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.
They'd have a long, happy life together.
He met with Fields three weeks after giving the slime the assignment. Grubby little fucker was surprisingly thorough, had a thick file labeled schwann, d. clutched in his grubby little hands.
'How you doin', Doc?'
'Here's your money. What do you have?'
Fields stuffed the money in his shirt pocket. 'Good news and bad news time, Doc. The good news is I found out all about him. The bad news is the sonofabitch is dead.'
Saying it with a twinkle in his eye that signed his own death certificate.
'Dead?'
'As a doorknob.' Slimeball shrugged. 'Sometimes in these bad-debt cases you can sue the estate in probate court, try to collect, but this Schwann was a foreigner-goddamned Kraut. His body was shipped back to Krautland. Try to collect from over there, you're gonna need an international lawyer.'
Dead. Daddy dead. His roots completely severed. He sat there, numb, flooded with pain.
Fields mistook the numbness for disappointment over the debt, tried to comfort him with 'Tough luck, eh, Doc? Anyway, guy like you, being a doctor and all that, should be able to write it off, pay less taxes this year. Could be rse, eh?'
Babbling. Making things worse for himself.
The slime was staring at him. He shook himself out of the numbness.
'Give me the file.'
'I got a report for you, Doc. All summed up and everything.'
'I want the file.'
'Eh, usually I keep the file. You want a copy, I got Xeroxing charges, extra expenses.'
'Would twenty dollars take care of it?'
'Uh, yeah-thirty would be more like it. Doc.'
Fields took the three tens and held out the folder.
'All yours, Doc.'
'Thanks.' He stood up, took the folder with one hand, picked up the old-fashioned desk calender with the other, and slammed the fucker across the face with the rusty metal base.
Fields went down without a sound, slumping on the desk. A red stain spread from under his face and saturated the blotter.
He wrapped his hands in tissues, lifted the slime, and inspected him. The front of Fields's face was flattened and bloody, the nose a soft smear. Still a weak wrist pulse.
He put him facedown on the desk, slammed him on the back of the head with the calendar base, kept slamming him, enjoying it. Making him pay for Schwann, for the twinkle in his slimy eyes.
