Free God Hates Us All by Jonathan Grotenstein, Hank Moody Page A

his attention to the inbox on his desk. A minute later, Danny pokes his head out from his office.
    “My new best friend,” he says, gesturing me in. “You can go, Rick.”
    “What about the fax?”
    “I’ll get the fax,” Danny replies. “Now get out of here.”
    Rick gathers his things slowly, a man with something on his mind. “You decide about those tickets?” he finally blurts out.
    “Yeah,” Danny says in a flat voice. “I don’t think that’s going to happen this time.”
    “Ain’t no thang,” replies Rick. “See you on Monday, Boss. Don’t party too hard this weekend. Later days and better lays.”
    Danny’s already on his way back into his office. I follow, closing the door behind me per his request.
    “What a prick,” he says, already removing the vaporizer from his sin cabinet. “Wants my fucking Knicks tickets to impress some piece of tail from Staten Island. What a fucking waste of a human penis.”
    Danny hands me the money, five hundred dollars already promised to Henry Head, who during our five-minute telephone conversation would guarantee no immediate results but assured me that “when you need a private dick, you can count on the Head.” I’d kept reminding myself that Larry Kirschenbaum had vouched for him.
    “You want ’em?” he asks. “The tickets. I’m supposed to be on a plane to Saint Bart’s in …” He looks at his watch. “Right now. Come on, take ’em. They’re behind the Sonics bench. You can play bongos on the X-Man’s bald head. Don’t … You can’t do that, I’ll lose my tickets, but you know what I mean.”
    It’s amazing,
I tell myself as I exit the office with the tickets in my pocket,
what you can accomplish by just not being a dickhead.
And it only gets better: The elevator is waiting for me when I push the button. The uptown 2 arrives the moment I reach the platform. There is an open seat near the door. And when I finally reach the hotel with time enough to change—out of slavish loyalty to what I now consider to be my brand, the well-dressed drug dealer, I’m still wearing business-casual—I hear a familiar voice call my name. I spin around to see K.
    “I thought I recognized that ass,” she says.
    “Hey,” I protest. “I’m not just a sex object you can ogle.”
    “Mmm. Too bad. I had fun the other night.”
    “Me too. I tried to call you until I realized I didn’t have your number.”
    “I’ve been superbusy,” she says.
    “Life in the big city.”
    We wait together for the light at Seventh Avenue. “Also …,” she starts, then trails off.
    “Don’t tell me. You’ve got herpes.”
    “Gross me out. No, I’ve got a boyfriend. And I probably shouldn’t be kissing strange men in bars.”
    “I think if you get to know me,” I say, starting across the street, “you’ll find I’m really not that strange. And besides, there’s the whole thousand-mile rule.”
    “That’s
riiiight
,” she says, catching up to me. “I forgot about the thousand-mile rule. I’m sure Nate would understand.”
    “He seems like an understanding guy.”
    “Only I can’t ask him tonight,” she adds, “on account of the band being in Cleveland. How far away is Cleveland?”
    “Cleveland, Spain?”
    By the time we reach the Chelsea, I have a date for the Knicks game. We agree to change and meet in the lobby in fifteen minutes.
    “WEED MAN!” MY DATE CALLS to me from the end of the row. “You’re our only hope!”
    “Yell it a little louder, Nate,” I reply. “I don’t think the whole team heard you.” One of the Sonics’ bench players turns around and winks at me, confirming they had.
    I take some solace in the idea that he’s not trying to embarrass me as much as draw attention to himself—while I still don’t have enough information to judge his musical talents, it’s clear that Nate already has a rock star’s appetite for attention. He’s the only person in the Garden wearing a purple velvet Mad Hatter lid festooned with