgardo said, ‘Don’t give me dumb Sambo shit or your ass’ll be on the auction block. You goddamn spades always stick together.’ His voice developed a whiny quality. ‘I want my stuff. It’s paid for. And I want it fast.’
For a moment Bobby thought about smashing the skinny asshole’s face in. But it wouldn’t achieve anything, he’d only get fired.
Taking a deep breath he thought about the glassine envelope in Seymour’s locked cupboard. What did he do? Go for the hunch, or wait for this maniac to start screaming?
Going for the hunch he unlocked the cupboard, reached inside, took out the envelope and shoved it at the jerk. ‘Is this it?’
The rock and roller claimed what was his with a petulant snarl. ‘How come ya didn’t ask me to get down on my fuckin’ knees and beg? He then proceeded to lay out thin lines on the black marble and snort an inordinate amount.
Bobby turned away. He’d only sampled drugs once. Two years of seeing what dope did to people was enough to warn him off forever.
‘Join me,’ Del commanded, suddenly becoming friendly.
‘No, thanks. It’s not my scene.’
‘Do it!’ the rock star insisted.
‘I can’t, I’ll lose my job.’
Del Delgardo reverted to his true self. ‘You’ll lose it if you don’t , you fat fuck.’
Bobby wished someone would come in before he punched this jerk out. But the private men’s room remained private.
‘I said do it!’ Del repeated threateningly.
Bobby wondered how the great Seymour would handle a situation like this. And then he was saved. A middle-aged man in a tuxedo walked in, attracting the rock star’s attention.
‘Hey, Marcus,’ Del greeted him. ‘You’re just in time; Come on in an’ join the fuckin’ feast!’
To Bobby’s surprise, the affluent-looking man walked over to the stoned singer as if they were the best of friends, patted him warmly on his lizard-clad shoulder, extracted a small gold straw from his inside pocket, and elegantly snorted a line of the addictive white substance.
Bobby heaved a sigh of relief. He was no longer needed. Crisis over. Discreetly he busied himself polishing the pristine marble sinks.
‘My album’s walkin’ out the stores – fuckin’ walkin’. Right, Marcus? Right?’ demanded Del.
‘Yes, indeed it is,’ replied the man, with a slight European accent.
‘I’m fuckin’ beatin’ the cock out of Mick. Right?’
‘We’re making money. That’s all that’s important, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah,’ replied Del unsurely. The most important thing to him was outselling Mick Jagger and The Rolling Stones. Never mind the money.
‘Shall we return to our ladies?’ Marcus asked smoothly.
Greedily Del Delgardo snorted his last line of coke. ‘Yeah, let’s do that. Why not?’ He took one final look at himself in the mirror, liked what he saw, and unsteadily accompanied the older man from the room.
As soon as they were gone, Rocket darted furtively through the door. ‘You know who that was?’ he asked excitedly.
‘Del Delgardo. What a creep.’
‘Not him. The other guy.’
‘Who was he?’
‘Marcus Citroen. He owns Blue Cadillac Records. He’s power, man, with a capital P. Here—’ Rocket emptied out his pockets. ‘I got joints – pills – ammis – an’ some sleepers. It’s the best I can do for tonight. Let’s hope Seymour stays away for
He’s not here tonight’, Bobby replied, humiliated at being called ‘fat boy’, although he knew it was true.
‘Sheeit, I kin see that ,’ the rocker said, posturing in front of the full-length mirror. ‘Where is the old bum?’
‘Uh, I think he’s out sick’, Bobby replied, recognizing the rock and roller as Del Delgardo – lead singer with a group called The Nightmares.
The rocker pouted his thick lips and adjusted his bulging crotch. ‘Did he leave you my stuff?’
‘What stuff?’
Narrowing his eyes, Delgardo said, ‘Don’t give me dumb Sambo shit or your ass’ll be on the auction block. You goddamn spades always stick together.’ His voice developed a whiny quality. ‘I want my stuff. It’s paid for. And I want it fast.’
For a moment Bobby thought about smashing the skinny asshole’s face in. But it wouldn’t achieve anything, he’d only get fired.
Taking a deep breath he thought about the glassine envelope in Seymour’s locked cupboard. What did he do? Go for the hunch, or wait for this maniac to start screaming?
Going for the hunch he unlocked the cupboard, reached inside, took out the envelope and shoved it at the jerk. ‘Is this it?’
The rock and roller claimed what was his with a petulant snarl. ‘How come ya didn’t ask me to get down on my fuckin’ knees and beg? He then proceeded to lay out thin lines on the black marble and snort an inordinate amount.
Bobby turned away. He’d only sampled drugs once. Two years of seeing what dope did to people was enough to warn him off forever.
‘Join me,’ Del commanded, suddenly becoming friendly.
‘No, thanks. It’s not my scene.’
‘Do it!’ the rock star insisted.
‘I can’t, I’ll lose my job.’
Del Delgardo reverted to his true self. ‘You’ll lose it if you don’t , you fat fuck.’
Bobby wished someone would come in before he punched this jerk out. But the private men’s room remained private.
‘I said do it!’ Del repeated threateningly.
Bobby wondered how the great Seymour would handle a situation like this. And then he was saved. A middle-aged man in a tuxedo walked in, attracting the rock star’s attention.
‘Hey, Marcus,’ Del greeted him. ‘You’re just in time; Come on in an’ join the fuckin’ feast!’
To Bobby’s surprise, the affluent-looking man walked over to the stoned singer as if they were the best of friends, patted him warmly on his lizard-clad shoulder, extracted a small gold straw from his inside pocket, and elegantly snorted a line of the addictive white substance.
Bobby heaved a sigh of relief. He was no longer needed. Crisis over. Discreetly he busied himself polishing the pristine marble sinks.
‘My album’s walkin’ out the stores – fuckin’ walkin’. Right, Marcus? Right?’ demanded Del.
‘Yes, indeed it is,’ replied the man, with a slight European accent.
‘I’m fuckin’ beatin’ the cock out of Mick. Right?’
‘We’re making money. That’s all that’s important, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah,’ replied Del unsurely. The most important thing to him was outselling Mick Jagger and The Rolling Stones. Never mind the money.
‘Shall we return to our ladies?’ Marcus asked smoothly.
Greedily Del Delgardo snorted his last line of coke. ‘Yeah, let’s do that. Why not?’ He took one final look at himself in the mirror, liked what he saw, and unsteadily accompanied the older man from the room.
As soon as they were gone, Rocket darted furtively through the door. ‘You know who that was?’ he asked excitedly.
‘Del Delgardo. What a creep.’
‘Not him. The other guy.’
‘Who was he?’
‘Marcus Citroen. He owns Blue Cadillac Records. He’s power, man, with a capital P. Here—’ Rocket emptied out his pockets. ‘I got joints – pills – ammis – an’ some sleepers. It’s the best I can do for tonight. Let’s hope Seymour stays away for
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