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He dreamed of scoring again, of filling his veins with that glorious
combination of Chinese white and top-grade snow. All that beautiful
white powder. He fantasized about it-huge, mountainous piles of
beautiful white powder heaped on silver platters. He would scoop it up
with both hands, fill himself with it.
He dreamed of killing them, the doctors, the nurses. He dreamed of
killing himself Then he would weep again.
They said he'd damaged his heart, and his liver. They said he was
anemic and were ruthlessly dealing with that, and his cross-addiction to
heroin and c.o.ke. No one called him a junkie. They said he had an
addictive personality.
It had been hard not to laugh at that. So he had an addictive
personality. No s.h.i.+t, Sherlock. All he wanted was for them to leave
him and his personality alone. He was the best tucking guitarist in the
world, and had been for twenty years. He was forty-five and
twenty-year-old girls still wanted the honor of a few hours in his bed.
He was rich, filthy rich. He had a Lamborghini, a Rolls. He bought
motorcycles like potato chips. He had a twenty-acre estate in London, a
villa in Paris, and a hilltop hideaway in San Francisco. He'd like to
see any of the smart-mouthed nurses or holier-than-thou doctors top
that.
Had they ever stood on stage and had ten thousand people scream for
them? No. But he had. They were jealous, all of them jealous. That's
why they kept him here, away from his fans, away from his music, away
from his drugs.
Wallowing in self-pity, he stared at the room. The walls were papered
in a soft blue and gray floral. A thick gray carpet covered the floor
and the windows faced south. The matching drapes tried to disguise the
fact that the windows were barred. There was a color-coordinated
sitting area across the room, two cusioned sofas, and a spoonback chair.
Festive fall flowers sat in a wicker basket on the coffee table. A
tasteful reproduction of a nineteenth-century wardrobe held a
television, VCR, and stereo system. An entertainment center, Stevie
thought bitterly. He wasn't entertained.
Why had they left him alone so long? Why was he alone?
He felt his breath back up, then release slowly as the door opened.
Visit after visit, Brian tried not to be shocked by his friend's
appearance. He didn't want to dwell on the limp, graying hair, the
lines sunk deep around Stevie's eyes and mouth. He didn't want to look
at the thin, brittle body-a body that had shrunken with misuse as a
man's shrinks with age.
Most of all, he didn't want to look at Stevie and see his own future. A
rich, pampered, and helpless old man.
"How's it going?"
Because he was grateful for the company, Stevie's smile was genume. "Oh,
it's a barrel of laughs in here. You ought to join me."
The idea sent a slice of fear up Brian's spine. "Then you'd have
compet.i.tion for all these long-legged nurses." He offered a five-pound
box of G.o.diva, a fix for the junkie's notorious sweet tooth. "You're
looking almost human, son."
