Tumblin' Dice by John McFetridge

and Barry, Barry saying Frank Kloss was the Entertainment Director and Cliff said, “What the fuck? Here?”
    Barry said, “Yeah, you didn’t know?”
    â€œNo. I don’t know, maybe I heard something, that when his management company went under, he went to work for a casino. I thought it was in Windsor?”
    â€œIt was. He was booking acts into it. I guess he got to know the guy running the place, went to work for him. Then he quit and went to Niagara Falls.”
    â€œQuit or pissed somebody off? This’s Frank we’re talking about.”
    â€œYeah, whatever.”
    Cliff said, shit, “He finished ripping off bands, moved up to ripping off old ladies.” He waved his empty glass at the bartender and looked around the room. It was mostly empty, late afternoon, a few older people, nothing that looked like it might be fun for Cliff. Maybe one woman, sitting with a guy in a booth, looked to be in her forties and so did the guy. She looked good, though, dressed up a little, wearing a low-cut dress, gold jewellery, make-up, like she was out for a good time.
    Barry said, “I don’t know how many other bands he ripped off. I just know about us.”
    â€œFuck,” Cliff said. “And he’s here?”
    â€œGot an office in the administration building right over there.” Barry pointed with his drink but Cliff didn’t think he had any idea which way the admin building was. Huron Woods, like every other casino, gets you inside and then turns you around — you don’t know if it’s day or night, if you’re coming or going.
    Cliff saw the woman looking like she was flirting with the guy, her hand under the table, and wondered, did they just meet or are they having an affair? That kind of spark couldn’t be in some old married couple. He said, “Well, fuck, I hope I don’t see the bastard,” and Barry said, no?
    â€œI’m hoping we do.”
    Cliff looked at him and said, why, “You want to punch him in the face as much as I do.”
    â€œI was thinking we’d ask him,” Barry said, “for our money.”
    â€œHa, good one. How much you think it is, like a million bucks?”
    â€œI was thinking two,” Barry said, and Cliff realized he was serious, said, “You figure two million?”
    Barry said, “We got basically nothing for the first three albums after the advances.”
    â€œAnd they were the only ones that sold.”
    â€œWe don’t even own those songs. Every time I hear fucking ‘Red Light Street’ on that commercial it pisses me off.”
    Cliff said yeah. The song, pretty much a comeback to the Police’s “Roxanne,” the story from the hooker’s point of view, saying I may not have to put on the red light, but I do what I want, nobody tells me what to do. Shit, Cliff remembered putting the lyrics together — most of them anyway — after a hooker he spent some time with in Chicago made fun of Sting, saying how he thought he told her once and he wasn’t going to tell her again, put away the make-up, her saying, yeah right, “He thinks he can tell me anything once ,” looking at Cliff, “he better think again.”
    The High were opening for Bon Jovi and Cliff spent the afternoon in the hotel with her, and now he tried to remember her name but didn’t come up with anything. She was sexy but really short, he remembered that. Brought her backstage, watched her leave with one of the record company guys, and he pretty much wrote the song while Jon was living on his prayer.
    Cliff said, “Yeah, what’s that for anyway, that commercial, some car?”
    â€œFucking Korean piece of shit. They mostly used Ritchie’s riff.”
    Cliff said, “Yeah, it’s good, that riff.” Ritchie came up with it right away when Cliff showed him the words, “She walks this red light street/She does what she wants/Nobody