“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. Well, I think I found someone, so cut loose.”

Billy started to shuffle toward the door, head down, his lower lip hanging, like the bloated victim of a lynch mob. After a few steps he turned. “If you need a ride — if things don’t work out — I’ll be at the Mad Bull.”