"Yeah. I think Dr. Matthews's real name is Frankenstein. So what's

going on in the real world?"

They talked uneasily, and much too politely, while Stevie worked his way

steadily through the chocolate-coated creams and nuts in the box.

"Pete hasn't been by in a while," Stevie said at length.

"He's pretty tied up." There was no use mentioning that Pete had his

hands full dealing with the press, and the promoters. Devastation's

American leg of the tour had been canceled.

"You mean he's p.i.s.sed."

"Some." Brian smiled and wished desperately for a cigarette. And a

drink. "When has that ever bothered you?"

"It doesn't." But it did. Every slight hurt like a seeping wound. "I

don't know what he's being so tight-a.s.sed about. He got but the press

release. Viral pneumonia complicated by exhaustion, right?"

"It seemed the best way," Brian began.

"Sure, sure, no problem. No tucking problem. Wouldn't want the public

to know old Stevie mixed one speedball too many and thought about

blowing his brains out."

"Come on, Stevie."

"Hey, it's cool." He blinked back tears of self-pity. "Only it burns

me, Bri, really burns me. He doesn't want to come see the junkie. He

doled out the smack when he was afraid I couldn't perform without it,

but now he doesn't want to see me."

"You never told me Pete scored drugs for you."

Stevie dropped his eyes. That had been a little secret. There was

always one more little secret. "Now and then, when things got tight and

my sources dried up. The show must go on, right? The tucking show

always goes on. So he'd score a little H for me, all very disapproving,

then when the show was over, he'd put me back in one of these places."

"None of us knew it was going to get this bad."

"No, none of us knew." He began to drum his fingers on the top of the

candy box. "Remember Woodstock, Bri? Christ, what a time. You and me

sitting in the woods, dropping acid, tripping out, listening to the

music. Jesus, what music. How'd we get here?"

"I wish I knew." Brian dug his hands out of his pockets, then pushed

them in again. "Look, Stevie, you're going to pull out of this. h.e.l.l,

you're right in fashion now. Everybody's drying out, cleaning out." He

worked up another smile. "It's the eighties thing to do."

"That's me, always on the cutting edge." He grabbed Brian's hand.

"Listen, it's hard, you know. Man, it's really hard."

"I know."

"Man, you can't know 'cause you're not here." He swallowed the anger and

resentment. He couldn't afford to show either now. "Maybe I'll do it

this time, Bri, but I need help."

"That's why you're here."

"Okay, okay, so I'm here." G.o.dd.a.m.nit, he was sick of plat.i.tudes and good

wishes. "But it's not enough. I need something, Bri, just a taste of

something. You could slip in a couple grams of c.o.ke-just to get me

through."

It wasn't the first time he'd asked. With a sinking heart, Brian knew