Mick/The Band
He's slippery as a minnow: Mick St John, the untouchable, the uncatchable. Ron and Dibs have bets going on how long it will take before he ends up at the hospital with bleeding sores and VD ravaging his system. The bastard, though, seems to have the luck of the Irish, same as in the War. Not a blemish on those features, always a smile, always a lark. Not a quiver in his voice as he coaxes another girl out of her pretty dress. At least he shares; you can count on Mick to position the little things to best advantage. Lately he's sworn off virgins. After the last three left bloodstains in the back seat he got antsy. "Time to move up in the world, boys," he crowed, picking out an easy G. Moving up means more gigs, pretentious ones where we stand like forgotten statues and make somnolent music. Dibs is easily the most frustrated but the gigs put food on the table and pot in his pockets.
"We look like fairies," Ron says disgustedly. "Fuckin flowers on my shirt."
Jim tosses him the snare drum to shut him up. Ron'll go on for an hour now about how they always disrespected him and his instruments.
Mick just grins. All-American fucker. "Come on," he says, pulling the pot out of his back pocket. "Ten o'clock and we'll be done." The eyebrows quirk. "Gladys is bringing friends."
Try midnight and Mick is gone. Gladys is eclipsed by Coraline and Mick is eclipsed by shadows.