When the Nines Roll Over and Other Stories

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  WHEN THE NINES ROLL OVER

  THE DEVIL COMES TO OREKHOVO

  ZOANTHROPY

  THE BAREFOOT GIRL IN CLOVER

  DE COMPOSITION

  GARDEN OF NO

  NEVERSINK

  MERDE FOR LUCK

  Acknowledgements

  A PLUME BOOK

  WHEN THE NINES ROLL OVER

  DAVID BENIOFF was born and raised in New York City. He adapted his first novel, The 25th Hour, into the screenplay for Spike Lee’s film of the same name. He is also the author of the screenplays for the films Troy and the forthcoming Stay. Stories from When the Nines Roll Over have appeared in Best New American Voices and The Best American Nonrequired Reading. He lives in Los Angeles, where he is at work on his next novel.

  Praise for When the Nines Roll Over

  “Smart, protean.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “Mr. Benioff brings a natural prose style and a subtlety of expression . . . Wonderful characterization.”

  —The Wall Street Journal

  “The book’s eight stories are written with both a literary writer’s care and a film writer’s instinct for courting his readers or viewers. He hooks them, reels them in and does his best to make them happy to be in the boat with him. . . . His technique is one that works whether it’s played out on a page or a screen. It makes you want to know what happens next.”

  —USA Today

  “Benioff has put together a diverse, utterly satisfying collection.”

  —Time Out New York

  “Demonstrates a devotion to craft, a considerable fund of talent, and a lightness and playfulness.”

  —Books in Review

  “Benioff is on a roll. . . . Hip is hard to do, but Benioff can pull it off. . . . This is a superb collection.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “All of these will hook you fast, and keep you hooked. . . . One story, The Devil Comes to Orekhovo, is thrillingly good . . . Technical accomplishment that’s matched by a generosity of spirit.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  ALSO BY DAVID BENIOFF

  The 25th Hour

  PLUME

  Published by Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Published by Plume, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published

  in a Viking edition.

  First Plume Printing, November 2005

  Copyright © David Benioff, 2004

  All rights reserved

  “When the Nines Roll Over,” “The Devil Comes to Orekhovo” (as “The Affairs of Each Beast”), and “Neversink” first appeared in Zoetrope; “Zoanthropy” in Tin House; and “De Composition” in Faultline.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  The Library of Congress has catalogued the Viking edition as follows:

  Benioff, David.

  When the nines roll over, and other stories / David Benioff.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-17737-2

  1. Title.

  PS3552. E54425W47 2004

  813’.6—dc22 2004049613

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  For Amanda—

  I love you.

  WHEN THE NINES ROLL OVER

  SadJoe is a punk rocker, he rents by the week

  and if his landlord ups the rent he’ll be living on the streets

  he’s never had a run of luck, deuces load his deck

  his rottweiler’s name is Candy and she’s tattooed on his neck

  his girlfriend sells tickets at the Knitting Fac-to-ry

  she gets him in to see the bands and every band for free

  so raise a glass for SadJoe, for SadJoe raise a glass

  he’s going, going, going gone but going with a blast!

  The singer had presence. She wasn’t a beauty, and her pitch was imperfect, but she had presence. Tabachnik watched her. Lord, the girl could yell. From time to time he surveyed the young faces in the crowd. The way the kids stared at her—the ones in back jumping up and down to get a better look—confirmed his instinct. The girl was a piggy bank waiting to be busted open.

  Tabachnik and a foul-smelling Australian stood by the side of the stage, in front of a door marked REDRÜM STAFF ONLY! Most of the kids in Redrüm were there to see the headliners, Postfunk Jemimah, but the opening act, the Taints, was threatening to steal the show. There was no slam-dancing or crowd-surfing or stage-diving—everybody bobbed their heads in time with the drummer’s beat and watched the singer. She prowled the stage in a bottle-green metallic mesh minidress so short that Tabachnik kept dipping his knees and tilting his head to see if he could spot her underwear. He could not spot her underwear.

  When the band finished the song Tabachnik turned to the Australian and asked, “What’s that one called?”

  The Australian had recently started an independent label called Loving Cup Records. The Taints were the first band he signed. His head was shaved and his black tracksuit stank of sweat and cigarette smoke.

  “It’s good, huh? ‘Ballad of SadJoe.’ SadJoe’s the drummer. He started the band.”

  “Who writes the songs?”

  “Molly,” said the Australian, pointing at the lead singer. “Molly Minx.”

  She didn’t look like a Molly Minx. Tabachnik wasn’t sure what a Molly Minx should look like, but not this. He g
uessed that she was Thai. Her hair was cropped close to the scalp and bleached blond. A tattooed black dragon curled around her wrist.

  “The story is,” continued the Australian, “she has a big crush on SadJoe, and she writes this song, and one night she sings it to him. Right on the street, a serenade. So, you know, love. Boom. And he asks her to join the band.”

  Tabachnik had never heard of the Australian before tonight, which meant that the Australian did not matter in the music business. Whatever contract Loving Cup Records had with the band would be a mess, whipped up one night by a cocaine-addled lawyer who passed the bar on his third try. That was Tabachnik’s guess, anyway, and he was generally right in these matters.

  Making money off musicians was so easy that third-rate swindlers from all over the world thought they could do it; they swarmed around talentless bands like fat housewives around slot machines, drinking cheap beer and exchanging rumors of huge payoffs. Third-rate swindlers were doomed to serve as rubes for second-rate swindlers—unless they were unlucky enough to get conned by a true pro.

  After the Taints finished their set Tabachnik retreated to the VIP room with the Australian. He expected the man to light a joint and offer him a hit; when it happened Tabachnik shook his head and took another sip of mineral water.

  “I got you,” said the Australian, leaning back in the overstuffed sofa. He sucked on the joint and kept the smoke in his lungs for so long that it seemed as if he had forgotten about the exhale part. Finally he released the smoke through his nostrils, two plumes curling toward the ceiling. It was an impressive gesture and Tabachnik appreciated it—Australians were always doing shit like this—but it was meaningless. He wasn’t going to deal with Loving Cup unless it was necessary, and at this point he doubted it would be.

  “I got you,” repeated the Australian. “You want to keep a cool head for the negotiations.”

  “What negotiations?”

  The Australian smiled craftily, inspecting the ash at the tip of his joint. He had told Tabachnik his name. Tabachnik never forgot names, but in his mind the Australian was simply “the Australian.” He was sure that he was simply “major label” in the Australian’s mind, but eventually he would be “that fuck Tabachnik.”

  “Okay,” said the Australian. “Let’s just talk then.”

  “What should we talk about?”

  “Come on, come on. Let’s quit the gaming. You’re here for the band.”

  “I don’t understand something. You’ve signed Postfunk Jemimah?”

  The Australian squinted through the haze of smoke. “The Taints.”

  “So what are we talking about? I’m here for Postfunk Jemimah.”

  “You like the Taints,” the Australian said, wagging his finger as if Tabachnik were a naughty child. “I saw you checking on the crowd. Well, you want them?”

  “Who?”

  “The Taints.”

  Tabachnik smiled his version of a smile: lips together, left cheek creased with a crescent-shaped dimple. “We’re having a conversation here, but we’re not communicating. I came to see Postfunk Jemimah.”

  “Too late, man. They signed a six plus one with Sphere.”

  “Right,” said Tabachnik, rattling the ice cubes in his glass. “And we’re buying Sphere.”

  The Australian opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “You’re buying Sphere? I just saw Greenberg two nights ago at VelVet. He didn’t say a word.”

  “Who’s Greenberg?”

  The Australian laughed. “The president of Sphere.”

  “Greenspon. And he’s required by law to keep silent about it. I’m breaking the law telling you, but”—Tabachnik indicated the empty room with his free hand—“I know I can trust you.”

  The Australian nodded solemnly and took another deep hit. Tabachnik figured he would need forty-eight hours to get the girl. The last thing he wanted was for this pissant label to sniff out his interest and put the chains on her, rework her contracts. If that happened he would have to buy out Loving Cup, and Tabachnik hated paying off middlemen. In the grand scheme of things, the musicians made the music and the consumers bought the music, and anybody in the middle, including Tabachnik, was a middleman. But Tabachnik did not believe in the grand scheme of things. There were little schemes and there were big schemes but there was no grand scheme.

  “I can introduce you to Heaney,” said the Australian, desperate for an angle. “He manages Postfunk Jemimah.”

  “Yeah, we went out for dinner last night. But thanks.” Tabachnik gave another tight-lipped smile. All of his smiles were tight-lipped because Tabachnik had worn braces until a few months ago. He wore the braces for two years because his teeth had gotten so crooked that he would bloody the insides of his lips and cheeks every time he chewed dinner. The teeth were straight now, the braces gone, but he had trained himself to smile and laugh with a closed mouth.

  He was supposed to get braces when he was twelve, like a normal American, but his mother and father, who had split up the year before, kept bitching about who ought to pay for it. “Your only son is going to look like an English bookie,” his mother would say into the telephone, smoking a cigarette and waving at Tabachnik when she saw that he was listening. “Excuse me, excuse me, I would have a job except you know why I don’t? You know who’s been raising our son for the last twelve years?”

  So when the money for the orthodontia finally came, Tabachnik told his mother he didn’t want it. “Sweetheart,” she said, “you want to be a snaggletooth all your life?”

  Tabachnik found the negotiations over his teeth so humiliating that he refused to have them fixed. He never again wanted to depend on another man’s money. He worked his way through college in New Hampshire, copying and filing in the Alumni Office, until he figured out better ways to get paid. He convinced the owner of the local Chinese restaurant to let him begin a delivery service in exchange for twenty percent of the proceeds; he hired other students to work for tips and free dinners and to distribute menus around town. Tabachnik made out well until the restaurant owner realized he no longer needed Tabachnik. That incident impressed Tabachnik with the importance of a good contract.

  He managed a band called the Johns, a group of local kids who worked as custodians and security guards at the college. The Johns always sold out when they played the town bars, and Tabachnik took them to a Battle of the Bands in Burlington, Vermont, where they came in second to a group called Young Törless. Young Törless became Beating the Johns and had a hit single remaking an old Zombies song. Tabachnik was reading Variety by this point, and he saw how much money Beating the Johns made for their label, and he thought, Jesus, they’re not even good. And he realized that good doesn’t matter, and once you realize that, the world is yours.

  When Postfunk Jemimah began to play, Tabachnik and the Australian went to listen, and afterward joined them, their manager Heaney, and the Taints for a postgig smoke session in the club owner’s private room. The VVIP room. Tabachnik had been places with four progressively-more-exclusive areas, where the herds were thinned at each door by goons with clipboards, turning away the lame. Some of these rooms were so hard to get into that a full night would pass without anyone gaining entrance. People who had never been turned away before, people unused to rejection, seven-foot-tall basketball players and lingerie models with bosomy attitude, would snipe at the bouncer and declare their lifelong friendship with the owner, and the bouncer would nod and say, No. Tabachnik wasn’t a VVVVIP, but he didn’t care. He suspected that if you ever got into the fourth room you would find another closed door, leading to an even smaller room with even fewer people, and if you could somehow convince the bouncer to let you pass, you would enter a still-smaller room, on and on, until finally you would find yourself in a room so cramped only you could fit inside, and the last bouncer, the biggest, meanest one of all, would grin at you before slamming the pine door and lowering you into the ground.

  Tabachnik asked Heaney to speak with him in the other room fo
r a minute; they huddled in a corner of the single-V VIP room and ignored the wannabes who stared at them and wondered who they were.

  “Congratulations,” said Tabachnik. “I hear you signed with Sphere.”

  “Yeah, they own us forever, but we’re good with it.”

  “I need to ask you a favor . . .”

  When they returned to the VVIP room, the Australian stared at them unhappily. Heaney gathered his band and they went off, in high spirits, to eat pierogi at Kiev. Tabachnik stayed, as did the Taints and the Australian, who slouched with the discontent of the small-time.

  “Well,” said the Australian, passing a joint to SadJoe, “next year in Budokan.”

  There were no chairs or sofas in the room, only giant pink pillows. Everyone sprawled in a loose circle and Tabachnik felt like an adult crashing a slumber party. Only Molly Minx sat with her back straight, very erect and proper. Her legs were propped up on a pillow and Tabachnik studied them: they were tapered like chicken drumsticks, thick with muscle at the thighs, slender at the ankles. She wore anklets strung with violet beads and black slippers like the ones Bruce Lee wore in his movies. Her hands were clasped together in the taut lap of her green dress; her face was broad and serene below her bleached, spiked hair. Thai or Filipino? She smiled at Tabachnik and he smiled back, thinking that a good photographer could make her look beautiful.

  The guitarist began to snore. The bassist was crafting little soldiers from paper matches; he had a pile of Redrüm matchbooks beside him and he arrayed his army on the gray carpeting. They were very well made, with miniature spears and a general on a matchbook horse, and Tabachnik watched, wondering when the war would begin.

  SadJoe was shirtless. His black mohawk was spotted with large flakes of dandruff. A rottweiler’s head was crudely tattooed on his neck, the name Candy inked in green script below the dog’s spiked collar. The air was rich with marijuana smoke and body odor. SadJoe puffed on the joint contentedly until Molly elbowed him.