Special for the occasion, Randy had left his long white cassock in the closet and decked himself out in black jeans and a Satan’s Suspenders T-shirt. Fats let him in, wearing a terrycloth bathrobe, drying his hair with a portable dryer. He told Randy to make himself at home.
“So this here’s where you live?” Randy asked, checking the place out.
He didn’t like to say so, but it didn’t look like Fats had come up in the world since the band broke up. This place was a craphole, half the size of the smallest of Randy’s bungalows.
“I mostly hang out at the club,” Fats said, stepping back into the bathroom. “But, yeah, you can see I’m a little cramped for space.” Over the hum of the hairdryer, Randy heard him add, “Which is why I wanted to talk with you, Randy. As you f*****g well know.”
Randy
