“Tell me how we’re supposed to get ready for a show when you’ve rented this place out from under us. We’ve got Dr. Jekyll’s this Saturday night, and then the big show at Dante’s. Or did Dante’s just kinda slip your mind?”

“Just forget it, okay, Daria,” Keith mumbled, still holding on to his guitar case, holding it like James Cagney. “Just forget the whole fucking thing. I’ll call Jack and Soda and tell them the deal’s off.”

Daria hooked the bass over one shoulder, closed her eyes, and spoke slowly, choosing her words more carefully now. The rage had almost passed, and she felt shaky and a little ill, the dimmest threat of nausea squiggling around in her belly like tadpoles.

“You do that, Keith,” she said. “And listen, I swear to god, if you ever pull anything like this again, I don’t care how bad you need money for a fix, you’re out on your ass. Do you understand?”

“Hey, whatever you say, Dar. You’re the boss lady.”

And then Daria marched away to the skanky little toilet at one end of the room, trailing the black cable out behind her. She shut the bathroom door hard, but the cable-half in, half out-got caught in the way, and the door swung slowly open again.

Keith set his guitar down, ran one hand through his spiky mud-brown buzz cut.

“So, Mortimer. I guess you think I’m one mondo asshole too.”

“I think you went way too far this time, man, that’s all. I’ve always known you were an asshole.”

“Yeah. Thanks, man.”

“Hey, that’s what I’m here for,” and Mort lightly smacked the edge of a cymbal with two fingers.

Theo pushed the magazines aside and climbed over the arm of the La-Z-Boy, wide corduroy gash and bulging tufts of white stuffing, chair hernia. Neither Mort nor Keith said anything to her as she got up and followed Daria and her black rubber excuse for bread crumbs to the john.

Theo stepped inside the bathroom, little more than a shit closet really, and pushed the door quietly shut behind her.