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?
