The guy working the door takes one look at Phil and me and shakes his head.

– Uh-uh. We’re full up.

A couple teenage girls come giggling up. He glances at their fake IDs and waves them in.

He’s in his early twenties, his arms and chest pumped too big for his legs. He’s all high on working the door at this East Village meat market, enjoys being the man who decides which guys get in for a crack at all the underage pussy he lets in, and which do not. Me and Phil, we’re a little long in the tooth for this place. Me, I’m very long in the tooth for it, but I don’t look it, wearing my age as well as I do and all. Far as he’s concerned we’re a couple trolls who are gonna fuck up the ambience. I could do some things, I could grab his balls and give ’em a yank, I could bounce his skull off the door, I could just put a hand on his shoulder and squeeze until he gets the point. Instead I pull out a twenty.

He plucks it from my fingers.

– Happy hunting.

The Cherry has turned the corner about four or five times going from shit-hole to hot spot and back again as a new crop of NYU kids comes in each year. Right now it looks to be on the downward curve. It’s doing a brisk trade in binge-drinking hipsters, but they’re not fucking in the bathrooms. I drag Phil to the bar and order three of the specials: shot of house tequila with a Tecate back. We work our way through the hormones to the back of the bar where we find some open space and take a seat at the tabletop Ms. Pac-Man machine.

I put two of the specials in front of Phil.

– Drink up.

– Thanks, Joe. I was gonna buy, my round and all, but thanks.

He takes a sniff at one of the glasses. He pulls a face.

– Jeez, Joe, not the best stuff.

– Yeah, well you know the Cherry, not big on the fifteen-dollar Scotches.

– Yeah. Place is a dump.

He downs one of the shots and follows it with beer. I do the same.

– So talk to me, Phil.

His eyes are dancing over the tightly packed crowd, searching for anyone who might be holding. I snap my fingers in front of his face.

– The new shit. I’ve been under a rock, so tell me about it.

His eyes never leave the kids in their low-slung jeans, Pumas and hoodies, trying to spot the telltale hand clasps of drugs being passed off. But he talks.

– Yeah, the new shit, it’s like all the rage. Not, you know, thick on the ground or anything, but, like, the thing with the cutting edge crowd, the new kids are bringing it in.

– New fish found it?

– Yeah, that’s the vibe I’m getting. Like this isn’t the kind of thing the old farts, no offense, Joe, but not the kind of thing the old farts are into. That a monkey fist?

He’s pointing at a bulge about the size of an eight ball of coke in the tight pocket of a girl’s cords.

– Not my specialty.

– It is, it’s a monkey fist. That chick’s holding. Watch my beer, I got to go talk to that chick.

I grab his wrist before he can get up.

– Not yet.

– C’mon, man, I got to get in on this.

– Sit. Drink. Talk.

He watches her edge into the bathroom followed by a couple of her friends.

– Aw, man, gonna be nothing left.

I push the last shot of tequila in front of him.

– Drink.

He downs the shot.

– Anyway, not the kind of thing for the senior circuit is what I’m hearing. Taboo shit, scandalous and exotic. Frankly, shit piques my interest in the worst way.

– You see anyone do it?

– Naw, naw. All happening behind closed doors like Reefer Madness or something. Stories you hear, about these intimate rave kinda scenes with everyone hitting the new shit and freaking out and fucking wolves and bats and shit. You know, that kind of thing.

Right. Bat-fucking. That kind of thing.

– Where you get these stories? There aren’t enough new fish around for a scene like that.

The girl in the cords comes out of the bathroom, monkey fist significantly depleted. Phil rolls his eyes.

– Aw, man, aw shit. I knew it. Fuck.

– Where you getting these stories, Phil?

– I don’t know, around, you know, just, in the air. Shit like that, it’s just in the air.

– In the air and I haven’t heard about it? Terry Bird hasn’t heard about it?

He chugs beer, some of it overflows his mouth and runs down his chin. He wipes it with the back of his hand.

– In the air for people like me, man, people looking to score. You, Joe, you got a one track mind; you’re like this worker bee always trying to, like, you know, get what you need, always working a job. May as well be nine to five. And Bird, he’s like the establishment down here. May still be fighting the good fight with the Coalition, but far as the kids are concerned, he’s pretty much The Man himself. New fish aren’t looking to fight the power, they’re looking to maybe have a good time, enjoy life while it’s, you know, youngish. Think they’re gonna come above ground to chat it up with a guy like you?

He’s looking at me now, talking to me without watching the room. I stare at him. He snatches up his other beer, takes a drink, tilting his head back to break eye contact.

– Anyway, that’s, like, about it, I guess. All I got anyway.

– Uh-huh.

– Yeah, that’s it.

He drinks some more beer.

– That was quite a speech.

A little more.

– Where you get a speech like that, Phil? All them ideas?

He finishes the beer, shrugs.

– I dunno.

He points.

– Hey, hey, that look like-?

I cover his hand with mine.

– I said, Where’d you get a speech like that?

He tries to tug his hand free of mine, but I keep it pinned to the table.

– Speech? Jeez, Joe, that’s no speech, that just the speed rapping, just the old oral diarrhea. Just, like, whatever garbage rolling around my head getting cleared out by the speed. You know that.

I press down on his hand.

– Who you been talking to, Phil?

He clenches his teeth.

– Talkin’ to?

– Phil, I’m gonna crush your hand. You’ll never cut another line again. Who you been listening to?

He’s grabbed onto my wrist with his free hand, trying to pry himself loose.

– Um, yeah, well, yeah, I could have been list’ning to someone, to this guy.

– What guy?

– Guy goes by, The Count.

I lift my hand. He snatches his back and massages it.

– Jeezus, Joe, didn’t have to do that. Could have broke the damn thing. Ain’t ya had enough fun whalin’ on me over the years? Ain’t enough enough?

– Where do I find this guy?

– Got me. I mean, really, got me. The guy ain’t like no friend of mine or nothin’, he’s just a guy who’s around who I crossed paths with a couple times.

– Set something up for me.

– Aw c’mon. That could take all night. I got things of my own to deal with, I got a high to maintain here and you already got me off my schedule. As it is I don’t know how I’m gonna score, gonna have to rely on the kindness of strangers or something to get by, and now you want me to invest my few remaining energies in taking care of your business? That ain’t right, Joe, you know that ain’t right.

I stand up and dig the last of my cash out of my pocket. After the drinks here and Niagara and the twenty for the doorman, there’s about forty left. I drop it in front of him.

– Score.

He scoops the money up.

– Sure thing, don’t gotta tell me twice.

– Score, and then get me my meet. I want it set up tonight.

– I don’t know, man, could be tough on short notice. Like I said, not like he’s a pal of mine or anything.

He’s looking sadly at the bills in his hand, rubbing them back and forth against one another.

– Forget it, Phil, that’s all there is. Get me the meet. I’ll talk to you later tonight.

He gives up, tucking the cash into his jeans.