Star spoke briefly into the mobile phone, then disconnected, and snapped it shut.

He finally answered Mitchell’s question.

“Sweet?” he said. “There’ll be three hundred people. Three hundred minimum. And the pigs don’t have a sniff of it. Feel the power in the airwaves, man—that’s sweet if you like. The tribes are gathering. I’ve got music, fire eaters, jugglers, lots of gullible little rich kids.” He laughed. “One big fucking stairway to heaven, man—I can promise you that. Trust in Star. Have I ever let you down?”

“Yes,” said Mitchell, recovering his nerve. “You have.”

“Example?”

“Last summer, for example. Ground-up fucking aspirin. Ground-up fucking dogs’ worming tablets. Twenty quid a tab for crap. My friends weren’t pleased. I wasn’t pleased. More like a grave than a rave that was—I was throwing up for two days afterward. That little Dutch bitch you fixed me up with gave me the clap—” He paused. Star was not listening.

“What happened to that little bitch, by the way?”

“She’s dead.”

“My condolences. The fact remains. You let me down. As such occasions go, that one was shit.”

“It rained.”

“It was amateurs-ville.”

“It was a tryout. Tonight will be different. You wait. This time, my friends came through. I’ve got some serious stuff.”

Mitchell began to look more interested. “Samples?”

“No free samples.”

“Look, I have to be sure this time, all right? I’ve come a fucking long way. I’ve got friends coming from Birmingham—I waste their time, I look like a schmuck…”

Star shrugged and did not move. There was a silence, a tussle of wills. Eventually, Mitchell produced a fat wallet. He peeled off a twenty-pound note and handed it across. Star ignored it.

“You’ve got to be fucking joking.”

“I never joke.”

There was another pause, then Mitchell peeled off another note. Star took the money and handed him a small packet. Mitchell opened it, examined the pill inside, then swallowed it. He waited, paced a bit, lit a cigarette. Some time passed. Star watched, arms folded. Mitchell talked on. Then, abruptly, he threw the cigarette down. He closed his eyes, swayed against his car, and clutched his chest. Several more minutes passed. Star continued to watch him in silence. Eventually, Mitchell opened his eyes again.

“Christ,” he said. “Jesus Christ.”

“Some rush, huh?”

“Express—and I’m still traveling. Wow. This time you’ve really come through. Where in hell did you get that stuff?”

“Amsterdam.”

“God bless the Dutch. What’s it called?”

“It’s a White Dove.”

Mitchell closed his eyes once more.

Star turned. “See you later tonight, then,” he said. “With your friends—oh, and, by the way. You got a discount. For them the price goes up.”

Mitchell sighed. “Start time?” he said.

“Eight. Nine. Ten. Time has no meaning to free men.”

“Don’t give me that hippie shit.” Mitchell opened his eyes. “You like money the same way I do. Also girls. This is Mitchell you’re talking to, remember? I saw you, last summer, with that Dutch kid. And that French girl the year before. One word from me in the right quarter—”