Practical Demonkeeping

intention of making the drive with Billy back to Pine Cove for a nightcap at the Head of the Slug. Closing up the Slug was tantamount to having a losing night, and The Breeze was through with being a loser. Tomorrow when he sold the forty pounds of grass he would pocket twenty grand. After twenty years blowing up and down the coast, living on nickle -dime deals to make rent, The Breeze was, at last, stepping into the winners’ circle, and there was no room for a loser like Billy Winston.
    Billy parked the Pinto in a yellow zone a block away from the Nuked Whale. From the sidewalk they could hear the throbbing rhythms of the latest techno-pop dance music.
    The unlikely pair covered the block in a few seconds, Billy striding ahead while The Breeze brought up the rear with a laid-back shuffle. As Billy slipped under the neon whale tail and into the club, the doorman—a fresh-faced slab of muscle and crew cut—caught him by the arm.
    “Let’s see some I.D.”
    Billy flashed an expired driver’s license as Breeze caught up to him and began digging into the pocket of his Day-Glo green surf shorts for his wallet.
    The doorman raised a hand in dismissal. “That’s okay, buddy, with that hairline you don’t need any.”
    The Breeze ran his hand over his forehead self-consciously. Last month he had turned forty, a dubious achievement for a man who had once vowed never to trust anyone over thirty.
    Billy reached around him and slapped two dollar bills into the doorman’s hand. “Here,” he said, “buy yourself a night with an Inflate-A-Date.”
    “What!” The doorman vaulted off his stool and puffed himself up for combat, but Billy had already scampered away into the crowded club. The Breeze stepped in front of the doorman and raised his hands in surrender.
    “Cut him some slack, man. He’s got problems.”
    “He’s going to have some problems,” the doorman bristled.
    “No, really,” The Breeze continued, wishing that Billy had spared him the loyal gesture and therefore the responsibility of pacifying this collegiate cave man. “He’s on medication. Psychological problems.”
    The doorman was unsure. “If this guy is dangerous, get him out of here.”
    “Not dangerous, just a little squirrelly—he’s bipolar Oedipal,” The Breeze said with uncharacteristic pomposity.
    “Oh,” the doorman said, as if it had all become clear. “Well, keep him in line or you’re both out.”
    “No problem.” The Breeze turned and joined Billy at the bar amid a crunch of beer-drinking students. Billy handed him a Heineken.
    Billy said, “What did you say to that asshole to calm him down?”
    “I told him you wanted to fuck your mom and kill your dad.”
    “Cool. Thanks, Breeze.”
    “No charge.” The Breeze tipped his beer in salute.
    Things were not going well for him. Somehow he had been snared into this male-bonding bullshit with Billy Winston, when all he wanted to do was ditch him and get laid.
    The Breeze turned and leaned back, scanning the club for a likely candidate. He had set his sights on a homely but tight-assed little blond in leather pants when Billy broke his concentration.
    “You got any blow, man?” Billy had shouted to be heard over the music, but his timing was off; the song had ended. Everyone at the bar turned toward The Breeze and waited, as if the next few words he spoke would reveal the true meaning of life, the winning numbers in the state lottery, and the unlisted phone number of God.
    The Breeze grabbed Billy by the front of the shirt and hustled him to the back of the club, where a group of Techies were pounding a pinball machine, oblivious to anything but buzzers and bells. Billy looked like a frightened child who had been dragged from a movie theater for shouting out the ending.
    “First,” The Breeze hissed, waving a trembling finger under Billy’s nose to enumerate his point, “first, I do not use or sell cocaine.” This was half true. He did not sell since he had done six months in Soledad for dealing—and would go up for five years if he was busted again. He used it only when it was offered or when he needed bait when trolling for women. Tonight he was holding a gram.
    “Second, if I did use, I wouldn’t want it announced to everybody in San Junipero .”
    “I’m sorry, Breeze.” Billy tried to look small and weak.
    “Third,” The Breeze shook three stubby fingers in Billy’s face, “we have an agreement. If one of us scores, the other one gets cut loose.