“Oh, fuck you,” Phil said, and slammed the door. “Jill! It’s here!”

“At the door?”


“Release the hounds,” Jill yelled down the stairs.

“We have an arthritic sheepdog, honey.”

“Then release Peter Shapiro.”

“I already did. Billy’s got one of his own, now. They fought and they’re both dead.”

“Isn’t that just like him? You write a book; he writes a book. You get a Jew; he gets a Jew. Fuck him.”

“Okay, honey.”

Outside the door, Billy had taken the rejection well, allowing the other members of the Dead to tackle him before shooting at the door with the pistol no one knew he was carrying.

“Gimme that,” Garcia said, and wandered away.

“C’mon, Bill,” Bobby said as he tried to hold the drummer–thrashing with rage–to the ground. This destroyed the Bougainvillea.

“Bill! Bill! Think of the music.”

“I’ll kill the motherfucker!”

“Think of your friendship.”

“He’s a dead man!”

“Bill: think of the money!”

The door opened.

“There’s money” Phil asked.

Jill poked her head out the door. “Did someone say money?”


“Just a few more stops, Mick.”

“Am I going to get anything to do in this–”

“Dude, Mickey, Dude: shut the fuck up and fly the plane.”

“Jeez, man.”

“Well, sorry, man – but, this next part’s tricky.”