were at the stage where they could call up the individual personalities, speak to them like they were different people in the room. I used the stuff I learned from the library like a Rosetta Stone, read it through.
Individualized Reactions to Psychotropics:
The core personality (Luke) was administered a single dose (1 1/4mg) Valium, PO. Within 45 minutes, subject was almost comatose, language was fragmented, dream-state, startle-response almost nonexistent, pinprick produced no reaction.
At session #6, subject hooked to IV, simple glucose solution administered. No reaction. Hypnosis brought 'Satan's Child' to surface. Subject was in a rage, restrained by flex-straps. In this state, 10 mg Valium administered IV. No reaction: subject remained agitated, angry. When 'Satan's Child' personality departed, 'Toby' emerged…and promptly fell asleep. IV immediately discontinued.
Conclusion: The varying personalities are physiologically as well as psychologically distinct. The violent personality accesses significantly greater adrenaline flow, exceeding even limbic rage, producing phenomenal strength disproportionate to age and physical structure.
The report went on. More about 'core personality' and 'fusion goals.' But every word sang the same song.
Inside Luke, different children.
One a monster.
90
I nosed the Plymouth east on Houston Street, covering the distance from the West Village to the Lower East Side in minutes. Turned right on Ludlow, right again on Delancey, back the way I'd come.
The car wash is on the corner of Delancey and the Bowery, the supplies stored on the concrete island at the traffic light. I pulled over just past Chrystie Street, watching the action. Cars pulled up to the light, two black men detached themselves from the island, dipping their squeegees in a big white plastic bucket, swinging them briskly to throw off the excess water. They walked the line of cars, looking for customers. One tried persuasion— you could read his gestures from a block away. The other just went to work, ready to demand money when he finished. Some drivers turned on their windshield wipers, others waved their hands signaling 'No!' Some just sat rigid behind the wheel, staring straight ahead.
I watched for a while. Cabdrivers never went for the windshield wash. Not truckers either. The washers were lucky to score one paying job every four, five lights. A bad time to work, early in the morning, dealing with commuters. Nobody was where they wanted to be.
Seven o'clock. I pushed off from the curb, watching for a gap in traffic. Rolled to a stop right at the light. The Prof was perched on an abandoned car seat, smoking a cigarette like he was on the deck of a cruise ship. He flicked the smoke aside, majestically got to his feet, moved to my car as one of the washers ceremoniously slapped a squeegee into his hand.
'Watch how it's done, son,' the Prof sang out.
I hit the switch, sliding down the driver's window.
'Good morning, my man. Here's the plan: pay a buck and change your luck. Do something right and you see the light.'
I handed him a bill. The Prof did the windshield in a half dozen expert swipes, bowed deeply, tossed the squeegee to one of the washers, and resumed his seat. I took off, straight ahead onto Kenmare, turned left at Crosby, and waited.
Halfway through my second smoke, the Prof slid into the passenger seat.
'Where to?' I asked.
'Head over to Allen, find a place to park.'
91
I found a spot just off Hester, pulled in behind a red Acura Legend sedan. A man in his thirties crossed the street, oiled muscles gleaming under a cut-down T-shirt, baggy shorts, baseball cap and sunglasses, zinc ointment covered his nose. Surf's up, somewhere. A battered pale green Cougar pulled to the curb. Two kids got out: teenagers, a boy and a girl, dressed alike in black, sporting matching asymmetrical haircuts. They wobbled down the street together as the Cougar roared off. Home from a night at the clubs? A dark sedan stopped at the light, overflowing with Vietnamese. The guy riding shotgun swiveled his head to look at me-I could feel homicidal eyes behind the sunglasses, measuring. Up close, he'd stink of cordite.
'What's up?' I asked the Prof.
'Queen Thana, schoolboy. Word is, you've been dancing with the devil.'
'What word?'
'The drums hum, bro'. Stay close to the ground, you can hear the sound.'
'And…?'
'And stay away, don't play, okay?'
'I'm not playing.'
The little man's deep brown eyes turned to me. 'I can't keep squaring your beefs, chief. You wanted to go play gunfighter games out in Hillbilly Harlem, I tried to make you see some sense, but I didn't press too hard, right?'
I nodded.
'This ain't the same, lame. The Queen is mean, Jack. She got people who
'I'm not in anything with them— I don't even know who they are.'
'Don't be slick with the man who taught you the trick, schoolboy. Got to be, you holding something they want.'
