Monty’s Revenge

Dallas snorted the last of the coke and coughed and sniffed, rubbing his nose furiously. “Jesus, man, where’d you say you scored this?” Monty reclined, and smiled. “I told you already, man.” “Raoul?” “That’s right.” Dallas nodded with respect and rolled back to the console. “I want to see what you think about this thing I’ve been working on,” he said. Monty had heard all about it. Not from Dallas, mind you. Dallas thought he was playing it cool, keeping secrets from Monty. They used to be aces, too. Back when LA was just a fucking backwater. Except for the Doors. And nobody liked the fucking Doors. Not really. They wanted to be the Doors, but nobody liked the fucking Doors. “I have an idea for something new,” Dallas went on. “You remember American Pop, right?” Leave it to Dallas to turn a night out on the town with the ladies into a fucking homework assignment. All Monty remembered was the swell of Darlene’s breasts out of the top of her tied-off shirt. He was thinking of her that night when he was balling Marla. Trying to. Dallas was a good writer, sure. He had written for the Doobie Brothers, and some say he even wrote a tune for Fagen and Becker, but he never got any credit. He produced a song on Ingram’s album and now this.

“Yeah, OK. But we’re going to need some more if you wanna get this done this weekend.”

“OK, man, call him up,” Dallas said. “But hurry back.”

“Sure, man,” Monty left the studio, and padded down the hall to the living room. Raoul was outside with the feds, just as they had planned.