heeled foot, waving the gun around, then finally putting it away, taking the handset out of his pocket and turning off the alarm.
The screaming died; the silence seemed even louder.
Dr. T. held his breath.
'Shit,' said BoJo, removing his hat and rubbing a balding head. 'Oh, fuck, mothahfuckin' shee-it.'
Nigger opened the driver's door with a gold-plated key, brushed glass from the seat and the dashboard, listened to the sad-song tinkle as it fell to the curb, said 'Shee-it' again, then got out to reexamine the windshield, as if it had all been a bad dream, next time he looked everything would be okay.
It wasn't.
'Mercy fuck. Shee-it'
Famous last words, because when the fucker straightened up, he was staring into a clean-cut superhero face, hearing:
'Hi, I'm Doctor Terrific. What seems to be the problem?'
'Say wha-' Feeling without really comprehending, the stunning pain as the crowbar smashed him square across his nose, pulverizing his face, driving bone slivers into whatever poor excuse for cerebral tissue he carried in that ugly black' monkey skull.
So easy, just like Fields.
So easy, it made him hard.
Blackberry jelly, he thought, as he hit the nigger slime again and again, stepping back and wiping himself with tissues each time, so that the blood wouldn't spatter his clothes. Wiping the crowbar clean, and leaving it next to the body. Using the tissues to extract the.45 from the slime's waistband and laying the gun on top of the pimp's crotch.
'Umgawa, umgawa. Suck this, coonshit.'
Then heading back to the alley, where he retrieved his Polaroid camera, returned to the heap of wet blacktrash, and snapped a flash picture before sauntering ' off, soooo casual.
He stopped under a streetlight three blocks away, found a few riny blood freckles on his shoes and T-shirt. The shoes he wiped. The shirt was quickly concealed by zipping up the windbreaker. Then he walked on. Two blocks farther was the Plymouth, nice and comfy. He got in it, drove a mile to another alley with dumpsters. Opened the trunk of the car and wet some rags with alcohol and water from plastic hospital bottles he'd stored there. Pulled the camera apart with his hands, enjoying the cracking sound and imagining it was the nigger's body he was breaking. Wiping each piece, then throwing them into three separate dumpsters.
Riding on and tossing the tissues in four separate sewer drains, tearing off the corner of the one with the most blood and eating it.
He rewarded himself by getting a beer out of the ice chest in the trunk. Drinking it slowly, so casual.
Twenty minutes later he was back on the boulevard, foot-cruising among the geeks and creeps and night- crawling slimeballs, knowing they were his, knowing he could have any of them any time he wanted.
He found a twenty-four-hour fast-food stand-greasy, run-down joint with a pockmarked slant behind the counter. After staring the slant into giving him the key to the men's room, he washed up, examined his face, touched himself, not quite believing he was real.
Then he went back to the counter, ordered a double cheeseburger and vanilla shake from the slant, sat on a cracked plastic stool, eating. Really enjoying his dinner.
The only other customers were a pair of stinking biker faggot types in black leather, stuffing their faces with teriyaki dogs and onion rings. They noticed him, nudged each other, tried to stare him down, tried to give him the evil eye.
His grin changed their minds.
He thought Nightwing would be impressed by the snapshot of all that dead black jelly, overcome with My Hero! gratitude. Instead she gave him a weird look like he was dirty. It made him feel bad for a moment, kind of nauseous and scared, like when he'd been a kid sitting tight-sphinctered on step number six, terrified of being caught.
He stared back at her stare, heard the bad-machine noise get louder, and thought: Stupid ungrateful cunt. Hot rage-pain clawed at the roof of his mouth; he felt the cold rolled steel of the crowbar in his hands. Cooled it with a chest-ballooning deep breath and mind-pictures of the nigger as he'd gone down. Patent shoes black with nightblood.
Be casual. Patient.
But he knew she was hopeless. The romance was over.
He tore the picture in little pieces, ate them, and grinned. Stretched and yawned. 'I did it for you. Now you're safe, babe.'
'Yeah.' Forced smile. 'G-great. Thanks-you're terrific!'
'My pleasure, babe.' A command.
A minute later: 'Do me again, babe.'
She hesitated, saw the look on his face, then said, 'Yeah, sure, my pleasure, gratis,' and lowered her head.
After that their relationship changed. They continued to date, she took his money, did what he wanted, but held back. Emotionally. He could tell.
No more boyfriend/girlfriend, this was heavy duty love/ respect, like a kid for a parent.
