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but he's going strictly big casino, and he'll take the rest of the species
with him, however and whatever."
"You have to admire that, don't you?" says the Rooster, out of the depths of
his silent faux-Bacon scream.
Laney isn't sure that you do.
He wonders if the Rooster's reiteration of The Reason of Life incorporates the
tiny, six-seater bar downstairs, the darker one where
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you can sit beneath very large prints of the pictures the girls themselves
were taking: huge abstract triangles of luminous gelatin-printed white panty.
"Can you get me that kind of look-in on Harwood's stuff anytime?"
"Until he notices you, we can."
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52. MY BOYFRIEND'S BACK
CHEVETTE had had a boyfriend named Lowell, when she'd first lived on the
bridge, who did dancer.
Lowell had had a friend called Codes, called that because he tumbled the codes
on hot phones and notebooks, and this Saint Vitus reminded her of Codes. Codes
hadn't liked her either.
Chevette hated dancer. She hated being around people when they were on it,
because it made them selfish, too pleased with themselves, and nervous;
suspicious, too prone to make things up in their heads, imagining everyone out
to get them, everyone lying, everyone talking behind their back. And she
particularly hated watching anyone actually do the stuff, rub it into their
gums the way they did, all horrible, because it was just so gross. Made their
lips numb, at first, so they'd drool a little, and how they always thought
that was funny. But what she hated about it most was that she'd ever done it
herself, and that, even though she had all these reasons to hate it, she still
found herself, watching Saint Vitus vigorously massaging a good solid hit into
his gumsT feeling the urge to ask him for some.
She guessed that was what they meant by it being addictive. That she'd gotten
just that little edge of it off the country singer sticking his tongue in her
mouth (and if that was the only way to get it, she thought, she'd pass) and
now the actual molecules of diz were twanging at receptor sites in her brain,
saying gimme, gimme. And she'd never even been properly strung out on the
stuff, not how they meant it when they said that on the street.
Carson had coordinated on a Real One sequence about the history of stimulants,
so Chevette knew that dancer was somewhere out there past crack cocaine in
terms of sheer gotcha. The addiction schedule was a little less merciless, in
terms of frequency, but she figured she'd still just barely missed it,
chipping with Lowell. Lowell who'd explain in detail and at great length how
the schedule he'd worked out for using it was going to optimize his
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functionality in the world, but never result in
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one of those ugly habit deals. You just had to know how to do it, and when to
do it, and most important of all, why to do it. Powerful substance like this,
Lowell would explain, it wasn't there just for any casual jack-off
recreational urge. It was there to allow you to do things. To empower you, he
said, so that you could do things and, best of all, finish them.
Except that what Lowell had mainly wanted to do, dizzed, was have sex, and the
diz made it impossible for him to finish. Which had been okay by Chevette,
because otherwise he tended to finish a little on the quick side. The Real One
sequence had said that dancer made it possible for men to experience something
much more like the female orgasm, a sort of ongoing climax, less localized
and, well, messy.
Dancer was pretty deadly stuff, in terms of getting people into bed in the
first place. Strangers doing dancer together, if there was any basis for
attraction at all, were inclined to decide that that was basically a fine
idea, and one to be acted on right away, but only provided the other party
seemed agreeable to doing it until both were pretty well dead.
And people did wind up dead around the stuff; hearts stopped, lungs forgot to
breathe, crucial tiny territories of brain blew out. People murdered one
another when they were crazy on the stuff,
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file:///F|/rah/New%20Folder/All%20Tomorrows%20Parties.txt and then in cold
blood just to get some more.
It was one ugly substance and no doubt about it.
"You got any more of that?" she asked Saint Vitus, who was dabbing at the
spit-slick corners of his mouth with a wadded-up tissue, dots of blood dried
brown on it.
Saint Vitus fixed her with his slitty glasses. "You've got to be kidding," he
said.
"Yeah," said Chevette, pushing off the stool, "I am." Must've been the time of
night. How could she even have thought that? She could smell his metallic
breath in the sound box.
"Got it," said Tessa, pulling off the glasses. "Crowd's thinning. Chevette,
I'll need you to help me get the camera platforms together."
Saint Vitus smirked. At the thought, Chevette guessed, of somebody else having
to do something like work.
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"You haven't seen Carson, have you?" Chevette asked, stepping to the window.
The dwindling crowd, seen from above, was moving in one of those ways that
there was probably a logarithm for: milling and dispersing.
"Carson?"
She spotted Buell Creedmore, just in front of the stage, talking with a big
guy in a black jacket, his back to the sound booth. Then the big guitar
player, the one with the squashed cowboy hat, jumped down from the stage and
seemed to be giving Creedmore a hard time. Creedmore tried to say something,
got shut up, then managed to say something short, and by the look on his face,
not too sweet, and the guitar player turned and walked away. Chevette saw
Creedmore say something to the other guy, gesturing back in her direction, and
this one turned and headed that way, his face concealed, from just this angle,
by a dusty swoop of black-painted cable.
"He was here before," Chevette said. "That's why I Frenched the meshback and
ran out the door.
Didn't you wonder?"
Tessa looked at her. "I did, actually. But I thought maybe I was just getting
to know you better."
She laughed. "Are you sure it was him?"
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"It was him, Tessa."
"How would he know we're up here?"
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