“I’d as soon get down to business, you got no objection.”

The Star smiled. “My man.”

Malachi waited. A moment passed, and then the Star caught on, said, “Right, sorry.” He adopted the tone of a schoolboy answeringan instructor, hamming it up. “I’d like to buy some illegal drugs, please.”

Malachi nodded to his man, who set the briefcase on a low table then stepped back. “Here’s how we do. Blow, smack, Ecstasy, hydro, painkillers I have anytime. You want something special, I might need a couple hours’ warning. I’m available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, anywhere in the country. I don’t fly internationally, I don’t deal for less than twenty-five, and I don’t trade in rock.” He popped the latches on the case but didn’t open it, noting the anticipation in the kid’s eyes, playing out the moment. The brunette on the pillows squealed as one of the entourage poured champagne down the front of her dress. She laughed, then moaned when the blonde leaned in to lick it off her tan skin. The boys whooped in appreciation.

“Is it good stuff?” The kid trying to sound hard. “I don’t want to pay top dollar for some watered-down shit.”

Malachi shook his head. “Pure as a nun’s daydream. Guaranteed premium. My prices are high because of the service and quality I provide. Now,” he said, and flipped open the briefcase to reveal the rows of neat bundles and colored bottles, “the doctor is in.”

JACK LED THE WAY UP. Here, in the bowels of the club, the throbbing music seemed to come from everywhere at once: the walls, the railing, the floor, his heart. He’d been waiting for the rush, and finally it came, the tightness, that familiar hint of joy and panic that never went away. It had made itself at home in 1975, right after he’d shoved Aerosmith’s Toys in the Attic under his shirt and strutted out of Mel’s Records, the shrink-wrap cool against the skin of his teenage chest. He’d gone home and listened till he could sing every note, felt like “Sweet Emotion” was talking straight to him.