The Informers - Bret Easton Ellis [47]
“Because they are on tour,” Roger says. “Are you doing coke?”
“Grams and grams and grams of it,” I say. “If you knew how much you would choke.”
“I suppose it’s better than the angel dust routine from ’82.” Roger sighs warily.
“Who are these people, Roger?” I ask.
“Who are you?”
“Um …,” I say, confused by this question. “Who … do you think?”
“Someone who tried to set his ex-wife on fire with a tiki torch?” he suggests.
“I was married to her then.”
“I suppose it was a good thing that Nina threw herself in the ocean.” Roger pauses. “Of course it was three months later, but considering how smart she was when you first met, I was glad her reflexes had improved.” Roger lights a cigarette, thinks everything over. “Christ, I can’t believe she got custody. But then I hate to think what would’ve happened to that kid if you had gotten custody. Mothra would have made a better parent.”
“Roger, who are these people?”
“Have you seen the cover of the new Rolling Stone?” Roger asks, snapping his fingers at a young, nervous Oriental waitress. “Oh, I forgot. You don’t read that publication anymore.”
“Not after that shit they pulled with Ed’s death.”
“Touchy, touchy.” Roger sighs. “The English Prices are hot. A hot album, Toadstool, and a video game made about them that you should play, er, sometime.” Roger points to his coffee cup and the waitress, head bowed dutifully, pours. “It sounds tacky but it’s not. Really.”
“Jesus, I’m a wreck.”
“The English Prices are big,” Roger reminds me. “Stratosphere isn’t an inappropriate word.”
“You said that already and I still don’t believe you.”
“Just be cool.”
“Why the fuck do I have to be cool?” I look straight at Roger for the first time since we entered the coffee shop.
Roger looks down at his cup and then at me and enunciates each word very carefully: “Because I am going to be managing them.”
I don’t say anything.
“They’ll bring in a lot more people,” Roger says. “A lot more people.”
“For what? For who?” I ask, instantly realizing the question is useless, better left unanswered.
“For you, babes,” Roger says. “We’ve been drawing sizable crowds, but still.”
“There isn’t gonna be another tour, man” I say. “This is it.”
“That’s what you think, baby,” Roger says casually.
“Oh man” is all I say.
Roger looks up. “Oh shit—here the little bastards come. Just be cool.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.” I sigh.“I am cool.”
“Just keep telling yourself that and roll your sleeves down.”
“I am becoming aware of just how lost inside my life you really are,” I say, rolling my sleeves down.
Four members of the English Prices walk into the coffee shop and each of them has a young Oriental girl by his side. The Oriental girls are very young and pretty and wearing striped miniskirts and T-shirts and pink leather boots. The lead singer of the English Prices is very young also, younger than the Oriental girls in fact, and he has a short platinum-blond burr of hair on his head and smooth tan skin and he’s wearing mascara and red eyeliner and is dressed in black leather and has a spiked bracelet wrapped around the wrist he holds out. We shake hands.
“Hey, man, I’ve been a fan of yours like forever,” I hear him say. “Forever, man.”
The other members nod their heads sullenly in agreement. It’s impossible for me to smile or nod. We’re all sitting at a large glass table and the Oriental girls keep staring at me, giggling.
“Where’s Gus?” Roger asks.
“Gus has mono.” The lead singer turns to Roger, eyes still on me.
“I’ll have to send him some flowers,” Roger says.
The singer turns back to me, explains, “Gus is our drummer.”
“Oh,” I say. “That’s … nice.”
“Sushi?” Roger asks them.
“No, I’m a vegetarian,” the singer says. “plus we already had a big breakfast of SpaghettiOs.”
“With who?”
“A big important record executive.”
“Hip,” Roger says.
“Anyway, man,” the lead singer says, turning his full attention back to me. “Like, I was listening to your record—well, the band’s records—since I can remember. In, like, well, a long time ago, and I’m not guessing whe I tell you that you”—he stops and has