<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 6 Compromising Act There was the sound of gunfire. Mona, the woman in the black dress, was telling him, "Our stronghold is under attack. People are coming in from the surrounding streets. Go out and organize the new recruits." She drank a dark red wine called Sangre de Toro. She had a firm figure that looked corseted, and plain unsympathetic features. She wore fishnet stockings with her hair sticking out. Anton woke up. The gunfire had ended, and the sirens had begun. He could hear them coming from all parts of the city, converging on a point about three blocks away. He thought of his friends, Blake, Sebastian, Vince and Diane, Sasha, Doreen, Kliff. Where were they all this morning? Seeing that the sky was bleached bare, the sun just up, he told himself, "It's much too early." He twisted out of his blankets and put on his shoes. He was already wearing his other clothes. He ran his fingers through his hair and made a quick tour of the building. Finding no one awake, he went out onto the street. Most of the shops in the neighborhood were still closed. The only people out so early were refugees from the night before, drunks shambling from doorway to doorway. As he passed the Clarion Cafe, with its wooden tables that looked salvaged from a series of garage sales, he noticed that its windows were dark. They wouldn't be open for another hour. The sirens had stopped, having arrived at their destination. Should he see what all the fuss was about? It seemed he was headed in that direction. He cut into a gray alley that began as a series of row houses, followed by the long blank wall of the Institutional Laundry Company. From a basement window he could hear a dog barking inside the big empty building. Coming around the corner he saw flashing lights two blocks away. There were four or five police cars, and it looked like they had blocked off the whole intersection. As he'd guessed, this was directly in front of the housing projects, known as the Gardens, that were the most violent part of the neighborhood. The Gardens were three-story concrete bunkers with only a few windows, their apartment numbers stenciled in black on the smooth brown walls. They reminded him of a movie he'd seen of the inside of a Latin American prison. They took up most of a city block, with balconies facing into a central courtyard. Anyone could walk in, climbing the metal stairs on the outside of each building. There were no gates. But the drug runners who lived there had Israeli-made weapons. Even police who tried to go in had been shot. The buildings overlooking the Gardens from across the street were fortified against its hostile culture with metal gates over their doors and windows, electric buzzers and intercoms. It was impossible to get into those homes unless someone invited you, and how would you ever meet them? They were too scared to go outside. Anton went into a corner grocery that had opened early. The owner was an Arab man with a round face. He was about fifty years old, shorter than most Americans, with bare hairy arms. He wore a green apron. There was a TV on the counter. The president, it was saying, had signed another "historic peace treaty." A bomb in a Malaysian disco had killed "seven people, including two Americans." Nodding to the grocer, who was as calm and self-assured as the TV news, Anton bought himself a Hershey bar. Shedding the brown wrapper, he stepped into the street, acting idly curious and trying to become part of the small crowd. Looking past the arm of a trenchcoat, he saw that police were escorting a couple of paramedics inside the Gardens with a stretcher. As the medics went in, another group of police came out, leading a young man in a Puma jumpsuit. The man's wrists were shackled painfully behind him, forcing his shoulders up and his head down. There was a cut over his eye. Anton felt sympathy for the young man who was being led away to spend months or years in prison. He wondered if the kid had hurt someone. His face wasn't hard enough for it. Soon he was thinking of his own face, angelic and cruel. He started to walk, glancing over his shoulder at his reflection in the window of an auto parts store. Above the upturned collar of his jacket, he saw a startled expression. His lips were chapped, his hair was matted, his scalp itched. There was no hot water at the squat, and he hadn't had a proper shower in days. He tried to keep his hands away from his head, but ended up scratching furiously behind his ears. He stopped at a phone booth on the next corner. "Vince? How's it going? The sirens woke me up and I couldn't get back to sleep, so I came out to see what happened. There was a shooting at the projects, and they took this guy away in cuffs. Listen, can I come by your place for a shower?" Vince answered him, "Couldn't you wait a while before coming over, so I can get some sleep? Isn't it eight in the morning still? That's why I quit school, so I could sleep late." He scratched the back of his head impatiently and walked back to the Clarion, which was now open. Seeing the Asian woman with her tired, spotted skin and thinning hair, her broad arms rounding the contours of a threadbare cardigan, he felt right away that his shabbiness belonged there. He respected his elders on principle, especially the ones who had worked all their lives for very little. He went up to the counter, smiled and ordered two eggs with ham, toast, fruit and a cup of tea. He went to sit by the window, which was meant to display shoes or dresses. The windows pushed toward the sidewalk on either side, with a little tiled alcove between them. It was possible to sit there like an item for sale and get a close view of the street. He liked the food. The yellow part of the egg broke and swirled toward the ham. He wiped it up with a potato chunk stuck on the end of his fork. Outside, a punk couple stopped to look at the menu. He felt like they were standing over him, so he hunched down, glaring back at them with a surly expression. The guy was tall and gangly with torn black jeans, a black leather jacket and black boots. The girl had bright red hair and pale skin, and a short skirt over black dancer's tights. He wondered if her legs were cold. They came into the cafe and headed for the counter. The guy had the hardened look of a derelict who sucked his toes at night to keep from going hungry, whose fingers left bruises on a woman's skin when they made love. Anton drifted off to a place inside his head. Words and sketches appeared in his notebook—lyrics, prophecies, dreams and scattered nonsense. It occurred to him that if he'd stayed in Iowa, he would be in school at this moment, doing calculus or reading about the Cold War. There was nothing wrong with that, but it amazed him that he'd spent so much time in a classroom when there was real work to be done. After an hour or so, Kliff spotted him from the street and came in. Anton returned from his trance as he watched Kliff go to the counter and order a coffee. The Clarion had become a second headquarters for them, where they met to discuss strategy for the band. The elderly couple who owned it knew they were squatters. They didn't approve of the squatters' lifestyle, but they considered Trashtown to be good for business, a spark of life in an otherwise grim neighborhood. Anton had gotten used to going there when he wanted to get away from the squat, and Kliff had discovered this. It gave them a convenient place to meet. Kliff would tell him what had happened since the last time they'd talked, and get Anton's reaction before returning to his rounds. While the Psychic Rangers were rehearsing in their attic studio, he would be circulating throughout the city on their behalf, distributing flyers, locating equipment, setting up gigs. Anton felt lucky. How could anyone know his way around Portland as well as Kliff? "He's not a manager, he's a kid like me. But he knows the right people, and it seems to be working." He'd been pestering Kliff for several weeks about recording the band's music. "We've got an album's worth of songs already. We should be recording them while they're still fresh. We can produce the album ourselves, but we need a place to work. Can you find us a place that'll show us how to work the equipment, then leave us alone until we're done?" Kliff had laughed when he heard that. "Studio time's precious. The engineer gets paid whether he's at the controls or not. You'll be paying them to learn what they already know. So you're better off letting them do their work. Rehearse each song until you can get it right in a couple of takes, then go into the studio and record everything in a day or two." "We're ready for that, too." "The problem is still money." "Maybe there's a producer who'll do it because he supports the cause?" "You're dreaming. This is a business. But I'll see what I can do." Now he approached the table with his latte in a tall glass. They sat together in silence as Anton worked on a lyric. After a while, Anton noticed he had foam on his moustache. "You have sperm on your lip." Kliff grinned and licked it off. "You must be wondering about my technique." He grew pensive and looked down. "I've got an idea for you. Something you can do to advance your career in a big way. You'll get the resources to do whatever you want—record, tour, distribute your stuff—all in exchange for one compromising act." Anton's eyes narrowed. "Your shows at the squat are powerful, no one would deny it. But do you notice it's the same people each time? Your core following is two to three hundred people. Each time you play somewhere new, your popularity goes up a notch. After a while, playing around like that, you'll get a few thousand fans. That's the plateau you'll reach, if you're lucky." "Is that bad?" "Trust me, you don't want to get stuck at that level. It's not just the financial angle that suffers. In the end your creativity takes the blow and you give up. You'll get a job running a forklift. It happened to the Pencils, to Goober and all the rest. Even Boyd Franklin sells insurance now. So you see the point I'm making. We need to get you into some real clubs. Not for the glamour of it, but so you can go on, get better. It's a survival thing, and there's no reason to waste time. You're ready now." "I agree." "But there's a small obstacle. One man controls all the clubs in this town, and his name is Reinhold." The name seemed familiar to Anton. He'd heard it before. "You told me this, didn't you? Some kind of right-wing crackpot? A narco kingpin?" Visions of mind control and political violence danced in his head. Kliff flinched. "It's not a name you would know." Where had Anton gotten his information? He felt a panic, but it didn't show. "Reinhold is just a two-bit promoter who was in the right place at the right time, but nowadays he controls the best venues. He's a power behind the scenes, you might say. And the irony is, he knows nothing about music. So how do you get his attention? How do you get him to back you, and not some other jerk?" He drummed his fingers on the table. "Okay, how?" Kliff lowered his voice. "I used to work for Reinhold. I was part of his harem, I guess you could say, his stable of stars. Before he got into the music business, he was in porn. He made skin flicks for special tastes, and I was one of his protégés." Anton bit his lip. "So how does this involve me?" "I haven't done a shoot with him for a long time. It gets old fast, and I've found a better use for my talents. But I promised I'd do one last project, a comeback as it were. I'd decide when and how it would happen. Once I made the film, I'd get a favor in return." He flushed. "You want me to do a porn shoot with you?" Kliff looked away, embarrassed. "In exchange for what? What's the favor you're asking?" "If we do the movie, he owes us both. He promotes your career, and you're on your way." "What's in it for you?" "As your manager and friend, your success is my own. And it cancels my debt to Reinhold. That chapter of my life is closed." "It'll only get you more deeply involved with the man." Kliff shrugged. "So another chapter begins." He looked at Anton anxiously. "Will you do it?" "What's the compromising part you mentioned? The sex, or doing business with Reinhold?" "I meant the sex. Wasn't sure how you'd take it." Anton laughed. "I knew you'd get around to asking sooner or later. Leave it to you to make it a business venture!" He narrowed his eyes. "Are you sure it's the best way? Can't we just eave Reinhold out of it?" "No one will book you without Reinhold." "Then why not show him my music! Haven't you got it all backwards?" "I told you, he doesn't care about music. He's into power, plain and simple." "But do we need him, or anyone like him? We're building a community from the ground up. We've got people who believe in us, who know what we stand for. We represent them, not just ourselves. We can't take that with us into a world of promoters, guest lists and security at the door." "You'd be surprised. People in that world are hungry too. I should know, it's how I make my living." "Maybe so, but what does that have to do with us?" He wasn't sure if Kliff meant selling drugs to the partygoing elite, or his earlier life as a streetcorner hustler, but whatever it was, it was the opposite of the Psychic Rangers. "As soon as we start playing in clubs where people have to pay to get in the door, our message changes. It becomes a transaction for a product. Club owners will line their pockets, and the people who supported us until now will be left out in the cold. I can't respect that." "Then how are you going to survive? You're a musician. Certain things have to be paid for, like studio time for your album." "So that's where this is going." "Just say you'll do it. Channels will open up for you, I promise, that I can't even explain now. Besides, it's a lot of cash." "How much cash?" "Four thousand for me, 'cause I'm the star, and two thousand for you. It's a specialty film for the Japanese. Since we're in it together, really, I'll split it with you fifty-fifty." "You know I don't like this." "Who can blame you? I was a screen whore since I was twelve. And it wasn't just once, it was my way of life for years. After this, I'll never do it again as long as I live. Look, our next step is to meet the man, go see Reinhold. Promise me you'll stick with me just that far. You can always back out after that. Like the saying goes, 'Just say no.'" • • • Kliff sat at Trashtown's dining room table, picking a dark, resinous buildup from the grooves of the wood with his fingernail. Anton lay on the floor, a cushion propped under his shoulders, staring at the ceiling. Their meeting with Reinhold was in half an hour. He'd just noticed a line of blue footprints, human in shape, that traveled up one wall, across the ceiling and down again to the doorframe, where they vanished abruptly as if stepping over a sill. "How did those get there?" he asked. Kliff followed his line of sight. "They've been there since last winter, since before you moved in." He described how Sasha had walked upside down on the ceiling, feet covered in paint, supported by his friends as paint dripped on them from above. Anton went into a funk. He was Trashtown's public face, but did he really belong there? The history of the squat was full of events that excluded him, simply because they had happened before his arrival. Even his musical ambitions set him apart. Nothing he did was innocent, it had to advance him towards his goal. He had to admit that his career was more important to him than Trashtown. That made him a tourist, or rather a colonist with an agenda of his own. The natives only put up with him because, primitives that they were, they hadn't learned to protect themselves from predators like him. Turning onto his stomach, he reached for the notebook beside him and started to write. Breaking out from a faraway prison...it seems that everywhere I go is a prison of some kind. I don't mean to have a grudge against the world, I just do. And then, situations tend to confirm my opinion. Did I ever expect to be in a room with footsteps on the ceiling? Maybe when I was young, then I forgot to desire this. Now the room and I have found each other, but what have I had to suffer just to get here? If I could believe this was my real family. If I could believe I had a family somewhere. Always problems, problems with relationships, but never enough to cut the cord. This world is occupied by people, and if I want to live here, I have to deal with them. Why couldn't I have come as a building, or a tree? Only people are able to act, and not be victims. Is this true? With this comes a fearsome responsibility...what are we going to do with our time? He realized that Kliff was talking to him. "I've told Reinhold why we're doing this. You're a musician who wants to play in his clubs. If everything works out on the shoot, he'll set you up. And he won't expect this sort of thing from you in the future. This is a one-time deal for you and me both. Unless you see it differently?" Anton laughed and shook his head. "Good, so Reinhold understands that. We won't be talking business today. He wants to check you out, make sure you're right for the part, and that you're okay with doing a movie like this. We'll be paid on the day of the shoot, in about two weeks." "Anything special you want me to say or not say?" "Just act like a kid from Iowa, that's what he likes." It was time to go. Anton ran his fingers through his hair, which was long enough now to fall into his face. He got to his feet and took his jacket from a nearby chair. On their way out they met Sebastian, who was painting an intricate rose-covered trellis on the wall of the stairwell. They closed the heavy door behind them and went out into the street. Squeezing past large women with small dogs, they walked through a district of closely packed shops. A drab and shoddy concrete structure loomed over them from a few blocks away, a professional building of some sort. Kliff laid out his strategy for taking the Psychic Rangers to the next level. "Club Omaha's the place to start. It's tiny, not much bigger than a shoebox, but once you play there, you'll get gigs at Lizard Lounge, Sound Lab, New Jerusalem. The Pirate Radio Network has its eye on all those places. Soon, your music will be on indie stations all up and down the coast. By the time you release the album, you'll be ready for a West Coast tour. There'll be videos, product endorsements—" "Hold on there." "What?" "That's going too far. Do I look like a product to you? A bowl of cereal perhaps? I'm not a product, and I don't want the Psychic Rangers to be one. In fact, I'd rather not have any publicity at all unless it helps us accomplish our goal, which is to destroy society as we know it. I want the assholes who run things to be hiding under their boardroom tables. I want them thinking, 'Something's happening here we can't control.' As for people like us, the seekers, I want to show them how it's done. They should be saying, 'I could do that. That could be me.' But the wrong kind of exposure could kill our message." "Do you think you can get anywhere without hype?" "What do we need it for? All we need is word of mouth." Kliff reminded him, "You want to make your music so necessary to America that it shows up in the shopping malls of your hometown, where it might help a kid like you to realize he's been left behind." Anton flinched. "I did leave someone behind like that. Someone I care about, who's necessary to me." The down on Kliff's upper lip trembled. Anton looked away. "He's a painter, a visionary. The only visionary I know, in fact. He's fifteen and brilliant, but sometimes he can't even take care of himself. When he tries, it attracts attention, so he keeps out of sight. We grew up together, him and me, and long ago we made a pact. It was one of those unspoken pacts, one of those forever kind of pacts." They were at the door of the concrete monstrosity they'd spotted earlier. "This is great stuff, but right now we've got a date with the man." Anton followed him into a long, narrow lobby with potted palms flanking the entrance. There was no one at the desk. They were about to step around it when an owlish man appeared and barred their way imperiously. He wore a blue uniform with brass buttons, its sleeves too short for his round frame. There was something misplaced about him, as if he would be more at home at a scholarly conference than as a security guard. "You are visiting...?" he demanded. "Square Peg Foundation," said Kliff. He looked them over, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "And you are...?" "Kliff." He seemed perplexed, as if unsure for a moment whether Kliff might be someone important. "Just tell 'em we're here." He called upstairs, and after a brief conversation, hung up the phone and let them pass. Following them to the elevator, he pushed the button himself to make sure they went to the right floor. "I love a man in uniform," Kliff giggled as the doors closed. Anton could feel the moist breath in his ear hole, and laughed too because it tickled. They stepped out into a lobby with a black lacquered table, a large empty vase, and a lithograph of a ship at sea. They turned right, then left, passing a series of black doors with burnished plaques before coming to one that read, "Square Peg Foundation." Kliff rapped sharply. "Come in," said a woman's voice. "Kliff, darling, how are you?" Immediately the phone rang. "Excuse me," she mouthed silently. "Good afternoon, Square Peg Foundation." Once she was done, she returned to Kliff. "Mr. Reinhold had to take this call," she said apologetically. "He's doing the financing for his new project." While they waited, Anton studied the silvery wood paneling, the bottle-green carpet, the brown metal desk with its array of knickknacks and geegaws. "This place is tacky," he thought as the receptionist filed her nails. Eventually a door opened and a short man in a cheap suit poked his head out, beckoning them inside. "Come in, boys," he called jovially. A film of perspiration dotted his upper lip. "Come in," he said again, waving a hand thick with silver rings. Closing the door behind him with a thunk, he circled his desk to sit behind it. Seated opposite him, Anton and Kliff could see the river over his shoulder. Its surface was gray and wide, obscured by mist. Bridges rose on granite and steel trestles, arching their backs like the skeletons of giant reptiles. Reinhold took a glass decanter from the bottom drawer of his desk. Removing the stopper, he poured a dose of amber liquid into each of three small, thick glasses. He replaced the stopper, offering his hand to Anton. "Reinhold," he announced. "Anton Dupree." Grasping the hand firmly, Anton rose halfway from his seat. He felt self-conscious, like he was meeting his girlfriend's father for the first time. Once the preliminaries were out of the way, Reinhold got to the point. "This film is meant for a specialized audience with certain tastes. The presence of women would be distracting to them. So it's necessary for us to display sexual acts that take place when no women are present. Are you okay with this?" This seemed reasonable to Anton. He shrugged and said, "Sure." "Because for some guys, sex without girls is like a contradiction. They get on the set and they don't know what to do. They think it's physically impossible. And when you explain it to them, they get all freaked out." "No, really, it's okay. As long as it's not a snuff film, that's going a bit too far." Reinhold had begun his career in the snuff business, but Anton had no way of knowing this. If he had known, he would never have dared to say anything, Reinhold reasoned. So he laughed easily and said, "Fine, then it's a deal. But just remember, my people are experts. They've done this hundreds of times. Follow their instructions and you'll come out with flying colors, I guarantee you." • • • An unmarked van pulled up in front of a warehouse on an otherwise deserted street, and the doors opened. Anton and Kliff got out, along with Reinhold and an assistant. The day was cold and drizzly. As they stood on the sidewalk in overcoats and scarves, Anton felt like one of Hitler's henchmen. He imagined how Himmler or Goebbels must have felt. Power was its own reward. Morality didn't enter into it. The strong ate the weak because they could. He could sense something satisfying in this outlook. "Where are the others?" Reinhold said to his aide. "They're already inside, setting up." He motioned to Anton and Kliff. "You boys go ahead. Grab some of this equipment." The back of the van was open now, and cases of equipment were being handed out. Each carrying a case, Kliff and Anton headed toward the building. "Send a couple of boys out to get the rest of this stuff." The aide nodded and followed Kliff and Anton through a doorway. "Get this van around back with the other one," he told the driver. "Visibility is not an asset here." Kliff and Anton crossed an enormous storeroom that was completely empty. They climbed a flight of concrete stairs, which brought them to a long corridor with doors spaced far apart. Stopping at one of them, Kliff typed a few numbers into a keypad. The door clicked open and they walked into a flood of light. They were in a large room equipped as a sound stage, the set of Rough and Tumble starring Anton and Kliff. People scurried in all directions, positioning lights, setting up microphones, rehearsing camera movements, taking sound and light readings. They were taken in hand by a woman of about thirty who seemed to be in charge of things. She spotted them from across the room and surged forward saying, "Kliff! How are you?" Grasping both his hands in hers, she kissed him on the cheek. "I hope you've gotten over that nasty cold?" He grinned, smoothing his ratty moustache with one finger. "I'm fine, Velma. But some of that blow would do me good. Drains the sinuses." "Of course! Let me take your coats." She gestured impatiently as the boys shucked off their overcoats. Craning her neck, she spotted a crew member who was standing idle. "Danny! Don't just stand around like some slack-mouthed Mormon. Take the boys' coats to the—" She found a spot, pointed. "Hang them up over there." Danny whisked the overcoats from her imperious arm. She turned to Anton and offered him a firm handshake. "You must be Anton, the new boy." "Yes, ma'am." His eyes darted this way and that, entranced by all the activity. "Velma Briggs," she said, indicating herself. "And don't call me ma'am." He blushed. "I'm from the Midwest. It's second nature, I guess." "So how does it feel to be a movie star?" He chuckled. "If you can call it that." "It's a select audience, of course. Maybe fifty people will see this film. But they're important people. Japanese, in this case, and quite fond of American youth. Sometimes, impressing the right fifty people can go further toward advancing a career than—" "An appearance on 'Oprah'?" "A lot further, you'd be surprised." She was businesslike now. "Enough of this, let's get you boys freshened up." She led them toward a corner with armchairs and mirrors. To the assistants she said, "Take care of these boys. Get them anything they want. We're rolling in thirty minutes." She wished them luck and turned to go, but paused for a moment. "I hear you're a musician?" she said over her shoulder. Anton's thoughts were elsewhere now. He shrugged and nodded. "What do you play?" "Bass. I write my own songs." "The next time you do a show, will you tell me? I'd like to see it." He looked at her questioningly. "You've got something I don't see every day. Sincerity, intensity—something." Overhearing this, Kliff's face lit up in a proud grin. Reinhold came into the room, still in his overcoat. Anton spotted him through the melee. The crew stiffened to attention, going through their routines with more precision and less banter. Velma went to confer with him. His powerful voice carried across the set. "What's the scenario for this one? Not another boudoir melodrama, surely?" One of the aides handed him the script on a clipboard, explaining the action briefly. He raised his eyebrows, stroked his chin and nodded. "Kliff as 'The Executioner'? Animal masks? I like it." He congratulated the man with a pat on the back and strolled over to where Kliff and Anton were being prepared for their parts. Stripped down completely now, they were having their bodies painted in tribal style. Kliff had a tattoo on his shoulder, and a nipple ring. Reinhold walked up behind them, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. Anton jumped slightly when he was touched, gritting his teeth. Kliff seemed to be used to it. "How're my boys? Feeling fine?" He snapped his fingers and gestured to one of the assistants. Immediately a mirror was presented with piles of cocaine and marijuana, pre-rolled joints, and all the necessary utensils. Kliff started on the cocaine, cutting himself a line. Anton picked up a joint and lit it nonchalantly. Reinhold gave him a supportive squeeze. "That'll heat you up! That'll give you gumption." Anton winced. The assistants continued to dab color onto his body. He stared at Reinhold curiously. "I know it's your first time. But trust me, son, you're in good hands. This is a first-class operation all the way. You understand what's expected of you, of course?" Anton swallowed. The weed was disorienting him, and Reinhold's presence made him nervous. "I think so." "Good, because we don't want any fuckups on the set, no last-minute chickenshit. But Kliff is no virgin to all of this." He let out a surprising giggle, high-pitched and shrill. "He's done it so often, he could do it in his sleep. You're the best, aren't you Kliff?" He giggled again, stroking Kliff's arm possessively. Kliff flushed and looked away. "I guarantee it, a veteran of the art. You'll break in the new boy, won't you, Kliff?" He smiled and told Anton, "He'll take you through it step by step." • • • After the shoot, they retreated to an antechamber to count their earnings. Anton was delirious at the sight of so much cash, and he was high on cocaine. Rubbing it into his gums had made him particularly wild. "Forgive me," he told Kliff, "but this whole situation feels like we're in a dream. In fact, my life in general has been surrealistic lately." A fiery unguent they'd used as an aphrodisiac still tickled him down below. He was stiff from it even now. He felt relaxed and alert, as if after a good workout. He was relieved that things had gone well, that he'd been up to the task, but the rush of new sensations left him confused. He wasn't sure how far he could trust his feelings, knowing that he was capable of such sharp bursts of pleasure and pain. "I may never see myself in the same way again," he thought to himself. By way of consolation, Kliff handed him a wad of hundred-dollar bills. "Look at it this way, it's all among friends." He nuzzled Anton playfully behind the ear. "Besides which, we're rich now. You have the chance to realize your dream, and I'll help you, like I said. So let's get out of here and go celebrate." <<< Back Table of Contents Next >>>