"But as we started getting really popular... well, he started letting things go to his head, you know what I mean? He started scammin' on other guys' ladies just to say he did it. He started picking fights after the shows with people out in the audience. He started using the hard stuff while we was on stage. Now we ain't never had no rule about gettin' high before performing like you do — I always found a little weed was kind of helpful — but he was hitting on a rock pipe. Then he started hitting the rock pipe all the time. He started missing rehearsals, saying he didn't need to rehearse no more, that he had his shit down already, and, naturally, he started fuckin' up on stage every once in a while, just like your homey Darren."
"Did you talk to him about it?" Jake asked.
"At least a dozen times," Gordon confirmed. "He always said he'd slow down on the shit and stay in line, and he usually did for a week or two, but he always went back to being a fuck-up again. Finally, one day when we was playing a big gig in The City (Jake, like any northern Californian, knew that The City meant San Francisco) he flat out didn't show up at all and we had to cancel. I found out later that the motherfucker hooked up with a couple of nasty-ass crack whores he'd met at his dealer's crib and had spent the day fucking 'em in his apartment."
This was quite appalling to Jake, who, as a performer, adhered religiously to the motto: The show must go on. He himself had, at various times in his career, stepped onto stage while sick with the flu, with colds, with rampant diarrhea, with a fever of 102. He had played with a sprained wrist, a wrenched back, a mild concussion, and once he had even made it through a concert while suffering from strep throat. That a performer would not show up for a gig because he'd met a couple of women who wanted to fuck him... that was bordering on sacrilege. "What was his excuse?" Jake wanted to know.
"He said he forgot," Gordon said mildly.
"He forgot?" Jake asked.
Gordon nodded. "He forgot. It was the last thing he ever forgot while in my employ. I fired him right then and there. He begged me to reconsider. He pleaded with me. He threatened me. He brought up how long we'd been homeys and everything we'd ever been through together. He told me I was a fuckin' sell-out, that I forgot where I'd come from. But I held firm. He never stepped onto a stage with me again after that day. Of course, he ain't been my friend anymore either, but that's the price you gotta pay, ain't it?"
"Yeah," Jake said. "That's the price."
Chapter 15c
The very next day, Darren was destined to find out about that price. After less than twenty-four hours of stalemate in the Darren vs. Charlie issue, the Mexican standoff, as Pauline called it, was broken.
Jake's first inkling of the issue's possible resolution came at just after eight that morning. He was under the covers and snoring in his bed, still sleeping off the eleven Coronas and eight bonghits of the night before. Suddenly, someone was pounding on his door. He tried to ignore it and stay safely asleep but the pounding was continuous, insistent.
"All right, all right!" he finally yelled as the last vestiges of unconsciousness were driven forcibly away. "Stop that knocking!"
The knocking stopped.
Jake stared at the door for a few seconds, his eyes trying to adjust to the light, his heart pounding uncomfortably fast in his chest, his head throbbing distantly with a hangover headache. "Who in the hell is it?" he asked.
The door creaked open a foot or so and Elsa's head poked through. "Sorry to wake you, Mr. Kingsley," she said, "but you have a visitor."
"A visitor?" he barked, the throb in his head picking up a little as he did so. "I'm asleep, Elsa. I'm not expecting anyone. Tell whoever it is to leave a message and come back later."
"It's Mr. Cooper, Jake," Elsa told him. "He insists upon talking to you as soon as possible."
"Coop?" Jake asked.
"He seems very agitated about something. I thought it might be important."
Jake rubbed his temples a few times and then sat up, the sheet falling away from his bare chest. "Okay," he said, still trying to clear his head. "Put him in the dining room and tell him I'll be in as soon as I get some clothes on. Is there coffee made?"
Elsa looked insulted. "Of course," she said stiffly. "I just brewed a pot of Costa Rican breakfast blend."
"Right," Jake said. "I think I can smell it now. I'll be down in a few minutes. Why don't you see if Coop wants to stay for breakfast?"
"I'll do so," she said. "What would you like?"
"Oatmeal, coffee, and some juice will do me. Coop would probably dig some of that eggs Benedict you make."
"Right away, Mr. Kingsley," she said. The door shut and he heard her footsteps go tromping off down the hall.
It was actually closer to ten minutes before Jake was able to pull himself out of bed, stagger to the bathroom to relieve his straining bladder, and pull on a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt. He went to the bar in his bedroom suite and poured a large glass of ice water. He drank it down without taking the glass from his lips, refilled it, and used half of the second glass to wash down a couple of Tylenol, a Vitamin C tablet, and a vitamin B-12 tablet — all of which were kept in ready supply in this location. He debated brushing his teeth for a moment but decided that it could wait until after breakfast.
He made his way downstairs and found Coop sitting at the dining room table, as instructed, sipping on a cup of Elsa's coffee. Coop looked tired and more than a little hungover himself. His eyes had bags under them and were moderately bloodshot. It appeared he hadn't shaved in at least two days. He was wearing a pair of shorts and a tank top with a pair of flip-flops on his feet.
"Wassup, Coop?" Jake asked as he sat down at the table across from him.
"Hey, Jake," he mumbled. "Sorry I got you outta bed so early, but I needed to talk to you."
"Okay," Jake said.
Elsa appeared, carrying a cup of steaming, aromatic coffee and another glass of ice water. She set them down in front of Jake.
"Thanks, Elsa," he said.
"Did you take your Tylenol and your vitamins?" she asked him.
"Yes, I did," he confirmed.
"Very good," she said. "Mr. Cooper has elected to go with the oatmeal and some toast for breakfast instead of the eggs Benedict. Will you be requiring anything else?"
"Nothing at the moment, thank you."
She nodded and made herself scarce.
Jake took a sip of the coffee and then chased it with another large slug of ice water. He looked up at Coop. "So what's up?" he asked.
"I been doing a lot of thinking," Coop said.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," Coop confirmed. "Thinking about this whole fucked up Darren and Charlie thing."
"I think we've all been doing a lot of thinking about that," Jake said. "Do you have an idea how to resolve it?"
Coop nodded. "Yeah," he said, and then said nothing more.
Jake waited for almost thirty seconds before saying, "So what's your idea, Coop?"
Coop sighed. "That ain't all that's been on my mind, you know?"
"Uh... no, I didn't know," Jake said.
"Pauline's your sister and all, so I'm sure she's already told you about... you know?"
Jake didn't know. He did not, in fact, have the slightest idea what Coop was talking about, nor did he really care at this particular moment. He wanted to hear what Coop had to say on the Darren vs. Charlie subject because if it were what he was hoping Coop would say, the issue would indeed be a long way toward being solved. But, like always, diplomacy was necessary in situations like this. "Pauline has not told me anything about you, Coop."
Coop looked at him as if he didn't believe him. "Oh really?"