"Wow. Yes . . . I think--I think that a recording might be arranged." He laughed very hard, then coughed. The gasping started again. He stood up, making horrible noises. I stared at him. The black chick gave him a hand and finally he stopped. She kept snorting, half-laughing. She was afraid.

"Jimmy?" I asked, waving an album. Billy smiled, super-contented, yes yes yes. A few blues, digging the downs. Jimmy Reed:

You told me baby, once upon a time.

Billy swayed on his feet. "So good, so few things," his voice said. He was gone. Exactly. He looked at me, sly smiling guy, smiling to make you cry. I knew what he wanted. "Some smoke?"

"I think so man. Like, I'm . . . unable, man. You know."

Yeah. I -- look, I've got some dope. Wow. Hang loose."

He nodded. He was going somewhere.

"Hey Billy." I got scared. "Billy. Look. Have a smoke."

"Wow, I don't know if -- wow."

"Promise."

"Okay, man." And then his legs buckled, he sat down slam! on the floor. He laughed.

"Are you going to smoke some grass?" asked the blonde.

That I'd be yours and baby, you'd be mine, but that's all right.

It makes him feel better, even though grass is supposed to be a depressant. He smokes to make himself less stoned. One ounce and a water-pipe. He climbed into a black leather easy-chair, the black chick sat down on his lap, and started to play with his hair. She took the pipe and wide-eyed as Sambo sucked on it. She coughed.

"Haven't you ever even smoked before?" said the scornful blonde. She had, that was obvious. She even laughed as she held in the smoke.