Part 191 (1/2)

He dreamed of scoring again, of filling his veins with that glorious

combination of Chinese white and top-grade snow. All that beautiful

white powder. He fantasized about it-huge, mountainous piles of

beautiful white powder heaped on silver platters. He would scoop it up

with both hands, fill himself with it.

He dreamed of killing them, the doctors, the nurses. He dreamed of

killing himself Then he would weep again.

They said he'd damaged his heart, and his liver. They said he was

anemic and were ruthlessly dealing with that, and his cross-addiction to

heroin and c.o.ke. No one called him a junkie. They said he had an

addictive personality.

It had been hard not to laugh at that. So he had an addictive

personality. No s.h.i.+t, Sherlock. All he wanted was for them to leave

him and his personality alone. He was the best tucking guitarist in the

world, and had been for twenty years. He was forty-five and

twenty-year-old girls still wanted the honor of a few hours in his bed.

He was rich, filthy rich. He had a Lamborghini, a Rolls. He bought

motorcycles like potato chips. He had a twenty-acre estate in London, a

villa in Paris, and a hilltop hideaway in San Francisco. He'd like to

see any of the smart-mouthed nurses or holier-than-thou doctors top

that.

Had they ever stood on stage and had ten thousand people scream for

them? No. But he had. They were jealous, all of them jealous. That's

why they kept him here, away from his fans, away from his music, away

from his drugs.

Wallowing in self-pity, he stared at the room. The walls were papered