Read Spree for Free Online Page B

he wore chinos and a long blue navy-color coat with a big collar, a military-looking coat which he had, in fact, purchased at an army-navy surplus store. Under the coat he wore a short-sleeved T-shirt, despite the time of year; on it was one of his own drawings, as the T-shirt was quite literally the first merchandising spin-off from Space Pirates’ cultish success: Captain Bob, the klutzy hero of his book, posed with a clunky ray gun in one hand and a bosomy alien broad in the other. He wore no gloves (Jon didn’t—neither did Captain Bob, for that matter).
    It was only one floor up, the only apartment up there, and the door was unlocked, which made Jon grimace. His drawing board was set up in the living room, near the stereo and nineteen-inch Sony TV. It was a spacious flat, drywall walls painted a pale green and decorated with huge posters, promo stuff from the record shop, where Toni worked during the week, when they weren’t out on the road with a band, which they hadn’t been for several months now. Gigantic Elvis Costello and Blondie and Devo and Oingo Boingo and Kate Bush faces stared from the walls. Blondie was old history, now, but Toni’s vague resemblance to Debbie Harry kept the defunct group hanging on, at least on the apartment walls.
    Toni had been the lead singer of a group called Dagwood, several years ago, a mock-Blondie group formed out of the remnants of Smooch, a mock-Kiss group; like the various imitation Beatles bands—a number of which were still around—such groups could turn a steady buck on the Midwest club circuit. For six months Toni had done nothing in life but imitate Debbie Harry; even now she still admired the singer, and her own style remained heavily influenced thereby.
    Jon knew that Toni had the talent to go far. She had looks and brains and drive, too. She was twenty-three, a year younger than Jon, and was in her bedroom packing her suitcase. That was the other thing she needed, to go far: a suitcase.
    She was packing stage clothes—sexy lacy gypsy-looking things she ordered from Betsey Johnson’s in New York City. Right now she was in jeans and a Bruce Springsteen sweatshirt, a small woman with zoftig curves and dark spiky Pat Benatar hair.
    “I was going to complain about you leaving the door unlocked again,” Jon said, the words sounding empty to him.
    “You still think your wicked past may catch up with you someday,” she said, not looking at him.
    Jon sat on the bed. “It might. I made enemies.”
    She looked up from her packing and gave him a condescending smile. “Don’t go all macho and mysterious on me, or I may just faint. Or puke.”
    “What are you mad about?”
    “Who said anything about being mad? Look out.” She was moving past him, toward the closet, where she was getting more of her stage clothing, Cyndi Lauper-type apparel, but sexier.
    “You seem to be packing.”
    “You are one observant little man, aren’t you?”
    “Any special reason?”
    “I’m leaving. Going.”
    “Where?”
    “Minneapolis.”
    “And do what? Go down on Prince?”
    She gave him a cold look. “I got a new gig lined up.”
    “What about our new band?”
    They’d been rehearsing for about a month with a drummer and a guitar player, both of them college kids from Drake. Toni sang, of course, Jon played keyboards, switching off between an old Vox Continental organ and a Roland synthesizer.
    “The new band just isn’t happening, Jon. Those kids aren’t ready to do anything but play weekends. They’re in fucking college, for Godsake!”
    “It’s sounding good.”
    “Jon, we’re too old to be some top-forty band playing frat parties and bars. I got to get out there and make it, really make it, before my tits start to sag.”
    Jon touched her arm. “I’d be glad to lift ’em for you.”
    She removed his hand like a bug that had lit. “Don’t start. To you this is just a hobby. To me it’s a career.”
    Jon stood, some anger bubbling up through his hurt