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“Marty, Marty, Marty, Marty-“

“Okay, okay, yeah, Marty. How’s Marty?”Advertisement

“Marty’s great.”

“Yeah? That’s great, even though I have no idea who he is but, um, can I talk to Kenny, babe?” I ask. “I mean, can you go out to the beach and get him and not like freak out?”

“Some other time, okay?”

“I would like to talk to my kid.”

“But he doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“Let me talk to my kid, Nina.” I sigh.

“This is pointless,” she says.

“Nina—just go get Kenny.”

“I’m going to hang up on you now, okay, Bryan?”

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“Nina, I’ll get my lawyer.”

“Fuck your lawyer, Bryan, just f**k him. I’ve gotta go.”

“Oh Jesus—”

“And it’s not a good idea if you call here too often.”

A long silence because I don’t say anything.

“It is never a good idea if you talk to Kenny, because you scare him,” she says.

“And you don’t?” I ask, appalled. “Medusa?”

“Never call back.” She hangs up.

Sitting in the empty coffee shop (which Roger had “cordoned off” because he was afraid “people would see you”) in the bottom of the Tokyo Hilton, Roger tells me that we are going to be watching the English Prices eat lunch. Roger is wearing huge black sunglasses and an expensive pair of pajamas, chewing bubble gum.

“Who?” I ask. “Who?”

“The English Prices,” Roger enunciates clearly, again. “New group. MTV discovered them and has made them big.” Pause. “Real big,” he adds grimly. “They’re from Anaheim.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Because-they-were-born-there.” Roger sighs.

“Uh-huh,” I say.

“They want to meet you.”

“But … why?”

“Good question,” Roger says. “But does it really matter to you?”

“Why are they here?”

“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 f**k 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. pqdm.com