Larry didn't want the rest, but he nodded.
"There was a color TV upstairs. Someone ran a chair through it. I'd guess three hundred for repairs. The wood paneling downstairs has been gouged to hell. Four hundred. With luck. The picture window facing the beach got broken the day before yesterday. Three hundred. The shag rug in the living room is totally kaput - cigarette burns, beer, whiskey. Four hundred. I called the liquor store and they're just as happy with their tab as the Deck is with his. Six hundred."
"Six hundred for booze?" Larry whispered. Blue horror had encased him up to the neck.
"Be thankful most of them have been scoffing beer and wine. You've got a four-hundred-dollar tab down at the market, mostly for pizza, chips, tacos, all that good shit. But the worst is the noise. Pretty soon the cops are going to land. Les flics. Disturbing the peace. And you've got four or five heavies doing up on heroin. There's three or four ounces of Mexican brown in the place."
"Is that on my tab, too?" Larry asked hoarsely.
"No. The Deck doesn't mess with heroin. That's an Organization item and the Deck doesn't like the idea of cement cowboy boots. But if the cops land, you can bet the bust will go on your tab."
"But I didn't know - "
"Just a babe in the woods, yeah."
"But - "
"Your total tab for this little shindy so far comes to over twelve thousand dollars," Wayne said. "You went out and picked that Z off the lot... how much did you put down?"
"Twenty-five," Larry said numbly. He felt like crying.
"So what have you got until the next royalty check? Couple thousand?"
"That's about right," Larry said, unable to tell Wayne he had less than that: about eight hundred, split evenly between cash and checking.
"Larry, you listen to me because you're not worth telling twice. There's always a party waiting to happen. Out here the only two constants are the constant bullshitting and the constant party. They come running like dickey birds looking for bugs on a hippo's back. Now they're here. Pick them off your carcass and send them on their way."
Larry thought of the dozens of people in the house. He knew maybe one person in three at this point. The thought of telling all those unknown people to leave made his throat want to close up. He would lose their good opinion. Opposing this thought came an image of Dewey Deck refilling the hospitality bowls, taking a notebook from his back pocket, and writing it all down at the bottom of his tab. Him and his whiffle haircut and his trendy T-shirt.
Wayne watched him calmly as he squirmed between these two pictures.
"Man, I'm gonna look like the ass**le of the world," Larry said finally, hating the weak and petulant words as they fell from his mouth.
"Yeah, they'll call you a lot of names. They'll say you're going Hollywood. Getting a big head. Forgetting your old friends. Except none of them are your friends, Larry. Your friends saw what was happening three days ago and split the scene. It's no fun to watch a friend who's, like, pissed his pants and doesn't even know it."
"So why tell me?" Larry asked, suddenly angry. The anger was prodded out of him by the realization that all his really good friends had taken off, and in retrospect all their excuses seemed lame. Barry Grieg had taken him aside, had tried to talk to him, but Larry had been really flying, and he had just nodded and smiled indulgently at Barry. Now he wondered if Barry had been trying to lay this same rap on him. It made him embarrassed and angry to think so.
"Why tell me?" he repeated. "I get the feeling you don't like me so very goddam much."
"No... but I really don't dislike you, either. Beyond that, man, I couldn't say. I could have let you get your nose punched on this. Once would have been enough for you."
"What do you mean?"
"You'll tell them. Because there's a hard streak in you. There's something in you that's like biting on tinfoil. Whatever it takes to make success, you've got it. You'll have a nice little career. Middle-of-the-road pop no one will remember in five years. The junior high boppers will collect your records. You'll make money."
Larry balled his fists on his legs. He wanted to punch that calm face. Wayne was saying things that made him feel like a small pile of dogshit beside a stop sign.
"Go on back and pull the plug," Wayne said softly. "Then you get in that car and go. Just go, man. Stay away until you know that next royalty check is waiting for you."
"But Dewey - "
"I'll find a man to talk to Dewey. My pleasure, man. The guy will tell Dewey to wait for his money like a good little boy, and Dewey will be happy to oblige." He paused, watching two small children in bright bathing suits run up the beach. A dog ran beside them, rowfing loudly and cheerily at the blue sky.