"Six hundred for booze?" Larry whispered. Blue horror had encased him up to the neck.
"Be thankful most of them have been scoffing beer and wine. You've got a four-hundred-dollar tab down at the market, mostly for pizza, chips, tacos, all that good shit. But the worst is the noise. Pretty soon the cops are going to land. Les flics. Disturbing the peace. And you've got four or five heavies doing up on heroin. There's three or four ounces of Mexican brown in the place."
"Is that on my tab, too?" Larry asked hoarsely.
"No. The Deck doesn't mess with heroin. That's an Organization item and the Deck doesn't like the idea of cement cowboy boots. But if the cops land, you can bet the bust will go on your tab."
"But I didn't know-"
"Just a babe in the woods, yeah."
"But-"
"Your total tab for this little shindy so far comes to over twelve thousand dollars," Wayne said. "You went out and picked that Z off the lot … how much did you put down?"
"Twenty-five," Larry said numbly. He felt like crying.
"So what have you got until the next royalty check? Couple thousand?"
"That's about right," Larry said, unable to tell Wayne he had less than that: about eight hundred, split evenly between cash and checking.
"Larry, you listen to me because you're not worth telling twice. There's always a party waiting to happen. Out here the only two constants are the constant bullshitting and the constant party. They come running like dickey birds looking for bugs on a hippo's back. Now they're here. Pick them off your carcass and send them on their way."
Larry thought of the dozens of people in the house. He knew maybe one person in three at this point. The thought of telling all those unknown people to leave made his throat want to close up. He would lose their good opinion. Opposing this thought came an image of Dewey Deck refilling the hospitality bowls, taking a notebook from his back pocket, and writing it all down at the bottom of his tab. Him and his whiffle haircut and his trendy T-shirt.
Wayne watched him calmly as he squirmed between these two pictures.
"Man, I'm gonna look like the asshole of the world," Larry said finally, hating the weak and petulant words as they fell from his mouth.
"Yeah, they'll call you a lot of names. They'll say you're going Hollywood. Getting a big head. Forgetting your old friends. Except none of them are your friends, Larry. Your friends saw what was happening three days ago and split the scene. It's no fun to watch a friend who's, like, pissed his pants and doesn't even know it."
"So why tell me?" Larry asked, suddenly angry. The anger was prodded out of him by the realization that all his really good friends had taken off, and in retrospect all their excuses seemed lame. Barry Grieg had taken him aside, had tried to talk to him, but Larry had been really flying, and he had just nodded and smiled indulgently at Barry. Now he wondered if Barry had been trying to lay this same rap on him. It made him embarrassed and angry to think so.
"Why tell me?" he repeated. "I get the feeling you don't like me so very goddam much."
"No … but I really don't dislike you, either. Beyond that, man, I couldn't say. I could have let you get your nose punched on this. Once would have been enough for you."
"What do you mean?"
"You'll tell them. Because there's a hard streak in you. There's something in you that's like biting on tinfoil. Whatever it takes to make success, you've got it. You'll have a nice little career. Middle-of-the-road pop no one will remember in five years. The junior high boppers will collect your records. You'll make money."
Larry balled his fists on his legs. He wanted to punch that calm face. Wayne was saying things that made him feel like a small pile of dogshit beside a stop sign.
"Go on back and pull the plug," Wayne said softly. "Then you get in that car and go. Just go, man. Stay away until you know that next royalty check is waiting for you."
"But Dewey-"
"I'll find a man to talk to Dewey. My pleasure, man. The guy will tell Dewey to wait for his money like a good little boy, and Dewey will be happy to oblige." He paused, watching two small children in bright bathing suits run up the beach. A dog ran beside them, rowfing loudly and cheerily at the blue sky.
Larry stood up and forced himself to say thanks. The sea breeze slipped in and out of his aging shorts. The word came out of his mouth like a brick.
"You just go away somewhere and get your shit together," Wayne said, standing up beside him, still watching the children. "You've got a lot of shit to get together. What kind of manager you want, what kind of tour you want, what kind of contract you want after Pocket Savior hits. I think it will; its got that neat little beat. If you give yourself some room, you'll figure it all out. Guys like you always do."
Guys like you always do.
Guys like me always do.
Guys like-
Somebody was tapping a finger on the window.
Larry jerked, then sat up. A bolt of pain went through his neck and he winced at the dead, cramped feel of the flesh there. He had been asleep, not just dozing. Reliving California. But here and now it was gray New York daylight, and the finger tapped again.
He turned his head cautiously and painfully and saw his mother, wearing a black net scarf over her hair, peering in.
For a moment they just stared at each other through the glass and Larry felt curiously naked, like an animal being looked at in the zoo. Then his mouth took over, smiling, and he cranked the window down.
"Mom?"
"I knew it was you," she said in a queerly flat tone. "Come on out of there and let me see what you look like standing up."
Both legs had gone to sleep; pins and needles tingled up from the balls of his feet as he opened the door and got out. He had never expected to meet her this way, unprepared and exposed. He felt like a sentry who had fallen asleep at his post suddenly called to attention. He had somehow expected his mother to look smaller, less sure of herself, a trick of the years that had matured him and left her just the same.
But it was almost uncanny, the way she had caught him. When he was ten, she used to wake him up on Saturday mornings after she thought he had slept long enough by tapping one finger on his closed bedroom door. She had wakened him this same way fourteen years later, sleeping in his new car like a tired kid who had tried to stay up all night and got caught by the sandman in an undignified position.
Now he stood before her, his hair corkscrewed, a faint and rather foolish grin on his face. Pins and needles still coursed up his legs, making him shift from foot to foot. He remembered that she always asked him if he had to go to the bathroom when he did that and now he stopped the movement and let the needles prick him at will.
"Hi, Mom," he said.
She looked at him without saying anything, and a dread suddenly roosted in his heart like an evil bird coming back to an old nest. It was a fear that she might turn away from him, deny him, show him the back of her cheap coat, and simply go off to the subway around the corner, leaving him.
Then she sighed, the way a man will sigh before picking up a heavy bundle. And when she spoke, her voice was so natural and so mildly-rightly-pleased that he forgot his first impression.
"Hi, Larry," she said. "Come on upstairs. I knew it was you when I looked out the window. I already called in sick at my building. I got sick time coming."
She turned to lead him back up the steps, between the vanished stone dogs. He came three steps behind her, catching up, wincing at the pins and needles. "Mom?"
She turned back to him and he hugged her. For a moment an expression of fright crossed her features, as if she expected to be mugged rather than hugged. Then it passed and she accepted his embrace and gave back her own. The smell of her sachet slipped up his nose, evoking unexpected nostalgia, fierce, sweet, and bitter. For a moment he thought he was going to cry, and was smugly sure that she would; it was A Touching Moment. Over her sloped right shoulder he could see the dead cat, lying half in and half out of the garbage can. When she pulled away, her eyes were dry.
"Come on, I'll make you some breakfast. Have you been driving all night?"
"Yes," he said, his voice slightly hoarse with emotion.
"Well, come on. Elevator's broken, but it's only two floors. It's worse for Mrs. Halsey with her arthritis. She's on five. Don't forget to wipe your feet. If you track in, Mr. Freeman will be on me like a shot. I swear Goshen he can smell dirt. Dirt's his enemy, all right." They were on the stairs now. "Can you eat three eggs? I'll make toast, too, if you don't mind pumpernickel. Come on."
He followed her past the vanished stone dogs and looked a little wildly at where they had been, just to reassure himself that they were really gone; that he had not shrunk two feet, that the whole decade of the 1980s had not vanished back into time. She pushed the doors open and they went in. Even the dark brown shadows and the smells of cooking were the same.
Alice Underwood fixed him three eggs, bacon, toast, juice, coffee. When he had finished all but the coffee, he lit a cigarette and pushed back from the table. She flashed the cigarette a disapproving look but said nothing. That restored some of his confidence-some, but not much. She had always been good at biding her time.
She dropped the iron spider skillet into the gray dishwater and it hissed a little. She hadn't changed much, Larry was thinking. A little older-she would be fifty-one now-a little grayer, but there was still plenty of black left in that sensibly netted head of hair. She was wearing a plain gray dress, probably the one she worked in. Her bosom was still the same large comber blooming out of the bodice of the dress-a little larger, if anything. Mom, tell me the truth, has your bosom gotten bigger? Is that the fundamental change?