“Oh?” Rog said. His voice was high and reedy. He studied Andy for a moment and then turned to the girl he’d been talking to. “Monica, meet Andy Silvera. She blows piano.”
“Hi,” Andy said. “Can I talk to you a minute, Rog?”
“Why sure, dad. Talk.”
“I meant... you know.”
“Cool it, dad,” Rog said, and he turned again to Monica. “It’s not often you get a pretty chick at the piano,” he said.
Monica smiled. She was a tall girl with a full bust and glowing brown eyes. She wore her hair long and flowing past her shoulders. Her fingers were narrow, tipped with crimson teardrops. “Why, thanks. That doesn’t help next Sunday, though. Are you booking or just looking?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, honey,” Rog said, “I’ve been using a pickup band and the results are pretty good, you know? But this piano man I’ve got, he’s a bit corny, do you know? He hits it, but he’s not with it. I use him because he doubles on accordion. You blow accordion?”
“Nope.”
“Well, that don’t matter actually. I mean, so long as the piano stuff is good, and I’ve heard a lot about your playing, you dig?”
“Mmm-huh,” Monica said.
“So let me have the number, and I’ll buzz you sometime next week, and we’ll see.”
“I’m here to book next Sunday,” Monica said. “I can’t wait until sometime next week.”
End it, Andy thought. End it. Goddamn it, end it!
“Well, look, if you get something today, you get it. Otherwise I’ll give you a buzz, okay? No harm in giving you a buzz, is there?”
“If I get a booking, no. No harm at all.”
“Okay, so what’s the Ameche?”
She gave him the number and then whirled as an old friend embraced her. She returned the embrace, and they walked over together to where a group of men were chatting.
“Why the snow job?” Andy asked. “You know you don’t have a pickup band.”
“I like to keep my finger in the pie. What’s with you, dad? Long time no see.”
“I been... well... you know...”
“No, I don’t know.”
“Whoever left a guitar case up at the desk, pick it up. Whoever left a guitar case at the desk, pick it up.”
“If that son-of-a-bitch doesn’t close his mouth,” Andy said viciously.
“This is Doublesville,” Rog said, smiling. “He says everything twice. He goes home to his wife, he says ‘I love you, I love you. What’s for supper, what’s for supper?’” Rog began chuckling. “Hey, you dig that?”
Andy did not smile. “He’s driving me nuts. Can’t we get out of here?”
“What’s the rush?” Rog said airily. “I like it here. So where you been?”
“With a... a friend of mine. I been... you know.”
“You been what?”
“You holding?” Andy asked suddenly.
“What the hell’s the matter with you, you stupid jerk?” Rog answered vehemently.
“I’m askin’ a question. I’m—”
“You see the guy in the pink shirt? He’s a bull. He’s lookin’ for some damn stupid fool like you, so just cool it.”
“I’m sorry, I... I didn’t realize... I... can’t we get out of here?”
“Damn jackass,” Rog said, smoldering. “What’s the matter, you sick?”
“Not bad. I just want a calmer. I been—”
“Don’t say it. Come on downstairs.”
They walked to the fringe of the crowd and then worked their way toward the steps.
“Frank Cippio. Frank Cippio,” the mike blasted.
“Bastard,” Andy muttered.
They walked down the long, cool, dim flight of steps, the sound retreating behind them. It was suddenly quiet, and he could think again, and when they stepped into the street he sucked in a deep draught of air.
“You want some coffee?”
“Okay,” Andy said.
“You got loot?”
“Ten.”
“I’ll buy the coffee. Why haven’t you been around, stranger?”
“I’m kicking it.”
“Hah!” Rog snorted.
“I am.”
“Sure. Like I’m kicking it. What do you want to know if I’m holding for?”
“I need a calmer. I’ve been going it cold turkey, and it’s murder.”
“Sure.” Rog smiled. “Why the sudden reform?”
“I got an audition coming up.”
“No bull? Who with?”
“Laddy Fredericks.”
“Yeah? Good deal. And he don’t go for junkies, huh?”
“That ain’t it. I can’t... well, I got to brush up, you know?”
“Sure, kid, I know. So you’re going it cold turkey, and now you just want a little pick-me-up, huh? Sure, I understand. You sure you want that coffee?”
“I... if you want some.”
“Yeah, I can use a cup.”
They crossed the street together. Andy felt a lot better now, even though Rog had not said he was holding. But even if he wasn’t holding, Rog would know where to get some, and that’s what counted. He felt a strange pang of guilt when he’d mentioned the Laddy Fredericks audition, but the guilt had passed quickly. This was not really going back to it. This was just something to steady his nerves, just something to tide him over the next few days. His body was not screaming for the stuff. Back in Bud’s apartment, with the records going full blast, he had felt this sudden desire for a fix, but the desire was not as strong now, not as strong at all. He only wanted a pick-me-up now, just a little of the stuff to tide him over, that was all.
They went into the cafeteria, and Rog went for the coffee, and when he returned to the table, he said, “What’s Helen doing with herself these days?”
“She kicked it,” Andy said simply.
“You never kick it, dad,” Rog replied. “You only think you do. When the chips are down, you rush right back into its ever-loving arms.”
“That’s not true,” Andy said. “Helen kicked it.”
“Sure. Until she needs it again.”
“She won’t need it again.”
Rog raised one eyebrow. “No?”
“No,” Andy said firmly.
“Sure,” Rog said. “How about you, son? How long you been off?”
“About a week.”
“Nice progress. It was rough, huh?”
“Very.”
“So then why do you want more?”
“Just a little,” Andy said. “You know.”
“Sure, I know,” Rog said.
“I need a spike, too. I got rid of mine. When I decided to kick it.”
“You need a spike, too, huh?” Rog said, whispering now.
“Yes.”
“I haven’t said I was holding yet.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t play games with me, Rog.”
“Who’s playing games? It’s just I don’t know if I should corrupt an upstanding citizen. Not after he’s made so much progress.”
“You bastard, you’re the one who first started me on—”
“Nobody starts unless they want to start!” Rog said, raising his voice. “Just remember that, Junior.”
“Okay, I’m remembering.”
“Okay.”
“Are you holding?”
“Maybe.”
Andy sipped at his coffee. He was possessed of a sudden desire to reach across the table and strangle Rog. He knew that Rog might have some junk on him, though, and so he restrained the impulse. Rog had the right idea, all right. Rog had a habit like John Silver, but Rog fed that habit by peddling the stuff, and the peddling gave him enough jive with plenty left over for the little luxuries of life. A smart cookie, Rog. A bastard, Rog.
“So how about it?” he asked.
“How about what?”