a while.’
‘How much I gotta charge?’ Bobby asked, not really wanting to become involved.
‘Jeeze!’ Rocket rolled his eyes. ‘Sometimes I wonder about you, Bobby. Where the hell you bin all your life?’
* * *
‘I hear you met Marcus Citroen last night.’
Sharleen was talking to him. She was actually acknowledging his existence!
‘Yeah,’ Boby mumbled. He didn’t know how to handle it. They were standing next to each other clocking in. It was the closest he’d ever been to her, and he hadn’t realized she was so petite, like a little doll. And pretty! Oh, was she pretty.
‘Listen.’ Sharleen leaned towards him speaking in an urgent whisper. ‘I can’t get near any VIPs. I’m stuck downstairs with the junk skunks. So do me a big favour, if he comes in tonight give him this for me. Please. ’ Pressing a cassette into his hand, she gazed at him pleadingly.
This was his golden opportunity. All he had to do was say, Sure. Go out with me, and I’ll pass him your tape. Real flip and cool, exactly like Rocket would do.
Instead he just about managed a weak ‘Yes.’
‘Thanks, sweetie.’ Sharleen stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. ‘You’re a nice guy.’
And then she was gone, and he’d lost his chance. Damn!
Rocket appeared, grinning with anticipation. ‘Have I got us the works tonight! Primo, primo! – Seymour’s not back, is he?’
Secretly Bobby hoped he was. Catering to the big shots was too much like hard work – he preferred the hustle and craziness of downstairs. And selling dope wasn’t to his liking either, although he had to admit he could use the money. After all, it wasn’t as if he were out on the street pushing to kids. As Rocket pointed out – these people had plenty of money, nobody was forcing them to buy.
‘You’re back upstairs again tonight, Bobby,’ announced Nichols Kline, looming up behind them, causing Rocket to jump guiltily. ‘You’re doing okay up there. No complaints.’
‘What’s the matter with Seymour?’ he ventured.
‘Don’t you worry about Seymour,’ Nichols replied lightly. ‘Just do your job, and stay out of everyone’s way.’
‘Yeah,’ crowed Rocket as soon as Nichols walked off. ‘Do your job, an’ stay in everyone’s pocket!’ He cackled hysterically.
It turned out to be another crazy night, and when anyone asked, Bobby supplied them with what they wanted, soon learning that money was of no great concern to the rich and famous; they seemed to enjoy throwing it around.
At closing time he looked for Rocket to pay him his share, but his waiter friend was nowhere to be found, and since he was in a hurry to get home, he left. Marcus Citroen hadn’t shown up, and Sharleen’s tape was still in his possession. He couldn’t wait to hear it.
When he got home he played it on his portable tape machine – a souvenir from Nashville – and was mortified to discover she sounded terrible, straining to be heard above a far too loud backing group, her voice small and tinny.
So . . . Sharleen wanted to be a singer. Well, at least they had music in common, and Bobby knew – just by listening to her – he could help her sound a lot better.
With that comforting thought in mind he fell asleep, only to awake several hours later with agonizing cramps in his stomach.
‘Oh . . . Je sus !’ Moaning with acute pain he dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom, where he promptly threw up.
Relief was not forthcoming. The unremitting pain persisted, tearing at his gut like a constant jagged edge.
Panic overcame him. Something bad was happening, and he didn’t know what to do. Gathering all the strength he could muster he staggered into Fanni and Ernest’s room, switching the light on and waking them both up.
‘What you-all doin’, boy?’ yelled Fanni, launching herself into a sitting position, huge bosom escaping from a cheap pink nightgown.
‘I’m sick,’ he gasped. ‘I got this terrible
‘How much I gotta charge?’ Bobby asked, not really wanting to become involved.
‘Jeeze!’ Rocket rolled his eyes. ‘Sometimes I wonder about you, Bobby. Where the hell you bin all your life?’
* * *
‘I hear you met Marcus Citroen last night.’
Sharleen was talking to him. She was actually acknowledging his existence!
‘Yeah,’ Boby mumbled. He didn’t know how to handle it. They were standing next to each other clocking in. It was the closest he’d ever been to her, and he hadn’t realized she was so petite, like a little doll. And pretty! Oh, was she pretty.
‘Listen.’ Sharleen leaned towards him speaking in an urgent whisper. ‘I can’t get near any VIPs. I’m stuck downstairs with the junk skunks. So do me a big favour, if he comes in tonight give him this for me. Please. ’ Pressing a cassette into his hand, she gazed at him pleadingly.
This was his golden opportunity. All he had to do was say, Sure. Go out with me, and I’ll pass him your tape. Real flip and cool, exactly like Rocket would do.
Instead he just about managed a weak ‘Yes.’
‘Thanks, sweetie.’ Sharleen stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. ‘You’re a nice guy.’
And then she was gone, and he’d lost his chance. Damn!
Rocket appeared, grinning with anticipation. ‘Have I got us the works tonight! Primo, primo! – Seymour’s not back, is he?’
Secretly Bobby hoped he was. Catering to the big shots was too much like hard work – he preferred the hustle and craziness of downstairs. And selling dope wasn’t to his liking either, although he had to admit he could use the money. After all, it wasn’t as if he were out on the street pushing to kids. As Rocket pointed out – these people had plenty of money, nobody was forcing them to buy.
‘You’re back upstairs again tonight, Bobby,’ announced Nichols Kline, looming up behind them, causing Rocket to jump guiltily. ‘You’re doing okay up there. No complaints.’
‘What’s the matter with Seymour?’ he ventured.
‘Don’t you worry about Seymour,’ Nichols replied lightly. ‘Just do your job, and stay out of everyone’s way.’
‘Yeah,’ crowed Rocket as soon as Nichols walked off. ‘Do your job, an’ stay in everyone’s pocket!’ He cackled hysterically.
It turned out to be another crazy night, and when anyone asked, Bobby supplied them with what they wanted, soon learning that money was of no great concern to the rich and famous; they seemed to enjoy throwing it around.
At closing time he looked for Rocket to pay him his share, but his waiter friend was nowhere to be found, and since he was in a hurry to get home, he left. Marcus Citroen hadn’t shown up, and Sharleen’s tape was still in his possession. He couldn’t wait to hear it.
When he got home he played it on his portable tape machine – a souvenir from Nashville – and was mortified to discover she sounded terrible, straining to be heard above a far too loud backing group, her voice small and tinny.
So . . . Sharleen wanted to be a singer. Well, at least they had music in common, and Bobby knew – just by listening to her – he could help her sound a lot better.
With that comforting thought in mind he fell asleep, only to awake several hours later with agonizing cramps in his stomach.
‘Oh . . . Je sus !’ Moaning with acute pain he dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom, where he promptly threw up.
Relief was not forthcoming. The unremitting pain persisted, tearing at his gut like a constant jagged edge.
Panic overcame him. Something bad was happening, and he didn’t know what to do. Gathering all the strength he could muster he staggered into Fanni and Ernest’s room, switching the light on and waking them both up.
‘What you-all doin’, boy?’ yelled Fanni, launching herself into a sitting position, huge bosom escaping from a cheap pink nightgown.
‘I’m sick,’ he gasped. ‘I got this terrible
Similar Books
