back into the wall.

He was Stevie Nimmons. He was the greatest guitarist (Yf his

generation. He was somebody. But they had put him in a cage like an

animal. They had locked him up and walked away. Didn't they know who

he was? What he'd made himself?

He needed a fix. Oh Jesus, just one sweet fix. Then he'd be able to

laugh this off.

It was cold. It was so G.o.dd.a.m.n cold. He yanked the blanket from the

cot and huddled under it. And he was thirsty. His mouth was so dry he

couldn't even work up enough spit to swallow.

Someone would come, he thought as his eyes began to fill. Someone would

come and make it all right again. Someone would fix it. Oh G.o.d, he

needed a fix. His mother would come and tell him everything had been

taken care of

It hurt. He began to weep against his knees as the pain wracked through

him. Every breath he took seemed to hold tiny slivers of gla.s.s. His

muscles were on fire, his skin like ice.

Just one. Just one toke, one hit, one line, and he'd be all right

again.

Didn't they know who the f.u.c.k he was?

"Stevie."

He heard his name. With eyes bleary with tears, he looked toward the

cell door. Dragging the back of his hand over his mouth, he struggled

to focus. He tried to laugh, but the sound came out in a whooping sob

as he struggled up. Pete. Pete could fix it.

He tripped over the blanket, and lay sprawled on the floor a moment as

Pete watched him. Stevie's body was stick-thin. His legs angled

awkwardly out from it and ended in five-hundred-pound snakeskin boots.

His face as he pushed himself up was gray and pasty with lines dug deep

and dug hard. The whites of his eyes were streaked fiery red. There

was a trickle of blood from his lip where he had hit the floor. And he

stank.

"Man, I'm sick." He began to pull himself up, hand over sweaty hand on

the bars. "I got the flu."

The junkie flu, Pete thought dispa.s.sionately.

"You got to get me out." Stevie wrapped his trembling fingers around the

bars. Though his breath was stale, Pete didn't back away. "It's tucking

crazy. They came into my house. Into my G.o.dd.a.m.n house like a bunch of

b.l.o.o.d.y n.a.z.is. They waved some kind of paper in front of my face and

started pulling out drawers. Jesus, Pete, they dragged me in here like

I was some kind of freaking murderer. They put handcuffs on me." He

began to cry again and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "People

were watching when they took me out of my own house with handcuffs on

me. They were taking pictures. It ain't f.u.c.king right, Pete. It ain't

tucking right. You got to get me out."

During the outburst Pete had stayed very still. His voice was low and

calm. He'd handled crises before, and knew how to turn them in his

favor. "They found heroin, Stevie, and what's politely called drug

paraphernalia. They're going to charge you with possession."

"Just get me the tick out."