The Informers

“But what do you want?” I ask, turning the TV off.



“Need some coke. Anything. Four, five ounces.”



“I can get you that by, uh…” I stop. “Um, Saturday.”



“Dude,” Spin says. “Like I need it before Saturday.”



“Not Saturday? Like when?”



“Like tonight.”



“Like Friday?”



“Like tomorrow.”



“Like Friday,” I sigh. “I could get it for you tonight but I don’t really want to.”



“Dude,” he sighs. “Bogus but okay.”



“Okay? Just come over sometime Friday,” I say.



“Friday, right? I appreciate this. There are a lot of frightened people in this town, dude.”



“Yeah, I know,” I tell him. “I sort of understand what you’re talking about.



“Friday, right?” he asks.



“Uh-huh.”



I park the car outside the house and walk up the steps leading to a front door. Two girls, young and tan and blond, wearing ripped sweatshirts and headbands, are sitting on the steps staring off into space, not saying anything to each other, ignoring me as I walk past them into the house. I can hear music coming from above and then it stops. I walk slowly upstairs, into a large room that seems to take up the entire second floor of the house. I stand in the doorway and watch as Martin talks to a cameraman and points at Leon, who is the lead singer of the English Prices, and he’s smoking a cigarette and holding a gun, a toy, in one hand and in the other a small hand mirror that he keeps checking his hair in. Behind Leon is a long table with nothing on it and behind that the rest of the band and someone has painted the backdrop behind the band a pale pink with green stripes and Martin is walking over to Leon who puts the hand mirror away after Martin slaps his wrist and Leon hands Martin the toy gun. I move into the room and lean against a wall, being careful not to step on any wires or cables. There’s a girl sitting on a pile of pillows next to where I’m standing and she’s young and tan and blond and wearing a ripped sweatshirt and a pink headband holding up a lot of hair and when I ask her what she’s doing here she tells me that she kind of knows Leon and she doesn’t look at me when she says this and I turn away from her and look at Martin who is now on the table and he rolls off it and onto the floor and looks up into the camera, pointing the toy gun at the lens, and then Leon rolls off the table and onto the floor and looks up into the camera, pointing the toy gun at the lens, and then Martin rolls off the table and onto the floor and looks up into the camera, pointing the toy gun at the lens, and then Leon rolls off the table and onto the floor and looks up into the camera, pointing the toy gun at the lens. Leon is now standing, his hands on his hips, shaking his head, and Martin lies on the floor looking up into the camera and he can see me and he gets up and walks over, leaving the gun on the floor, and Leon picks it up and smells it and there is basically nobody here.



“What’s going on?” Martin asks.



“You left me a note,” I say. “Something about having lunch.”



“I did?”



“Yeah,” I say. “You left me a note.”



“I don’t think I did.”



“I saw a note,” I say, unsure.



“Well, maybe someone did.” Martin doesn’t look too sure either. “If you say so, dude. But if you think it was me you’re freaking me out, dude.”



“I’m pretty sure there was a note,” I say. “I could have been hallucinating, but not today.”



Martin looks over at Leon tiredly. “Well, um, okay, uh, yeah, I’ll be able to get out of here in around twenty minutes and, uh.” He calls out to the cameraman, “Smoke machine still busted?”



The cameraman is now on the floor and he calls back, flatly, “Smoke machine busted.”



“Okay, well.” Martin looks at his Swatch and says, “Weiust have to get this shot right and”—Martin’s voice rises but only a little—“Leon’s being a real jerk about it. Isn’t that right, Leon?” Martin is rubbing his hand across his face slowly.



Across the room Leon looks up from the gun and makes his way very slowly toward Martin.



“Martin, I’m not gonna jump off that f**king table onto the f**king floor and look into the f**king camera and wink. No f**king way. That’s f**king lame.”



“You said f**king five times, you piece of trash,” Martin says.



“Oh boy,” Leon says.



“You’re gonna do it, man,” Martin says, sort of sounding like he means it.