Part 39 (2/2)

little frightened by the ease with which Stevie was quietly, and

consistently, shooting smack into his veins.

Johnno was more particular about what he pumped into his system, but

Johnno's personality was so strong no one would laugh at him for

refusing to indulge in acid or speed or snow.

P.M. knew personality wasn't his strong point. He wasn't even a

musician, not like the others. Oh, he knew he could hold his own with

any drummer out there. He was good, d.a.m.n good. But he couldn't write

music, couldn't read it. His mind didn't run to poetry or political

statements.

He wasn't handsome. Even now, at twenty-three, he was plagued by

occasional outbreaks of pimples.

Despite what he considered his many disadvantages, he was part of one of

the biggest, most successful rock groups in the world. He had friends,

good and true ones, who would stand for him. In two years, he had

earned more money than he had ever expected to make in the whole of his

life.

And he was careful with it. P.M.”s father ran a small repair shop in

London. He knew about business and books. Of the four he was the only

one who ever asked Pete questions about expenses and profits. He was

certainly the only one who bothered to read any of the forms or

contracts they signed.

Having money pleased him, not only because he could send checks home-a

kind of tangible proof to his doubting parents that he could succeed. It

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