The Nuked Whale was San Junipero’s premier college dance club. If The Breeze was going to find a coed to cuddle, it would be at the Whale. He had no intention of making the drive with Billy back to Pine Cove for a nightcap at the Head of the Slug. Closing up the Slug was tantamount to having a losing night, and The Breeze was through with being a loser. Tomorrow when he sold the forty pounds of grass he would pocket twenty grand. After twenty years blowing up and down the coast, living on nickle-dime deals to make rent, The Breeze was, at last, stepping into the winners’ circle, and there was no room for a loser like Billy Winston.

Billy parked the Pinto in a yellow zone a block away from the Nuked Whale. From the sidewalk they could hear the throbbing rhythms of the latest techno-pop dance music.

The unlikely pair covered the block in a few seconds, Billy striding ahead while The Breeze brought up the rear with a laid-back shuffle. As Billy slipped under the neon whale tail and into the club, the doorman—a fresh-faced slab of muscle and crew cut—caught him by the arm.

“Let’s see some I.D.”

Billy flashed an expired driver’s license as Breeze caught up to him and began digging into the pocket of his Day-Glo green surf shorts for his wallet.

The doorman raised a hand in dismissal. “That’s okay, buddy, with that hairline you don’t need any.”

The Breeze ran his hand over his forehead self-consciously. Last month he had turned forty, a dubious achievement for a man who had once vowed never to trust anyone over thirty.

Billy reached around him and slapped two dollar bills into the doorman’s hand. “Here,” he said, “buy yourself a night with an Inflate-A-Date.”

“What!” The doorman vaulted off his stool and puffed himself up for combat, but Billy had already scampered away into the crowded club. The Breeze stepped in front of the doorman and raised his hands in surrender.

“Cut him some slack, man. He’s got problems.”

“He’s going to have some problems,” the doorman bristled.

“No, really,” The Breeze continued, wishing that Billy had spared him the loyal gesture and therefore the responsibility of pacifying this collegiate cave man. “He’s on medication. Psychological problems.”

The doorman was unsure. “If this guy is dangerous, get him out of here.”

“Not dangerous, just a little squirrelly—he’s bipolar Oedipal,” The Breeze said with uncharacteristic pomposity.

“Oh,” the doorman said, as if it had all become clear. “Well, keep him in line or you’re both out.”

“No problem.” The Breeze turned and joined Billy at the bar amid a crunch of beer-drinking students. Billy handed him a Heineken.

Billy said, “What did you say to that asshole to calm him down?”

“I told him you wanted to fuck your mom and kill your dad.”

“Cool. Thanks, Breeze.”