Page 23 of Dead Rockstar

“How did he go?” he asked after a beat. “I mean, I can guess, but...”

I decided to spare him the gory details, which Kim's girlfriend had leaked to the National Enquirer for a hefty sum. “It was an overdose.”

“Right.” His face was thoughtful. “The poor fucker. He never really stood a chance.”

“I'm sorry.” I didn't know what to say. I knew every detail of Kim Rzenik's tragic demise, had seen the leaked photos of his platinum blonde head, lying face down on his bedroom floor beside a puddle of vomit, many more times than I'd ever cared to. After getting fired from the band, and four unsuccessful stints in rehab, Kim had succumbed to his demons. He was found two days after he'd died, alone on his bedroom floor, clutching a letter in his fist. The letter had been written by his teenage friend Phillip Deville years before, outlining their dreams of starting a rock band and becoming famous. The letter, too, had been leaked to the press. Forget the other bullshit – it's all about the music, the letter had read. No matter what happens, we Rock On. Those words were on Kim's gravestone.

How would Phillip react when he discovered that, I wondered.

I hesitated, wanting to tell Phillip everything but knowing it wasn't the time. I looked at my phone. “If Sloan is done with us, we could head over, pick out a few things and then have lunch? My treat. When was the last time you ate?”

“When? I guess about twenty-two years ago, and some change.”

For a second, I just stared. I forgot to even be grossed out, which usually I was when people ate meat around me, and for far less than the massive T-bone steak on the plate across from me. The man tucking into it was doing so with such abandon that he hadn't even noticed his hair was falling into the lake of steak sauce on his plate.

He sliced a cube of steak, forked it, and brought it to his mouth. As he chewed, his eyes closed in an expression of bliss and he gave an audible moan. “Oh, my fucking god,” he declared loudly. A couple of people turned to look at him, and I gave a shrug much like the one that Billy Crystal gives in the infamous diner scene in When Harry Met Sally. His scene with the wine the night before had been put to shame. “Forget sex. This is all I need right here. This steak. Jesus.”

“That good?”

He exhaled with pleasure from his nose, then opened his eyes and looked at me like he'd forgotten I was there. “Good? Fuck yes. It's fucking great. Here.” He stabbed another piece of the bloody meat with his fork and held it out to me. “You've got to try it.”

“No, no thanks. I'm good.” I waved the fork away. I was having Earl Grey tea and an avocado and portabella wrap, hold the swiss cheese.

“Come on,” he insisted, pushing it at me. “It's the best steak I've ever had. In either life. You have to.”

“No,” I said firmly. “I actually don't eat meat.”

He looked down at my plate with an expression of horror. “Someone brings me back to life and it's a bloody vegetarian.”

I smirked at him and took a bite of my wrap. I was sure the portabella mushrooms in it were easily as good – no, better – than the bloody disgusting steak he was tucking into. “Actually, I'm vegan.”

“What's the difference?” He picked up his glass and took a huge gulp of water. He'd already finished half his steak.

“I don't eat any animal products at all, so no cheese, eggs, dairy, honey-”

“You don't even put honey in your tea.” He said it as a statement rather than a question, his eyebrows furrowing together as if to say you are absurd.

“I try not to.”

“Now I see why you're so pale,” he said with a smile, then went back to his steak.

“Oh, I've only heard that a gazillion times. And anyway - like you can talk.” He was bone-white, and too skinny by a mile. “You could stand to gain a few, too.”

“Hey,” he said, dipping a finger into his steak sauce and licking it off, clearly relishing it, “I've been dead. I have an excuse.” He looked remarkably good, even if he was too skinny, especially now that he'd changed. Naturally, all he'd bought at Target were more black clothes – black t-shirt, fitted black jeans, black socks, even black underwear. I'd tried not to notice, but he'd bought more of the tight boxer briefs like the pair he was wearing earlier, and secretly I'd rejoiced – and he was still wearing the same black combat boots. I'd told him about the current style – lumbersexual – and showed him a few pairs of skinny cords, plaid shirts and skater shoes, and he'd just laughed. “This isn't a new style,” he'd said with a guffaw. “This is the same shit grunge kids were wearing when I was alive in the 90s. The only difference is instead of JNCOs the jeans have skinny legs, but otherwise it's the same.” I had realized he was right. Old was new again. The 90s were now considered “vintage”. Oh my god, was I old?

I had to admit, staring at Phillip across the booth in the little diner, he looked amazing in all black. It suited him. It always had, and it still did.

“Your hair is in your steak sauce,” I said with a laugh.

“Sweetheart, I don't even care.” He took another bite and sighed with pleasure.

“You rock star,” I said dryly.

He looked up at me and did the devil's sign with a grin, then turned back to his remaining steak.

“So,” I suddenly felt my stomach do a loop, “Off to Boston? To get funds and visit that Guthrie guy? That's the plan, right?”

“Yes,” he answered, popping a french fry into his mouth. “As for after, I have no idea. But I need money. And I have some – not a lot, but some – tucked away. Turns out being a paranoid junkie paid off, because I stashed cash. Otherwise I'd be fucked. If my will was honored, and I assume it was, all my estate went to my ex-wife.” He ate another fry. “And yeah, I'm not sure I'll have any luck, but I'll try to find Guthrie. Ask him what the fuck I am, exactly, and how long I'll be here. I just need to get on a bus. If you could help me with that?” He rushed to add, “I'll pay you back.”

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