None of that peace-love-confiding-and-relating scam.
He paid; she sucked. He started keeping an ice chest in the trunk of the Plymouth, brought beer, Pepsi, and orange soda along. She washed her mouth out afterward, licked his
| nipples through his shirt with a cold tongue. Most of the time it got him going for seconds.
He was becoming an expert, could go longer and longer now, volunteered to pay her for her time instead of by the act. She squealed with delight, told him he was a total sweetie. Went down on him with fake enthusiasm so real it made his head spin, gagging and whispering that she'd do anything for him, just name it.
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.
