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me a guided tour. “This was Jimi Hendrix’s studio,” she told me, as if I didn’t know. I looked around and tried to feel the vibe. The place had no personality whatever, just a few old posters on the wall. When I gave Kit the packet of dope, I saw her smile for the first time. Her teeth were capped, her round lips too small to hide a slight overbite. She was nice. Not a snob at all.
    She introduced me to her band and their producer, the drummer from a heavyweight English rock group. He was coked to the gills. All of them were. Kit wanted the dope to smooth her out. The rest of them smoked pot. I stayed awhile and listened to them play, a girl singer named Sylph with a low drone of a voice and a red-haired bass player who pogo-hopped while she plucked. The only guy in the band was the drummer, a greaser with a nice sense of humor and the speed of a runaway train. Everyone called him Poop.
    Next day, Betty phoned again and asked me to drop by Kit’s apartment, which was around the corner from Big Guy’s. It was late in the afternoon, just before I went to work. I climbed the six flights and knocked. The odor of cat spray greeted me at the door. Betty answered it. “Sorry for the mess,” she said as I entered the hall. “We’re doing the laundry.”
    The apartment didn’t look lived in so much as run over—dirty dishes in the sink, furniture in disarray, broken floorboards. As I sat on a low couch in the living room, Kit appeared from somewhere at the back of the apartment. She had a guitar in her hand. Sunlight poured through the windows, a light breeze on its tail.
    â€œThanks for coming over,” she said, looking pleased. “That was real nice of you, stopping by last night. We wanted to give you something for it.”
    â€œBut you already paid me,” I reminded her. Sixty dollars it was. Cost.
    â€œWe bought you a bag of dope,” she told me. “It’s no big deal, just a bag from the street.”
    I didn’t know what to say. “I’ll get it,” Betty offered, and disappeared in the direction Kit had come from.
    â€œWe had a fight last night, after we got home,” Kit volunteered. She showed me a few hairline scars on her arm. They’d been fooling around after the session, Betty tickling her with a razor blade in some kind of punk-flavored massage. Kit was too stoned to feel anything. When Betty started drawing blood, Kit smashed her face with a hairbrush. I was horrified.
    â€œDid you know Kit’s an artist, too?” Betty called out as she reentered the room. She was pointing with her nose to the dragon painting, busting her seams with pride.
    Kit’s eyes narrowed. They looked so light, I could barely see them. “You don’t have to shout,” she snapped.
    â€œI’m not shouting ,” Betty whined. “I was just telling her …”
    When she wasn’t on the road, Kit took photographs. Not the kind with people in them. She used plastic dolls and all kinds of fetishes, Gumbys and trolls, assorted bubble-gum toys—bric-a-brac she composed into lurid still lifes and soaked in primary-colored light. She told me she’d gone to art school but no longer had time for painting. She was often on the road and this other kind of work she could do when she was home, late at night. She had a show in a gallery coming up, and something in a group show at a new museum.
    I picked up the piece she was making, a photo-assemblage with a scarlet neon tube attached. This woman had an awful lot of energy, that was clear. I could feel her buzz in the room. She seemed to raise dust even when she was sitting down.
    â€œYou’ve known Betty a long time?” she asked when the girl left for her dungeon job.
    â€œSince she was a kid,” I allowed.
    â€œShe’s still a kid. I don’t know why I’m hanging out with her. She’s crazy.”
    â€œShe adores you,” I