“My,” she’d say, trying to giggle. “That certainly is a, well, a unique outfit you’ve got on there.”
“Oh, you dig it? Hey, that’s groovy to hear. You seem to be one of the few perceptive people here. Most of these creeps just stare at me like I’m some kind of bum.”
Nobody had ever told her in her life that she was even remotely capable of being perceptive. “Oh,” she’d say, “why, well ah…”
“You dig this scene?”
“Ah, well, you know…”
“That’s what I thought. You’re no dope. You’re hip to what these creeps are putting down, I can see that.”
“Well, I don’t know, I don’t know what to say, I mean…”
“What’s your hustle around here anyway, honey? You dig? Who’s throwing in the chips? You don’t have to jive with me, baby. Just put it on me.”
“Well, I, ah… I don’t think I understand your question.”
“Oh, a sly one, huh? Coming on slow, just to make me show my hand, huh? Come on, you’re hip. What do you do around here?”
“You mean,” she’d say, pointing her finger to the ground, “here?”
“Right, right, you’re digging it.”
“Ah, yes, I guess so, well, here, I mean right here, well, I’m a guest, I guess.”
“A guest!” I’d guffaw loudly, and she’d look tremendously pleased that she’d said something funny. “A guest, wow. You got it, honey. That’s far out. That’s too much.”
After a while she’d venture to say, “What’re you doing here?”
“Me? Well, I don’t know what I’m doing here right now, you dig? I mean, I could tell you why I thought I came here, but I don’t know no more if that’s what’s happening or not, see?”
“Tell me,” she’d say, “tell me, you can tell me.”
“Well, like I came down here ’cause one of these creeps give my manager a ring, said he wanted a band to play this afternoon, down here. Dig it? So I came down. First thing I find out when I get here, they don’t want no band. At least I don’t think so, I mean nobody’s said nothing to me about it so far—”
“You,” she gulped her drink and pointed an astounded finger, “you play? In a band? A rock and roll band?”
“Shit, honey, I don’t play in no shortwave band.”
It’d be her turn to guffaw. “A shortwave band.” Ha, ha!
“No, I mean, of course I play in a band. You might have heard our latest album on the radio, maybe. You ever listen to WBCN?” She’d shake her head yes, yes, all the time, of course she did. Of course, my ass. “Yeah, they got our latest album, you know, Lucifer Harkness and The New Administration. You remember that one? With the lead cut, remember that one, the lead song called ‘The Cabinet Member,’ and the guitar riff that goes dee-dee-dee, de dah, dee-dee-dee-dee deda dah, dwah, dwah, da duhn. Right? Can you dig it?”
“Gol-lee,” she’d say, “that’s you? That’s your band? Gol-lee! I mean I never thought I’d ever actually meet you, and here, I mean, with all these… creeps.”
That always got me. I’d guffaw.
“I thought you looked familiar. That must’ve been what it was—on your album cover, that big picture?”
“Right on,” I’d say, “right on. Outasight. I knew you had it, honey, first time I seen you. Like you’re the first chick here today’s recognized me. Outasight.”
“Gol-lee,” she’d say.
I had to keep moving, though. The word got around amazingly fast, about the unknown celebrity in the greasy jeans who everyone’d been shitting on without knowing that he was really…
Who?
Finally it was four o’clock, and to my relief and the members’ indescribable joy, I politely excused myself, regretting, to the ladies, that it looked after all as though I weren’t going to be given a chance to play for them. They said it was a shame, I agreed it was a shame, and I made my escape.
On the way out, I looked around for Annie to say goodbye, but I didn’t see her. I didn’t look very hard.
35
I GOT BACK TO THE room just after four. I was a little bit smashed, but I didn’t mind and I didn’t figure that Sukie would. I kicked the door open, put my hands in my pockets, and walked in.
“Well, hi there,” I said.
“Well, hi there,” John said. “Bought the Lotus this morning. Magnificent machine. Got a pretty good trade-in on the Ferrari, too, better than I thought.”
“Swell,” I said, looking around.
No Sukie.
“I also got a place for the chick to stay,” John said. “Sharon’s old place. She’s moved out, you know, and the rent’s paid for another two weeks, and the furniture’s still there, so…”
“Fine,” I said, still looking.
“Don’t thank me or anything, Peter-old-boy,” John said. I looked over at him and realized that he was hugely pleased with himself for having lined up the place.
“Yeah, thanks, man, thanks. But where is she?”
“Here,” John said, sprawling back on the couch and suddenly intensely interested in the new Rolling Stone.
“In Cambridge?”
“No, in Boston. She just called from the airport. Christ, that reminds me. What’d you give her our number for? You know I don’t like—”
“Why did she call?”
John shrugged. “Some hang-up. They lost her bag.”
“What bag,” I said, but it wasn’t a question. I just wanted to know what I was already afraid I knew.
“The bag with the grass.” John sighed. He seemed to be taking it well. I couldn’t believe he was just sitting there, telling me she’d lost the dope and sighing.
“The bag with the grass,” I said. “Sweet Jesus, how could she lose that? It was under the goddamn seat—”
“No,” said John. “She checked it.”
“She what?”
“Checked it. It was a forty-brick run. You know as well as I do that if you’re carrying forty bricks, you’re gonna have to check one of the bags.”
“You didn’t tell me it was going to be that big a—”
“You didn’t ask,” John said, slipping back into his magazine. He was again suddenly fascinated by the magazine, the bastard. From behind it he said, “Anyway, she’ll be okay. She said they just lost it somewhere in transit.”
“In transit, my ass,” I said. “What did you tell her to do?”
“I told her to go back and get it.”
36
I HAD TO SIT DOWN for a minute to think that one out, it was so unbelievable. And then I found that I couldn’t think, that I was so pissed that I couldn’t do anything but shout at John and tell him what I thought about sending the chick back. He just sat and stared at me and said nothing and finally I realized that I was wasting precious time. Bag or no bag, if I could get to Sukie before they did… “Where’re the keys to the Lotus?”
“Give me back the Rolling Stone,” John said. I’d ripped it out of his hands without knowing what I was doing, and as I handed it back he gave me the keys. “Don’t run it over forty-five-hundred revs,” he yelled after me, as I hustled out the door, “it’s just had a valve job.”
All the way out to the airport I ground the gears and ran it over forty-five-hundred revs. Fucking John, he’d really screwed me this time, screwed me so bad that I couldn’t believe it was happening—that he’d just let it happen. The dude had a loose bolt somewhere, especially when it came to chicks. Or other people. Or other people’s chicks. I mean, what the hell was the cat thinking of, sending Sukie back for the bag. Because he knew about running dope, and he knew about “lost” bags at the airport. This wasn’t the first time we’d ever “lost” a bag. The first time had cost John a pretty penny, to buy Jeffrey off, and we’d all learned from the experience. Ever since then, we’d had strict rules for runs, especially runs which involved bags in the hold. First, no matching sets of luggage. Second, no name tags. Third, no real names used on tickets, so that nothing could be traced from the baggage check on a busted bag. Fourth, the specially designed, double-locked, lined bags, which made it impossible for the heat to open the bags without irreparably breaking them and so disqualifying any potential evidence on the grounds of illegal search and seizure.