Free Armageddon Rag by George R.R. Martin Page A

a month ago. I got this letter from a promoter, weird guy by the name of Morse, who had this scheme for a big Nazgûl comeback tour. He’d already sold the idea to Maggio, who called me and pleaded with me to go along. Well, hell, I wasn’t really the least bit interested. I didn’t need the money that much, and the Gopher Hole means more to me now than the Nazgûl. But I could tell how much Maggio wanted it, and there was no sense in getting into a nasty argument with him over a dead issue. So I said sure, I’d go along, but they had to get Jamie’s approval. See, I knew there was no way in hell that Jamie Lynch was going to turn over the Nazgûl to any other promoter. Sure enough, that was the last I ever heard of it. Jamie killed it dead one way or the other, him and that contract of his, that wonderful iron-clad unbreakable lifetime contract.”
    Sandy glanced up at Gopher John, and then off toward the vacant stage, with its clutter of instruments and sound equipment. He chewed on the end of his Flair thoughtfully. “Lifetime,” he said. “Interesting word, that.”
    Slozewski frowned. “Hey,” he said. “That’s right.”
    “With Jamie Lynch dead, you may be hearing from that other promoter again. What’s his name?”
    “Morse,” Slozewski said. “Edan Morse. Shit. I hadn’t thought of that. I’m going to have to have it out with Rick, then. No way I’m going to just chuck everything I’m trying to do with the Hole here and go back on the road. Besides, it wouldn’t work anyway. I can’t imagine having the Nazgûl without Hobbins.”
    “A new singer?”
    Slozewski grunted derisively. “Yeah. You might as well set up a Beatles reunion and hire Peter Frampton to fill in for John. Fuck no. It would never work. Besides, Peter would never do it.”
    Sandy grinned. “Frampton or Faxon?”
    “Either one,” said Slozewski. “You want another beer? You’re dry.”
    “Well…” Sandy said. “I don’t know. I could use something to eat, though.”
    “Got no kitchen here,” Slozewski said. “I could get you a bag of potato chips, maybe.” He looked at his watch. It was a digital watch, Sandy noted. Somehow he found that vaguely surreal, the very idea of Gopher John of the Nazgûl wearing a digital watch. It was like the idea of Richard Nixon having sex; you knew it happened, but somehow it was too utterly strange to contemplate. “Look,” Slozewski said, “the rest of my people will be getting here soon, and the band will be coming in to set up and rehearse. You won’t be able to hear a thing. You want to go get dinner? There’s a pretty good steakhouse about a mile down the road.”
    Sandy got up and stretched. “That sounds like a perfectly wonderful idea,” he said. He picked up his coat. “Let’s go.”
    Out in the parking lot, Sandy hesitated between Daydream and the black Stingray parked beside it. “You want to take your car or mine?” he asked Slozewski.
    Gopher John laughed. “The ’Vette belongs to Eddie,” he said. “That one’s mine.” He pointed to the tiny Toyota on the other side of Daydream.
    “We’ll take mine,” Sandy said. He unlocked the doors, and Gopher John wedged himself in on the passenger’s side.
    The steakhouse was only a bit farther than Slozewski had said, and nearly empty. “Jared Patterson is paying for dinner,” Sandy said after they’d been handed the menus. They both ordered rare prime rib, along with a bottle of the most expensive wine in the house. The restaurant was a quiet place, with red tablecloths, candles burning in little teardrops of colored glass, and thick dark carpeting. Sandy sat staring out the window at sunset while they waited for cocktails to arrive and Gopher John chatted with the owner, a fellow member of the Chamber of Commerce. Beyond the window cars sped by, and one by one their headlights began to come on as the gloom outside thickened. Sandy wondered how to ask Slozewski the questions that remained, and how much