The Octopus on My Head Read Free Page B

together. And a glimpse was all it was. Ivy’s solitude winked briefly through his savor of this moment of his addiction like a bit of glass tumbling over the muddy bed of a fast-moving stream. Then it was gone.
    I was wasting my time.
    â€œIt sure enough looks like one,” I said, blinking. Ivy might have caught the tone of my voice, but he didn’t look up. All I could think to say was, “How’s the weight?”
    â€œExcellent,” he replied, and the day resumed its pace. “She hates me, but she’s always generous.”
    â€œIt has nothing to do with keeping you strung out and grateful, I suppose?”
    â€œCustomer satisfaction, you mean?” Ivy held the tarball up to the light. “Who’s strung out?” he said happily.
    â€œSUV owners,” I suggested, “on foreign oil.”
    â€œTrue story.”
    â€œSo the older guy doesn’t pack any heat?”
    â€œWhy should he?”
    â€œGuys like you get desperate?”
    â€œThat’d be pretty desperate,” Ivy said, “not to mention short-sighted and dumb. It could happen, of course. It has happened. But this racket is strictly word of mouth. If I took those two kids off for ten bucks, Lavinia would either have to cover for me or tell her Mexican wholesaler where the missing ten bucks went. If the former, she would then cut me off, and I’d soon be jonesing. If the latter, not only would I be cut off, her jefe would have me mainlined with acetone or battery acid or something equally difficult to metabolize. So you see,” he smiled, “it’s a matter of trust.”
    â€œMy my my,” I said, “here we ain’t been on the road but two months and it’s already Tennessee.”
    â€œNowhere near it. But thanks for the ten bucks.”
    â€œYou’re welcome. I don’t know why I’m such a soft touch.”
    â€œSure you do.” Ivy looked at me frankly. “I gave you a job in my band when nobody else would so much as give you an audition.”
    â€œSo I’m sentimental.”
    â€œNo way,” he said with quiet conviction. “You’re stupid.”
    I nodded toward the tarball. “Not that stupid.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, not that stupid? Where was your head an hour ago, while the rest of you was smoking heroin in this very opium den?”
    â€œGood question. The answer is, it was being curious.”
    Ivy said impatiently, “Why did you come over here, again?” He lit the flame and adjusted its height.
    â€œSomething to do with music.”
    Ivy snorted. “Music.” He took up the two discolored table knives and drummed a tattoo on the metal stove top between the burners, most of two four-bar marching figures called a cadence and roll-off . “You’re the only motherfucker I know who’s had the same telephone number for ten years.”
    â€œTwelve. How else are club owners and booking agents and record companies and gossip columnists going to find me?”
    Ivy made as if to smash his fist onto the stove top but pulled the punch about a centimeter short and just touched it with the side of his hand. “Who in the fuck,” he said measuredly, “wants to be found?”
    â€œNot the lost, certainly,” I answered, with some acid. “But, on the other hand, it seems to me that staying lost has got something to do with denying a certain responsibility that comes along with staying alive.”
    Ivy stared straight ahead. “It’s true.”
    â€œEspecially if you have talent,” I added sententiously. “What’s true?”
    â€œThere’s no such thing as a free lunch.”
    â€œThat’s right. Now that you’ve got my ten bucks, you still have to talk to me.”
    â€œSays who?”
    â€œNobody. As a matter of fact, you could just make yourself unpleasant until I leave.”
    â€œI got a better idea. Why don’t you and me split