Zip Gun Boogie by Mark Timlin Page B

his name was.’
    â€˜Two drummers ended up on the funny farm,’ said Chick. ‘But they let Boyle out again. I was talking to Roger the Dodger about it.’
    â€˜Carry on,’ I said.
    â€˜Two of them died in a car crash. They were racing Corvettes to Las Vegas for the pink slips. Neither of the fuckers would give way. One keyboard player OD’d after a week. He couldn’t stand the pressure. He was only eighteen. Never been away from home. Seven days on the road with The Box , and the cat’s dropping ’ludes like there’s no tomorrow. One morning he just never woke up. Then Jackie Mulligan, played bass, took angel dust with Pandora. They found the poor fucker face down in the parking lot. He was so crazy he’d stuck his head under the wheels of a Mack truck.’
    â€˜Strictly speaking that wasn’t an OD,’ said Seltza. ‘The verdict was suicide.’
    â€˜Same thing,’ said Chick wisely. ‘Sapperstein crashed his plane, and Griff Fender got electrocuted on stage. This band’s had more members than the fuckin’ Boston Philharmonic.’
    â€˜How many?’ I asked.
    â€˜God knows. Seventeen… eighteen.’
    â€˜Maybe you’re right, Chick,’ said Turdo. ‘Maybe this is the dyingest band.’
    We all cogitated on that remark for a while.
    â€˜So listen,’ said Seltza, changing the subject, ‘who’s coming up to get shit-faced in my little corner of the world? I’ve got some outstanding grass.’
    Turdo said he was going to call up his girl and see what she was doing, Chick said he’d be delighted, and I tagged along for the ride.
    Seltza’s room was just that – a room. But a decent double and pretty luxurious. He’d installed a stereo compact disc player and stuck on the first Doors album.
    He adjusted the volume and pulled a tray with papers and a bag of grass in it out of one of the drawers of his bureau.
    â€˜Trouble with CDs is there ain’t room to roll a joint on the cover,’ he said. ‘Give me a regular album anyday.’
    â€˜It’s the march of technology, man,’ said Chick.
    I was beginning to realise that Chick was something of a philosopher in his own, individual way.
    Seltza made the joints American-style. All grass. One skin. No cardboard filter. Just a flat fold at the end. He rolled one, lit it, took a hit, passed it to Chick and started rolling another. ‘Help yourself to a drink, Nick,’ he said. ‘The ice-box is full.’
    I went over to the mini-bar and got a Grolsch. Chick asked for one too. Seltza went for a Bourbon on the rocks. I got the drinks and swapped them for the joint. I took a hit, and kept the smoke down for a long time before releasing it. The taste reminded me of other times. So did the music. I took the bottle and the spliff and sat on an easy chair by the window. The evening was warm, and the sky was growing dark and merging with the tops of the trees in the square across from the hotel. Between tracks on the album I could hear traffic and the sound of children going home. I drifted away as the dope took hold. My thoughts were like a kaleidoscope, jumping from one memory to another. So many people. So many gone. And not enough time or energy left to start again.
    â€˜Don’t bogart that joint, my man,’ said Seltza.
    I came back to reality with a start. ‘Sorry,’ I said, took another hit and passed the joint to him. I looked at my watch. It was almost nine o’clock. Seltza went back to the bureau and brought out a bag of white powder big enough to choke a horse, and started cutting out long fat lines on the glass top. He took out a twenty and rolled it up into a tight tube. ‘Guys,’ he said, ‘be my guests. Shorty laid this shit on me today. Best pink Peruvian.’
    â€˜Are you sure?’ I said. My voice sounded stoned and I had some trouble enunciating the