Just do what you're doing, babe.
He gave himself a street name, too: Dr. Terrific.
Mind picture: DT loves n carved into the cerebral cor-
C'mon, cutie. You're too young to be a doctor. You'd be surprised.
But you got money like a doctor, don't you? Want to earn some more? Right on. Later:
If you're a doctor, you probably got all sorts of far-out drugs, right?
Drugs are bad for you.
You're putting me on now, right?
Mysterious smile.
After their twentieth date, she snorted heroin and offered him some. He said no, watched her get all drowsy and mellow, played with her body while she lay there half-grokked.
True love.
At nineteen, he could tell from the way people ogled him that he was good-looking. Was certain that he looked older-maybe twenty-four or five. At nineteen and a half, life got cleaner: She died, just stopped breathing in bed and lay there in her own filth for two hours before one of the hired nurses came up from the kitchen and noticed.
The house was totally his now. It hadn't taken much to "convince" Doctor to let him keep living in it.
Nineteen and a half, and totally on top of the world: his own pad, endless bucks, and head-in-lap true love.
He cleaned out the Ice Palace, had the carpets ripped up, gave everything away. Told the retardo nigger to spray it with disinfectant, open all the windows. Decided it would stay empty forever.
He woke up one morning feeling terrific and filled with a sense of purpose. He'd been waiting for the right time to start the investigation, knew this was it, and started looking in the Yellow Pages under Private Detectives.
He wanted a one-man agency; the big firms were all fat on big-business bucks, not likely to take him seriously.
He found half a dozen possibles, all in low-rent areas, phoned them, listened to their voices, and made an appointment with the one who sounded the hungriest.
Slimeball named J.Walter Fields, bad address not far from the Nasty Strip.
He made an appointment for late in the afternoon.
The office was on the fourth floor of a decaying walkup, winos dozing near the front entrance, half the suites unoccupied, shit-colored cracked linoleum, bare light bulbs and empty sockets, the hallways stinking of piss.
Fields's place was a glass-doored single room with the men's John on one side, an answering service company on the other.
RELIABLE INVESTIGATORS.
J.W.FIELDS, PRES.
Inside was pure Late Show cliche: old-clothes smell, grimy walls, portable fan on a chair, metal desk and file cabi-nets. A flyspecked window offered a view of inert neon signs and the tar-paper roof of the walkup across the alley.
Fields was a short, fat bag of slime in his late fifties. Wet, hungry eyes, bad suit, and receding gums. He kept his feet up on the desk and popped licorice drops in his mouth while raising one eyebrow and staring at his visitor. Making a big show of being bored.
"Yeah?"
"We have an appointment." Speaking in a deep voice.
Fields glanced down at a big old-fashioned metal desk calendar resting on a rust-specked metal base. "You're Dr. Terrif, huh?" Pronouncing it tariff.
'That's right."
"The fuck you trying to pull, kid? Get outa here. Don't waste my time."
"Pressed for time, are you?"
"Watch your mouth, kid." A grubby thumb pointed to the door. "The fuck out."
Boyish shrug. "Oka-ay." Pulling out a thick roll of bills, putting it back, and turning to go.
Slimeball let him get to the door, then spoke up. Straining to keep the hunger out of his voice.
"Whoa, what's on your mind, kid?"
'Doctor."
"Sure, sure. You're a doctor, I'm Mr. Universe."
Scornful look at the slimeball: "We have nothing to talk about." Saying it with class, swinging the door open and walking out.
He'd gone ten paces down the hall before hearing Fields's cheap-shoe shuffle. "C'mon
Doc. Don't be sensitive."
He ignored the whining, kept on walking.
"Let's talk. Doc." Fields was trotting to catch up. "C'mon, Dr Terrif."
Stopping, swiveling, staring at the pathetic slime.
"Your manners stink, Fields."
"Listen
I didn't-"
"Apologize." Power.
Fields hesitated, looked sick, as if standing on a diving board suspended over a cesspool.
Tick-tock, licking his lips. You could see the dollar signs bounce like slot-machine fruit in the fucker's eyes.
Split-second later, he sucked in his breath and dived in: "You got to understand
Doc. My business, you get all types, all kinds of scams. Just trying to cover my butt
You got a young face, good genes, lucky guy, Doc
Okay, I'm sorry. How say we start over?"
Back in the rathole of an office, Fields picked up a gray mug that had once been white and offered to fix him instant coffee.
I'd rather drink snake-jizz, fucker. "Let's get down to business, Fields."
"Sure, sure, at your service. Doc."
He told the slime what he wanted. Fields listened hard, trying to imitate an intelligent life form. Popping licorice and saying "Uh huh" and "Uh huh, Doc."
"Think you can handle it?"
"Sure, sure, Doc, no problem. This guy Schwann, you into him for bucks or vicey versey?"
"That's none of your concern." Saying it automatically, in a totally cool way. The deep voice making him sound just like a rich guy, totally in charge-which he was, when you got down to it. Built to rule.
"Okay, no problem, Doc. Only sometimes it helps to know about the motivation, if you know what I'm sayin'."
"Just do what I pay you for and don't worry about motivation."
"Sure, sure."
"When can you have the information?"
"Hard to tell. Doc. Depends on lots of things. You ain't givin' me much to work with."
"Here's your advance. Plus." Standing and peeling off bills, a hundred more than the slime had asked for. Doing it offhand, in a totally cool manner.
"I got expenses, Doc."
Another hundred passed into the slime's paw. "Have the information in three weeks and there's an extra two hundred in it for you."
Fields nodding energetically, just about coming in his cheap-suit trousers. "Okay, sure, Doc, three weeks, you're top priority. Where can I reach you?"
"I'll reach you. Sit down. I'll see myself out."
"Yeah, sure, pleasure doing business with you."
After leaving the office, he closed the door, stood to the side for a moment, and heard the slime say "Fucking rich kid."
Nightwing started using heroin in front of him on a regular basis. Snorting the first few times, then skin-popping.
I don't mainline, cutie. That's how you really get fucked up.
But ten dates later, she was shooting it into a vein behind her leg.
I can handle it.
He'd read plenty of medical books on addiction, knew she was full of shit, biochemically hooked, but didn't say anything. When she nodded off, he used the time to explore her body. She knew what he was doing, smiled and made little cat sounds while he poked and probed and nibbled and tasted.
One night, while parked on a side street in the hills, Nightwing sprawled across the front seat of the Plymouth, he heard racing engines, saw red lights-pair of cop cars speeding by, on their way to check out something in one of the hill houses. Break-in? Silent burglar alarm? If so, the cops would be back, cruising the hills, looking for suspects. He thought of the heroin in Nightwing's black vinyl purse and began to freak out.
A bust for dope-the perfect life blown to bits!
He put the Plymouth in neutral, coasted downhill with his lights off. Nightwing stayed fast asleep, rolling with the motion of the car, snoring like a little sow. At that moment he saw her as filth, hated her, wanted to open her up, dive in, clean her. Then love thoughts took over and replaced the scientific ones.
He coasted all the way to Nasty, turned the engine and headlights on, merged with the traffic, and tried to calm down. But he stayed freaked at the thought of being busted for dope, had read about prison in psychiatry books, and knew what happened to fresh young white meat.
Deprivation-induced homosexuality: Locked in a cell with psycho niggers who'd ream his ass. His hold over Doctor loosened, the fucker'd be in charge of the lawyers, be able to keep him there as long as he wanted. Maybe even hire some nigger to slice him with a homemade shiv.
He pulled off the boulevard, drove six blocks, parked, and reached over for Nightwing's purse. The strap was under her ass. He tugged. She stirred but didn't wake.
Quickly, frantically, he rummaged through gum wrappers and tissues, plastic wallet, comb, makeup, breath-mint roll, foil rubber packets, and all the other crap she kept in there, before finding the little glassine envelope. Tossing it out of the car, then driving another half mile before feeling safe.
He pulled over again, under a street light, cut the engine. The purse was in his lap. Nightwing was still sleeping.
As he calmed down, curiosity overpowered his fear. He opened the purse, removed the plastic wallet.
Inside was a driver's license, picture of Nightwing without Vampira makeup, just a pretty, dark girl, Sarah-twin.
Lilah Shehadeh. Five two, hundred and fourteen. Birth date that made her twenty-three. Address in Niggertown, probably from her days with BoJo.
Shehadeh. What the hell kind of name was that?
When she awoke, he told her about ditching her dope. She sat up sharply, started to get all pissed.
Oh, shit! That was China fucking White!
What was it worth?
Hundred bucks.
Bullshit, babe.
Fifty-and that's no bullshit. China White's heavy duty-
Here's sixty. Buy yourself some more. But don't carry it when you're with me.
She snapped up the money. Fun guy, you are.
Flames of rage seared him from throat to asshole. The bad-machine noise grew deafening.
He gave her a long, heavy stare, totally scornful, just like the one he'd used to whip Fields into shape.
This is our last date, babe.
Panic under the mile-long lashes: Aw, c'mon, cutie.
It's not fun for me either, babe.
She reached out, ran her long black fingernails over his forearm. He felt nothing-being cool was easy.
Aw, c'mon, Dr. Cutes. I was just kidding. You're real fun, the best. Grab. The biggest.
He removed her fingers, shook his head sadly.
Time for both of us to move on, babe.
Aw, c'mon, we been having so much fun. Don't let a little-She was whining. The bad-machines echoed in his head, making him feel hollow. Useless.
His hand was around her neck in a flash. Thin neck, soft neck, nice and fragile under his grip. He pushed her back against the door of the car. Saw the terror in her eyes and felt his hard-on grow gargantuan.
A little pressure on the carotid, cut off the blood flow to the brain for a split second, then release, let her breathe. Let her know what he could do if he wanted. That she was a bug over a flame. Dangling in the grip of a pair of tweezers.
Let her know who controlled the tweezers.
Listen carefully, babe. Okay?
She tried to talk. Fear had frozen her vocal cords.
I'm perfectly happy to date you-you're terrific. But we've got to come to an understanding. Okay? Nod if you agree.
Nod.
The beauty of this relationship is that we give each other what we need. Right?
Nod.
Which means both of us have to stay happy.
Nod.
I don't care if you want to kill yourself with heroin. But I don't want you putting me in danger. That's fair, isn't it?
Nod.
So no dope when you're with me, please. A beer's okay, one or two at the most. If you ask my permission and I
give it. No surprises. I respect your rights and you respect mine. Okay?
Nod.
Still friends?
Nod, nod, nod.
He let go of her. Her eyes stayed big with fear-he could see the respect in them.
Here, babe. He gave her an extra fifty. This is for goodwill, let you know I only want the best for you.
She tried to take the money. Her hands were shaking. He tucked it between her tits. Pointed at his crotch and said, I'm ready to go again.
After they finished, he asked her:
What kind of name is Shehadeh?
Arabic.
You're an Arab.
Fuck, no, I'm an American.
But your family's Arab?
I don't want to talk about them. Defiantly. Then looking at him in panic, wondering if she'd pissed him off again.
He smiled inside. Thought: The relationship's climbed to a new level. Still casual dating and true love, but now the roles were set. Both of them knew their parts.
He held her face in his hands, felt her tremble. Kissed her on the lips, no tongue, just friendly. Gently-letting her know everything was okay. He was merciful.
